by J. S. Crews
The sun had traversed the sky less than the width of a man’s hand as Ansel found himself crossing a covered bridge standing by the mill where a man could pay a silver penny to have his grain ground into a quart of baking flour. Those raw timbers of the bridge’s new arched roof were a testament to the profit the mill represented for Lord Wendel; it had not always been a covered bridge, but a man with extra silver in his pocket had the prerogative to do what he wished with his money. Ansel had to admit that it was prettier now.
Moments after crossing through Baedonton’s small outdoor market, he and Basha were picking their way along a path bordered by coppiced trees. Ahead was Eborhum Manor. The manor house was a rectangular building of both wood and stone—stone for the foundation and the lower part of the outer walls to perhaps the height of a man. They were treated timber from there up. The roof was tiled in squares of a material Ansel didn’t recognize, whereas the common people’s roofs were uniformly thatched, their homes constructed of wattle. The manor was a rich man’s house.
The property had a similarly built retaining wall that was less than twice the height of a man, the lower half in stone and the upper timbered. There was no fighting platform behind the wall, but it was protected by a defensive ditch crossed by a wooden bridge wide enough for two men to walk abreast, and there was a square timber gate arch at the end with a platform above. The gate hung open during daylight hours.
He dismounted at the edge of the bridge and tied Basha’s reins to a post. There was a stable ahead where servants would house and retrieve her when asked, but that privilege cost a silver penny. It was a luxury he could do without. Instead, he patted the old girl on the head and walked the bridge, a distance of only perhaps five paces, nodding to the single man-at-arms who appeared to be dozing against the wall.
He continued quickly across the tiny courtyard, his boots sounding on the cobblestones, and up the stairs to find the entrance wide open, likely due to the warmth of the day. He entered into a small mudroom. It was a bare space, the floor tiled. An iron brazier stood there, though unlit in this tame season, as well as a bucket of water and ladle so that visitors could quench their throats of road dust. The walls were covered in pegs, upon one of which Ansel hung his old faded cloak. There was no servant greeting visitors as Lord Wendel only kept a small staff, nothing like in the castles of greater lords.
The inner-entry was open as well with another man-at-arms standing guard. An estate the size of Eborhum only kept five or six full-time household warriors on staff, because each must be outfitted with a suit of mail, sword, and helmet, and each must be fed and paid a salary. At least a few were required, however, to act as the lord’s bodyguards, protect his property, and to act as muscle during tax collections and evictions. Other warriors were sworn to Lord Wendel, of course, but those men lived on farms throughout the estate and came only if a muster was called. This guard, seeming just as lazy as the one outside, nodded to the newcomer silently as he stepped into the foyer, at which point a house servant finally appeared.
The servant was a man well past middle years, perhaps even old by some standards. When you worked farm, field, and wood for your living, a man in his fifth decade of life would rightly be considered old whether or not he was infirm. Living a softer life, however, obviously took less of a toll. His manner and the look of his hands told Ansel his life had been easier than most.
The servant wore a fine doublet, smartly buttoned up the front and free of wrinkles or stains or even fading. The cloth was dyed a shade of burgundy—an expensive process—and he wore crisp brown leggings. It was obvious the entire ensemble had been tailored to his fitting. Lord Wendel found it important that, as representatives of his household and the first to come in contact with visitors, his servants should give the indication that House Baedon was a prosperous one.
He stood before Ansel with an expectant expression, and it was suddenly apparent there was no recognition in his gaze, despite them having met previously on numerous occasions. In the few moments that it took Ansel to realize this, however, the house servant’s expression turned more sour. “The guards at the gate should’ve told you that all beggars are required to go ‘round back to the kitchens or down the lane to the manor temple for charity.”
“I’m no beggar. I’m here on business.”
The servant smirked, causing Ansel’s anger to rise, and asked, “What business do you imagine you have in my lord’s hall? Commoners are to seek audience with the Lord of the Manor on manor court days, which is not today.”
Ansel began to bristle. “Our lord is expectin’ me, ‘cause our lord sent fer me. Now go make it known that Ansel Wood is here, awaitin’ audience!” His change in manner immediately had the desired effect, made clear by the way the pompous servant adjusted his attitude, yet Ansel still added, “I’m sure our lord wouldn’t like t’know that he’s been kept waitin’ fer me overlong on yer account.”
The house servant suddenly seemed older and more frail, all the blustering wind having been let out of his sails. He cleared his throat and quietly said, “Right this way, if you will follow me.”
Without another word, Ansel fell into step behind him, though he knew the way. The manor house was a three-storied affair, but most would never see the second or third floors. Only the Lower Hall, where the manor court was held, was open to commoners. The second story, referred to as the Upper Hall, was reserved for the receiving of highborn guests who might come to visit, and the upper-most story was where the Lord of the Manor and his family had their private apartments.
Despite not needing the escort, he allowed himself to be led across the foyer where, on manor court days, people gathered to await entry, any overflow spilling out into the entry hall and even into the courtyard outside. There was limited seating available within the actual Lower Hall where the manor court took place, so on crowded days some would watch the proceedings through the open doorway. This was rare, though, as manor court tended to be a boring affair. It was Lord Wendel’s responsibility to hand down summary judgments in such terribly exciting cases as a man getting drunk and punching his neighbor or two farmers squabbling over the placement of boundary stones.
The foyer was simply a square room. To both the left and right were doors leading further into other wings of the house, and a quick eye could catch sight of a maid or kitchen staff, hurrying about their business. The doors leading into the manor court were directly opposite the entrance, and this was the way that Ansel followed the now-cowed house servant.
The manor court itself consisted of a center aisle to the left and right of which were rows of wooden benches for the purposes of seating witnesses. At the front of the room, upon a small dais, was a long trestle table with Lord Wendel’s high seat placed at its center. To either side of him would be seated officials of his court—at a minimum, his estate steward, the bursar who keeps his accounts, and a scribe to keep records. Today, only Lord Wendel and his bursar awaited.
Lord Wendel Baedon was a big man, not tall but solidly built. He was stout, barrel-chested, and loud. Ansel had spent enough time at war to be a fair judge of men from the standpoint of a fight, and Lord Wendel was the type who would act like a bull; very little finesse, but formidable. He would bully and overpower an opponent, and Ansel would wager there was enough muscle behind that frame to do some serious damage.
He was also the type whose frame would likely go to fat as he aged, if not careful, and Ansel had no idea if the man had ever faced a real opponent. That was everything. Something else that Ansel’s time as a soldier had taught him was that a man could not truly be judged until properly tested. Some of the best fighters he had ever seen were average men at whom you wouldn’t spare a second glance, while much more imposing specimens would end up dead in their first skirmish. When it came to a real life-or-death fight, it wasn’t about size or even prowess; it was about instinct and tenacity.
Coming out of his reverie, he shook his head to clear those unpleasant thoughts. He was a man
at peace now—a farmer, woodsman, and husband and father; he did not like to think overlong about things he had seen fighting in the north. And yet, those experiences seemed never to leave him. He found himself assessing the quickest way to deal with people he met were it to come to a fight, simple farmers and tradesmen, and he was forever angry with himself for failing to shake that habit. The worst were the dreams, however. Things he had seen haunted him, things he could not bring himself to talk with Kaeti about, and he prayed daily for those awful memories to fade.
"Ansel," said Lord Wendel as the newcomer knelt briefly before the dais. "Good of you to come."
Ansel wanted to point out that he would have arrived sooner if the lord’s servants observed better hospitality, but instead he simply regained his feet and said, "I’m always at yer service, m’lord."
"Is your family well? That pretty young wife of yours and the babe? I can never recall the child’s name."
"My son’s called Anders, m’lord, an’ all are healthy an’ happy. Thank ya fer askin’, m’lord." Kaeti was a prize Wendel had once coveted, not to wed but to bed. Luckily, she had been wise enough never to find herself where the manor lord’s eldest could take advantage of his birth, and now that she was a married woman she was more protected. Wendel was himself reportedly looking for a wife after inheriting his father’s lands, but what mattered was that he was no longer chasing Kaeti. He always made sure to inquire about Ansel’s "pretty young wife," though, and Ansel was always forced to remain polite.
"Good. Good." It was a formality, these pleasantries. Lord Wendel cleared his throat loudly as the bursar at his side scratched noisely at some parchments with a feather pen. "I am sure you are wondering why I have summoned you. As you may or may not be aware, the Crown sends agents periodically to assess the worth of our lands and adjust our taxes accordingly."
"Yes, m’lord," said Ansel.
"Well, the bastard just departed, after consuming a week’s worth of meat and ale from my stores, and it seems the hideage of Eborhum Manor has increased. Taxes must needs be raised."
"I see." Ansel’s stomach was sinking.
Lord Wendel continued on, "You see, the Crown assesses land and sets the rate of taxation based on the earning potential of the land, and the land in your care, specifically, has recently increased in value."
Ansel’s spirits fell even further. He could only hope his face did not betray his feelings. What could I possibly ‘ave done t’anger the gods so?, he thought, but that question was unfair, knowing precisely just what kinds of things he had done. As an afterthought, he answered his own chiding with the assertion that whatever he’d done had been in the name of king and country, but no such logic had ever been able to overrule the badgering of his own conscience.
Lord Wendel was still talking. "You will understand, of course, that it is not only your land. Believe me when I tell you that the Crown will be taking their portion from the profits of my new mill as well. I will be lucky if it even turns a profit—" at this, he cast a sidelong glance at the bursar seated beside him, who in turn had the good grace to look abashed—"but your land does make up the greater portion of the increase, and so I have called you here to advise you of the new payment that will be required as of Midsummers."
Midsummers Day was an important festival time, celebrating the height of the summer season. It was said to be the year’s longest day, and marked the beginning of the new year, in this case 748 by Kingdom Reckoning. Folk believed Midsummers was a time when sinister forces walked the land, emboldened by the sun’s imminent waning toward winter, and so thousands of mammoth bonfires would be lit to attract the protection of Thalem, goddess of warmth and light. It was a time of great merriment and bounty. In addition, the first day after the festival was an official quarter-day, so called because they broke the year evenly into fourths, and it was the time when contracts would either begin, expire, or renew. It was the next date the law allowed new or increased rents and taxes to be levied.
"Very well, m’lord." Ansel braced himself. Inside, he was a fuming pit of worry and despair. He was barely able to provide for his family at the previous rate, but arguing the point would avail him nothing. Ansel might only be approaching his twenty-fifth summer, but he had spent a sufficient number of those years living with a father who stood for no complaining when there was work to be done as well as being a soldier under men tougher and more honest than Lord Wendel. He was well-versed in the universal truth that the world would be the world, whether you liked it or not. Complaining rarely changed anything and could often even make things worse.
"As a result of the increase, the new rate of taxation you will be required to pay will be–" Lord Wendel looked to his bursar for the pronouncement.
It took a moment for the man to realize he was being asked a question, after which he spent a few more seconds shuffling parchments to find the correct answer, before stating, "Twenty-eight shillings per year, my lord." The bursar then returned to his papers as Lord Wendel simply nodded.
Ansel was stunned. Twenty-eight shillings. A shilling was twelve silver pence. He was not even capable of the math to calculate how many pence would be required to make up twenty-eight of them. Ansel Wood was no fool, but there had been no tutors growing up for the son of a farmer, even if he was a franklin and a freeman. Typically, a man of his station would be more comfortable dealing in smaller amounts, seeing as how smaller amounts were usually all that ever graced his hand.
Ansel knew that a single silver penny would buy two dozen good brown eggs or a basket of fresh vegetables on market day, though his family typically grew and raised their own in order to avoid the expense. He recalled suddenly a trip he and Kaeti had made into Sarton over a year past. They had been taking the air one afternoon when he had spied a new pair of fine leather riding boots in a shop, only to beg off the advances of the shopkeeper after learning they cost six pence, half a shilling. Suddenly, his old boots looked much more salvageable.
Twenty-eight shillings.
A small family could eat like peasants on porridge and watered-down stew with sawdust bread for nearly a year on that kind of money. Luckily, Ansel being raised a farmer’s son and marrying the daughter of a man who earned his living working for a tanner meant that his own little family was adept at living moderately well on meager riches. They grew, raised, or bartered for almost everything they ate, and Kaeti made most of their clothing. She sewed by the light of a single candle sometimes well into the night, and Ansel hated not being able to provide her with a life without such necessity.
Still, they made do with what they had. They had little choice. Even being frugal, the simple act of living seemed to cost money. It was well and good that Kaeti mostly made their clothes, but fabrics and needles and thread all cost coin, just as growing and raising most of their own food did nothing to negate the need of replacing worn and unsalvageable gardening tools or purchasing materials for mending fences. Salt was a particularly costly item, but one could not eat through the long northern winters without salting meat after the Festival of Last Harvest, commonly known as Blood Harvest. All that and more coming out of pocket, just to eek by a life on a rocky farm.
Twenty-eight shillings.
That was an expense going far beyond the unnecessary extravagance of new boots or goods at market. Twenty-eight shillings represented a new riding horse. A damned fine horse from a master breeder with a new saddle and everything. Twenty-eight shillings was enough to purchase two new milk cows with money left over. Twenty-eight shillings was a fortune to a man like Ansel.
Standard taxes for a franklin were supposed to equal one third share of the profit his land could be expected to produce over the course of a year. Being freemen with their own rights over land, it was different for a franklin than for those bonded to land owned by a lord and required to offer up in taxes half of everything they grew or made. Be that as it may, living under the laws and protection of the nobility was never free. A holding the size of Ansel’s might be ex
pected to produce a yearly income of perhaps forty shillings before taxes, and Ansel also owed Lord Wendel an additional four shillings per year for the mortgage his father had taken out. What in the name o’ all the gods am I gonna do?
Suddenly, he realized that Lord Wendel and his bursar were both staring at him. He must have been standing there agape as his mind turned over and over. With visible effort, Ansel righted himself and asked, "If I could ask, m’lord, what’s the reason fer such a large increase?"
In that moment, a look crossed the faces of both men seated before him that Ansel thought might have been irritation, but it was quickly replaced by a somewhat confused expression. "If I may–" spoke the bursar before answering, then continued after a nod from his liege-lord—"The Royal Assessor recognized the earning potential of the hot springs on your property as being able to attract paying visitors and adjusted the value of the land accordingly."
"But those springs’ve always been there," Ansel pointed out. "I bathed there as a child m’self. How can the land be worth more this year than last when nothing’s changed?"
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Wood, but it has changed," answered the bursar, pointedly putting his busy quill to rest in order to eye Ansel. The little man was definitely getting irritated now, while Lord Wendel simply sat by listening. "Considerably, in fact.
"With the recent reclassification of this site as an official religious landmark, pilgrims will visit. Pilgrims who will leave offerings. Offerings which are the property of the gods through rendering them unto your local manor temple."
Now Ansel was becoming irritated, both by the little man’s tone as well as what he was implying. "I had not intended t’charge fees or encourage money to’be offered fer visiting a site my goddess blessed us with. All of us. Fer free." He wasn’t even addressing the hateful little civil servant anymore, but rather looking directly at the Lord of the Manor. "And, my lord’s family has chosen a different god entirely fer his manor."