The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘But why did he come to my room, then?’ she asked again.

  Ivo considered. ‘Probably knew there was a gorgeous wench in here and wanted to have his wicked way with you.’

  She thumped him, smiling, and he grabbed her, pulling her up and over him, then clasped her to him, both arms about her torso. She tilted her head back to peer down her nose at him, and then her expression changed. ‘It wasn’t you, was it? You wouldn’t have scared me like that just to climb into my bed?’

  ‘Sweetheart, no,’ he said, genuinely shocked. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that. No. And I think I saw a man at the back of the place when I walked in, though I didn’t reckon anything about it at the time. Wasn’t until I heard you scream and you let me in that I realised there could be something odd going on. No, I didn’t do it, I swear.’

  She subsided against him, turning her head and resting her cheek on his chest. ‘I don’t know what he’d have done if he’d got in. I think he was going to kill me.’

  Ivo stroked her head happily. He did me a favour, he thought to himself, scaring you into my arms. ‘He’ll be caught by now, anyway.’

  There was a moment’s consternation when he wondered whether the man at Julia’s door had actually been Gervase, but then Julia began to distract him, and he gave up all thoughts of the stranger.

  Gervase was sprawled spread-eagled, taking in great gulps of air, unsure that he was truly safe at last. ‘My God! Thank you! Oh, thank you!’

  ‘Don’t be too glad yet,’ Simon said shortly. ‘You’re still deep in the shit.’

  Gervase ignored the coldness in his voice, ignored everything but the thrill of being alive. A shiver ran down his body, from the tip of his skull to his feet, a shudder of voluptuous refreshment. God! Alive!

  There was the tramp of hooves, and a harness squeaked and jingled. Then he heard the voice of the man who had once been his best friend. ‘Get up, Steward. You have a long, weary walk ahead of you. Best get started.’

  Baldwin insisted on allowing the steward to share his mount. The poor fellow was stumbling and falling every few paces. It was plain that his near death had all but emasculated him, and he was as shaky and gangling as a child. With him in this state, they would be fortunate ever to reach Cardinham.

  ‘I don’t care if he dies here!’ Nicholas rasped when Baldwin raised his concerns.

  ‘Well, you should. If he dies through your negligence, people will wonder why you didn’t save him. Perhaps because you were the murderer yourself?’

  ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Why in God’s name should I have killed Serlo or the widow?’

  ‘Because, Nicholas, if you knew of Gervase’s affair with your wife, might you not seek to punish him by setting him up as a murderer? Might you not kill his own past lovers so as to make them appear like his victims? Athelina, for example: you could have killed her because everyone in the vill knew she kept pestering Gervase about money. And then there was Serlo, killed because of the death of his apprentice, Dan. Everyone guessed Matty had her boy Dan by Gervase. Thus, a man wishing to make Gervase look guilty might kill him too.’

  Gervase heard this and looked up. He was slumped on Sir Baldwin’s horse while the knight walked at the rounsey’s side. ‘What do you mean, Matty and her boy?’

  ‘Your son, Danny.’

  Gervase’s mouth dropped. ‘He wasn’t my son!’

  Nicolas swung his fist and Gervase almost fell from his horse. ‘Don’t lie to us, man! You killed Serlo because he let your son die,’ Nicholas sneered. ‘The whole vill knew that. It was a miracle you didn’t kill the murderous oaf beforehand. I would have done.’

  ‘Urgh!’ Gervase wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve, snorted, then spat out a gobbet of blood. ‘I didn’t kill anyone. I wouldn’t hurt a hair of Athelina’s head, and I certainly didn’t take revenge for Matty’s son’s death. Why should I? Dan wasn’t mine.’

  Nicholas slowed his mount, turned a little in his saddle, and swung again. This time Gervase was ready, and rolled out of the way. ‘You can hit me as often as you like,’ he shouted, ‘but I swear on my mother’s grave, he wasn’t my son! Christ’s blood, Matty spread her legs for any man when she’d had a jug of cider. She was the sort of wench for one of the castle’s cooks, not me! I wouldn’t have gone near her unless there was little other choice.’

  ‘Then whose son was he?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Everyone in the castle swore he was Gervase’s. He’s raised bastards all over the place,’ Nicholas snarled. ‘This was just one more. He seeks to deny paternity because he doesn’t want his revenge to be known.’

  Gervase sniffed gingerly. ‘You think so? Then tell me, wise man, why I’d wait so long to enjoy my revenge. Ballocks! I have never killed anyone in my life. The man who says I have is a liar!’

  ‘Then who did? Who else could have fathered that boy?’ Nicholas demanded.

  Baldwin looked up at him, then at Gervase. ‘Either of you, I suppose, but then there are other men in the vill.’

  The thought tugged at his mind all the way back to the vill: who else could have fathered the apprentice? Through the last days there had been a momentum which had all but prevented rational consideration of the issues, first because of the rush to find a reason for Athelina’s murder, and then the murder of Serlo himself. His connection to the death of his apprentice was so apparent, the paternity of the child was so plainly crucial to the discovery of the killer, that all else seemed irrelevant. Yet now, Baldwin wondered again whether the thrust of his and Simon’s questionings should have been redirected.

  Something Susan at the alehouse had said was lingering in his head. It had felt important at the time, but again, other issues drew his attention away. All she had questioned was the sequence of the deaths of Athelina and her children. There was something in that. Surely, if the two boys had been together, killing them would have been difficult. A man like Gervase appearing might frighten them a little, because the lads knew he was an official at the castle, but that wouldn’t necessarily make them trust him enough to let him get so close he could cut both their throats. Did that mean Athelina arrived after her children, or before? Perhaps she was first to die, and the murderer sprang upon the boys as they arrived? If only he could think straight …

  At Warin’s insistence they stopped at a tavern he knew up on the road to Launceston, and there as well as wines and some food, the party were able to hire a horse to speed their return. While they sat and ate, Gervase standing soaked and wretched, staring longingly at the food, for Nicholas refused point blank to allow him to eat, Baldwin glanced up at him with a frown. ‘Gervase, you can see that you are the obvious culprit in the murders. Can you think of anyone else who could have benefited from the deaths of Athelina and Serlo?’

  ‘Richer, of course,’ Gervase shivered. ‘He would have won the revenge of the years, killing the man who had wiped out his whole family.’

  ‘There was no one else?’ Simon asked. ‘Surely someone would have benefited from Serlo’s death?’

  ‘Everyone in the vill gained from his death,’ Gervase scoffed, a little of his past arrogance returning to him.

  ‘Except his brother,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘His brother can be excluded from this,’ Simon agreed.

  ‘Although it’s odd. Alexander is the only man I saw on the night Serlo died. He was out near the tavern,’ Nicholas said.

  Baldwin glanced up at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Simon was peering into the middle distance. He sat back on his stool, resting against the wall. ‘We thought Serlo could have murdered Athelina. What if …’

  ‘What?’ Baldwin asked. He was thinking of Athelina again, and as he realised how relevant Susan’s comments were about the killer being known to the children, Simon squinted.

  ‘Well, if Serlo had a financial motive to do away with her, surely Alexander had the same one? He had a share in the cottage where Athelina lived. And Serlo had been taking gifts when i
t was Alexander’s money that paid for the farm of tolls. That meant Serlo was defrauding Alexander too.’

  Warin was listening, and now he scoffed. ‘You’re simply guessing! Why should Alexander kill Serlo?’

  Baldwin took a deep breath. ‘It was odd that Serlo should be killed just now – but what if Alexander wanted children, and had fathered Danny? Serlo had allowed his son to die, crushed in the machine. And then Serlo allowed his own son to die, once again through his own negligence. Would not any father be so appalled that his mind could be unbalanced?’

  ‘By Christ’s bones!’ Simon whispered suddenly as his eye caught Baldwin’s.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  They were back in the vill late that evening. On the way they met with one other party, which included Richer, and left Gervase with them while Simon, Baldwin, Warin and Nicholas continued on their way.

  ‘What is your rush?’ Warin demanded as they clattered into the vill.

  ‘When there is something to be learned, there is always a need to hurry,’ Simon said shortly. It was galling to be so out of breath; he wasn’t as used to fast riding as he once had been. All he could think about now was a warm fire, the chance to throw off his clothes and commandeer a bench to sleep on or, failing that, a cosy hayloft, than confronting a murderer.

  Baldwin looked entirely fresh again. He had the knack of absorbing any pain and weariness when he had mental activity to stimulate him, and now he was frowning at the road, deep in thought. Simon knew why. The idea that Serlo’s murderer could be his own brother was so appalling, and yet so logical, if Danny was Alexander’s son. That gave them the motive of revenge for Serlo’s negligence, added to his theft of the tolls. With regard to the death of Athelina, Alexander might well have killed her to remove her from the cottage which he and his brother owned.

  ‘There is another thing,’ Baldwin murmured as he drew up outside Alexander’s house. ‘The killer tried to strike again last night – at Julia. I had a feeling that the attacker was not Gervase, which was why I told Ivo to return to his woman and protect her.’

  ‘Why’d anyone attack her?’ Warin asked.

  ‘Perhaps to distract us and confuse our enquiries? Or perhaps he detests women who have children out of wedlock. A jealous man whose marriage is barren might well form an irrational hatred of women who breed without effort.’

  ‘If the boy Danny wasn’t his, what then?’ Simon asked as they dismounted.

  ‘He must have been,’ Baldwin said with quiet certainty, and drew his sword before beating on the door with his pommel.

  The door gave way when he tried the latch, and Baldwin entered warily, his sword at the ready. There was no sound from within, and he walked into the chilly room with the hackles rising on his neck. This felt like a dead house. It was a simple hall, with the hearth in the middle of the room, a pair of stools, a bench, and a table at one end. Tapestries hung from the walls and a thick layer of rushes covered part of the floor. A tripod with a big pot stood over the cold fire. At the far wall was a thickly rolled palliasse.

  Baldwin had a dreadful premonition. As Simon and Warin walked in and stared about them, he strode to the palliasse and pushed it over. His worst fears weren’t realised, thank God. It fell open, displaying rugs and blankets, but no body.

  He went through the screens passage to the buttery and pantry. Empty. He turned back and marched past the other two men, through the hall to the door at the rear. There might be a solar block where the couple slept, he thought, but when he opened the door, he found only another storeroom, containing two big chests. Baldwin looked at them: both were padlocked. By one there lay a number of bags. This, he thought, was where the man kept his wealth. And then he saw a small stain, and his belly lurched.

  ‘Simon! Bring a light.’

  ‘What is it? Oh, Christ’s bones!’

  Baldwin was crouching at the long red trickle, and as Simon entered, he looked up, his face haggard. ‘This is my fault, Simon. I should have realised this before! It’s all my fault!’

  He squatted, staring at the chest, while Simon fetched an axe. It didn’t take him long, and when he came back, he gave it to the knight. Baldwin swung it twice. At the second blow the padlock flew off. Baldwin took a deep breath and raised the lid.

  There inside, neatly folded to fit the space, and with a small cushion under her head as though to give her some comfort, lay Letitia. The small stream of blood came from the savage slash in her neck, which had emptied the blood from her veins to form a pool in the bottom of the chest.

  ‘So it was Alexander,’ Simon breathed.

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said sadly. ‘He killed them all.’

  Ivo had left Julia early, thinking that he’d be able to get back to the castle in time for Baldwin and Simon’s return, because he was keen to see whether they’d had any luck in their search for the steward. On his way, he heard hoofbeats approaching.

  The first rider was a man-at-arms from the castle, who spat in his direction when he called out, asking whether they’d been successful. Ivo bit his thumb at him when he was safely past. Then a man Ivo had been friendly enough with rode past, and he shouted out that yes, they’d caught the bastard. The castellan was bringing him back, and God save him when he was thrown into the castle gaol, after what he’d done.

  Ivo realised there was little point now in heading back to the castle. The place would be empty for some while, he had the news he wanted, and although the food was better in the castle, it was a long walk away and there were undoubted attractions to remaining in Julia’s bed. He wavered, but only for a moment or two, and then set off back towards the vill and Adam’s house.

  The hall was dark and empty-looking when he arrived, and he walked straight through to the back, where Julia’s room was. Just as he rounded the corner, he heard a strange noise, a kind of loud report, like a wooden peg snapping. Then as he peered ahead he saw a line of bright light in the darkness from her open door, a figure standing in it with a large bar in his hand. He heard the man laugh, then a scream, and in that moment, he flung himself across the twenty feet or so of yard.

  He caught the man squarely in the back, and hurled him into the room, narrowly missing Julia, who stood with her hands balled at her cheeks as she screamed. The sudden eruption of her lover caused her to fall silent for a moment, but then Ivo and his target fell onto her palliasse, almost crushing little Ned, and her cries were renewed.

  Ivo felt a hand strike his temple, then nails raked along his cheek, but in the meantime he seemed incapable of finding his own target. The man squirmed and wriggled so much, Ivo could scarce guess where his head would be from one moment to the next, let alone hit it. There was a rasp, and then Ivo saw the knife. He reached for the hand that gripped it, but missed and caught the blade itself. He felt the shearing of his muscles and the grating of the knife against his bones, and was struck with horror as he realised his hand was ruined. If he could, this man would kill him, he sensed, and he grabbed for the nearest implement. It was the iron bar the man had used to break open the door. Ivo raised it, even as his left hand grew slick with his blood; then he brought the bar down upon the man’s head, once, twice, and then a third time, until he stopped trying to pull his knife from Ivo’s grasp.

  At breakfast, Anne watched her husband cautiously. He still loved her, she was sure, but his discovery of her unfaithfulness had hurt him dreadfully, as it must. There weren’t enough words for her to explain how the emptiness of loss had affected her when she convinced herself that he was dead, nor that she still loved him. It was too late for all that. All she could do was wait, and hope, that he would rediscover his love for her.

  At their table was a special guest. Gervase, clad in clean tunic but looking pale and fraught, was at his side as usual, but today without a trencher in front of him. The food was all for other people. Again Gervase must endure hunger, knowing that the only offering for him would be the stale, leftover crusts.

  Nicholas finished his meal, and then st
ared at Gervase blankly for a long time, his expression utterly unfathomable. Then, ‘So, are you ready to answer the Coroner?’

  ‘Of course I am. I’ll tell him the truth.’

  Gervase couldn’t meet his eye. Anne felt a fleeting sympathy for him, trapped here, with no way out. His face was mottled and bruised from the blows Nicholas had aimed at him yesterday, although Warin had ensured that he was safe enough when he returned to the castle. Warin said he wanted Gervase alive at least until he could brief Warin on the papers and records of the manor. The steward was a pitiful creature now, and the Lady Anne shuddered to see him.

  ‘In front of the vill?’ Nicholas rasped. ‘You’d shame her like that?’

  Anne could feel her face flush. She put a hand on her belly, the other on the table to steady herself. Would Gervase really do that – confess his crime with her, her adultery, before the whole mass of peasants and farmers? She’d never be able to look the villeins in the eye again.

  Gervase looked unhappy. ‘I wish … I am so sorry, Nicholas. This shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t mean it to … It was just something that—’

  ‘Will you shame her before the vill?’

  ‘I don’t want to, I hate the idea!’ Gervase was staring at her now, a kind of desperation in his eyes, the eyes of a stag at bay before the hunters rode in with their lances.

  ‘Will you shame her, I asked!’ Nicholas rasped.

  ‘I’ll have to tell the truth. There have been enough lies.’

  ‘I see,’ Nicholas said, and there was a sudden calmness in his voice. His two fists were set upon the tabletop and he leaned back, studying the man beside him with loathing. Then he almost lazily slammed a fist into Gervase’s already broken nose.

  The steward was hurled from his stool, weeping as the blood flew from his nostrils. He gave a shrill cry, making the blood bubble, then rolled on to all fours and vomited.

  Nicholas stood and walked about him, and then lifted a boot and kicked with all the full force of his malice. Anne winced as she saw the boot crashing into the man’s belly, and had to cover her eyes. She couldn’t bear to see any man suffer, nor could she bear to see the hatred in her own husband’s face.