by Ann Swinfen
If only she were not so weary. The journey from Oxford had set her ribs aching again and she was still weakened from the latest child-bearing. Her nails gripped the oak’s sturdy bark, and she remembered suddenly how she and John used to climb this tree. It had wide-spreading branches on which they could perch and imagine themselves kings of the world. She smiled wanly to herself. How pitiable to shrink from ruling one estate, when she had dreamt such imperial dreams. With a sigh cut off short, she thrust herself off the tree and straightened her back. She must return and face them all, and not allow a glimmer of her fear and helplessness to reveal itself, or they would all abandon hope. Wrapping her cloak tightly around her against the biting cold, she began to walk steadily back towards the house.
It was tempting to sit down to breakfast in the kitchen, the only warm room in the house, but Anne realised that she needed to reverse the household’s slide into chaos. While Hester was preparing a breakfast of porridge, she told Peter to light a fire in the great hall and build it up well. One thing which was not in short supply was firewood, for there were extensive woods on the Swinfen estate. A fire in the hall would help to heat the whole manor house and make it feel less like a house of the dead. Once Margit had fed the chickens and brought in four precious eggs, she was set to washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, while Biddy wiped down the large dining table in the hall and laid it with dishes for breakfast.
She grumbled about this. ‘I’m no kitchen maid, Mistress Anne, nor no housemaid neither. I’m housekeeper here.’
‘We must all do what we can, Biddy,’ said Anne calmly. ‘Until all is set to rights. I shall roll up my sleeves and work as hard as you, that I can promise. Now tell me, when does Mistress Joane come down in the mornings?’
Biddy rolled her eyes. ‘That I couldn’t say. Sometimes she stays abed all day, then in the night she wanders about the house, fritting the life out of us.’
Anne swallowed hard. Illness of the mind had always unnerved her.
‘Have you sent for a physician to either of them?’
‘When first the master was took ill, Mistress Joane had Samuel Newboult, the apothecary, fetched from Lichfield. That was before she went queer. He came three times to bleed the master, then he said there wasn’t nothing else he could do. We was to feed him as best we could. He might live and he might not, but he’ll never be right again.’
Anne felt a sudden sharp grief for her father-in-law. The previous night she had been too tired to think about the full horror of his condition. Richard Swynfen had married at fifteen, and was but sixteen when John was born, which made him fifty-one now, though his wife was several years older. It was a good age, but not a great age. And people expected to live longer here in the country than in the foul air of London. When she had last seen him he was just forty-eight, and seemed in the full vigour of life. She would have to visit him later in the day, although she shrank from it.
‘When the rest of us have breakfasted, you and Margit must attend to Master and Mistress Swynfen as you’ve been accustomed,’ she said to Biddy. ‘I don’t want to shock them with the sight of too many of us at once, but perhaps when Mistress Joane realises that I’m here to help her, she may come back to herself.’
‘It’s to be hoped so,’ said Biddy, though with little certainty.
‘And after that, you and I will sit down together and figure how much food we have, and how best to feed everyone for the rest of the winter. I’ll want to see Josiah as well, when he’s finished with the beasts.’
‘I’ll tell him, mistress.’ Biddy set out the last of the pewter dishes and went off to breakfast in the kitchen, looking a little happier than she had since they arrived.
Breakfast was not a cheerful meal. The servants were resentful, for no one should be expected to eat porridge in a gentleman’s house, and the children whined about eating the grey, lumpy stuff, although they were all so hungry they ate it anyway. All except Francis, who stirred the mess in his dish and stared off into space as though he were sickening again. Bess finally managed to spoon most of it into him while he opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Patience fidgeted. Clearly she wanted to walk over to Blackbrook Farm and visit her family, but Anne hardened her heart. There was too much to be done here. Patience would have to wait. Peter and Hester ate in the kitchen with the rest of the servants, but all knew that they breakfasted no worse than the family. When Margit came to clear away the dishes, Anne sent Patience and Bess upstairs to tidy the bedchambers and unpack the luggage that had been brought the night before.
‘But keep the children away from Master and Mistress Swynfen’s chambers,’ she warned. ‘Look out the old toys for them to play with. That should keep them occupied for the rest of the day. Apart from feeding the baby, I shall be busy with other affairs.’
She followed Margit into the kitchen. The place looked somewhat cleaner than it had earlier. Josiah and the boy were pulling on their muddy boots, ready to return to the farmyard. Josiah was almost as old as Peter, but he was a tough husbandman, hardened from years at ploughing behind the horses and scything the fields at harvest time. His skin, even in winter, was the colour of a withered walnut, and his bright blue eyes were intelligent and shrewd. Anne had rarely spoken to him in the past, save to give him ‘Good Morrow’, since the management of the manor was entirely in her father-in-law’s hands, but if she was to organise the feeding of this large household she would need to deal with Josiah.
He paused with one boot on and the other dangling in his hand.
‘You want to speak with me now, Mistress Anne?’
‘Is the stock all seen to?’
‘Aye, but there’s a-plenty to do. I’ve a saddle to mend, and there be holes in the barn roof that must be patched while the weather holds fine.’
‘I need you to harness up a horse and cart to fetch the rest of our luggage from Lichfield. Best do that first, then the roof. We’ll speak together when that’s done.’
He shook his head. ‘There’s more’n two days’ work to the roof mending, mistress.’ He seemed surprised that she should be giving him orders.
‘Well, then, you must fetch the luggage and begin work on the roof. I shall come and find you when I’m ready. And take this purse. I want you to see if you can buy any meat in Lichfield. A ham or a side of bacon.’
The two labourers went out, the boy staring back over his shoulder, as if the sight of a woman directing the farm workers were some marvel.
‘Come now, Biddy,’ said Anne. ‘I’ve brought paper and ink. We’ll take an inventory of every last morsel of food to be found in the house. Peter, what of your rabbit snares?’
Peter, who was seated on a stool by the fire, held up a twist of wire and supple twigs. ‘I’m making them now, mistress. I thought to make two dozen, then I’ll get me over to the spinney and see if I can find some fresh runs.’
Anne and Biddy worked their way through all the storerooms and dairy, and as Biddy called out what was laid by, Anne wrote it down on her list. Then they donned cloaks and boots and went out to the brewhouse. It seemed to be stripped bare, but Anne had remembered something John had once told her, laughing, about how his father always kept a store of ale hidden away, in case the day labourers took to stealing, the brewhouse being somewhat difficult to guard. There was a panel in the wall, she knew, that was in fact the door to a concealed cupboard. She searched everywhere, tapping and prodding, but could not find it. Biddy stared at her all the while, clearly thinking she had taken leave of her senses. Finally, in a dark corner, the wall gave back a hollow sound. Kneeling on the floor, Anne managed to prise open the panel with her finger-nails. There, somewhat dusty, stood two huge four-handled flagons of ale. Not a whole winter’s supply, but enough to cheer her household on special occasions. As they each lifted a heavy flagon out of the cupboard, Biddy looked at the usurping mistress of Swinfen with surprise and a little more respect.
When they came out of the brewhouse, Josiah and the boy were just driving u
p with the luggage. Anne frowned. There had been no need for the boy to go to Lichfield, he would have done nothing but sit in the cart. While there was so much work and so few hands to do it, there was no time for sitting about. She should have thought to set him to some task.
‘Since I’m here, Josiah,’ she said as he climbed down, ‘I’ll come with you now and see what we have stored in the barns and stables. Were you able to buy meat?’
He shook his head, handing her the purse.
‘Folk laughed in my face, Mistress Anne. There’s none has food to spare.’
She had had no real hope, but this failure heightened the cold sense of fear in her heart. She turned to Biddy. ‘You and Margit can continue cleaning the hall. Be sure to strew sweet herbs on the fire when you have finished, and lay more with rose petals in dishes on the windowsills. Then you may look to the small parlour. When I come in we’ll study our lists and decide how we’ll manage our supplies.’
Ignoring Biddy’s rebellious expression, and leaving the boy to unharness the horse from the cart, she set down the flagon of ale and followed Josiah into the barn, where the cows were accommodated on the right hand side. The other half of the barn was fenced off with hurdles to provide winter quarters for the sheep. They would stay here until the ewes dropped their lambs. In spring, when the weather allowed, they would be turned out on the meadow until shearing, then driven up to Packington Moor. The stock looked healthy, though somewhat thin.
‘Have you fodder enough?’ she asked.
Without answering, Josiah led her through to the adjacent hay barn, and stood in the centre of the floor, his arms folded, watching her. She sniffed. Usually the hay barn was sweet with the scent of summer fields, a haven of happy memories of warm days, stored up for winter. But there was something wrong here. A faint sour smell, elusive but detectable, troubled her.
‘What’s that smell?’
‘’Twas a terrible year here,’ he said, not answering her question. ‘Nothing but rain and floods all summer long.’
‘In London, too. Biddy said the harvest was bad.’
‘Bad isn’t how I should call ’un, Mistress Anne. Disaster, that’s what ’twas. We did what us could at haysel time, but there was never enough days together to dry all. Half the hay was maybe sound, but the rest is rotting. That’s what you can smell. I’ve kept ’un separate as best I can.’ He pointed to the hay piled up in two great heaps, one much smaller than the other. ‘That small one is the good hay.’
‘Did you build no stacks in the yard?’
‘There was never the weather for ’un. ’Twas like Noah’s flood. There wasn’t no more hay than would fill the barn anyway, the haysel was that poor.’
Anne could never remember a time when there had not been five or six huge haystacks build out in the yard—each of them almost as big as most of the cottages on the estate—in addition to the hay ready for use here in the barn. Without hay, the remaining stock could not survive the winter. All but the breeding stock would already have been slaughtered and cured at Martinmas. That was the meat the soldiers had stolen.
As if he could read her thoughts, Josiah said, ‘There be not fodder enough. Us’ll need to slaughter more of the stock.’
That would provide meat for the rest of the winter, but what of next year? Anne thought of the few prime milch cows and the small flock of breeding ewes. Before he had been struck down, her father-in-law would have selected the best of the stock to be kept. The lineage of some could probably be traced back the six hundred years and more the Swynfens had held this land. She could not countenance the killing of this last handful of breeding animals.
‘Nay,’ she said. ‘Nay, we must think of some other way.’ She remembered the last of the gold she had brought with her from London.
‘Perhaps we could buy hay.’ It was unheard of, but worth trying.
Josiah shook his head. ‘I doubt there’s any would sell you hay. Everyone’s in a like case. ’Tis the same as the meat.’
‘Well, we shall see. The horses? Hay as well, of course, but you have oats?’
There must be oats. There was a full kist of oatmeal.
Josiah grinned cautiously.
‘Troopers took what they could for their horses, but they didn’t find everything. I took care to hide a good supply.’
‘Good. Have we any pigs?’
‘Ten sows. Isaac—that’s my grandson who helps me,’ he jerked his head towards the stable, where the boy could be heard leading the horse into its stall, ‘Isaac gathered up plenty of acorns and beechmast for the swine. Soldiers had no use for that.’
Anne nodded. She had heard of country people eating beechmast in times of famine. It might come to that.
‘Well, Josiah, it seems our chief worry for the stock is hay. I’ll ride into Lichfield and see what I can do.’
He looked scandalised. This was no way for Master John’s lady to behave. He spoke more frankly than he ought.
‘’Tis not for you to be riding about the countryside on the manor’s business, mistress.’
‘And who else shall do it? Master Swynfen is ill. Master John is in London. You’re more use at work here. I cannot go climbing about, mending the barn roof, but I can buy hay, if there’s any to be had. Though I expect I must pay far too high for it. I’ll also need you to take that one sack of wheat to the mill.’
‘Miller’s dead and his family gone. I heard the mill needs repair anyways.’
Anne wrung her hands. ‘But we must have flour! We can’t survive without bread. Is there no other way to grind it?’
Josiah shrugged. ‘Well . . .’
He led her to a far corner of the barn and pointed. ‘There’s this old quern, mistress, what they had in the old days. I’ve never seen one used, but I’ve heard tell ’tis terrible slow, hard work.’
‘You’d best bring it in to the kitchen and we’ll see if we can manage it.’
They began to walk back towards the house, Josiah carrying the heavy flagon. Suddenly Anne stopped. She had just realised that one member of the family was missing. Someone so quiet, she was easily overlooked. John had two younger brothers, William and Richard, the first married and moved away, the second in the army. And he had three sisters: Mary, married and living in Weeford, Grace, married and living in London, and Bridget. At twenty-one, Bridget was the youngest of the girls, but she would never marry, for she was crippled from childhood illness. She never stirred from Swinfen, but had she been here to watch over things, surely the house would not have fallen into such a terrible state.
‘Josiah, where is Mistress Bridget?’
He stared at her in surprise.
‘Why, she went to live with Mistress Mary, these twelve months past.’
‘She’s living with Mary and Thomas Pott? But why?’
It was something she would never have discussed with a farm labourer in normal times, but now she must seek information where she could.
Josiah looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know rightly how ’twas,’ he said reluctantly.
That meant there had been gossip amongst the servants.
‘Tell me what you know.’
‘Well . . .’ He avoided her eye and stared away over the fields. ‘Mistress Swynfen told Mistress Bridget she would never get a husband, so she must look to make herself useful, and earn her own keep. So she’s gone to Mistress Mary, who said she shouldn’t go outside the family.’
‘Mary Pott has taken her as a waiting gentlewoman?’
‘Well . . .’
‘She’s taken her as a servant?’
Josiah shrugged.
Anne felt outrage against her mother-in-law welling up inside her, but she tried to wipe it off her face. ‘I won’t keep you from your roof any longer, Josiah. Tomorrow, I’ll ride into Lichfield and see what may be done about hay. Leave the ale there. I’ll send Margit to fetch it.’
As she walked across the muddy yard towards the back of the house, her anger made her thump her fist into the palm of
her hand. Mistress Joane Swynfen had always been something of a tyrant towards her children, and she had a particular dislike of her gentle, crippled daughter, as though the very sight of Bridget offended her. But to send her to be a servant! Bridget was a gentlewoman, even if she would remain dependent all her life. Mary must have taken her in out of kindness, but the situation could not be easy for either of the sisters. Provided Mary could be persuaded, Anne would bring Bridget home as soon as she could ride over to Weeford and see her sister-in-law.
By early evening, Anne was weary to the very bone. At least the long and arduous journey from London had been accomplished and all her party, with their luggage, safely delivered to Swinfen. The baby, who could so easily have died at birth, was growing plump. Last night the house had dismayed her—cold, damp, and dirty as some of the wayside inns. It was still far from its normal state, but it was warmer now, and the great hall and kitchen were clean, the parlour partially tidy. Aromatic herbs and beeswax polish scented the air in the hall, mingling with the fragrance of the apple logs she had told Peter to put on the fire for the sake of their sweetness. Despite an initial air of sulky reluctance to accept her orders, the Swinfen servants were working willingly enough now that the house was beginning to come to life again. While Josiah repaired the roof of the cowbarn, she had set the boy to cutting logs with Peter, using the two-handled saw. The weather, though cold, was clear for the moment, and she wanted to be sure of an ample supply of fuel when the snow returned, as it surely must.
Fuel and food, all her attention was focused on these. Food, that was the greatest worry. The supplies in store would not be sufficient to feed the large household through the winter, but they must contrive somehow without killing any of the breeding stock. As she sat in her chamber feeding the baby, her mind whirled with plans. Before anything, they must devise a way to grind the wheat and make cheese with some of the milk. There would be no rennet at this time of year. She was sure there were herbs that could be used in its place to set the cheese, but she could not recall what they were. They could eat one meal of porridge every day, however much the children fretted. Peter had set his snares, but had caught nothing yet. This morning, in counting over the stores, she had found two strings of onions and a crock of dried peas. Hester was making a vegetable stew with some of these, to be mopped up with the remnant of bread left from the journey. In London, where every kind of food could be bought, although expensive in the late famine years, Anne had never thought so much about meals.