“So that they will bring their grain to the lord’s mills and pay him to grind it for them.”
“And the lord will profit.”
“Yes, lord.” Arthur spoke in the condescending tone of one who explains something elementary to a child. “But if they pay a fine for building a mill, the lord will profit just the same.”
William found his tone maddening. “No, he won’t profit just the same. The fine is never as much as the peasants would otherwise have to pay. That’s why they love to build mills. And that’s why my father would never let them.” Without giving Arthur the chance to reply, he kicked his horse and rode over to the mill. His knights followed, and the villagers tailed along behind them in a ragged crowd.
William dismounted. There was no doubt about what the building was. A large waterwheel was turning under the pressure of the fast-flowing stream. The wheel turned a shaft which went through the side wall of the mill. It was a solid wooden construction, made to last. Whoever built it had clearly expected to be free to use it for years.
The miller stood outside the open door, wearing a prepared expression of injured innocence. In the room behind him were sacks of grain in neat stacks. William dismounted. The miller bowed to him politely, but was there not a hint of scorn in his look? Once again William had the painful sense that these people thought he was a nobody, and his inability to impose his will on them made him feel impotent. Indignation and frustration welled up in him, and he yelled at the miller furiously. “Whatever made you think you could get away with this? Do you imagine that I’m stupid? Is that it? Is that what you think?” Then he punched the man in the face.
The miller gave an exaggerated cry of pain and fell to the ground quite unnecessarily.
William stepped over him and went inside. The shaft of the waterwheel was connected, by a set of wooden gears, to the shaft of the grindstone on the upper floor. The milled grain fell through a chute to the threshing floor at ground level. The second floor, which had to bear the weight of the grindstone, was supported by four stout timbers (taken from William’s forest without permission, undoubtedly). If the timbers were cut the whole building would fall.
William went outside. Hugh Axe carried the weapon from which he got his name strapped to his saddle. William said: “Give me your battle-ax.” Hugh obliged. William went back inside and began to attack the timber supports of the upper floor.
It gave him great satisfaction to feel the blade of the ax thud into the building that the peasants had so carefully constructed in their attempt to cheat him of his milling fees. They aren’t laughing at me now, he thought savagely.
Walter came in and stood watching. William hacked a deep notch in one of the supports and then cut halfway through a second. The platform above, which carried the enormous weight of the millstone, began to tremble. William said: “Get a rope.” Walter went out.
William cut into the other two timbers as deeply as he dared. The building was ready to collapse. Walter came back with some rope. William tied the rope to one of the timbers, then carried the other end outside and tied it around the neck of his war-horse.
The peasants watched in sullen silence.
When the rope was fixed, William said: “Where’s the miller?”
The miller approached, still trying to look like one who is being unjustly dealt with.
William said: “Gervase, tie him up and put him inside.”
The miller made a break for it, but Gilbert tripped him and sat on him, and Gervase tied his hands and feet with leather thongs. The two knights picked him up. He began to struggle and plead for mercy.
One of the villagers stepped out of the crowd and said: “You can’t do this. It’s murder. Even a lord can’t murder people.”
William pointed a trembling finger at him. “If you open your mouth again I’ll put you inside with him.”
For a moment the man looked defiant; then he thought better of it and turned away.
The knights came out of the mill. William walked his horse forward until it had taken up the slack in the rope. He slapped its rump, and it took the strain.
Inside the building, the miller began to scream. The noise was bloodcurdling. It was the sound of a man in mortal terror, a man who knew that within the next few moments he was going to be crushed to death.
The horse tossed its head, trying to slacken the rope around its neck. William yelled at it and kicked its rump to make it pull, then shouted at his knights: “Heave on the rope, you men!” The four knights grabbed the taut rope and pulled with the horse. The villagers’ voices were raised in protest, but they were all too frightened to interfere. Arthur was standing to one side, looking sick.
The miller’s screams became more shrill. William imagined the blind terror that must be possessing the man as he waited for his dreadful death. None of these peasants will ever forget the revenge of the Hamleighs, he thought.
The timber creaked loudly; then there was a loud crack as it broke. The horse bounded forward and the knights let go of the rope. A corner of the roof sagged. The women began to wail. The wooden walls of the mill seemed to shudder; the miller’s screams rose higher; there was a mighty crash as the upper floor gave way; the screaming was cut off abruptly; and the ground shook as the grindstone landed on the threshing floor. The walls splintered, the roof caved in, and in a moment the mill was nothing but a pile of firewood with a dead man inside it.
William began to feel better.
Some of the villagers ran forward and began to dig into the debris frantically. If they were hoping to find the miller alive they would be disappointed. His body would be a grisly sight. That was all to the good.
Looking around, William spotted the red-cheeked girl with the red-cheeked baby, standing at the back of the crowd, as if she were trying to be inconspicuous. He remembered how the man with the black beard—presumably her father—had been keen to keep her out of sight. He decided to solve that mystery before leaving the village. He caught her eye and beckoned her. She looked behind her, hoping he was pointing at someone else. “You,” William said. “Come here.”
The man with the black beard saw her and gave a grunt of exasperation.
William said: “Who’s your husband, wench?”
