The Lonely Furrow

by Norah Lofts

  Father Matthew broke into an icy sweat, feeling already the searing pain across his left palm—it must be the left, less useful hand. His bowels stirred and a slight fear added itself to the greater; was he going to disgrace himself before them all?

  Speaking, so dry-mouthed that he sounded rather like poor Tim, he said, ‘I refuse.’

  ‘Then you’re guilty and know it,’ Old Hodgson said. Old Gurth said, ‘Look outta the winder.’

  Father Matthew looked. Someone had lighted a huge fire.

  ‘Refuse and you burn altogether. Self-confessed wizard.’

  A terrible tremor began in the marrow of his bones and worked outwards; his knees gave way. God. Mary, Mother of God. Christ. His trembling hand went to the crucifix upon his breast. A gift from his mother; made specially for him; made by a carpenter and crudely carved. Perhaps by its very crudity more expressive than most of sheer physical agony.

  ‘I swear,’ he just managed to say, ‘on the Holy Cross of Christ, I am innocent.’

  And what was that worth from one who even at the altar said the wrong words?

  ‘Prove it,’ they said.

  Suddenly a most extraordinary thing happened. As his hand clenched upon the crucifix—one village carpenter’s representation of another village carpenter’s dreadful death—calm took the place of terror. He knew he was innocent; God knew he was innocent.

  In a different voice, firm and clear, Father Matthew said, ‘I will.’ He knew he could do it—with the help of God.

  Somebody said, ‘Is it ready?’ and somebody else said, ‘Yes. White hot.’

  Old Hodgson took Father Matthew to the door and flung it open.

  ‘From here to that wand. Nine paces; I measured ’em myself.’

  The wand of peeled willow gleamed white in the fire-lit yard; and all the assembled faces were red on one side, black on the other.

  There was a sound, like wind rustling through corn.

  One of the Elders, holding the cooler end of the iron in a cloth-protected hand, thrust the glowing, white-hot end towards Father Matthew who took it in his right hand. The surest proof of faith in God that he could produce; faith must be all or nothing.

  His hands had been hard as horn before he ever left his father’s poor holding and nothing in the following years had done anything to soften them. Even at school, where those with a gift for penmanship, or for advanced learning, had been indoors, he’d been out, using a spade, a scythe, a hayfork. Even at Intake—well, poor Tim couldn’t do everything; Father Matthew had handled the broom, the bucket, kept the church speckless. He’d used a spade, too. The only reason why he had not ploughed his glebe himself was that he had no plough, no draught animal—and no money to hire them.

  He took the glowing, white-hot end of the bar without hesitation. Set out on the nine paces.

  They had been measured by Old Hodgson, who was old and who, despite his daughter-in-law’s asseverations that he was an old fraud, just wanting to sit about and watch other people work, did suffer from rheumatism. Nine of his paces could be covered by a man in the prime of life, as Father Matthew was, in about five. But the priest did not hurry.

  Faith must be all or nothing.

  He reached the wand and there laid down the still glowing bar. Then he held up his hand, unscathed. When they had all had time to look and understand, he acted as though he were in church, not in a farmyard crammed with his parishioners come to watch him being burned or hurt.

  He held up his crucifix and spoke the first words of the salutation they all knew: ‘Ave Maria.’

  Mistress Captoft, frivolous, worldly woman, had found it easy to forgive. Father Matthew could no more forgive the people of Intake than he had been able to forgive Mistress Captoft for her insult. All the arguments he had used then went through his mind again and were argued down. This time with the added assurance that he was right, they were wrong and must be shown to be wrong. They would be shown, for they were now clay in his hands.

  Now his glebe was ploughed and cross ploughed as was the custom with land long neglected. No nonsense now about ploughs needing repair, oxen needing a rest or being lame. Converted at last, awed, penitent, admiring, they came willingly and when the ploughing was done, offered seeds. A handful of this, of that. Ill-spared, he knew, for he had been reared on a holding where even the best harvest must be cut three ways; how much to sell for cash money in order to buy such essentials as salt; how much to eat—to keep alive through the winter; how much to plant. He knew all about that.

  And always, under his right hand, so miraculously saved from the white-hot iron, he could feel that little sharp shoulder blade.

  Something must be done for the children.

  There were some, he knew, who still fed well. There were families where, before the pigs died, hams and bacon had been preserved and pork laid in casks of brine. But every housewife was not foresighted or had, until disaster struck, needed to be. With other pigs coming along in the sty such hoarding was not necessary. They suffered most; and as Father Matthew knew, the time-honoured custom of sharing a fresh carcass now proved to be an added hardship for some. There was a lot of meat on a pig killed at the right time, so one man would bargain with another—You have so much of my pork now and pay me back when you kill your pig. It was practical and sensible but now there were many such debts which would never be paid or, at least, not for a long time. The new pigs had of necessity been bought for breeding, not for eating.

  It was the children with whom Father Matthew was concerned. The adult people could go hungry for all he cared. And he was so wretchedly poor himself. The ancestress of Master Tallboys who had built the church had endowed it, as she thought, generously. But the value of money had declined steadily since her day and his stipend hardly served to keep him and the boy on the most meagre fare. When he had eaten so heartily in the farmhouse kitchens it had been less from greed than from genuine hunger. So how could he feed others?

  Well, he had one apparently prosperous parishioner and he must appeal to him. It went against the grain; Master Tallboys had always seemed to him—as to so many others—a cold, remote man. Certainly he attended Sunday Mass, and brought his son, but the priest sensed something perfunctory about this performance of duty. And he was not a giver. Never once, in two years, had he pressed a coin into Father Matthew’s hand with the almost ritual remark: For the use of the poor, Father. And lately, of course, Knight’s Acre had simply meant Mistress Captoft. Still, he must go there and ask. First thing tomorrow morning.

  He was surprised to see preparations for a move going on. A waggon, bigger and sturdier than Master Tallboys’, stood in the yard; the carter, the lame man, Jem Watson and Master Tallboys himself were loading it. The boy stood watching, holding a great dog by the collar. As Dick Sawyer had said, Guard was not yet fully trained and despite assurances that the carter had a legitimate errand, was a friend, seemed to distrust him. Carter and waggon had arrived overnight, ready for an early start.

  Mistress Captoft was carrying out various small parcels and wedging them into crevices between larger articles; she was also supervising and admonishing: Mind this, mind that, it would balance better if placed on this side. Her greeting was preoccupied but quite without animosity. He had been included in the general forgiveness.

  Henry said, ‘Good morning, Father.’ Civilly, but with a question in it.

  ‘I should like a word with you, Master Tallboys.’

  ‘I think the heavy things are out now,’ Henry said with a glance at the waggon. ‘Come in and sit down.’

  Henry was glad of an excuse to sit for a while. His injury was far less painful than it had been; he could ride now with only mild discomfort but lifting still sent sharp pangs.

  ‘I have come to ask your help. For the poor.’

  Something like humour, but not quite, crossed Henry’s face.

  ‘What poor?’

  Father Matthew hastened to explain; and Henry listened, with some scepticism. He had never rega
rded the villagers as poor. Not as he had been and still was, in a way. For generations they had been singularly favoured, their rents fixed, for perpetuity, at some ridiculous figure by some old document. Henry’s father, Sir Godfrey, the best knight in England, had always depended upon what he could win and had been married for eight years before he had a house of his own. However, when he died Richard, second son, trained lawyer, ordained priest, had found a flaw in that old parchment and most of the tenant farmers had been told to buy their holdings or get out. They’d all found the money from somewhere; Henry, wanting to keep the flock together, had been obliged to borrow in order to give Richard and John their share of it in money. Paying interest on the loan, paying back the loan had kept him very poor. Also the holdings in Intake could all be run by families; he had to hire labour.

  And even now, when the place looked so prosperous, what with putting money aside for Robert and for Joanna, he was as short of cash money as ever.

  ‘You have so much, Master Tallboys; your swine did not sicken. And it is the Christmas season. A children’s festival. I would like to give the little children of Intake a meal, now and again. So ask your charity.’

  ‘It would have to be in kind, not in money, Father.’ He was not the man to go into detail, to say that most of his money was really held in trust. He thought of the sheep-fold where his depleted flock and Robert’s—separately marked—had been joined by Joanna’s, unmarked. And Joseph had recently mentioned an old tup or two, rams growing old, fit only for butchering. Joseph loved his flock, lived with them, talked to them, would sit up all night during the lambing season or when a sheep ailed; but he was completely unsentimental about them. He or she had had a good life and must go. ‘We all come to it, Master,’ Joseph said.

  ‘I can let you have a sheep. And a sack of flour.’

  Better than nothing, Father Matthew thought. Not what he had hoped for but better than nothing.

  He had been so intent on his errand that the only thing he had noticed about the Knight’s Acre hall was that it looked a bit bare and the horrible picture was still there. Over the hearth. Hearth. Abruptly he was reminded of the tax called Peter’s Pence because, presumably, it ended up in Rome, in the revenues of St. Peter’s direct inheritor, of office, of authority, of everything—the Pope.

  A penny a year on every hearth.

  Father Matthew suddenly realised that he had not been strict enough. Peter’s Pence had never increased during his time—nor, judging by the records, during Father Benedict’s or Father Ambrose’s. And yet the number of hearths must surely have increased over the years; some young couples built a dwelling apart, some were content by adding an extra room to the family house.

  Anxious to ingratiate himself in a parish he had sensed to be hostile—and now knew to be so—he had never questioned the number of hearths. Nor had the tax collector questioned his returns. But in future he would be less lenient. He might even…

  It was a shocking thought, but he toyed with it. Why not?

  Extract the last possible penny from the men he could not forgive and spend the difference between last years’ returns and this upon the children.

  Henry thought about the sack of flour. If he acted quickly enough the carter, a sturdy fellow, with a little help from David, could heave it into the waiting waggon and drop it off at the priest’s house. He was about to rise and go to arrange this when Mistress Captoft rustled in, cloaked, hooded, gloved.

  ‘I apologise for interrupting you,’ she said, ‘but the man is ready to go. I could not leave without a word. Master Tallboys, I thank you for your kindness when I was in such distress; and for your hospitality. I hope that whenever you are in Bywater you will look in upon me.’

  ‘I will indeed—though I seldom go that way. I wish you all happiness in your new life… ’ Then, even at this moment of leave-taking, practicality took over and he mentioned the sack of flour.

  ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘No trouble at all. But a whole sack! That will leave you short.’

  ‘No matter,’ Henry said, ‘I have wheat I can take to the miller.’

  Even Father Matthew, ignorant as he was of such things, saw that this was no parting of people who had ever conspired together or been intimate. There again he had been completely deceived by those false village people.

  As he watched the sack being tucked under the sailcloth covering which protected Mistress Captoft’s possessions, another thought occurred to him. Every village priest could claim as his right the cloth, blanket or quilt, in which a dead person, awaiting interment, had been wrapped. That was another rule which he had never enforced. But he would in future.

  ‘Tell my shepherd,’ Henry said, ‘when you want the sheep. He’ll know which one to kill.’

  *

  Katharine watched the waggon leave and then ran upstairs. She, too, was ready, immediate essentials in a bundle. She was taking only what could be easily carried on a long walk. Leave the two light-weight summer dresses; leave the old soiled working one. Leave the worn down-at-heel shoes and also the new ones, not yet broken in, wear the middle pair. Some faint echo of the fury which had made her fling the spit stirred in her as she stole from the house, as though she were a thief, making off with what was not her own. No justice in this world! All those years, working conscientiously and indeed very skilfully at The Welcome To Mariners, one moment of madness to which she had been driven, and out on her ear. Then this place, so eminently ideal except for that something, no name for it, no explanation, which brought the goose-pimples out even on the warmest days. She’d prayed God, give me strength to face it whatever it is. God, let Mistress Captoft change her mind about taking me. No answer. So now she must steal away and go back to the house by the tan yard, where she’d be welcome, just so long as her meagre savings lasted. After that… No time to think, now. It was a bright day for the time of year and she felt that she could just brace herself to the necessity of skirting through the fringe of the wood, thus avoiding observation. Being careful of direction, she should come out in the lane, somewhere near the water-splash. After that she should be able to keep up, preserving a cautious distance, with the heavily laden waggon. Mistress Captoft and David were unlikely to look back; the carter certainly wouldn’t. In their wake she could creep into Bywater to Tanner’s Lane—a place where at least nobody was alone with the silence and the watching bearing down.

  Once again, in this seemingly fated kitchen, no fire on the hearth, no pot boiling, no woman in charge. Henry said, ‘I must have misunderstood. I thought Mistress Captoft was leaving Katharine. She must have changed her mind.’

  Bread and cheese again. Only as a stopgap, of course; the larder was well stocked and Henry, who had never attempted it, believed that cooking was largely a matter of common sense. And time. Which he could spare just now.

  Lady Grey had thought of the perfect way of saving Lord Shefton the embarrassment of meeting that wretched girl again; of punishing the girl for her deceit and of solving the problem presented by Lady Agnes during the Twelve Days when service was slovenly or resentful.

  ‘You will absent yourself from the hall and the company entirely and spend the Christmas season in attendance upon the Lady Agnes. By night as well as by day. You will sleep on the truckle bed in her room.’

  Maude or Beatrice, sentenced to such a dreadful fate, would have wept, implored, grovelled. Joanna made a faultless curtsey and said, ‘As your ladyship commands.’

  There were dungeons below the castle keep and, condemned to one of them, bread and water once a day, she would have gone happily. The fact that Henry had confirmed the betrothal had produced such a state of euphoria—the more so because it had been preceded by a period of uncertainty. She knew more of the world now; knew that a betrothal, to be binding, must be witnessed and that even then there were ways of rendering it void. So in the days between her desperate statement to Maude and the arrival of the Bishop’s letter, she had lived on a knife-edge of trepidation. For after all, in two yea
rs Henry had shown no sign of acknowledging her existence. She knew that he could not write; but Mistress Captoft could; and he must have realised that within six months of her arrival at Stordford, she would have learned to read. That was one of the things she had been sent into exile to learn and nobody knew better than Henry how quickly she could learn anything she gave her mind to. No message, either verbal or written, had ever come and presently she had ceased to expect one. But nothing, no power on earth—even Henry’s repudiation of her—would make her marry that old man with his rotten teeth and bald head and spindly shanks. So she had taken the risk and back the answer had come. The right answer. All the other desperate things she had planned—including going to London and forcing her way into the presence of the King who, though ageing himself and said to be completely under the thumb of his latest mistress, was still the fount of all justice—these could be put away. Henry had stood by her.

  She went cheerfully to wait upon Lady Agnes upon whom the final humiliation of old age and its infirmities had come. Completely bedridden now, with all that implied… Even servants sometimes wrinkled their noses. And the dutiful visits had become shorter and shorter. The old woman’s spirit had flagged; why bother to stay alive. Why not make the will—the thing they were all waiting for—turn your face to the wall and give up?

  ‘I have come to spend Christmas with you, Lady Agnes,’ Joanna said, radiating not resentment or reluctance but happiness of such strength that it communicated itself even to an old bedridden woman whose joints had failed her and whose only hope of happiness lay in Heaven. And in her more desolate moments Lady Agnes knew that between now and then there lay the moment of death which—though she sometimes accepted it, angrily, have done with it all—she dreaded; and after that Purgatory. Not that she’d been a great sinner and, when she could bring herself to make her will, she intended to leave something to the poor and another sum for Masses for her soul, which should shorten her time in Purgatory. When she thought about it—as lately she had been inclined to do—she thought it curious that though the joys of Heaven and the pains of Hell had merited exact descriptions, Purgatory had never been clearly defined; it was left as vague, as unimaginable as the Limbo to which unbaptised infants were consigned.