by Ann Swinfen
Against the right wall of the nave a fine stone tomb held the carved life-size figures of a Lord de Vere, his shield marked with the Crusader’s cross, with his lady lying beside him. Perhaps this was the same man who had presented the window to the church. Before the altar, a new and shining brass plate, set into the flagstones of the floor, was engraved with the image of Sir Yves de Vere, last of his line, who – with his wife and children – was buried beneath it. I disliked walking over it on occasions when I took communion here, for it seemed like an act of cruel disrespect for a man I had known and liked.
Yves de Vere, being a practical and humane man, had not presented the church with a window, but with the new fashion of wooden benches called ‘pews’, so that the congregation might sit instead of standing throughout the service. There had always been a narrow stone ledge set into the wall of the nave near the west door, where the elderly and infirm might rest weary bones, but the idea that those who were hale and hearty might sit down during service was a new one, at the time when Lord de Vere arranged for the pews to be carved by the village carpenter and installed some six years earlier. I was familiar with pews from those Oxford churches which had begun the practice, but here some of the older villagers had muttered their disapproval, saying that only by standing and kneeling throughout the service could one show proper respect and piety in God’s house, not by sitting relaxed and idle. However, I noticed now that none of these die-hard traditionalists any longer stood resolutely at the back of the nave, behind the pews, but took their seats along with the rest of us.
Although the church was humble, it was the first place of worship I had known, and Sire Raymond’s voice, speaking the familiar Latin words of the Mass, was the voice I had first heard intoning those beautiful phrases as a child, long before I understood them. The familiarity enfolded me now, warm and comforting.
Alan’s nephew Rob was serving as altar boy, although I could not see Alan himself. That is one disadvantage of pews – it is much more difficult to look about you when you are fixed, sitting in one place, than it is if you stand. Alan was somewhat short, wiry and compact, easily hidden in a crowd. However, he was certain to be here somewhere in the congregation, and I would find him after the service. As far as I could tell, there were no strangers here, so Master Mordon and his London friends must be hearing Mass in the private chapel at the manor.
The Mass concluded, Rob preceded Sire Raymond down the nave, swinging a brass censor on a chain and casting the scented smoke of incense over the congregation. That too was familiar. Not the expensive and exotic perfume of the incense used in town churches, but some village concoction of homely herbs, gathering in the meadows and gardens of Leighton-under-Wychwood and presented reverently by some of the village wives to the priest.
Since we were seated near the front of the congregation – our family being the highest ranking in the parish after the lord – I was delayed in leaving the church. Out in the lane I saw Alan with his wife and nephew already beyond hailing distance.
I turned to Edmond.
‘I think I will call on Alan at home,’ I said. ‘Easier to speak with him there than in the midst of the harvest. If I am delayed, do not let Susanna wait dinner for me.’
Edmond nodded. ‘Aye, see what you may learn. You have always known Alan better than I.’
‘When we were younger, that is true enough. But now? However, I think we should try to discover what lies behind this so sudden dismissal.’
He made a face. ‘Alan is not the first. This fellow Mordon has cast off almost all the old household servants from the manor. And there has been other trouble.’
I raise my eyebrows in query. The man had wasted no time in stirring up such trouble.
‘You recall Matt Grantham?’ Edmond said. ‘He inherited that small property – over next to the manor demesne land – from an uncle by marriage on his mother’s side of the family.’
‘Aye, I know him. Big burly fellow. Somewhat short of temper.’
‘That is the man. It seems this uncle’s father used to hold some land – not this same land – by villein service. Now it seems Master Mordon is making a claim that Matt and all his family are villeins, owing customary service to the manor.’
I frowned. ‘That cannot be, surely?’
‘Indeed not, but Mordon and his London lawyer say they will take Matt to court and bind him to villeinage. The whole village is hot with anger at it, and none more than Matt himself. He has been making all kinds of threats in the alehouse when he is cup-shotten.’
‘Best if he keeps a cool head,’ I said. ‘It will soon be shown that he and all his forebears have been freemen. But Matt has never been one to keep a cool head.’
‘He has not. His friends are trying to talk sense into him. ’Tis to be hoped they may prevail.’
As I walked down the village street after Alan, I pondered this latest revelation about the new lord of the manor. Leighton-under-Wychwood had always been a quiet place, with harmony between church, manor, and village. And mostly a happy place, until the Pestilence came. Even when the harvest was poor and times were hard, the villagers had been able to look to the manor for help. Although the de Veres had not been one of the great families, possessed of riches, they had always been willing to share what they had with the needy. Later, with the family gone and the manor falling into neglect, the de Veres had been mourned, but a general opinion had prevailed – perhaps more hopeful than wise – than a new lord would once again prove a shield against those hard times. Yet now, on every side, the new man seemed bent on destroying all that had held firm for generations. He had rejected our priest, treated his huntsman, servants, and villagers with arrogance and hostility, and damaged the only other substantial family, ours, by the obstruction of our mill.
Alan’s cottage stood about halfway along the village street in the opposite direction from our farm. It had the usual amount of land before and behind, much the same as Beatrice’s home in Oxford, enough to grow the family’s vegetables, some fruit trees, some hens, and a sty for a pig to be slaughtered at Michaelmas. Unlike the rest of the villagers, however, Alan’s family held no farmland, since they had always served as the manor huntsmen, an occupation which took up all their time, having overall responsibility for the manor’s hunting dogs and their gear, those of the horses used in the hunt, and all the equipment – bows, hunting spears, crossbows, nets, traps – I could hardly name half of it. In addition, they must undertake the training of the kennel boys, the hunt assistants, and any grooms who took part. A noble hunt has the most precise of customs and rituals, and woe betide any huntsman who fails to observe them.
Could this be the cause of the rift between Alan and the new lord? Surely not! Alan was probably more learned in all of a huntsman’s duties and the arcane practices of the hunt than ever this merchant fellow could be, however well versed he was in the buying and selling of spices. Perhaps it was the other way about, some dispute arising from the townsman’s ignorance.
Alan was standing before his cottage, morosely regarding a row of lettuces which had been savaged by rabbits.
‘Good day to you, Alan,’ I said.
He nodded a reply. ‘Those b’yer lady conies,’ he said, ‘since there’s been no hunting, they have been multiplying –’ he gave a sharp bark of laughter, ‘– like rabbits!’
I smiled. ‘I am glad to see you have not lost your sense of humour. And I am sure some have been hunted for the pot, though perhaps not legally.’
He gave me a somewhat twisted smile. ‘Come through,’ he said. ‘I saw you following me. Beth has taken a jug of ale out to the back. There’s some shade there. What I would give for the cool air of the woods!’
I followed him through the house, smiling a greeting to Beth, and out into the longer strip of land that lay behind the house, where there was a rough table under an apple tree, and a couple of stools. There was a distinct whiff of pig on the small breeze.
‘Looks to be a good crop,’ I said, nod
ding to the apple tree as we sat down.
He grunted.
When he had poured us each a cup of ale, he rested his elbows on the table and his chin on his fists. ‘Good to see you back, even if ’tis only for the harvest.’
‘Aye. Two-three weeks. But I do not find all well here in Leighton.’
He grunted again and took a pull of his ale. I could see that he would say nothing unless I asked him outright.
‘Let us not weave a dance around this, Alan,’ I said. ‘What has happened? Why has this new man showed himself such a fool, dismissing the best huntsman in Wychwood?’
‘And,’ he said, bitterly, ‘and he still demands that I arrange the hunt he plans for next week. “Do not think you can escape that duty,” he says, bastard that he is. “You have been paid for this month, so you will oversee the hunt for my guests, or I’ll have the law on you.” Bastard.’
‘What law?’
‘Did I ask him? Means to have his miserable shillings back, I suppose.’
‘But why, Alan. There must be a reason.’
‘Aye, there is a reason.’
I waited. If I read the signs aright, he was going to tell me.
He drained his cup, poured more ale, and ran his fingers through his hair. He kept it cut severely short.
‘We had already had some disagreements. With the help of that same lawyer fellow, he has gone through all the forest laws, back to Adam in the Garden, I’m thinking, never taking heed of those that have been eased with time.’
‘Like?’
‘Like nowadays commuting the punishment to the payment of a fine, instead of what happened in the past – crippling a man’s dogs, or cutting off his hand. Mordon favours the old ways, he says. Puts the fear of hellfire and damnation into the poachers. He says. So I say: The king himself has brought in more humane treatment of poachers in the royal forests, like Wychwood. I know my forest law. My father drummed it into me, with a sharp knuckle to my head if I mistook it.’
‘And this man would cut off a poacher’s hand, rather than settle for a fine?’
‘Aye. Or both hands. Bloodthirsty bastard.’
‘You said that you had already had these disagreements about the forest laws, but was that not the cause of the final rift?’
He looked down at his hands.
‘It was Jane.’
‘Jane? Your little sister?’
‘Not so little now. Nearly fourteen and grown into as pretty a maid as any in the village.’
Alan had always been particularly fond of the girl, his parents’ only other surviving child. Because of the difference in their ages, she had become almost a daughter to Alan and Beth since the death of her parents. I realised now that I had seen nothing of her since coming to Leighton.
‘Where is she?’ I looked about, as though I expected to see her tending the hens.
‘We have sent her to Beth’s cousin in Burford. To keep her away from Mordon.’
An explanation was beginning to appear.
‘What did he do?’
‘She was down by the mill stream, searching for one of the hens that had escaped. He seized her and tried–’ He swallowed. ‘He tried to violate her. I was in the manor kennels, but I heard the screaming. I knew it was Jane. There were two of his London friends with me, looking over the lymers, and they . . . they grinned at each other. They knew. I’ll swear they knew. I ran like the devil and found him with her clothes half torn off her.’
He took another long drink.
‘I hit him.’
I drew a cautious breath. Men have been hanged by their lords for less.
‘And then?’
‘He just lay there in the mud, gaping at me like a landed fish. Jane had fallen. Unconscious. With terror, I suppose. I picked her up and ran home with her.’ His nostrils flared, and I could see the fury in his eyes. ‘By Our Lord’s grace, I was in time to stop him. But we did not think she would be safe here, so the next day I took her pillion behind me and rode over to Burford. When I got back, Beth told me Mordon had sent word that I was dismissed. Then the following day – that would be the day you arrived – he waylaid me and told me I must still manage his first hunt for him, since he would not have time to hire another huntsman. It seems these London friends have been promised all the excitement of a deer hunt in Wychwood. Ha!’ His tone was full of contempt.
This was probably the longest speech I had ever heard from Alan, but I suspected that he had kept all this to himself and Beth until now. Perhaps it was a relief for him to speak of it.
‘You have done the best for Jane,’ I said slowly, ‘but what of you? Once you have served his turn at this hunt he has ordered, he could condemn you at his own manor court for striking him.’
‘I know. And I know it could be adjudged petty treason, to strike my lord, and not just deemed so by Mordon himself. I’m afeared for Beth and Rob, Nicholas, as well as for Jane, if aught happens to me.’
We did not speak it aloud, but the punishment for petty treason is death. Mordon could choose to be judge, jury, and executioner in his manor court.
‘You could leave Leighton.’ I said it with hesitation, for all Alan’s skills lay here.
He simply looked at me and shook his head.
‘You could lay a counter charge against him. Accuse him of attempting the rape of a child, at the court in Burford.’
‘And whose word would they believe? A rich merchant, lord of Leighton Manor, or a penniless former huntsman? He would claim I made the charge out of spite for being dismissed, and they would believe him.’
‘I do not know what is best to do, Alan,’ I said, ‘but you know that you are surrounded by friends here. May I speak of this to Edmond?’
‘Aye.’ He shrugged and ran his hand over his face, and I saw the dark shadows of sleepless nights beneath his eyes.
‘At least he will do nothing until after the hunt,’ I said. ‘That gives us some time to think what to do. Have you talked to Sire Raymond?’
‘I have not. It would shock the old man.’
‘Oh, I think not. He is not so unworldly as he looks. Speak to him. He will understand why you did what you did. And he will be concerned for Jane.’
‘Perhaps you are right. Aye, I will see him tomorrow. I would not sully his peace on the Lord’s Day.’
‘And in the meantime, you still have your duties at the manor, to prepare for the hunt?’
He smiled grimly. ‘I have. But I take care to keep out of the way of the new lord.’ He spat out the last word. ‘You and your cousin must expect an invitation to join the hunt. He wishes to ingratiate himself with the better families hereabouts.’
‘He has hardly shown signs of doing that. He has a strange way to go about it. Did you not hear how he has diverted our mill stream?’
He nodded. ‘Mayhap he thinks that, as lord of the manor, he may do as he pleases, and yet Edmond would still be grateful for the invitation to the hunt.’
‘Then he reads my cousin wrongly,’ I said. ‘However, if we should be invited, I think we will attend. A closer look at this man might prove useful.’
It was time I made my way back to the farm.
‘Do not give up hope, Alan,’ I said, as he walked with me back to the village street. ‘If the man Mordon should attempt anything against you in the manor court, the whole village will rise in your support. He cannot put everyone on trial.’
I walked slowly back up the lane to the farm, pondering all I had learned that morning in addition to what I had been told by Geoffrey Carter back in Oxford, and Edmond’s account of the diversion of the mill stream. It was difficult, without having met the man, to understand why he was behaving in this way. Perhaps Alan was right. Having bought the manor, Mordon thought that he had unbridled power over all the neighbourhood and its people.
It was true that in law he had considerable power over those villeins who owed him customary labour and boon days of work on the manor demesne, in return for their small holdings of cottage and
field strips, but in fact over the years much of this service had been commuted to a cash payment, in lieu of labour, for a man who spends his best hours at the crucial times of the farming year on the lord’s demesne may find it near impossible to plough, sow, and harvest his own crops. Certainly the commuting of service to payment had held here in Leighton for at least two generations. I suppose in the past many of the villeins would not have possessed the coin, but now most families had other small ways to earn. Wives might spin or weave more than was needed for their families and sell the surplus in Burford. Or they might make cheeses for the market. Carpentry or smithing could bring in money. Left to make the most of their own land holdings, some men with small families might have a surplus to sell, either beyond the village, or within it to such as Alan who had no field crops of their own. There was one old man, too old for field work in any case, who made beautiful carved shepherd’s crooks, which his daughter took once a month to the market in Witney.
If Master Mordon was bent on reverting to the old way, labour instead of coin, it would disrupt the entire settled economy of the village. I wondered whether his payment of inflated wages to landless day labourers had come about because the villeins had stood firm against sacrificing their established right to commute labour to coin.
When I reached the farm, everyone was just sitting down to dinner, and I realised suddenly how hungry I was. I slipped into the space on a bench next to my mother and gave her a quick hug.
‘It is good to see you looking well,’ I said. ‘We have barely had a moment to speak since we arrived.’
In fact, I could see that she was thinner than usual, and her face was still pale since her illness.