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

lines of age and care. Or so she hoped.
    When the knock came, she felt her heart thud painfully, but then she took a deep breath and strode to the door, pulling it wide. Giving a smile, she welcomed her visitor, stepping back into the room.
    Before he could speak, she pushed the door shut, then bravely put her lips to his as her hand fell to his groin.

Chapter One
     
    It was two days later that Richer rode back alone from a hunt with his squire and Nicholas the castellan. Richer’s rounsey had thrown a shoe, and Richer knew perfectly well that a man-at-arms looked to his horse before his own pleasure. Some day his life might depend on it. Pleasure could be sought at any time.
    The vill was quiet as he clattered slowly along the stony path. He felt surprisingly relaxed. After fleeing from here in such a hurry all those years ago, he had anticipated an overwhelming sadness when he finally returned. And fear, too: this was the first time he had passed through the vill on his own, without the protection of Warin or one of the other men-at-arms.
    From here the road curled up towards the church and soon, through the trees, he could see the little belltower ahead. It was only a short way from there to the place where he had been born and raised. The long low thatched cottage had had a large logpile at one side and a barn behind, where the family pig and some hens were housed. His father had been a serf – a peasant who owed his labour to the lord of the manor – but Richer had gained his freedom by running away and not being caught. He wondered what his parents would make of him now. Probably they’d be unhappy at his chosen career, a henchman for a lord, but there was little else he felt he could do. At least he wasn’t a mercenary. He earned his robes and food from his loyalty to his squire, and if he was employed indirectly by Sir Henry of Cardinham now, it was on a more equitable basis than being a mere serf like his father.
    At least he had travelled and seen a little of the country. That was more than most could say, especially fellows like Serlo. Cheeky bastard, trying to thieve money from people passing by his mill. Richer had asked about this at the castle, but apparently it was legitimate: the miller had bought the farm of the tolls. Which was weird, because if he owned the farm, there was no reason why he should let people through at a reduced rate, unless he was desperate. Perhaps that was it. Serlo’s family had always been money mad, ever since his father’s failure. Some men could be driven like that. As far as Richer was concerned, it was a curious craving. He preferred the security of belonging in a household. Especially since losing his family.
    It was odd coming back here. Glancing about him again, he saw how little changed the place was. He would have expected the vill to show the scars of loss, some memory of the disaster which had taken his parents from him, but there was nothing. It was almost as if their deaths hadn’t happened. The houses were the same, the green unchanged – even most of the people were immediately recognisable when he saw then. A part of him expected to see his home; maybe he would meet his father again as he turned a corner. But he couldn’t. They were all dead: it was why he had run away in the first place. All were gone.
    There was one welcoming face he longed to see, but after fifteen years, she must surely have been married. Yet he hadn’t seen her since his return. She wasn’t dead; he’d asked about her generally, and received some grunts from servants in the castle, as though mention of her was somehow bad luck, but he didn’t get the impression that she was in the graveyard. Christ’s bones, but he hoped not. He had loved her so much … so, so much.
    And then, as though she had heard his wishes, he saw her on the way ahead. A tall woman, bent with hardship, but still strikingly attractive.
    ‘Athelina!’ he called in a choked voice.
    She turned, and for a split