The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) Read Free

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 thewindswept, 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 extracash. 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