Michael Jecks
The Tolls of Death
Prologue
There were two happy men that day in Cardinham in the summer of 1323, and one who was fearful.
Serlo the miller had every right to be concerned. Although he feared ruin, he was about to be murdered, for reasons he could not begin to comprehend, and at the hands of one whom he would never have suspected.
Nicholas of Cardinham sat on his palfrey, eyeing the villeins at work in the castle’s fields with a profound sense of satisfaction.
From here, high on the edge of the moors leading up towards Bodmin in the Earldom of Cornwall, he could see for many miles in the bright sunshine. The golden, drooping heads of the oats in the fields bobbed in the wind like ladies moving to an unheard tune. Wonderful! It was a sight to make a man give thanks to God, and Nicholas, a religious man, did so gladly.
Although the calls of the sweating peasants were loud, he could still hear the larks trilling high overhead. With every breeze the leaves of gorse rattled dryly, their yellow flowers dancing. To this was added the mechanical hiss of the reapers. With every sweep of their scythes, dust was thrown upwards in clouds of fine mist. The music of men rehoning their blades with long stones sang in the air. Others were collecting the sheaves of oats, two to every man, stacking them in stooks while their womenfolk and children plucked gleanings from the ground and placed them in their aprons or cloths tied about their waists with thongs. They were welcome to their meagre harvest; Nicholas had already seen to his lord’s profit, God be praised!
Although not tall, Nicholas had the ability to fill a space with his broad shoulders, immense right arm and neck of corded muscles. All men-at-arms had powerful bodies, but Nicholas carried his with a calm authority that went with his humility. Unlike so many of his friends and companions, he had not risen to the highest orders, hadn’t even made it to become a squire but now, at forty-six years old, he was content. He was respected enough to have been given this command, the Castle of Cardinham in the Earldom of Cornwall, in charge of twelve men-at-arms, some of them squires in their own right.
His hazel eyes rose to survey the landscape. Set in his leathery, sunburned face, they shone with intelligence and confidence. He was a man who had been tested, and who knew his own measure — and, more importantly, Nicholas was content with the result. At his age, after so many wars and battles, he would be a sad man indeed if he hadn’t been happy with himself.
The last years had been tough. The famines of 1315 and 1316 had been much worse in other parts of the country than down here, but people had still starved. Men found that their teeth became loose in their jaws, children grew peevish and irritable, many dying long before they should, and some folk had left the land altogether and sought their fortune in towns and cities. A few had returned at last, but only a few. Nicholas was short of manpower even now, but the men who had come back were not the sort he could count upon. They were more likely to cause trouble. And trouble was brewing — he could feel it in the way that the villeins watched each other and him. The King was close to war with the barons again. All knew it.
No matter. For now the most important thing was to get the harvest in. Oats might be viewed with less favour than other grains, but it was the only crop which thrived here in the windswept, rainswept western part of the realm. Others merely drowned or were blown to pieces. Wealthier men from other parts of the country looked down upon this land; they chose to laugh at people whose staple diet was the same as their beasts’, but Nicholas didn’t care. Not today of all days.
So long as the food was safe for the winter, the peasants would be biddable. When the long cold nights and tedium of winter made them fractious, however, that was the time to worry. For that was when they started bickering and squabbling.
There was an unsettled atmosphere about the place at the moment. Had been ever since the King crushed the rebellion of his cousin, Thomas of Lancaster. Peasants rightly feared another war. If there was one, their most able-bodied men would be taken away, their food stores raided by the King’s purveyors, and those who remained would have more work to do. All suffered when war threatened.
He gave a curt nod to the castle’s steward, Gervase, who stood at the edge of the communal fields, staff of office gripped tightly in one hand as he surveyed the folk working, occasionally bellowing at a shirker. Then Nicholas pulled his mount’s head round with a sigh. It would have been good to remain here, but he needs must go home.
He had always enjoyed watching his men reaping the harvest, would even join in with their celebrations later as they drank their fill of the best ale and cider, and ate the meat from the ram which was already spitted and turning slowly over the fire. As usual it was watched by the ancient figure of old Iwan the smith, who scolded and threatened young Gregory, his six-year-old grandson, while the boy sweated, turning the great spit’s handle to keep the meat rotating. Gregory’s father was a farmer who worked down towards the Holy Well, a man called Angot who was even now honing his scythe, Nicholas saw. Angot wasn’t one of the manor’s tenants, so was likely here to earn some extra cash. His own harvest hadn’t been very good, apparently: some of his seed had turned sour over the winter. Still, it meant that the grain here would be gathered in that bit sooner, which was all to the good.
Now Nicholas must get home to his darling wife, though. And with that thought, he clapped spurs to his mount and trotted down the lane.
Aye, his wife: my Lady Anne. Anne of the dark hair, the slender body, the almost boylike figure, the small, high breasts, the perfectly oval features, the warm, soft lips … Anne, his own lady, his love. She was enough to make an old man like him want to give up fighting. He might be a grizzled old warrior of six and forty years, while she was only two-and-twenty, but she swore that he pleased her more than any lad her own age, and by God’s heart, how she had proved it! He was exhausted by her when she had taken too much wine.
He was still smiling to himself when he saw Athelina walking ahead of him on the road. Beautiful Athelina, as the men had always known her … now past her prime. Even Gervase wouldn’t look at her, these days. He now had a new strumpet, so village gossip said.
Athelina lived out on the road towards Susan’s tavern. She stopped at the sound of his horse. A tall woman, she was still striking, in a shabby way. At her side were her two sons. One, the twelve year old, held on to her hand, while the other, a couple of years younger, clutched at her skirts as he stared at Nicholas.
Poor Athelina had been widowed some while before. Her husband Hob had contracted a wasting disease that killed him within a fortnight. Now she had nothing: only a rented, tumbledown cottage, insufficient food for herself and the boys, not even the solace of a man. It was very sad. She depended utterly on the generosity of others.
Yes, Nicholas had cause to be proud. His own wife would never be a beggar — he’d see to that. Anne would never want for anything while he lived.
Nor yet, he hoped, when he died.
To the west of the vill, Serlo the miller scratched first at his beard, then at his groin. The last of the flour was trickling into his sacks while the rumbling of the great wooden water-wheel continued behind him. He glanced at the deeply engrained bloodstains on it, then at the bright white oak of the four new teeth.
Milling was not the easiest of jobs when the harvests were poor, and Serlo had much to do to make up the losses of last year. Damn all apprentices! The idiots! They were none of them worth their upkeep. Danny, the last one, had never worked as hard as he should, and then, last year, the miserable churl had slipped as he passed by the machine.