by Andy Brown
The couple then disappeared behind the curtain, hung to one end of the home, to check the agreeable setting of their wedding bed, east to west to follow the sun. The old mother had already stuffed their pillows with herbs for aphrodisiac, though why they needed help with procreation was anyone’s guess.
While they were at these rituals, we sat at a low table in their humble home and supped on a small cup of cider. We sat respectfully quiet until they’d reappear. Two young boys, prepared with a whistle and fiddle, stood patiently waiting their turn to play a song. Even the dog seemed to cease its constant snuffling and scavenging and stood patiently around our feet. But John Toucher broke the respectful calm, slurping quickly and rudely from his cup, as though distracted by far off thoughts. The old mother stood behind him with livid eyes. I nodded at John to sip more slowly and to doff his cap. He slipped the hat from off his head with annoyance and placed his tankard on the table.
Opposite him, Dufflin’s master, Coleman, sat quietly in thought, his blackened hands clasped on his knee. ‘I suppose this means me working on my own tomorrow,’ he noted, rubbing his brow, leaving his blacksmith’s signature.
‘He’ll think of work soon enough, when the need for a coin has struck home and the novelty worn thin,’ John Toucher replied.
This time it was I who looked at him with angry eyes.
‘What is it woman?’ he said to me when he caught my gaze. It seemed that there was then something altogether foreign about him.
‘The lad’s but a few hours wed, John,’ I rebuked him. ‘Be graceful, please. And no more talk of novelties wearing thin. You don’t give the couple a chance.’
‘It’s the way of all marriages, Morgan,’ he said wearily and downed his cup.
I glowered at him from across the table, but tried to forget the matter, for Alford’s sake. She didn’t want her wedding day spoiled by the grumbles of someone who couldn’t even summon up the courage to propose. How separate I felt from him then, yet sitting but a yard across the table from him.
When the couple reappeared, the feeling lightened.
Their simple wedding meal followed. Pastries stuffed with grains and minced meat, soft junkets, round cheeses, all washed down with Alford’s bridal ale and cider from our newly emptied barrels.
‘Nuptial feasts,’ she smiled at me and, for a moment, I laughed with her.
Yet, although the wedding was in some ways joyous for them, I found myself alone in the orchard that evening, talking to the bees once more. I crossed myself as I entered that ground and knelt before the hives to confer with their spirits.
‘Lord, hear my prayer,’ I began. ‘Blessed Virgin and Holy Creatures, hear me… Today has been a special day and memorable for Alford, as for Dufflin. Bless them in their marriage and the coming birth of their child.’
These were the words of devotion I wished to convey for my friend. But there were darker, more troubling thoughts in my prayers.
‘Blessed Father, I fear that there’s trouble before us. I can’t help but sense the foment of strange, unnatural matters. Buckland is plagued by worry. My Lord is continually vexed. His son, Robert, casts wicked doubts on his father’s faith and integrity. Our villagers are tense about their climbing rents and fenced-off land. They’ve so little in their purses, they can barely feed themselves. Prices soar, like buzzards on the summer sky. To cap it all, our sacred and ancient beliefs are much maligned, attacked by the King’s own Council. The very fabric of our lives is rent apart by some great force we can no more see than understand. I’ve not given great weight to these matters til now, but what with Alford’s hopes conjoined with Dufflin’s, I fear that something’s afoot that will set the whole hay cart on fire.
‘I’ve told myself over and over, the graveyard ghosts of St. Mark’s Eve were nothing more than fantasies. But perhaps, in truth, they’re more than that? They’ve troubled me to my bones and won’t let me sleep. Now I fear I’ve seen our people’s future. And it is not good.
‘I know that rumours spread. Gossip’s in the very heart of people. But still, so much of it. Taxes. Heresy. Man fighting man. Where before there was only contentment and obedience, now the talk is angry, rebellious.
‘I don’t know how it will balance in the end, but I do know I don’t like it one bit. My own John Toucher calls me common ‘woman’ and seems like a stranger. His tempers change from minute to minute. It has nearly bought me into trouble with my masters. It was John who sowed these doubtful seeds in my mind. For that, I’m base and lowly, while you, Blessed Virgin, are gracious and all giving.
‘Show us how to prevail. Teach us how to listen to the grievances of others. Release us from the burden of meddling in their affairs. Keep our minds thoughtful, not brooding; our hearts open, loving. Keep our lips sealed about our own burdens and teach us how to join together. Blessed be the Holy Saints, the Holy and undivided Trinity. Blessed be Mary, Mother of our Lord. Amen.’
VII
Only two weeks after Dufflin and Alford’s wedding, our village gathered for the Whitsun Mass and Fair at Sampford Courtenay. It was then that Hellyons met his brutal end. The hours that followed his death were confused ones of tempers and tension.
The next day, my Lord called our people together. The news from Sampford had already spread throughout the county, mixing truth and fantasy in equal measure: he had argued while brandishing weapons; he’d attacked a man who’d simply had to defend himself; he was drunkenly slain in a petty argument with some foreign interlopers who killed the man then vanished.
We gathered before noon in the village square and waited uneasily to hear my Lord’s opinion. It was another heady, early summer’s day. The atmosphere was taught like a drawn bowstring. Standing in the shade of the great trees, or squatting on the dusty ground, our whole village was assembled, chattering in private groups. We seldom met each and everyone together, except for feast days, wassailing, the festivals of saints. But events of such great weight had now joined us in a common purpose.
My Lord rode his horse to the front, accompanied by his son Walter. We moved to form a crescent shape before them. They were stern faced, imposing, seated high above us on their horses. When he began, my Lord spoke in serious tones. We strained forward to listen to what he had to say. When I had the gist of his speech, I was shocked to realize that he was of one accord with Underhill and Segar.
‘People of Buckland,’ he addressed us. ‘You’ll want to know what I’ve decided after yesterday’s events.’
A murmur ran around us. Everyone who’d witnessed the gruesome death and yesterday’s talk of rebellion had spent this last night terrified that we might now all be turned over to the Justices, though none of us had, we swore, anything to do with Hellyon’s killing.
Hearing him now, I realized how wrong we were. We should have held our master in greater faith. I held Alford’s hand and looked across the circle to John Toucher. He stood proud and intent, his gaze fixed on the two mounted nobles.
My Lord continued. ‘In refusing this new Mass,’ he said, ‘our county stands in defiance of the King’s Law. With repentance and subjugation to his will, I’m sure the matter might be brokered and assuaged, if not entirely forgotten. But with Hellyon’s… untimely… death, there’s no going back.’
Those of us who’d witnessed the murder searched out each other’s eyes among the crowd. ‘Untimely’ was the least of it.
‘There’s no choice in it. We must join and strike with the Cornishmen now. The King’s Council is weak and divided. One man rules the roost. Let’s call him Royal Somerset…’ the listeners laughed. ‘He, above all, sways the King’s minority. The hour is ours, if we only have the courage to take it.’
With his forceful announcement, my Lord’s horse reared on its back legs and needed pulling down unless it should buck the rider. There was silence, broken by the shuffling of feet and a few nervous coughs in our crescent.
Nobody knew who would speak next and break the solemnity. Finally, father Lock spoke up.
He brought himself before my Lord and his son and bowed his august head to them.
‘With due respect my Lord, to rebel with the Cornishmen would be to go against God’s anointed. The King is sovereign by Divine Right. The very Chain of Being from God in high Heaven, to the throne of his Majesty the King, to you yourself, as Lord of Buckland, all the way down to us, your humble servants… this alone maintains the peace and keeps our social order.’
He ranged his arm around him in a wide arc, taking in our faces like a crop of harvest wheat.
‘I, of all people,’ he went on, ‘I have no more liking for these Protestant reforms than the next man. But these changes are decreed by Law, my Lord. We’ll be punished for uprising against them. Punished swiftly and direly.’
I felt sick to my stomach. We all knew what they did to heretics and recusants. Draw and hang and quarter you as though you were some swine or ox on slaughter day. It was as if we’d all had the same thought at the same time, as a shudder and a groan went round the ring. I felt Alford’s fingers dig tightly into my palm.
‘Father Lock,’ my Lord replied. ‘I don’t wish to betray my Lord and King, nor to subject you, my countrymen, to the retribution of his Law. We’ve always been loyal subjects. I myself pray God save the King each and every morning of my life, as I know you all must do…’
A certain guiltiness rattled through my mind, as I’m sure it must have others. I prayed each day, certainly, but sometimes neglected the King in those prayers. Perhaps we’d brought his wrath down on ourselves?
My Lord was still speaking. ‘We are his servants in body and soul. But when a King overrides the needs and welfare of his people with tyranny, injustice, with ill-advised means… when his Council spurs the sufferance of his people in their ancient rites, their landed rights, their customs, then… and with God’s grace… it is their right to rise and make him change his mind. By force if needs be. We’ll suffer these changes no more!’
‘Aye. It’s the King who’s pushed things too far,’ came a voice of agreement from somewhere in the crowd. We turned around to see who’d spoken. It was the tanner, Harvey, raising his brown fist above his white face. Like everyone there, he was in serious and, this time, sober mood.
‘Who knows what’ll follow if we don’t act now.’ The coarse voice of Ben Red joined him.
‘The day’s ours already. We’ve struck fear into Protestant hearts everywhere,’ boasted Harvey. He soon found his bluster rebutted.
‘Don’t fool yourselves!’ Walter’s voice came down from above his mount’s ears. ‘We’ve struck nothing but a fatal blow to Hellyons. To triumph before the victory is folly; a grave mistake to accept the trophy before the joust’s been won.’
‘That’s all as well as maybe,’ chimed in the voice of the cottager Tom Putt. He stepped forward from our horseshoe line. ‘But what troubles me… more than all of this talk of rites and church and sacraments… what troubles me is taxes. Taxes on sheep, taxes on cloth, taxes coming on ducks and pigs. Might as well tax the bloody air we breathe!’
‘There’ll be taxes for taking a shit in the woods next,’ muttered some vulgar voice amongst us. It was met with laughter and shouting and pushing from the back. Those of us who stood to the fore were jostled further forward and, once again, the horses shied in their nervousness.
My Lord raised his hand and his voice. ‘Order! Order!’
‘There’s no greater taxation on a people, than the tax that weighs on their souls,’ said our priest after we’d quietened.
‘It’s not changes to the Mass that’ll starve us from our homes and leave us begging for scraps on the highway, father. It’s prices, rising, rising prices,’ replied Tom Putt.
‘Soaring!’ shouted Brimley. His fellow Barum grunted in agreement.
‘Four times they’ve risen in recent months. Four!’ This time it was Coleman, the blacksmith, who spoke. His broad flat face sparked in anger.
‘Food prices, six-fold,’ called his wife, beside him. Her voice rang with the conviction of someone who knew by experience.
‘Five-fold in timber,’ added Woodbine. ‘But I’m with the father on this,’ he said. ‘The new Mass is the Devil’s work.’ His strong frame shook, as the frame of his saw pit must have shook when he was sawing trees.
‘I’m with him too,’ said Coleman. ‘But Putt’s right. It’s the prices that are killing us, not the faith. The faith remains strong, whatever the cost. But how are we going to afford these rises when wages drag so far behind? Faith won’t fill our bellies!’ He shouted and shook his wiry arms, as if he were a starving beggar clamouring for a loaf of bread.
‘It’s impossible for us on fixed wages!’ said Rawlings.
‘It’s the hoarders we should blame,’ Lucombes joined in.
‘Aye, the middlemen. The bloody forestallers!’ John Andrews’ shaven head barely showed above the crowd, but his voice rose above us all.
‘They keep their grain and cloth in shortage, then sell it on at ridiculous prices!’ It was Reynolds who now spoke, moving the men around him to confused shouting.
Just as had happened the day before, the tempers of those who were normally friends had now started to fray. Irritation spread between them like a rash of measles, the winter’s influenza. My Lord and his son once again called the heated voices to order.
‘One voice at a time, for mercy’s sake! We may be moved to fight for our beliefs, but we needn’t descend into anarchy with each other.’ Sir Walter’s horse threw its head from side to side. Its mane whipped the crowd into silence.
When the shouting had quelled, John Toucher stepped forward. I was proud to see my man show pluck, but was afraid for the challenge I knew might be coming.
‘These matters are all well and good, my Lord and gratefully brought before us. But there are others who work against us, besides these middlemen and Protestants.’
I looked to my feet, so that I wouldn’t catch his eye.
‘Go on man,’ Sir Walter bade him warily.
‘With all respect, my Lord, isn’t it landlords and shepherds across the shire who are in league? Fields fenced off and enclosed. Small strips of perfectly good arable land conjoined into one mighty pasture. It might increase the shepherd’s profits, but it pushes honest labourers off their land…’
‘Be careful how you proceed, John Toucher,’ my Lord warned him.
‘We all must be careful how we proceed, my Lord. Aren’t we all joined here together in this newly seeded rising? What’s a grievance for one man, is a grievance for all, whether it’s matters of money, or prices, or fields enclosed. Or whether it’s even a matter of faith.’
He’d spoken well. My Lord couldn’t punish John any more for speaking out against these changes, than he could deny his own recent call to rise against the King’s Law. John Toucher had chosen his words well. I wished that he’d taken such cares with me.
‘Where will we be,’ he continued, ‘if we lose our land, our strips? Poor vagrants… that’s where. And then the Law’ll have rebellion on its hands, you’ll see…’
‘You miss one thing, John Toucher,’ piped up a voice from near beside him.
Billy Down the shepherd stepped out to take him on in argument. His pimply little head jutted out of his great stinking sheepskin jerkin. He was jumpy, on the defensive and spat terse words from his tense little tongue.
‘Your small fields are expensive, Toucher. Too dear by half,’ he said. ‘They make no sense in money’s terms. All of you plant the same crops at the same time. But, doing so, you only farm for your own survival. Wouldn’t you rather farm for the marketplace? With larger fields you can change the way you use your land. Then you’ll be able to sell more. Think about it. Use your head for once, John Toucher, not your brawn. You’ll make greater profits for yourself and have a more comfortable life.’
I knew that John wouldn’t take kindly to the challenge.
‘Use your own thick head, Billy Down,’ he spat back at him. ‘I’ll only make a profit if
I’ve still got land to farm on. And, anyway, who needs comfort if it comes at your rotten price?’
‘And just what, exactly, d’you suggest I do about the growing need for woollen cloth? I can’t lose out on my own market, can I! Where there’s demand, I’ll sell. You won’t do me out of that.’
‘I don’t begrudge you your market,’ John replied. ‘But I won’t let you have it at my expense, turning arable into pasture. Nor by engrossing and overstocking the commons.’
Billy Down then laughed at him, a course I didn’t think was well advised. I hoped that John wouldn’t punch another man down in front of my Lord. He bristled, but let his fists hang.
‘Look at the commons,’ said the shepherd. Have you seen them? They haven’t been enclosed have they? Show me where they have! You’re as free to graze there as any man.’
It was true. I saw then, in John’s manner, a resignation to this argument.
‘Fair enough,’ he muttered. ‘But I’m telling you, it won’t be long before they are.’ With that he bowed his head and merged back into the crowd.
I admired him for what he’d said, but it struck me, as I watched him, that he was a changed man, a distant man. I feared that I no longer knew him any better than I knew my far-away brothers, who’d abandoned our family a long time past. I knew then that his mind was fixed on his own purpose; that his heart and passions were fixed upon his fields and his labour and were no longer fixed on me. In that moment, I realised I’d never know him again with the intimacy we had, until these months, enjoyed. It made me sad to my very core.
My Lord then gave our meeting its conclusion.
‘You’ve had your say. Now listen,’ he ordered. ‘We may not be of one accord as to why these things have happened, but we must stand together in our own defence. Those of you who wish to guard your sacred rights and Mother Church, prepare yourselves to march and make demands. Those of you who wish to rally for grievances of land and tax, bring yourselves along as well. Your voices won’t be heard if you remain quietly in your homes. God’s wounds, we have no choice! The Cornish are marching already. Our cause dies here if we don’t act with them now…’