The Lonely Furrow

by Norah Lofts

  Godfrey thought the picture thus evoked amusing and laughed. A mistake, for Joanna gave him a cold look and said, ‘I see nothing funny in that!’

  ‘What was unfair was that I was the only one to be punished. Three of us did it. Only I was dismissed.’

  To a degree he had again been a victim of circumstance. The Provost of Eton had a wide circle of acquaintances and had heard two rumours. One concerned the possible closure of the college because, somewhat belatedly, Edward of York saw it as a Lancastrian foundation, a possible centre of Lancastrian sympathy. The other concerned the enquiry into the wardship business. The presence in the College of one of what were beginning to be called illegal wards might be detrimental.

  Of minor, but still relevant, consideration was that Richard Tallboys, though greatly improved, showed no promise as a scholar and was regarded as a trouble-maker. The latest prank formed the perfect excuse.

  The Provost, a man of scruples, first made certain that the boy had somewhere to go; for he was one of those who had spent vacations at school. Assured that Richard had an uncle, he provided a mount, money for boy and horse for the journey and dismissed him.

  At roughly the same time, earnest discussions about the fate of young heirs and heiresses were under way. One of the nameless, faceless men suggested to the King that the usual method of disposal of wardships, as rewards for service, as a sign of favour or in return for a “gift”, was not the most profitable way of taking advantage of what this net of inquiry had dragged up. Guardianship was earnestly sought after because for some years—dependent upon the age of the ward—the guardian had the use of the estates and, short of actual speculation, was free to benefit himself. Why should not these benefits accrue to the King? If the lands, the businesses, the stored wealth received the same treatment as most of the confiscated Lancastrian land had done there would be an immediate and welcome increase in the King’s revenue.

  Edward saw the point in this argument; but he saw something further, a chance to endear himself and the Yorkist cause to a certain section—small but potentially important—of the growing generation. This was important, for though the struggle between York and Lancaster had apparently ended at the Battle of Tewkesbury, it had not yet ended in the minds of men. Just across the Channel, in Normandy, there was a young man with the very unroyal name of Henry Tydder, or Tudor, who called himself Earl of Pembroke and claimed the throne of England through his descent from John of Gaunt. This descent was somewhat devious but enough to make a rallying point for discontented Lancastrians.

  A man skilled in the craft made a map of England, colouring the lands already belonging to the King, and looked after by his agents, in pale blue; and the lands of the recently discovered wards in pale yellow. Where a yellow patch was within easy distance of a blue one there was no problem, the already-tested-and-proved-to-be-honest agent could simply assume more responsibility, duly rewarded. Where the yellow patch was isolated, a new agent must be sought.

  Moyidan was such a patch. In that remote corner of Suffolk, while the war was on, people had been neutral or, facing a French invasion to support the Lancastrian cause, Yorkist. An agent must be found for Moyidan, honest and competent and capable of putting into action the King’s policy of so treating all his young wards that they would grow up grateful to him and devoted to the Yorkist cause.

  The King was so enamoured of his policy that his new wards’ idiosyncrasies were taken into account. Some were studious and must be provided with books and tutors, a spell at one of the universities if they so wished. Boys of differing nature could train as knights. All were to be well fed and well clad, be treated as the heirs that they were so that, years after he was dead and his son ruled England, they would remember their kindly guardian. Some of them would remember him as their saviour; Richard of Moyidan was far from being the only young heir in England whose patrimony had been mismanaged.

  There were young heiresses, too. Their personal wishes were less regarded for, apart from a few exceptional cases, their hold on what they had inherited was only a temporary thing. When they married everything they possessed would pass into the control of their husbands. Foresighted as he was, the King did not regard females as politically important. In such matters a woman was what her husband was.

  He chose to forget that the toughest and most indomitable Lancastrian of them all, his most resolute enemy, had been a woman, Henry VI’s wife. He also overlooked the fact that women were the mothers of men and that the first seven years of a boy’s life, spent in his mother’s company, could be formative. So he disposed of the heiresses rather casually. Some marriages, based on the usual bargain basis, roughly the equivalent of a cattle sale; how much for this girl and her property? A far more profitable way, in the long run, was to put the girl into a convent, handing over some part of her dowry; cash on the nail. Most religious houses were already feeling the effects of inflation and realised that a pound today was worth two at some unspecified date. Some were so rich in land that they did not desire more acres and would take only money—usually only a fourth of what was due to the girl; others were so poor that anything was welcome. Dame Isabel, who had so summarily rejected Mistress Captoft, saw no threat to her own position in the admission of a young girl who would bring with her not a large fortune but a steady income.

  It was in connection with this steady income that Henry Tallboys’ name was mentioned in the wider world. One third of Joanna Serriff’s dower was being discussed and the question came up—Would it be better to sell the stock or leave it where it was, to be dealt with as it had been in the past? The Commissioner who had visited Knight’s Acre said, ‘Leave it. Master Tallboys is a splendid manager; and a strictly honest man.’ He told—rather amusingly, the story of how, in the course of a few hours, he had met two men of complete probity.

  It was a virtue rare enough to be remarkable; and one which few men could afford in their official capacity, however honest they might be in their private lives. All the Commissioners understood that this whole project had been mounted in order to enrich, this way or that, the King. The rest of this particular girl’s dowry was lodged with Sir Barnabas Grey of Stordford Castle. It would be taken away from him and the girl or the convent would never see more than a token sum. By manipulations at which these men were adept most of that money would find its way into the King’s purse.

  Simply one, not very important case. As one Commissioner with a fanciful turn of language put it: Heirs with land were like sheep that could be sheared once a year; heiresses were like sheep killed off; the most profit must be made on the carcass. All in a day’s work…

  Somebody, however, remembered that mention of an honest man and when it became a question of finding a steward for Moyidan, Henry’s name came up again.

  Before any move was made the man’s antecedents, and particularly his political affiliations, must be scrutinised.

  Henry could not have had a better record. Son of Sir Godfrey Tallboys who had died alongside his liege lord, that passionate Yorkist, Lord Thorsdale, in the memorable year when the tide had turned. In fact, upon the face of it, it rather looked as though this man, son of a knight—and a famous knight in his day—now a working farmer, might be regarded as one who had suffered for the Yorkist cause, one of those who had borne his decline of fortune bravely and not come begging, as so many had done. He deserved an appointment; he should have it. Two hundred pounds a year? Surely ample, a dazzling sum to such a man. It was by such judicious cutting of corners that the King’s men served the King.

  Henry was not dazzled. He was, to start with, annoyed by being visited again and just at the busiest time. Up in the fold the shearers were busy and he was needed there because shearers were so hasty, not bothering to keep the marked fleeces apart which was important because his flock had three owners, Joanna, Robert and himself.

  At the same time the hay-making was in progress; this year a splendid crop; there had been rain at the right time, sun at the right time. Henry wa
s needed in the hay field, too. Jem always slacked off unless supervised and Dick—who now preferred to be called Richard—was a lazy young devil. He did not seem to understand that he must earn his keep.

  And now, on one of the busiest days of the year, when Henry had decided that running to and fro between fold and field was in itself a waste of time and had allowed Joanna to take charge; to see that the sheep regarded as Robert’s and those regarded as his were marked—hers, far more numerous, were left unmarked—and Henry was swinging his scythe, there was this man; not the one who had come to count animals earlier in the year. Another one.

  They sat in the hall, relatively cool even on this warm day, and drank buttermilk, all that Henry had to offer at the moment. And when the man had said what he had come to say, Henry was not dazzled.

  He said, moodily, ‘My aunt, the Lady Emma, put much the same proposition to me and I refused. I felt I had enough to do here.’

  Lady Emma had offered no salary; she had simply promised to will to Henry, as reward for his stewardship, what was indisputably her own—a bit of land, of small value even as a sheep-run because it was remote, with no means of access except through Moyidan.

  ‘Two hundred pounds a year, Master Tallboys, is a considerable sum. And added to it there would be a percentage on the increase. That is the rule. Any steward-in-charge of an estate belonging to one of the King’s wards is entitled to five per cent on the overall productivity.’

  And still the man was not dazzled or cajoled. He said, ‘It needs thinking over. One thing I should make clear from the start. If I did take on the job, I should not live at Moyidan.’

  Why not, the Commissioner wondered, looking round the stark, comfortless hall; the walls bare except in two places; one narrow hanging and one wide one. The narrow one had been old Bishop William’s house-offering to Sybilla all those years ago; the large one Mistress Captoft had left because at The Sailors’ Rest the only place where it could have found a place was in the big communal room and she thought—correctly—that it would put ideas into the heads of lonely men.

  There was the one settle with cushions, sadly frayed; an imposing court cupboard, completely bare. A stark room. And the Commissioner had a shrewd idea of what the beds were like in this house. He had lodged, the night before, at Moyidan from which the Church, in the person of the Bishop of Bywater, had withdrawn without protest but taking with him, as indeed Sir Richard Tallboys had done, some few things which he could rightly claim as his own and which would not be missed. Even so, compared with this Moyidan was still palatial. However, if this curious fellow preferred to live here…

  ‘That, of course, would be for you to decide, Master Tallboys. The distance is small. You could ride over once or twice a week.’

  ‘If I undertook it, I should go every day.’

  ‘That would be very good. And of course the upkeep of the horse, or horses, would be an allowable charge against the estate. When may I hope for your decision?’

  ‘Give me two days. This is my busiest time, shearing and haymaking. Two days from now… You are at Moyidan? I will come there, in the evening.’

  ‘I could wait upon you, Master Tallboys.’

  That sudden, flashing blue smile appeared and Henry said, ‘No. I must come to you. I must see what, if I decide to take over, I am taking over. So I will wait upon you. The day after tomorrow. In the cool of the evening.’

  The Commissioner rode back to Moyidan carrying with him the thought that this Henry Tallboys was not only honest but cautious and hard-headed; a suitable man for the post.

  Next day was Joanna’s birthday. Nothing was said of the betrothal but Henry had remembered the day and had a present for her. One which represented both thoughtfulness and ingenuity. A new gown of blue linen, of the very finest weave—almost like silk and with bands of real silk around the skirt, the bodice and the sleeves.

  ‘It is the prettiest I ever had, Henry.’

  ‘Try it on.’

  She went into the hall and there shed the dress she was wearing—one that Katherine had left behind—and donned the new one. It fitted perfectly. Sounding, and looking, rather well-pleased with himself, Henry explained how such a fit had been achieved.

  ‘I bought the stuff in the market; then I accosted a woman who looked likely to know and asked if she knew a good sewing woman. She did. After that I kept watch for a girl of your size and shape.’ That girl had not been easy to find; those tall enough were either too thick or too thin but he’d found one at last. ‘Glad enough to earn fourpence,’ he said. ‘Twopence for being measured, twopence for being fitted. I’m glad you like it.’

  She was deeply touched by the gift, and the trouble he had taken, but when she tried to express her thanks, looking at him with glowing eyes, his face seemed to cloud over and he said, ‘Work won’t wait; even for birthdays.’

  She changed back into her working dress and went to the fold where the shearing should finish today. Henry began scything, thinking as he worked. Turning over and over in his mind the proposition made to him by the Commissioner. It was impossible for him to ignore the fact that the farm’s easiest times had coincided with his father’s two brief periods of steady, paid employment. In fact he had resented Sir Godfrey’s earning more, just by riding about and supervising Lord Thorsdale’s property at Bywater, than he could wrest out of the land, however hard he worked. Equally plain was the thought that the land remained after the well-paid, easy jobs had vanished.

  Knight’s Acre was bigger, now, and stock needed constant attention.

  Two hundred pounds a year was not to be sniffed at.

  One of his reasons for refusing to look after Moyidan when Lady Emma appealed to him was that he had not enough learning: that no longer held good for Richard was, or should be, capable of looking after that kind of thing. He’d work, once he saw that it was to his own advantage.

  If I don’t take the job, who will?

  Last time he had been able to suggest his own brother, Richard. And what a calamity that had been.

  Five miles, twice a day, even on a good horse—a permissible expense—would consume valuable time.

  On and on, round and round, as the scythe sang through the sweet smelling hay.

  Godfrey ran up.

  ‘Can I leave off for a little? I want to look for wild strawberries for Janna’s birthday supper. I’m well ahead of Dick anyway.’

  ‘Off you go. The best place is on the bank or the water-splash.’

  In his mulling over the future he had deliberately avoided the inclusion of Joanna in his plans, either way. Any kind of looking ahead so far as she was concerned brought the inevitable, dreaded confrontation to mind.

  He honed his scythe and imagined that bad moment over and looked ahead again, fitting Joanna in. In charge of Moyidan, and with a salary, he could change his way of life; entertain; give her chance to meet people, find some man to her liking—and to his!

  But I can do that without splitting myself in two, half at Moyidan, half here; the divided loyalty which he feared. In two years’ time—and that would be time enough, she was only fourteen—with reasonable luck, this would be a prosperous place, too. Luck, he knew, no farmer could count upon, always at the mercy of the weather. Good this year. Heavy hay, enough to keep a lot of sheep, a lot of store cattle through the winter. Other crops thick and promising, too; the oats thick and silvery, ready for cutting next week; the barley and wheat standing tall and just about to change from green to pale buff, to golden. He knew that two weeks’ steady rain could ruin everything; no, not everything; rain could ruin a harvest; but it made the grass grow and animals could find their own food, perhaps as far as Michaelmas. It was not unknown, in a wet season, for a second hay-crop to be gathered in.

  He reached his decision. Stay here. Be his own man.

  Up in the fold, Joanna was supervising and, when able to, doing a bit of cheating. Like Griselda, like Master Turnbull, she regretted Henry’s stubborn determination to go on saving for
Robert. She knew that Robert was dead. She’d gone to Moyidan to save him from the misery he was enduring; they’d lost their way in the wood and he had died. He’d never been strong and a night in the blizzard had killed him. She had told no-one.

  Now she was doing a little bit to put matters right by shuffling a few fleeces, with Robert’s mark, and a few unmarked ones—her own—into Henry’s pile. Nobody noticed.

  The shearers were rather more hasty than usual and less sure of hand and eye; for by custom shearers were provided with ale as well as food, and towards the end of a job were inclined to indulge. No good leaving ale behind. Joseph was busily applying new markings to the closely shorn sheep. Nobody noticed for a while that Joanna had ceased to supervise; stood rigid, a marked fleece in her hands, staring straight ahead of her.

  It had happened again. This time an almost exact repetition of what she had seen before—a mounted man bringing bad news.

  Blinking her way back into the ordinary world, she saw the shearers pushing their shears into canvas or leather sheaths and Joseph putting the ochre mark on a sheep, the last to be shorn. And beyond, just turning from the lane into the track, a man on a horse.

  She said aloud, ‘Too late!’ She could not possibly reach the house first and even if she did warn Henry he would take no notice. He would ignore her, just as he had done before. With a shrug she resumed the sorting of fleeces which had piled up around her. What was going on in the house?

  Henry, working bare to the waist as men did in hot weather, saw the horseman approach and turn towards the door in the house-front. By his clothes and the quality of the horse, someone of importance.

  Hell and damnation! More waste of time. He laid his scythe down and jumped across the bank which formed the edge of this field, rounded a rose-tree and stood between the visitor and the door.