Nearby, a man with a lung pierced by an arrow gasped for breath, unable to move. The fearless warrior who once boasted about how many he would leave dead on the battlefield lay helpless, waiting to die.
Before long the healers would start their gruesome task. If they found a fallen soldier with a badly injured arm or leg, they would cut off the limb and use boiling tar to seal the stump and stop the bleeding. Survivors from Lord Gilbert’s army would be taken as prisoners back to Lord Fredrick’s castle, to die screaming in his dungeons or spend the rest of their lives as slaves.
None of these men had wanted to fight. They would have been content to tend their fields and live out their lives in peace. But noblemen liked to see their banners held high and their polished armour put to use. They were always prepared to shed blood, as long as it wasn’t theirs.
Jane looked at the weapons lying on the field around her. Blacksmiths no longer had time to make new ploughshares—they were too busy making swords.
Jane kissed a small wooden cross and whispered a prayer as tears streamed down her face. At least none of her boys could be hurt again. Mercifully, they had been released from further suffering. It was hard to believe that two noblemen had caused all this death and suffering.
Lord Gilbert and Lord Frederick were two of the king’s nephews. Their father was the king’s favourite brother. Hoping to avoid conflict between his sons after his death, the king’s brother had divided his large land holdings equally between his sons. There was, however, one small field that had not been accounted for. Upon their father’s death, Lord Gilbert and Lord Frederick both laid claim to the field, and immediately sent in men from their newly inherited territories to set up their banners. Blood was shed over the field before their father’s body was laid to rest.
The king had no option but to stay out of the conflict. If his soldiers became involved, it would force other nobleman to choose sides. It might even lead to a challenge to his authority. As far as the king was concerned, the only way to guarantee the safety of his throne was to let the two brothers fight, and hold a banquet in honour of the victor.
It had been over a year since the king’s brother had died, and no one knew when the fighting would end. Lord Gilbert and Lord Frederick used the lives of the men and boys in their territories like pawns on a chessboard to be sacrificed for their greed. Village after village was emptied for the sake of less than two acres of land.
Jane walked to the edge of the field where there was a stream and the path that would take her home through the forest. What she saw there made her wonder if there was any hope left. Lying by the edge of the stream, its body pierced with arrows, was a nobleman’s horse. “Such a beautiful animal,” she whispered to herself. There seemed no end to the suffering, even for innocent creatures.
Jane stood still and cautiously looked around, wondering if anyone was watching her. As she stepped into the icy cold water to cross the stream, she noticed a piece of blue cloth hanging from a tree branch near the water’s edge. She stopped and stared at the cloth. No peasant wore cloth like that.
Curious, Jane moved closer to the tree and reached for the cloth. Suddenly, a voice called out from among the branches. “Don’t come any closer!” Almost hidden by the branches was a man wearing a blue vest and a silver breastplate over a suit of chain mail. The silver breastplate bore a familiar symbol: a sword ringed with fire. Jane looked through the branches at the man sitting on the wet soil, leaning against a tree trunk. She guessed that he had been thrown from the horse when it fell. She noticed his right ankle was twisted unnaturally. His life wasn’t in danger, but he would not be able to walk by himself.
The man pointed his sword at her. “Come any closer and I’ll cut your throat.”
She sat on a fallen tree. “Go ahead.”
“What?”
“Go ahead,” repeated Jane, “cut my throat with your sword, if you can.”
“No peasant shows me disrespect and lives.” Grasping a low-lying branch the man tried to stand, but fell to the ground in agony, dropping his sword. He grasped his ankle and moaned in pain.
Jane crossed her arms and smiled. “Well, I guess you may as well stop talking about cutting my throat. You know…you look very familiar. You’re not a tax collector or a regular soldier. You must be one of Lord Gilbert’s officials.”
The man turned his head and glared at Jane. “I’m not one of Lord Gilbert’s officials, I am Lord Gilbert.” Lord Gilbert’s features relaxed. “You know what that means, of course. I’m a wealthy man. I can make it worth your while if you help me.”
Lord Gilbert held out a pouch and opened it so Jane could see the gold coins inside. “I can give you more gold than you’d see in a lifetime. All you have to do is walk to the battlefield and call some of my men to take me back to my castle.”
Jane grasped the leather purse that held the hair of her husband and sons. “I don’t want your gold coins, but I am willing to help you, if you return to me what is mine.”
Lord Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t normally barter with peasants, but I am willing to make an exception.”
Jane smiled. “I’m sure you are.”
Lord Gilbert’s hand grabbed the hilt of this sword and his knuckles turned white as he squeezed it with all his might. He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Wipe that smile off your face, peasant. I will not be mocked. This one time I am willing to forgive you for using that tone of voice with me, but only this one time.”
Ignoring Lord Gilbert, Jane opened the leather pouch and leaned closer so he could see the strands of hair. “I want my husband and my three sons back.”
“That’s an easy request,” replied Lord Gilbert. “I’ll grant them full pardon and have them released from my dungeon.”
“They aren’t in your dungeon.”
“Well, then, if they are in my service, I’ll release them. Before the sun rises tomorrow they’ll be back in your village.”
Jane stood and pointed at the field, her voice shaking now. “They aren’t in your dungeon. They were in your service, and they all died fighting for you on that field.”
“That’s impossible. I can’t bring your sons or husband back from the dead.”
“In that case,” replied Jane, “we don’t have a bargain. You’ll have to go and call the soldiers yourself.”
Jane sat on the fallen tree again and closed the pouch. “They died fighting over a stupid little piece of land.”
“It is not a stupid little piece of land. It belongs to me. You should be proud that they gave their lives in my service. They died for their liege lord, and there is no greater honour. And since your husband and sons fought under my banner, you are my subject and will refer to me as ‘My Lord.’”
Jane had heard enough. “You are not my lord. You are nothing but a spoiled child who bullies others to keep his favourite toy.”
“You have gone too far, peasant! When my men return for me, I’ll have them cut out your tongue. No one speaks to me like that.”
Jane stood up and looked toward the field. “I wonder who will discover you first, your soldiers or your brother’s soldiers? If Lord Frederick’s knights return, I doubt you’ll be able to outrun them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where’s your personal guard? A nobleman always has some loyal knights that stay close and make sure he isn’t harmed in battle. But your personal guard is nowhere to be seen. I’d say they’ve all been killed—or yielded.”
Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He held his sword closer. He knew she was right. There was no guarantee it would be his knights who’d find him.
Just then, Jane heard footsteps and turned to see a woman crossing the stream.
The woman paused, staring at the symbol on Lord Gilbert’s breastplate. She took a step backwards and began to turn…
Jane stood up.
“Do not be alarmed. You don’t have to run. I am Jane. And this, believe it or not, is Lord Gilbert.”
“My name is Mary,” replied the woman. “I had been married for less than a year before Lord Frederick’s men came and took my Richard off to fight. Now I’m with child and my husband’s body lies on that field.”
Lord Gilbert pointed his sword toward the new woman. “Did you hear that? Her husband fought for my brother’s army. She’s the enemy. She’s been sent to kill me!”
Mary held out empty hands.
Jane looked back at Lord Gilbert. “I don’t see any sword.”
“Then she’s hiding a dagger. She’s going to try and kill me. I can see it in her eyes.”
Jane pointed at Mary and laughed. “She’s not hiding a dagger. Her dress is so threadbare she’s lucky it’s hiding her.”
Jane turned towards the field as a tear rolled down her cheek. “I lost my youngest son, Tom, today. He died fighting over that cursed field just like his father and brothers.”
Mary held out a small piece of cloth. “This came from my husband Richard’s shirt. I have a younger brother. They haven’t taken him yet, but I fear it won’t be long.”
Jane spoke with a soft voice. “How many more will die because of one small field? The fighting has to end.”
Lord Gilbert glared at Jane and pounded his fist in the wet gravel. “Why are you just standing there? Kill her before she kills me!”
Jane turned to face Lord Gilbert. “Why? She’s no threat to anyone. She came here to mourn, not to fight.”
Mary walked over and stood next to Jane. “What are you going to do?”
The nobleman held up the pouch of gold coins. “I’ll tell you what she’s going to do. She’s going to take an offer made by a generous lord and make sure she has enough to eat and clothe herself. All her offences will be forgiven. The harsh words she spoke today were caused by the distress of losing a loved one.”
Jane bent over and picked up a rock that filled the palm of her hand.
Lord Gilbert smiled. “That’s right, she’s the enemy.”
Mary stepped back. “I have no quarrel with you.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Jane, “this rock isn’t for you.”
Jane grasped the rock firmly in her hand and walked around the tree until she had a clear view of Lord Gilbert through the branches. She glanced over at Mary. “No one else wants that field. All we have to do to stop the bloodshed is kill one of them.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” whispered Lord Gilbert.
Mary picked up a rock and stood next to Jane. “I suppose it doesn’t matter which one dies, as long as the fighting stops.”
Jane hurled the rock at Lord Gilbert. He put up his arm to shield his face and the rock struck his arm. Mary’s rock hit the side of his face.
“No!” Lord Gilbert’s desperate scream filled the air as blood trickled down the side of his face. Nothing like this was supposed to happen. He was supposed to ride out onto the battlefield surrounded by knights carrying his banners. He’d wave his sword, then watch the battle at a safe distance. Lord Gilbert grabbed a branch and pulled himself to his feet as the women picked up two more rocks. “Put down those rocks or you will both hang!”
The nobleman swung his sword with his free hand, but it was useless: the women stood just beyond reach of his blade. The next rock Jane threw smashed against the leg with the broken ankle. Lord Gilbert screamed in pain, let go of the branch and fell into the stream, dropping his sword. He choked and gasped for breath as he lifted his head above the flowing water. He listened for the two women, expecting another attack, but all he heard was the sound of the flowing current. It was over. The women had run away.
Lord Gilbert smiled. It would take a while for his ankle to heal, and he might have some scars from the attack, but he was safe now. Any moment now one of his knights would return for him. He was so relieved he started laughing. Everything was going to be fine. He would send his men to find the women. He’d say they were witches or demon-worshippers, that they would cast spells if they were allowed to speak. Tongueless, they would be brought back to the castle and sent straight to the gallows. No one would ever know he had been at the mercy of two women.
There was still a smile on face of the king’s nephew as his head left his shoulders and plunged into the water.
Jane stood behind Lord Gilbert’s body, holding his sword. Blood dripped off the blade. Mary stood behind, watching. “Do you think anyone will know we killed him?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” replied Jane. “If one of Lord Frederick’s men finds the body, he’ll claim he killed Lord Gilbert in battle. If one of Lord Gilbert’s men finds the body, he’ll bring it to Lord Frederick’s castle and swear allegiance to him. Either way, Lord Gilbert’s head will fetch a handsome reward. Blood and gold always go together.”
Jane dropped the sword in the river, embraced Mary for a brief moment, then turned and started along the path towards her village. The sun was beginning to set. It would take most of the night to walk home, and her daughters would be waiting for her.
Grace Street, 1946
Joan M. Baril
The streets of Port Arthur go up hill and down and behind them, hidden, are the back lanes, even more twisted than the streets. Often they run through fields or around rocky outcroppings. Sometimes there are houses back there, shacks, or garages that were turned into houses during the war and sometimes regular houses all alone on a long stretch of lane like a boat cast up by the waves.
Evadne’s house is like this. It’s perched on a stretch of flat rock behind Grace Street. I am passing it now on my way to the police station to deliver my father’s lunch. It’s an unpainted two-storey that leans slightly. Evadne and her family, her mother and two older brothers, moved in about a month ago.
Last Thursday, after school, my friend Elsie and I go with Evadne to play in her house. It’s an interesting place. There are many rooms but hardly any furniture. Evadne has a big room to herself, the lucky duck, and she sleeps in her own bed. She keeps her clothes in cardboard boxes lined up along the wall, a neat way to do it, I think.
We three girls run around screaming, in and out the empty rooms. When we get to the bedrooms of Evadne’s brothers, we jump up and down on their mattresses which are on the floor. We land on our knees and then with another leap, land on our backs, rumpling the smoothed blankets. The elder brother, Albert, has movie star pictures tacked to the wall, so we take a crayon and draw mustaches on Rita Hayworth and Carmen Miranda. Henry, the second brother, has a pile of Batman comics beside his bed and these we fan out and hide under his mattress.
One of the cardboard boxes in Henry’s room contains a pair of pants and a blue plaid shirt white with dust. “My brothers work at the elevators shoveling grain,” Evadne says. “Watch.” She picks up the shirt, tosses it into the air, and grain dust like tiny snow flakes fills the sunlight and makes haloes around our heads. We throw up our arms and dance in the pretend snow as Evadne flaps the shirt up and down. A thin sheen settles on the dark linoleum and I write DUSTY in it with my finger and then, boldly, LOVE, JANET, and this gives us the giggles.
We pelt down the back stairs and up the front stairs, stopping at the landing half way to peek through a place in the wall that has a hole to the outside, a spy hole, where we can check on the world, although there’s nothing to see—just the wide flat rocks and patches of grass that take up the area behind Grace Street. On the third circuit, we spy Evadne’s mother huffing up the lane from the hospital where she has just finished her shift in the kitchens.
Life is so strange I think, as I study the house on the way to the police station. For example, how come I didn’t know, until just a few minutes ago, that Evadne is an Indian?
I learn this fact in our kitchen that very morning. My sister and I are waiting for the scones to come out of the oven and my Aunt
Sissy, who has dropped in for tea, is there too. I stand snuggled up beside her and show her my Grade Four class list that we copied from the board so we get to know each other for the new school year. My Aunt Sissy is squashy and warm and has a droopy face that smiles a lot. It’s odd that she’s so different from my mother who’s as tall and bony as a skeleton. I’m sure if my mother ever hugged me, I’d feel squashed by sticks.
My mother turns from the counter where she’s packing up the lunch pail and, using her long apron, opens the high oven door to lift out the sheet of scones, carefully sliding them on to the big Blue Willow platter in the middle of the table. My sister grabs one and juggles it in her hands, waiting for it to cool.
“How do you say that name, Janet?” My Aunt Sissy points to Elsie’s last name.
“Na– tish – in,” I say.
My aunt sighs, running her eyes down the list. “Tolvanen, Ho, LaBrie, Andropoulus,” she reads aloud. “Do none of them have proper names, then, Meg?” she says to my mother.
“Not in our Janet’s class,” says my mother. She’s wrapping a piece of cold pork pie in a waxed bread wrapper and placing it into the black metal box. “Nary an English name in the school, much less a Scot’s.” She polishes an apple on her apron and places it inside. “She’s even got an Indian in her class.”
“I do?” I almost drop the table knife I’m using to slather butter on a scone.
“That Evadne you play with,” my mother says.
My aunt searches down the list. “Evadne Sky,” she reads and frowns. “How can that be, Meg, for mark ye this. I know for a fact that no Indian is allowed past Marshall-Wells.” Marshall-Wells is the big hardware store on the edge of the downtown. “They’re to stay down the South End and not come up town at a’. That’s why their kids go to King George’s, down the coal docks. Them that go, of course.”
“Evadne’s family lives up here now,” I say, “in the lane behind Grace Street.” I want to describe the swell house but I decide it’s more important to cram in a second scone.
Everything Is So Political Page 13