The church deserves a visit, and it’s pleasing to note that it lists the vicars and priests who have served the community there, going back to 12 September 1271 and Odo de Prydies. I have taken the liberty of inventing Father John because I have a deeply ingrained dislike of ascribing thoughts and feelings to real men and women who are long dead and unable to answer for themselves or threaten legal retaliation! To my mind, using real people in books is a form of post-mortem slander and I always prefer to create new characters.
South of the main village, the castle’s remains stand on private land, but the raised mound of the motte can be seen quite clearly. My own description of it is based on guesswork because I’ve seen no detailed archaeological reports into how the buildings stood there, but I think there is some evidence for the layout I’ve suggested. It wasn’t a large place, but as a small fortress, I think it would have been pleasing.
North and east stand the church and buildings of Temple. This place was surely another of the small manors owned by The Temple, or the Knights Templar, and would have been a place of some solace to Baldwin. However, the priest living in so lonely an outpost would have been desperate for any form of companionship.
The search for more accurate information about English law and how the various Constables, Keepers, Coroners, Sheriffs and others managed to administer justice at the courts over the counties of the south-west, is ongoing, but I have to thank the scholarly works of Anthony Musson. His books The Evolution of English Justice and Medieval Law in Context are regularly pulled off my shelves.
All the persons described are figments of my imagination, but I have based these events on things which did happen in these areas. At a time of mounting dissatisfaction with the King, in the run-up to a civil war, all parts of the realm grew more lawless; even a small community in Cornwall would have become less manageable as Edward II’s power waned.
Naturally any errors in location and in facts are entirely my own.
Michael Jecks
Northern Dartmoor
August 2003
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.
Serlo kept reliving it in his nightmares. For months afterwards he had a sickly fear of going to his bed. When Danny had stumbled, his left hand was holding a full sack at his shoulder. As he toppled, Serlo could read the thought in his startled, fearful eyes: If I drop this, he’ll thrash me to death!
Serlo was furious when he kept dropping the sacks. Dan had wasted so much good flour, it would have been cheaper to tip away a twelfth of all his millings than to keep the apprentice on. The next time Dan let a sack slip, Serlo warned him, he’d thrash him until there was no flesh left on his back. And so poor Danny had kept a good hold as he went over, and this was his undoing. His right hand grasped the first thing that came to him – the moving, toothed wheel – and before he knew what was happening, his arm was caught by the great teeth and crushed between the upper and lower wheels.
Serlo had tried to prise the lad free, to slow the wheels and save his life … but he was fighting against the power of the mill and the river. He could do nothing, and Danny was chewed inexorably into the machine, his face contorted in a final scream of terror. Then a great gush of blood spewed upwards, covering the miller, his apprentice and the wheels which had destroyed him.
At least his body hadn’t ruined the mill. Four teeth had to be replaced, which cost some money, but the seven-year-old bones weren’t hard enough to do much damage to the machinery.
The real expense came from that interfering old git, Sir Simon of Launceston, the Coroner. He’d hurried there at the first sniff of money, and fined Serlo instantly for removing the body from the machine, then fined him again for not calling the Coroner personally. Finally, and punishingly, he had fined him the deodand. Whatever the material or animal that had caused a death, it was always deodand, its worth forfeit for the crime of murder. If a man killed with a knife, if a maid was crushed by a bull, if a mill killed a boy, the knife, the bull or the mill were assessed so that their value could be taken. The mill had crushed the boy: the mill-wheel, the water-wheel, the two great cogs – all had led to Danny’s death, so all must be deodand.
That was the Coroner’s argument, and it took all of Serlo’s eloquence to persuade him that it was only the wheel which was at fault. You couldn’t blame the water-wheel or the shaft or the building, it was just the cogged wheel. The Coroner countered that it was both cogged wheels at least, for the lad was crushed between the two, and although Serlo tried to point out that one had captured Dan and dragged him in, so only one was guilty, the Coroner would have none of it. If Serlo wanted to argue further, he said, Serlo could do so in the King’s court.
Not that it was all down to Sir Simon. At each argument the knight conferred with his clerk, a greasy little toe-rag called Roger who stared at Serlo like a man studying a dog’s turd on his boot.
And now Serlo had a thundering debt on his hands. He had been forced to borrow heavily just to be able to pay the deodand. Eighteen whole pennies, for one wheel alone! Christ’s cods, that was a huge amount for one cretinous apprentice who couldn’t even walk straight. Then there were the extra charges – the one for the grave, the cost of the services held in the brat’s memory, the fee for the mourners … as the apprentice’s master, Serlo had to foot the whole sodding bill.
Danny had cost Serlo dearly, and yet the miller couldn’t help but miss the little devil. His cheery smile, his prattling … Not that he’d let people realise that. He didn’t want them thinking he was some weak, sentimental fool. No, if he did that, they’d all assume that they could get away with fleecing him. He knew that many of the locals considered him a fool, a few sticks short of a bundle. They respected his brother, but only because Alexander was ruthless, so Serlo copied him as best he could. At the Coroner’s inquest he’d pretended to be unaffected by Danny’s death. Maybe he ought to have shown his sorrow, but then people would have sniggered at him.
Life, he sighed to himself, was a shit.
Hearing a shout, he glanced up. Someone was trying to cross the bridge. Serlo grunted and made his way up the stairs to the bridge, where he had erected a gate. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded suspiciously, his hand straying to his cudgel.
‘Travellers, miller. What’s this thing here?’
‘Can’t you see the board?’ Serlo asked sarcastically. ‘It’s a toll. You want to cross the bridge, you have to pay. It’s two pennies.’
‘Why should we pay?’
‘It’s no business of mine, master. If you won’t, you won’t, but then you’ll have to ride back to the other road, a good two miles west, and approach the vill again. That’ll take you a good couple of hours.’
‘There never used to be a toll here.’
This voice was lower, more malevolent. Peering at them shortsightedly, Serlo felt a sudden twinge of fear. Both men were on horseback; their mounts were large beasts – good, expensive-looking horseflesh. One of them was so dark it was almost black, the other was deep chestnut, but it wasn’t the horses that caught his attention so much as the riders. Both, now he studied them, had the aura of wealth, like servants in a rich man’s household. The bigger of the two was wearing a green tunic and hosen, while his companion was clad in a red tunic; there was a richness to its colour where the sun caught it, like a fine silk. Here, some distance west of Cardinham, Serlo was more than a little exposed. If these two were of a mind, they could vault the gate and chase after him on their mounts. He’d not be able to escape them.
‘Lordings,’ he said with more respect, ‘it’s not my choice to charge honest men to cross the river, but my lord’s. We built this bridge with our own strength, and still owe money for the work. What else can we do? My lord said that we must ask travellers to pay for our efforts, because the thing’s not here for our benefit. It’s for yours.’
‘Scant benefit to me,’ shrugged the rider wearing the green tunic. He was the larger of the two, and as he ambled his mount forward, Serlo saw that he had a massive frame, with a right shoulder that held muscles like knots in an oaken board. The tendons of his neck were as thick as ropes.
‘Miller, open that gate!’ the man commanded.
‘Look, give me a penny if you like and I won’t tell my master that I—’
‘Silence! We could push the thing over if we wished,’ the first man said. ‘If you have any complaints about us not paying, let me know later when I’m in a mood to listen.’
‘It sounded as though this miller w
as asking us to pay him instead of his master,’ said the second pensively.
‘Is that what you wanted, man? You’d embezzle money due to your master?’
‘No, of course not. That would be treason! But my master will want me to settle any missing debts. I’ll have to tell him that you both passed by without paying the toll levied here.’
‘Your master? What’s his name?’
The man-at-arms made an irritable gesture.
Reluctantly, Serlo moved forward and slid the bar from its rests, swinging the gate wide. ‘Sir Henry of Cardinham, lord of this manor. Not that he’s here right now; he lives in his own big palace near the King, so I hear. He’s part of the King’s household, so you shouldn’t cross him. Nicholas is his castellan. He’s there in the castle now, I expect, and he has a foul temper – so I shouldn’t try to plead ignorance about the tolls and evading them.’
‘Oh aye? Then we’ll be careful, won’t we, Richer?’ the larger man said. ‘If our new master is so brutal, we’ll have to watch ourselves!’
Serlo heard his laughter, and felt the shock of the words like a wave that broke over him. He peered at the second man, and recognition kicked in his bowels. It was mutual.
‘So, little miller, it’s you! You weren’t a miller when I was last here.’
‘Some of us have bettered ourselves in the last years, I suppose,’ Serlo said defensively.
‘Aye, that’s true enough,’ the man called Richer said softly.
As the two meandered away, up the lane eastwards towards the castle, Serlo could only wonder what Richer atte Brooke was doing back here in Cardinham.
After all, it was fifteen years since he’d fled the vill, when all his family had died in a fire.
Gervase, steward of Cardinham Castle, watched Nicholas leave with a sense of relief. It was hard enough keeping the men working without having the master of the castle hanging around, watching everything with that stupid grin plastered all over his face. It made Gervase feel queasy. Nick had once been his best friend, but now … Well! It was better that the fool should go and leave his steward to do his work without interruption.
The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) Page 2
