Suddenly, from the bushes some ten paces away appeared a sow with five piglets running close behind, and then a moment later a large boar who had positioned himself between the apparent threat and his mate. The sow and piglets ran past without being molested by the hunters who were following the hunting precept that a female with young was never attacked- based on the requirement to have something to hunt in following years. The boar, however, was another matter and was fair game. The two Englishmen loosed their arrows at him. Alan had more sense and dropped his bow, drawing the sword that he wore at most times he was outside his own Hall, like most men of station. A hunting arrow wasn’t going to stop an enraged boar that was ten paces away. The one arrow that did strike the boar in the shoulder did get his attention, making him turn to directly charge the hunters, which his poor eyesight had previously prevented him from seeing.
With a squeal of fright the two cheorls turned to flee, but one was slightly too slow and the enraged and wounded boar was on him, gouging him from behind with sharp tusks. Alan took a step forward, sword held low. The boar saw the movement and turned ready for another charge. As the beast launched itself forward, Alan crouched ready to allow the animal to impale itself on his sword, intending to then roll clear. At the last moment there was a movement from Alan’s right and Leof interposed himself, spear held low and aimed at the boar’s chest- but with his eyes tightly closed. There was a scream from the boar and then Leof felt himself grasped by the collar and dragged to the side. Alan’s voice in his ear shouted, “Keep your eyes open, and when you’ve stuck him get the fuck out of the way! A dying boar with a spear in the chest can still kill you! Well done, boy!” Alan gave him a gentle buffet on the shoulder and then ruffled his hair. After a moment of thought while he considered the boy’s young age he said, “See Brand on Monday morning and start weapons training. You’ve got the guts to make a fine warrior!”
The injured cheorl gave up the ghost an hour or so later, despite the best efforts of those in the hunting party. Although Alan had tried to assist he wasn’t overly upset about the fate of his fellow-hunter. After all, he hadn’t known the man, who had died not by mischance but due to his own stupidity and cowardice. Alan wasn’t disappointed with the outcome of the hunt. While he had a vague sense of regret about the death of the cheorl, he was satisfied that the day had proven to have had substantial benefit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thorrington August 1068
It was mid-August. The warm dry weather that everybody prayed for had not happened and for the last two weeks while it had been warm it had also been wet. There had been frequent heavy showers but no heavy soaking rain that would flatten the crops. Alan’s own crops of wheat, rye, barley and oats, sown and harvested first by the villagers as part of his lordly perquisites, were now in his granaries, threshed and winnowed. About half of the villagers’ grain had been harvested and the farmers had been waiting anxiously for the rain to stop and the crops to dry to permit the remaining grain to be threshed and to be stored without mildewing.
Alan had ridden through the light rain to Beaumont at the request of Siric the steward and head-cheorl Alstan. They were standing up to their knees in the crop in a section of the village land where had been sown rye, that most important of grain which formed the basis of the villager’s diet. Alstan handed Alan several heads of rye, and held some stalks of wheat in his other hand. The plant heads had a white tissue on them and drops of honeydew. Alan looked closely at the crop close to him and could see a few other plants similarly affected.
In reply to Alan’s raised eyebrow Alstan spoke a single word. “Ergot!”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” said Alan. Alstan and Siric nodded solemn agreement. “How bad?”
“We’ll burn the wheat crop as soon as it dries enough,” said Alstan. Alan winced. Wheat and salt formed the cash-crops that the village sold to buy items it couldn’t produce; rye fed the villagers; oats and barley fed the animals in winter. “This is the worst patch of rye. It’s not a high infestation at the moment and probably half, maybe two-thirds, of the rye strips are clear at the moment. The oats and barley seem alright- they’re always less affected by disease. We’ll have to burn the stubble and inspect almost each grain of the crop. We can’t feed any of the hay or grain to the livestock of course.”
Alan nodded. “You know what the infected grains look like? Good. You’ll have to watch closely for your people suffering St Anthony’s Fire- a burning feeling in their arms or legs, seizures, vomiting or hallucinations. Also poor circulation in the arms and legs, particularly toes and fingers. We don’t want people getting gangrene. I’ll let the other villages know. When you get your harvest in, tell me what you have and whether you need more rye grain. And let’s all pray to God that it stops raining and we get a nice dry wind!”
By late August the prayers had been partially answered, with the heavy rain having improved firstly to scattered showers and then to two weeks of blessed dry and sunny weather. The fields of each village in the Hundred had swarmed with virtually the whole population. Men, women and the older children advanced in a line, field by field, backs bent and sickles moving in rhythmic motion, the cut crops being gathered into sheaves tied together with a stalk, which the younger children and the elderly then placed in stooks at the end of the field to be collected later by wagon or cart. Even the professional soldiers took time out from their training to take part in the most important rustic pursuit of the year. Only the very young, very old or very sick- or the very rich and important- were absent from the fields.
Alan had spent several part days in the fields early in the harvest, when his own fields were being reaped by the villagers in priority to their own as part of the duty that each villager owed his lord- in this aspect English custom and that of the Normans were similar. While he felt that his time could be better spent otherwise, working up a sweat in the fields next to the villagers and then sitting with them in the shade while they consumed the lunch he provided them of rye bread, cheese and ale was a beneficial bonding process. Whilst his back ached from bending low for several hours at a time, he at least found that the calluses he had on his right hand from sword-practice prevented blisters being caused by the sickle. His left hand was another matter…
Early on Wednesday 27th August 1068 the blessed event that Alan and Anne had been awaiting took place. Anne had been unable to sleep, with increasingly powerful cramps in her abdomen. The last few hours, with Alan snoring gently next to her, had been really annoying. If she was awake, why should he be asleep…. After a sharp contraction and a grunt, Anne elbowed Alan and said, “It’s time. Get the midwife.”
After a delay of several seconds as he came awake and gathered his thoughts, Alan lit a candle for light and did as he was bid, shouting, “Synne! Call for the midwife, boil some water and let’s get on with the rest of it!”
Alan had not been in Anne’s good books for several weeks. She’d been grumpy about lack of sleep, the discomfort of the child moving within her, particularly when the active child kicked her bladder, and dissatisfaction as to the restrictions imposed on her by her gravid state. She’d been spending several hours a day soaking in the hot-tub to help with the pain and aching in her lower back. While she had appreciated his regular anointing of her swollen belly with an expensive oil imported from the Levant and his delight in feeling the child move within her belly, the comments he had made to try to encourage her had not been welcome. Statements such as ‘easy as shelling peas’ or ‘the village ladies give birth and are back out in the fields within a couple of hours’ had struck entirely the wrong note. As a result Anne had told him she would follow normal practice and he would be banished from the birth-chamber.
As the ladies hurried into the room Alan was unceremoniously ejected and wandered out into the Hall, where most of the household were still asleep lying on straw-filled palliases. He sat leaning back against the warmth of the hollow brick wall which formed part of the innovative central-heating sys
tem in the building, just one of the details incorporated into the complex of buildings which Alan had designed and built just under two years previously, in part using ancient Roman technology. He dozed fitfully until the Hall slowly came awake with the approach of dawn. First the kitchen staff rose from their beds and departed to the kitchen, which as tradition dictated was located in a nearby building to minimise the risk of fire, then the stable-hands and other servants began to go about their duties. The trestle tables and benches were set up and the servants were provided with their usual light breakfast of day-old bread with a sop of ale or mead and cheese and butter. Alan broke his fast on buttered toasted bread with strawberry jam washed down with diluted mead.
Alan was aware that in birthing prolonged labour periods were not unusual, but when the cries of pain and distress could be heard from the bedroom upstairs continued through to midday he decided that action on his part was required. Not wanting to burst in where he may be neither wanted or needed, he called for his body-servant Leof, who had been sitting nearby since Alan had been roused, to bring the maid Synne from upstairs.
Synne appeared moments later, looking tired and worn. “How go things?” demanded Alan.
“Lady Anne is having… a difficult labour and is in some pain. There appears to be some problem with the child’s passage, but the midwife is confident,” she replied with obvious concern.
Alan nodded and announced, “Enough is enough,” rising and going from the Hall into his study. There he rifled through his medical textbooks and then spent several minutes studying a scroll written by Hippocrates. In the summer sunlight of late morning he then walked the few steps to the building that served as his workshop where he gathered several surgical instruments and placed them and half a dozen small jars of herbs, unguents and potions into a bag, washed his hands in alcohol and marched resolutely back into the Hall. After ascending the staircase to the upstairs family living area, he pushed past the female servant by the door.
Anne was sitting naked on a birthing chair, with her feet drawn up and placed on footrests on either side. She was covered in a sheen of sweat and her long auburn hair was wet and matted. The midwife named Rowena, as white-haired as her name indicated, crouched between Anne’s spread legs, her arms bloody to the elbows. There was a pool of blood on the wooden floor.
Alan elbowed the midwife aside and crouched in her place. The child’s head projected beyond the cervix and Alan used his left hand to support its weight. “What’s the problem? Obviously not a breech!” he demanded.
“The shoulders won’t come through… I’ve tried several ways to ease the shoulders through. We just need to let the contractions push the child through,” replied Rowena in a peevish tone.
“Contractions and gravity obviously aren’t working,” said Alan with annoyance. While he had no practical experience of child delivery, he’d made a point to carefully read and note the details in the medical tracts he owned and had just refreshed his memory. “You four, pick Lady Anne up and place her on the bed. Slowly, as I have to support the child’s head as we move… That’s better. Now, Anne, legs up and lift the knees up to your belly. This widens the pelvis and flattens the spine. Good… good.”
After several minutes without success he continued, “Rowena, put pressure on the belly above the child, pushing gently downwards, while I pull gently on the head. Good… Try again. And again. Now stop the pressure. I’m going to manipulate the shoulders. Rowena, hold the child’s head.” Here Alan pressed the child’s forward shoulder towards its chest and the rearmost shoulder towards its back, the baby’s head turning to face its mother’s rectum. Alan resumed supporting the head. “Now, Anne, you push, and Rowena place pressure again on the belly.” Alan exerted gentle pulling pressure on the head, and with a corkscrew motion first one and then the other shoulder slipped through and the baby was in Alan’s hands. “Thanks be to God! A daughter!” he continued. “Now Rowena, please continue as normal.”
With a sigh of annoyance the midwife took the child from Alan, turned her upside down and smacked her bottom with a hard slap to make her suck air as she howled in protest, before handing her back and clamping and cutting the umbilical cord. Bowls of warm water were at hand and Alan used one bowl to wash the blood and fluids off his daughter, her arms and legs jerking convulsively as she continued to squall, before wrapping her in a warmed soft blanket handed to him. On instruction from the midwife the maids washed Anne with cloths and warm water, changed the bed linen and slipped a nightgown around her, before Alan handed the baby girl to her mother. After a suggestion from Rowena, Anne slid a nipple into the little pouting mouth, stilling the cries.
Alan looked on happily, gave a big sigh or relief and pointed at the midwife. “I suggest that you and the lass you are training come to see me on Sunday afternoon for some instruction. I have several books with illustrations that you need to look at.” After a tight smile and a nod he handed a small leather purse made heavy by a dozen silver pennies. Rowena hefted the purse in her hand and with a satisfied smile sketched a brief and somewhat ironical curtsey, issued some rapid instructions to the maids and departed.
It was Monday 1st September, two days before the Day of St Gregory. The crops had been harvested and much of the harvest had already been threshed to separate the grain, although this work was not yet complete. Alan had declared the day a feast-day to celebrate both the successful harvest and the birth of his daughter. Oxen had been roasting over fires since the previous evening and sheep and swine since early that morning. A mountain of fresh bread had been baked and was sitting together with fresh-churned butter and cheeses on several tables. The villagers from Thorrington, nearby Great Bentley and Wivenhoe were taking advantage of the largess provided by their lord and thronged the village green.
Brother Wacian celebrated Mass at mid-day, which the size of the crowd dictated be held outdoors. Given the good weather the priest had arranged for the altar and the lectern to be brought onto the Green. In the bright sunlight he conducted a moving ceremony of thanks for the joint joys bestowed. He particularly enjoyed reading from the beautiful leather-bound bible and Psalter in Anglo-Saxon English that Alan had bestowed on the Church, his hands almost fondling the books as he turned the pages. The books were beautifully written and bound, although absent of extensive illumination as they were meant to be working tools and not works of art.
With Mass said, the congregation joined the children who had been playing noisily nearby and Alan’s servants rolled out the barrels of ale and mead to be placed next to two drink-serving tables. Alan had not seen any need to provide wine for the villagers, although several jugs were available for the thegns and their sons who had attended. Not long afterwards other servants carried in huge joints of meat. Otha the cook and several assistants, including the village butcher, set to carving meat for the assembled villagers. Otha knew what the villagers wanted- lots of the red meat that they had so little opportunity to enjoy and plenty of simple fare, with quantity being more important than quality.
Alan and Anne had invited the local thegns from Alresford and Tendring, and Leofstan of Great and Little Holland. From Alresford had come Algar, Edward and Edwold, and from Tendring came Frewin, Ednoth and Alfred, together with their wives and children, most of the latter being young adults. A number of uninvited villagers from Alresford, St Osyth and Tendring had attended and were partaking of the feast provided but, given their small numbers and his good humour from a successful harvest and the birth of his daughter, Alan made no issue of this.
Anne, still worn from the ordeal of the birth, circulated only briefly before returning to the Hall with the more noble guests. Alan spent several hours moving amongst the cheorls, sokemen and cottars and their families, receiving their good wishes. He also noticed a number of slaves present with their families, all of whom kept well out of his way knowing that they should not be there, and also chose to ignore them.
The food disappeared as quickly as it could be brought, as did
the drink. Later, in the early evening sunlight, as the consumption of provender slowed, the villagers began to dance and carouse to the music provided by a few of the local villagers with suitable talent. Periodically Alan appeared from the Hall and circulated amongst the villagers.
Inside the Hall the windows were open to allow the cooling breeze from the nearby sea to circulate and the fire was unlit. The seven thegns and their six wives, Alfred of Tendring recently becoming a widower, together with a dozen sons and their wives sat at table. Otha had made a point to produce a meal of greater sophistication for the nobles. As well as roast beef, swine and mutton brought from the roasting pits, the table also held stuffed basted pheasant, marinated chicken, sauteed lobster with shallots and mushrooms, poached fish in garlic sauce, herbed venison stew and six separate dishes of vegetables- parsnip, carrot, beans, peas and beet- steamed, sauteed, roasted or baked with different herb sauces or white wine. The guests helped themselves to the buffet several times and Alan prepared the food for Anne, with whom he was sharing a bread trencher, so that she didn’t despoil her gown, cutting and slicing the food so that Anne could spear it with her eating-knife without getting juices or sauce on her sleeves or dress.
Unusually, conversation was limited to local affairs, with no discussion of matters affecting the country generally. They enjoyed the local gossip and discussion of rustic pursuits, before the guests were shown to their beds.
Nine days later, at Sunday Mass the day after the Feast of the Birth of the Virgin Mary, baby Juliana was christened in the village church by Brother Wacian in the presence of most of the villagers. Roger and Alice Bigod, the Norman sheriff of Suffolk and his wife who were close friends of Alan and Anne, had arrived the evening before in response to the rider sent north. Also present were Anne’s parents Orvin and Lora and her brother Garrett and his wife Ellette, who had travelled from Ipswich.
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