by Ann Swinfen
For a time the horses kept up their canter, but the rhythm of their hooves changed as they began to tire with the long day, the hilly ground, and the fearful state of the road. They fell back to a lumbering trot. Not all the yells of the driver nor the vicious cracks of his whip could stir them up to a canter again. Though slower, the trotting pace of the horses was as uncomfortable for the passengers as the canter, for its abrupt rhythm jerked the cart violently, so that the soldiers clung on, swearing, and John rolled helplessly back and forth at their feet. Outside, it was nearly dark.
At last they heard the driver call out something. The soldiers stared at one another in alarm, but a few moments later Tize opened the canvas flap at the front of the cart and looked through.
‘Stafford in sight, lads. We’ll be there soon, though we won’t outrun the storm.’
With that he climbed back inside, under the shelter of the hood, as the first wet snow began to fall. They heard the driver curse, and try again to hurry the horses along, but the great beasts had grown stubborn and slowed to a walk. Where John lay near the rear of the cart, the snow began to drift in on top of him, but after a while Will got up and laced the canvas together. Not, John was sure, as a kindness to him, but because the wind was whipping through the cart and making them all cold. He managed to roll on his side to ease his injured leg, and tried to rest.
It was long past dark by the time the cart finally came to a halt. For the last part of the journey the road had ascended steadily, until at last it was clear they were driving up a precipitous slope, where the horses’ hooves slithered on the slippery ground. All the soldiers climbed out except Will, who was left to watch over John with his loaded musket lying ready on the floor beside him. John noticed that the slow match clipped to the side of it was still smouldering.
‘Best watch your slow match,’ he said, ‘or you’ll set straw and cart and all alight.’ It was the first remark he had addressed to any of the soldiers for days.
Will jumped up in alarm and seized the musket. A small patch of straw where it had lain had already caught fire and he stamped on it, cursing.
‘What’s amiss?’ Tize poked his head into the cart.
Will pointed to the wisps of smoke rising from the straw.
‘Get him out of there,’ said Tize, ‘and shovel that straw out into the snow.’
They loosened the ropes around John’s legs, but did not remove them, so that he fell heavily from the tailboard of the cart, and then had to shuffle his way through the snow like a hobbled horse. He saw now, with increasing apprehension, where they had arrived. The castle at Stafford had been a Royalist stronghold in the early part of the war. After it had fallen to the Parliamentary Army, the Committee for Stafford, of which young John Swynfen was a member, had ordered its destruction nearly seven years ago. The work had only been carried out in part before the Parliamentary forces had decided to make use of it themselves. It was now garrisoned by the New Model Army.
John was propelled into the guardhouse, where the soldiers on duty stared at him curiously. He could not tell whether they knew who he was—Stafford’s own Member of Parliament returned to his constituency in such strange guise. His four guards, with whom he seemed to have lived a lifetime, had disappeared. The new soldiers removed the ropes from his legs and marched him away, stumbling across a courtyard and into the main castle building, then down a stone staircase to a corridor below the level of the ground.
One of the guards unhooked a ring of keys from his belt and opened a heavy studded door. In the light of the pitch torch carried by one of the men, John could see that this was a prison cell, with a bare wooden shelf to sleep on, and a narrow slit of window high in the wall, which might, in daytime, admit a little light. At one end of the wooden shelf there was a jug of water and a wooden platter with some bread and dry cheese on it. They made John sit on this bed while they untied the rest of the ropes.
‘I thank you for that,’ he said to the man with the keys, who regarded him sombrely as he groped about under the bed. Then John felt something clamped around his leg and heard the sound of a key turning. The men left him, taking the torch with them. Their footsteps faded away in the distance. He was alone in the darkness, in a damp cold dungeon under Stafford Castle, and he was shackled.
Chapter Twenty-One
Anne had given instructions to Biddy and Hester to scrub out all the cheese-making equipment. It had not been used since the summer, when a suckling calf had last been slaughtered for rennet and the stores of winter cheese made. The setting bowls, ladles, skimmers, rings, sieves, presses, and straining boards were now spotlessly clean and lined up in the dairy, which had also been washed throughout, walls and floors and sinks and all, for cheese-making is a delicate business. Every cheese-maker knows that dirt can spoil all the hard work quicker than winking. Anne herself had washed the fine hempen cheese clouts to her satisfaction.
At last there was enough milk to make a small batch of cheese, and their need was great. The one smoked ham, sliced as thin as paper and doled out with a miserly hand, was finished. Although Peter caught an occasional rabbit, there were few to be found. The summer floods and the winter cold had killed large numbers, and the foxes in the woods took most of those that were left. The cheese was sorely wanted, so the whole household might have some variation from the sparse diet of vegetables, porridge and bread. There was no escape from the constant pain of hunger. Most of the cheese would have to be eaten soft, or left only for a week or two to dry a little. The thin winter milk could not be expected to yield good cheese.
To Anne’s relief, Agnes Lea’s bunches of lady’s bedstraw induced the warm fresh milk to curdle and separate. Anne, Bridget and Hester worked together on the first batch of cheese. When the milk had curdled in the setting dishes, they skimmed the wet curds off the whey and packed them into wooden hoops, which were lined with clouts and set upon the straining boards. These boards were then lifted on to wide basins to catch the whey as it drained, for no scrap of nourishment would be wasted. The whey remaining in the setting dishes they poured through colanders lined with cheese clouts. By now the whey was a thin liquid, slightly bluish in colour, but chilled in the dairy it made a good refreshing drink, and the children begged for it. Hester had baked barley bannocks that morning, and she now spread them with the scrapings of curd left on the clouts in the colanders, sprinkled with a little salt.
After the children had eaten their dinner of curds and bannocks and scampered off, the women sat down at the dairy table to the same feast. Anne’s sleeves were rolled above her elbows, and she was wearing an old russet gown and a white cap as plain as a maidservant. In the cool northern light of the dairy, the fine gold down on her forearms glinted, sprinkled over with a speckle of curds. She smiled to herself, imagining the disdainful looks of her elegant neighbours in Westminster if they might see her now.
‘I’ve rinsed the lady’s bedstraw in clean spring water,’ she said, ‘and hung it to dry. I don’t know whether it will serve more than once, but I thought it worth a try.’
‘We should always make cheese like this,’ said Bridget in her gentle voice. ‘I hate to see one of the suckling calves killed for the rennet.’
Hester was more practical. ‘One calf gives plenty of rennet, and I’ll be bound it sets the cheese better than the herbs.’
‘Well,’ said Anne, ‘I know this is only a soft cheese, but I think it’s very fine.’
The taste of the fresh cheese lingered on her tongue. She could have eaten far more, for like the rest of the household she was always ravenous, but this was a stolen feast and the cheeses set to dry in the hoops must feed the family in lieu of meat.
‘If I can clear some of the snow from the herb garden,’ said Bridget. ‘I think I’ll search for some sprigs of thyme and perhaps the first of the chives before we make the next batch. That way we can vary the cheeses. Later, we can wrap some in young nettle leaves.’
‘In London,’ said Anne, ‘I tasted a cheese that ha
d been wrapped in sage. It was somewhat strong in flavour, and a curious bright green, but a good flavour. And we can use some of these soft curds sweetened with honey, to make a pudding.’
She was full of energy and plans. So much had depended on this scheme of cheese-making; she was elated by her success. They need only survive a few more months, if they could find enough food to ward off starvation before late spring brought in the new season’s bounty.
‘I saw from my window this morning that they have set the plough to the land at Hill Hall,’ said Bridget. ‘The ground must no longer be so hard frozen. On Plough Monday, over in Weeford, everyone was saying the spring ploughing would be late this year, and so it is.’
‘Did they mark Plough Monday?’ said Anne. ‘I was still in Oxford and saw no celebration, but perhaps the town doesn’t honour such country festivals.’
‘It wasn’t celebrated in Weeford this year. The new minister is such a severe, uncompromising Puritan he frightens everyone.’
‘Are the Turners still the tenants at Hill Hall?’ Anne asked.
Bridget nodded. ‘Aye, they’re still there.’
Later that day, Anne opened the door of her father-in-law’s estate office and went nervously in. She had never entered this room before except by invitation, and then no more than once or twice. The room smelled of tobacco and leather and gun oil, and somewhat of dog, though the dogs had now abandoned this unheated room for the kitchen. The rent table, with its row of little drawers, was covered with neat piles of paper, some of them tied in bundles with tape. There were quills, ink and wax, and under the window a great chest, a larger version of John’s portable strong box. This one would take four strong men to carry it, for it was made of thick oak, bound with iron bands and secured with a lock bigger than her two hand-spans.
When Bridget had spoken of Hill Hall Farm, Anne recalled that on Lady Day the tenants would come to Swinfen Hall to pay their quarterly rents. Hill Hall was one of several large tenant farms that ringed the Swinfen manor. And as well as these and the many cottages on the estate, the family owned property in Freford and Lichfield, and—over Shropshire way—the manor of Lapley and houses in Shrewsbury. With both John’s parents ill, and no word from John himself, it would fall to her to collect the rents, and she had no notion how much each tenant should pay. She searched the table and soon found the rent book, neatly set out in columns with the name of the tenant, the name of the property, and the amount. She slipped it into the capacious pocket of her apron to study later.
On the wall beside the window were two shelves of books. Richard Swynfen was not a scholar like his son, but he owned a compact library of books on country matters—hunting, hawking, agricultural oeconomy, and the breeding of cattle. Anne ran her finger along the shelves, reading the titles. Alsopp’s Compleat Husbandrie caught her eye, and she took it down. Turning to the title page, she read that the book was: A Compleat Husbandrie for ye Country Gentleman, Being a Most briefe & pleasaunte Treatyse, teachyng howe to Plowe, Sewe, & Harveste diverse Crops, with ye Breding and Care of ye Beastes. It had been published in 1630, when it was on sale at the Sign of the Two Swans in St Paul’s Churchyard. Below the title cavorted a smudged drawing of the goddess Ceres, smirking prettily as she poured out a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables across the bottom of the page.
Anne turned the pages thoughtfully. The book had a well-used look, as though her father-in-law made frequent reference to it. A sliver of faded silk ribbon marked a chapter on bee-keeping. There were diagrams of farm implements and drawings of distinguished bulls. At the end was a handy almanac of dates in the farming calendar. It would do no harm to borrow it. If she studied it, she might gain some insight into the mysteries that confronted her. She cast another despairing glance at the immense money chest. If there were debts owing, she must discover where the keys were kept.
A few days later, Josiah asked if he might discuss something with her. His air was so grave, she feared some of the stock might have been taken ill. She showed him in to the small parlour, where she preferred to conduct business, for she still felt like an intruder in the office. She invited Josiah to sit down, but he shook his head.
‘My breeches be far too soiled, mistress,’ he said, then stood, twisting his cap between his hands in silence.
‘Is there trouble on the farm, Josiah?’ she asked at last, as he seemed unable to make a beginning.
‘Not to say trouble, exactly,’ he said, relieved to be given a point at which to start. ‘’Tis near lambing time. Next week, I reckon.’
Anne nodded.
‘Aye, of course. It must be about that time.’
‘You see, mistress, I reckon us can’t manage, just the boy and me. With the lambing and the spring ploughing and sowing. There always used to be six or eight of us on the farm. And Master Swynfen usually hires in the day labourers about now, and a shepherd for the lambing.’
‘Oh.’ Anne was startled. She should have thought of this. But she had no idea how to go about it, or how many men to hire, or what they should be paid. John used to go to Lichfield for the hiring fair, held in the spring and again at harvest time.
‘Who worked here last year?’ she asked cautiously.
‘There was Henry Fletcher and Roland Heathe from Weeford,’ said Josiah. ‘That was all we could get, not near men enough. Labour’s scare and costly. But Henry’s nigh four score and not really able for ’un any longer. I heard he was ill before Christmas. Roland might come, but he’s a weak kind of a man. Not unhandy with the beasts, though.’
‘I see. Can you think on any man else?’
‘I heard tell Henry’s grandson Christopher is come home from the wars, but he has a holding of his own, that he rents from Master Pott. He may not want to hire himself out as well. Though the family may have need of the money.’
‘How much do we pay?’
‘One shilling and fourpence a day.’ He saw her expression. ‘I know, mistress, ’tis a terrible price. And dinner every day. And ale. And a suit of working clothes. You won’t get any man for less, there’s a fearful lack of working men with so many away in the army.’
Anne pondered. Two men would mean sixteen shillings a week additional wages. She had just enough coin left to pay that until Lady Day when the rents came in. And the clothes would not be a difficulty. The family kept chests of cast-off clothing for the labourers and for gifts to the poor. The problem would be feeding two extra men, farm labourers with hearty appetites from working all day in the fields.
‘It’s the meals, Josiah. I don’t know how we can feed two more.’
He shrugged.
‘We mun find the food someways. Else the work will not be done, and there’ll be even less to eat come next winter.’
‘You’ve the right of it, of course. Very well. You’d best go to Weeford this afternoon and see if you can hire Christopher Fletcher and Roland Heathe.’
‘If the food be short, we can kill one of the beasts.’
‘Nay!’ said Anne vehemently. ‘We must increase the breeding stock. I will not slaughter a single beast more unless we are all starving, and we’re not reduced to that yet. With more milk soon, we can make more cheese. And the hens are laying better.’
Josiah still stood, turning his cap in his hands.
‘Was there something else?’
‘The shepherd, mistress. The master usually hires one in time for the lambing.’
‘Aye, I remember. Then he takes the flock up to Packington Moor until autumn. Who did he hire last year?’
‘Edward Weatherspoon. But he died of the consumption in January.’ Josiah looked uncomfortable. ‘There was a fellow come into the yard yesterday, asking for work. A strange fellow, with a strange way of speaking. He said he was a shepherd, but I don’t know as we should trust ’un.’
‘Not from these parts, then?’
‘Nay, mistress.’ He passed his hand over his face, and Anne suddenly realised how tired he looked. He had been carrying all the burden of the f
arm work for months, and it was about to grow much heavier as spring drew on.
‘I have a notion, Josiah. Suppose we hire him for a month, for the lambing. You will have him under your eye here in the farm, and the other men to help. At the end of a month, you will surely be able to judge whether he is a man for the sheep or not.’
He brightened.
‘That’s a grand idea, mistress. I told ’un to come back this afternoon, hoping I would have spoke to you.’
‘Good. It’s all settled, then. Anything else?’
‘Well, mistress, should I start the ploughing?’
Anne pressed her hands to her head. How could she judge? She knew that if the ploughing were begun too soon, the soil might be so hard frozen it would rip the ploughshare from its shaft, or the plough horses might break a leg stumbling over the rock-like soil. Moreover, with all the rain there had been in the last year, the soil would be so full of water that when it did thaw completely, it would turn to bog, and then it would be impossible to put the horses on to it. And if the seed were sown too soon, the cold in the land would kill it. If it were left too late, the growing season was shortened and the harvest would be pitifully small. How could she judge?
‘They’ve begun the ploughing at Hill Hall,’ she said anxiously. ‘Do you think we should start?’
‘John Turner is a canny man. But I dunno . . . ’Tis not for me to say. The master always decides when us’ll start.’
‘Josiah, you’re a far better judge of this than I am. If you think the land is ready, then you must start.’
It took some time for her to persuade him to take the responsibility for the decision, but in the end, looking worried and shaking his head, he went off, saying that he would go and feel the soil, and if it felt right, well then, he might make a start tomorrow, or soon.