The memory was enough to stiffen his resolve. ‘You sail if you must, Baldwin, but my journey continues on foot.’
The knight made a great show of puffing out his cheeks and shrugging. ‘If you feel so certain …’
‘I do.’
‘Then it is fortunate indeed that I hired the best of the inn’s horses. Otherwise another might have secured them!’ Baldwin said, and laughed at Simon’s expression.
On the Sunday following this conversation, Serlo the miller left his house to walk the short distance to church, leaving his wife Muriel to prepare their tiny sons Ham and Aumery for the Mass. Serlo needed to speak to his brother Alexander, the Constable of the Peace, about some business, and the church was the usual place for men to discuss their trades.
He shrugged himself deeper into his thin tunic. The summer was nearly over now and autumn held the land in its fist. Last night there had been a slight frost, and the chilly atmosphere suited his temper. Since the arrival of Richer and his squire, Serlo had noticed people in the vill watching him. He didn’t need their fingers pointing to know that he was the object of all the gossip in the place. Damn them all! Too many remembered how Richer ran away as soon as his family was discovered dead, and many recalled the rumours at the time, that Serlo had been there at the house before it burned down. Rubbish, of course, but throw shit against a wall and some would stick.
He glanced into the fields nearer the vill and then at the lowering clouds. If it were to rain, the stooks could be ruined. The grain would get damp, and if it wasn’t properly dried it would not last the winter, which would mean disaster for everyone. Some men were already recalling the last war, when the stocks for half the winter were stolen by the King’s Purveyors. Christ’s bones, the weather here was as inconsistent as a woman’s moods.
His wife Muriel was always whining, demanding money as though all a man need do was wave a hand and coins would come sprinkling from the heavens. She swore that she and the children were always hungry, that they had nothing to live on since the failed harvest last year, as though it was Serlo’s fault. Stupid cow! Why couldn’t she comprehend that he was doing his best for her? Like any other man, he relied on his skills and cunning to wrest as much as he could from the mill, but there was little enough he could do when things were as bad as they were at present. All must be patient. Perhaps now the harvest was in, provided there was no rain for a little while, there would be more money. A harvest meant grain to be milled, and he would take his tenth from each sack — occasionally more, if the owner wasn’t watching too carefully as Serlo weighed his portion.
He could do with the cash himself, since apart from all his debts, he badly needed a new surcoat. This old thing was too threadbare to keep him warm. It had been fine the winter before last when he bought it, but now it wouldn’t keep out the chill of an autumnal morning. And the evenings were already creeping in. Soon it would be winter. The years flew past so quickly. His father had once told him that: as a man grew older, the days passed by more swiftly — and he was definitely not getting any younger, he acknowledged sourly.
He had to get hold of some coin! That was why he was trying to do deals with travellers instead of taking the tolls to which the manor was entitled.
Athelina hadn’t paid him any rent for months now, not since Easter-time. He’d been patient because her man had sometimes been a little slow to cough up for her, but now she said that his generosity had dried up and she had nothing. Well, Serlo’s patience had run out along with her money. Jesus’s heart, he had hated that confrontation. Athelina had looked at him silently, the tears springing into those magnificent eyes as he told her to go and whore at the tavern. That was what a woman did when she was desperate and her family needed money. Mind, a woman as skinny and ravaged as her, Serlo thought morosely, would scarcely bring in enough to buy him a kerchief, let alone a new surcoat.
One of her whelps had rushed to her, snivelling brat, as though to defend her honour against Serlo. Shame the cur hadn’t protected her from her last lover. Maybe she’d still have some self-respect and honour if he had!
Deep in his thoughts, he was aware of nothing but the path itself. Serlo cursed as his thin boots slithered over stones, almost making him fall.
‘Ho, now! So it’s our favourite miller, Master Serlo!’
‘I’m not in the mood, Richer,’ Serlo growled on hearing the familiar, taunting voice. ‘Leave me to go to church.’
‘Why, don’t you wish to chat?’
Peering ahead shortsightedly, Serlo could just make out two shadowy figures. In the swirls of freezing grey fog they appeared larger than men, much taller than Serlo himself, and for an instant he felt crushed. Then a breeze cleared the mist, and in that instant Serlo saw the church standing tall and serene behind his enemies. ‘May God forgive you both,’ he grated. ‘You’re holding me from the church.’
‘We aren’t stopping you, Serlo. Feel free to continue on your way.’
Serlo steeled himself and strode on, chin high, but when he was level, he hissed, ‘You’ll push a man too hard one day, Richer. Not everyone’s scared of you just because you carry a sword for the castle.’
‘Perhaps it will be you who is pushed too far, eh, Serlo? Go on, you corrupt bladder of wind! Go to church. You need the solace of God’s forgiveness more than most, I expect.’
Serlo walked on as though he hadn’t heard those words, but when he was gone a short way further up the track, he heard Richer’s voice again.
‘By the way, miller, I recall you asked me and my friend for a penny to pay no toll at the bridge. That was only a short while after you’d asked the steward for a refund of your investment in the farm of the tolls, is that right?’
‘What’s it to you?’ Serlo snapped, attempting to hide his fear.
‘Nothing … except that my master would be very interested to learn that you were pocketing gifts. Why, that would be defrauding him of his legitimate income. Theft, Master Miller.’
‘It’s a lie!’
‘Is it? I should ask Nicholas then, should I? Think on it, miller.’
Serlo said not a word. He walked on as though there had been no interruption, but even as he stepped into the security of the church, he felt the shiver of fear coursing along his spine as if Richer atte Brooke was again threatening him.
‘God’s bones, you bastard son of a Saracen harlot, I’ll have my revenge on you for your insults,’ he swore quietly. ‘If you’ve reported my tolls it’ll make repaying my debts that much harder. By Christ’s wounds, I’ll avenge any grief you bring on me: aye, an hundredfold. You’ll regret coming up against me and mine, just as your father did!’
Chapter Two
On that same day Simon and Baldwin rose early and celebrated Mass in a tiny, all but empty chapel before leaving the coast to set off inland for home.
Later in the morning, reaching a small stand of trees at the top of a hill, they paused a while, staring north and east, then dismounted and took a drink from their skins. Sitting with his back to a young oak, Simon closed his eyes and sighed. ‘It was almost worthwhile climbing this far just for the pleasure of halting and resting!’
There came a grunt from his side. Bob, the young boy whom the ostler had sent with them to bring back the three mounts when they reached the next town, was feeling distinctly put out, and Simon grinned to himself. A gangling lad of some eleven or twelve summers, Bob had declared himself more than happy to ride with them as far as they wanted, but that was two days ago, and now he was tired and irritable, glowering at Simon or Baldwin whenever either spoke. He obviously felt he was being taken too far and too fast for the penny he had been promised, and his expression as he gazed about him showed that he was nervous in these foreign parts. Simon wondered how far from home he had travelled before. Surely not so far as this, he thought.