by Ann Swinfen
A watery sun broke through the retreating clouds the following morning, and to be sure the clean scent of freshly washed earth and grass rose up as I threw open the shutters. I leaned out to see the hens already turned out of their coop and foraging for worms in the softened earth, though I drew my head in quickly as the thatch dripped on me. Edmond, already dressed and out in the yard, was heading out of my line of vision to the right. Off to see how serious was the damage to his crop of oats.
The children were still asleep after their disturbed night, so I dressed quickly and ran down to join Edmond. He was standing at the edge of the field, arms folded, frowning. He had good reason. Much of the crop was flattened, beaten down by the heavy rain.
‘What do you think?’ I said. ‘Can much of it be saved?’
He shrugged. ‘We needs must leave it a few days. Some of it may spring back up, and if we have some sun, it may dry out.’ He sighed. ‘Too much to hope for, that we would get all safely in before the weather broke.’
‘Still,’ I said, ‘the wheat and barley are in, the most valuable crops. And we will certainly be able to harvest some of the oats.’
‘Mayhap.’ He sighed again. ‘If we are forced to use the manor mill for grinding this year, instead of our own, we will have that payment to make. The fellow Mordon would squeeze every man dry if he could. And then, the ploughing–’ He hesitated. ‘You see my draught oxen there?’ He pointed to the small paddock where the two great beasts were grazing contentedly on the fresh grass.
‘Aye?’ I wondered why the sight of two such fine animals should make him gloomy. ‘A new yoke of oxen since last year, are they not? They look a strong hearty pair.’
‘Aye, they are that.’ He gave a grimace. ‘And cost me a fair penny. More than I had to spend, but when one of my old beasts died, and the other was past the work, what could I do?’
I glanced cautiously aside at him. ‘You did not . . . were you forced to borrow?’
In the past, should such a case arise, Yves de Vere would have been prepared to advance a small loan, to a man he was sure to repay it within the twelvemonth. But now?
‘Two months ago,’ Edmond said, ‘when I lost my former team, the new lord of the manor had come briefly to view his new property and order the building works he required. He called on me, and I mentioned the oxen, for it was at the front of my mind. “I can lend you the cost of a new team,” he said, and fool that I was, I agreed.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Without asking, I assumed he meant a loan on the old terms – repayment within the year, no interest charged.’
I felt as though a cold finger had touched my spine. ‘The Church does not allow the lending of money at interest,’ I said.
He gave me a wry sideways smile. ‘We all know what that means. The Church looks away and asks no questions. Mordon’s lawyer brought me papers to sign, which I thought was unnecessarily formal, but after all, the man had just met me. Like the fool I say I was, I signed without reading carefully.’
‘What did you agree to?’
‘I must pay him one fifth of the loan every month for a year.’
‘What!’ I tried to calculate what that meant in interest, but I needed ink and paper. ‘That means you will have paid back the loan in five months, then in the next five months, pay it all a second time. After that, pay another two-fifths of the amount as well. I cannot work that out, but it is more than a hundred per cent in interest.’
‘Aye. A hundred and forty per cent.’
I clutched hold of a fence post, for I felt almost dizzy.
‘You cannot pay that, Edmond. It is monstrous.’
‘I am bound. I signed.’
‘How much have you paid so far?’
‘The second payment is due next week.’
I realised I had been holding my breath. I let it out in a gasp. ‘Philip is very skilled in the law. Let him look at the agreement, to see whether there is a way out.’
Edmond shrugged. ‘He may look and welcome, but I have read it carefully . . . as far as I could .. . if belatedly . . . and I do not think it is possible.’
He turned away from the oat field and we began walking back to the farm.
‘After I realised I had been trapped, I began making enquiries about Master Mordon. It seems he is more than merely a pepper and spice merchant. He has another business, quietly, on the side, making loans to a few select folk.’
He gave a dry laugh.
‘No paupers, you understand, who would never be able to repay. It seems he has also made loans to the king himself, for the expenses of the French wars. You see that I am in very exalted company! So the king’s debt to him played a part in Mordon’s securing the manor of Leighton and the hunting privileges that go with it. For all that anyone knows, the manor itself may have cost him nothing in coin, but have been the repayment of a royal loan.’
‘I wish you had come to me, Edmond,’ I said. ‘I might have been able to help with the cost of the new oxen.’
‘Nay,’ he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. ‘You have your own family and your own business. It is not for you to undertake the burdens of the farm. You have done enough, bringing your friends to help us rescue the harvest. We should have some surplus now, which we can take to market. That will help with the payments. Believe me, I will never again sign a paper without reading it carefully. But you know how it is – it was very long, written in lawyer’s language, half French, perhaps half Latin, for all I know of the language.’
I nodded. ‘Enough to trap any Englishman. That is why the king has ruled that cases in court must be conducted in English from now on. Nevertheless, I think we should have Philip study it. He was able to solve a legal problem for me before.’ And I told him how Philip had discovered precedents for freeing Emma from her stepfather’s attempt to bind her to the monastic life.
After we had broken our fast, Edmond fetched the agreement and Philip sat down at the kitchen table to study it. All the remaining men went out to the barn to start the threshing of the wheat, a task that could be undertaken while the sun began to dry out the oats.
‘We will pick some of the beans,’ Susanna said. ‘There will be plenty ready now for salting down in crocks. Even the children can help with that.’
So we divided into two parties, and I soon began to work up a considerable sweat, for threshing the ears of wheat with a jointed flail is hard work, like beating someone to death, someone made of stone. It uses quite different muscles from swinging a scythe, and before long my shoulders ached painfully, and sweat ran down my back and even trickled into my eyes. Dust and chaff rose up in a cloud around us, making us cough and sneeze, working its way into the gaps in our clothing, where sharp fragments of straw lodged painfully, digging into our skin. It was a relief when Alysoun came to call us to dinner.
Before we returned to the house, we stood about the well, pouring buckets of water over each other. As I ran my fingers through my hair, plucking out bits of straw, I reminded myself just how easy a life I had in my bookshop, able to buy flour for Margaret’s bread making – flour from grain which had been sowed, grown, cut, dried, threshed, winnowed, and ground. At times one forgets the labour that goes into the making of flour for a simple loaf of bread.
Philip had cleared his papers off the table for the laying of dishes for dinner. He had not managed to discover any loophole in the agreement, which had been drawn up by a skilled lawyer. However, he handed Edmond a stiffly folded square of parchment, sealed with a large round of red wax, into which an unusually massive seal had been impressed.
‘This arrived while you were at the threshing. A liveried servant delivered it,’ he said, his tone sarcastic. ‘Is it the new fashion, that a pepper merchant may clothe his servants in livery, like a knight of the realm?’
I sank down thankfully on a bench, easing my painful shoulders against the wall, and raised my eyebrows enquiringly at Edmond. From the look on his face, I realised that he recognised
the seal.
‘It is from Master Mordon,’ he said with distaste. ‘I wonder what he wants of me now? Will he try to encroach on our land, as he has stolen our mill stream?’
He broke the seal carelessly so that bits of the wax cascaded on to the floor, where Rowan licked one up experimentally, chewed it as if in deep thought, then spat it out.
Edmond was frowning over the letter.
‘Nay, it is not some demand or other. It is an invitation to attend his first hunt for deer in Wychwood, which is to take place next Friday. We are all invited, even the women and children. My household and guests, it says.’
‘We can hunt?’ Alysoun asked in amazement.
‘Nay, my maid,’ Edmond said. ‘Some ladies will go a-hawking, but only a very few will ride to the venery. There will be a feast in the forest first, that is the custom, and you will be invited to that. Afterwards you will be able to admire all of us fine huntsmen, as we gallop about in search of the deer. He means to have a hunt par force de chiens.’
‘From what I have heard of the man,’ Margaret said dryly, ‘I am surprised he has not organised a bow and stably hunt, to be sure of an easy kill.’
‘What is that, Mistress Makepeace?’ Stephen asked. ‘A bow and syably hunt?’
‘The deer are fenced into a small area, Stephen,’ she said, ‘and the hunters take up their positions in a line along one of the fences. Then the huntsman and his servants drive the deer past the hunters, who shoot them as they run by.’ She sniffed with some contempt. ‘It is no more difficult than throwing a hoop over a peg at Oxford’s St Frideswide’s Fair.’
‘I think it sounds cruel,’ Alysoun said hotly. ‘The deer would have no chance to escape.’
‘Well, they will on Friday,’ Edmond said. ‘I do not expect our new neighbour and his London friends will have much skill at true hunting in a forest like Wychwood. Not many deer will be killed.’
‘Good,’ Alysoun said.
‘And par force de chiens?’ Stephen was determined to have all clear. ‘That is with dogs?’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘Lymers who track the quarry and alaunts who bring it down.’
‘Will you accept the invitation, Edmond?’ Margaret asked.
I could tell from her expression that Susanna must have shared with her some of what Edmond had told me that morning. I watched him debate with himself as to what decision he should take.
‘Aye,’ he said at last. ‘I think we should go, all of us. If for nothing else, at least to have a care that Mordon and his friends wreak no more damage in Wychwood than can be helped. With Alan no longer serving as huntsman . . .’
‘Ah, but remember,’ I said. ‘He is held to his position until he has managed this first hunt. He will take care that all is in order.’
‘The villagers who will be hired to help,’ Susanna said thoughtfully, ‘they dislike him.’
‘But he pays well,’ Edmond reminded her grimly. ‘More than the law permits for day wages. They will be glad to pocket his coin.’
I saw that both Alysoun and Stephen were following this exchange keenly. They might be young, but both were sharp for their age.
‘Do you think it wise to take the children?’ I said cautiously. ‘I do not like what I have heard of the man.’ I had not shared what Alan had told me of his sister, but I worried about the safety of the children near such a man.
‘Oh!’ Alysoun exclaimed. ‘Of course we must go! I have never been to a hunt.’
‘Very well,’ I said, but I was determined to pass on a warning to Margaret and Susanna about the man Mordon, so that they could keep a close watch on the children during the day of the hunt. They must not be allowed to wander off on their own. It should not be difficult to keep them in check, with warnings of being run down by the galloping horses.
In the days remaining before the hunt, the field of oats was still in too poor a state to allow any cutting, so we spent an exhausting time threshing the wheat. The roughly separated grain was shovelled into heaps to await a day with a good winnowing wind, when it could be separated from the chaff. The straw we began to build into a stack in one of the barns, ready for use during the winter. The women and children spent the time picking more beans for drying, and in the afternoon of Thursday set to and baked raised pies, plum cakes, and custard tarts to take to the hunt breakfast the next day.
‘I’ll not be beholden to Master Mordon for our food,’ Susanna had said briskly as we finished dinner. ‘No doubt he will provide lavishly, him with his London cook, but I have no wish to appear a pauper, dependent on his alms.’
I made no answer to this. It is of course the obligation of the host to provide the hunt breakfast, but I could understand Susanna’s reservations.
We returned to the threshing in the afternoon, all of us with aching shoulders and backs, but it was a task that must be done. Best to do as much as we could while we were here to help. Alan had joined us, and several of the day labourers, so we had made good progress with the wheat, when Edmond called a halt.
As we were crossing the yard for our usual sousing at the well, Geoffrey Carter drove up to the farm.
Edmond frowned. ‘I wonder what is to-do,’ he said. ‘I am expecting nothing by cart. He will be come from Oxford, I’m thinking.’
Jordain and Philip exchanged worried glances. Word from Oxford might mean unwanted news for either of them. Yet when Geoffrey jumped down from the cart, it was to me he crossed.
‘I’ve a letter for you, Master Elyot,’ he said, reaching into his scrip and groping about until he found what he was looking for.
Had Walter a problem at the shop? I wondered. He would not open while we were away, but he would keep a watch over all. Perhaps the storm we had suffered here had caused problems in Oxford, though my premises lay well away from the areas prone to flooding from the two rivers. The roof was sound enough. Still, like Jordain and Philip, I felt a slight tremor of worry.
‘Ah, here ’tis,’ Geoffrey said, ‘I knew it was somewhere.’
He handed me what seemed more a packet than a letter, the outer layer consisting of good quality parchment, sealed with a device that seemed somehow familiar, though I could not at once place it.
The writing, however, I knew. It was addressed to ‘Master Nicholas Elyot, to be sent by the hand of Mistress Farringdon, St Mildred Street, Oxford’.
I found myself flushing, and slipped the packet into my own scrip.
‘I thank you, Geoffrey,’ I said, giving him a silver penny for his trouble. ‘Mistress Farringdon gave it to you, did she?’
‘Aye. She said she had received it but two or three days before, by a carter from the south. That would be Jim Wangate, I’d guess. He covers those places south of Oxford. Anyways, she knew I’d be coming this way, so she give it me to bring you. No need to pay me, she did that already.’
He held out the penny, but I shook my head.
‘Keep it, for ale money, or ribbons for your wife.’
‘Will you step inside?’ Edmond said.
‘Nay,’ he said, ‘I’m away home, to settle Ned here before supper.’ He slapped his horse’s shoulder affectionately. ‘He’s needing a good feed of oats. They told me as I came through the village that there’s to be a hunt tomorrow. That new man planning to show us all how ’tis done, is he?’
Edmond laughed. ‘We shall see. Will you be there?’
‘Aye, and most of the village.’ Geoffrey grinned. ‘Those that aren’t paid to serve will be watching the sport. Happen we might learn a thing or two.’
He climbed up on to the seat at the front of the cart and clicked his tongue to the horse Ned. As he headed away down the farm track, we could hear him whistling.
‘Seems we’ll have quite an audience tomorrow, then,’ Edmond said ruefully. ‘Not that either of my horses are built like noblemen’s hunters. I’ve no wish to make a fool of myself before the whole village.’
‘I daresay the village will be hunting too,’ I said. ‘Alan will give them permiss
ion, even if Mordon fails to do so.’
Edmond possessed two horses, mainly used for hauling carts about the farm, or sometimes when one of the family needed to ride into Burford. Edmond would be riding one tomorrow. James and Thomas had spun a coin for the other, and James had won.
‘Aye, well,’ I said, ‘Rufus is no aristocratic steed either, but he is sturdy and untiring. That’s what is needed in the hunt, not some delicate mount who will flag in half an hour.’
‘That’s very true. Let us clean up before supper. The others have got ahead of us.’
Indeed, the others, seeing that the carter was no concern of theirs, were already clustered about the well.
‘Will you not open your letter?’ Edmond asked, curiously.
‘Not while I am so dirty,’ I said, affecting a casual air. ‘I recognise the writing and I do not think it can be anything needing urgent attention.’
All through our ablutions, followed by supper and a time sitting together in the evening, I was conscious of the packet in my scrip. It was with difficulty that I managed to stop myself slipping my hand into my scrip and fingering it.
At last, however, we all withdrew to our bedchambers, earlier than usual, for we needed to be up betimes in the morning. Most would need to walk to the manor, save the few of us who would ride to the hunt: myself, Edmond and James, together with Philip and the two students. Jordain had been offered Edmond’s second horse, but politely declined.
‘I can amble about on horseback,’ he said, ‘but I am not the man to go galloping about through woodland, wielding a bow and a spear. You must hold me excused, else I should finish by tangling you all in my poor horsemanship and probably cause someone a hurt.’