Free The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) by Michael Jecks Page B

come in here and be hurt. Of course Aumery was only four years old, and Hamelin a matter of eight months, so they wouldn’t be likely to play with fire yet, but young boys were always trouble,and they might, in the future, be silly enough to do something stupid. This was just one more thing for her to worry about.
    ‘Do you want some drink, Husband?’ she said at length. Hamelin was settled against her, nuzzling at her breast. Without thinking, she opened her tunic and let him suckle, smiling down at him, feeling the warmth of her love for her child.
    ‘Yes. Ale,’ Serlo responded, busy with a jammed block and tackle.
    Still feeding her child she filled a jug one-handed and took it back to Serlo, setting it down on the table near him. There was a loud rumbling and the constant sound of water from the mill nearby, but they were reassuring sounds. While she could hear them, she knew that there was food for them, that there would be a store through the winter, and that they should survive through to the spring. Hunger was a terrible affliction, and Muriel could all too easily remember the horrors of the famine.
    Yes, sitting here, she could be content. As the trees swayed gently outside in the soft breezes, occasional gleams of sunlight darted in at the window, making the dusty interior glow with a godly light, as though He was indicating His own pleasure. Meanwhile her child supped at her, instilling that feeling of maternal wonder and pride that always made her so happy.
    Serlo ignored her, glowering at the block as he tried to release it. He said nothing as Muriel sniffed at Hamelin’s backside, which smelled again. She settled him on a mat near the fire and pulled his legs apart, untying the clout and throwing it from his reach before wiping him clean and binding a fresh shred of cloth about him. The old clout she put in a bucket out by the door ready to be washed later, and then she filled a pot with ale for herself and sank down to stir the pottage.
    She spent much of her time these days feeling tired. The effort of looking after the two boys was draining, especially while shewas still breastfeeding. And their father was so sullen. He was more uncommunicative than ever since little Danny had died. As though that wasn’t bad enough, she had the clenching ache in her womb that spoke of her monthly time coming. She would have to wash all the clouts today to make sure that there were enough for her as well as for Ham. She longed for the baby to be clean. Some were clean at two years, she knew; her Aumery had been one of them.
    If only her husband were prepared to help – even a little. Just to take the two boys off with him for a morning or so, so that Muriel could get on with her washing. But he wouldn’t, and to be fair, Muriel knew full well that she’d never trust him with her children …
their
children. He was too forgetful.
    In the past he had been different. A kind, considerate lover to her when he wooed her, he had grown more distant since their wedding. Over the last year since Dan’s death he’d been really morose. Now there was seldom a chance for them to spend time alone together, apart from when he wanted her. Then he could be charming for a while. But only for a while. After that, when he was done, he’d roll over and start to snore, sated. A good meal, a pleasing congress, and he was content.
    ‘We need some—’ she began, but he cut through her speech like a saw through wood.
    ‘You always want more money, woman! When will you get it into your thick skull that we don’t have enough?’
    ‘We do quite well!’ she retorted, hurt. ‘We’ll have more when folk start bringing us their new grain.’
    ‘That isn’t going to be enough – not if you keep asking for more all the time! And those brats want feeding and clothing, damn them both!’ he shouted, his face red with frustration. ‘Christ’s balls, there must be a way to get more.’
    His voice trailed off and Muriel watched him