hid the stone
watch towers at the entrance to the harbour.
‘ England!’ said James.
‘ Where?’ replied Yevan. ‘Can’t see a blamed
thing, boyo. It may as well be Flanders.’
James arrived at Chiswick a week later. He came alone up
the muddy road from Shene, and stopped when he saw the long, low
slope that flanked the broad Tamesis River. He was home:
The same line of oaks crowding along the water’s edge.
The same rich, green sweep of the meadow land that ringed the little
village. The church, the mill, and the old knight’s hall: they were
all there still, and clustered around them along the narrow street
the crucks and cottages of the Chiswick folk.
He turned and looked back the way he had come. There was
no one. In his Company, the Welsh had gone back to their valleys, the
Devon men to Devon, and the Cheshire bowmen to the North. Not even
Eric had come to Chiswick. He was a Penshurst man, and Mat Bromfield
the tanner, who came from near that same village, had agreed to see
him safely home.
James breathed in the early morning air. Home! And
nobody about. Chiswick abed! He laughed to himself, and headed for
the village.
By Christmastide, when the steady frosts of Winter hung
heavy on the orchards and fields of Chiswick, James had done the
ploughing, repaired the cruck, and built a lean-to barn against the
sheepfold. Hettie was with child, her mother had moved in, and the
midwife said there would be an extra mouth to feed by the Summer
harvest.
One day, as the sun dipped and the cold drew in, James
went down to the marker stone that separated his land from that of
his lord, the Dean of St. Paul’s. The land James held was good
land, fresh, deep, and dark from the ploughing. Good for barley, easy
to work, and full fat in the hands of a yeoman farmer.
Still, he needed more and the land of his lord the Dean
looked ripe for the taking. He stared at it. It was no more than
five hides, but it was rich and green and well set. It ran along the
river by Chiswick Eyot, and bordered Sutton manor where the king
himself held a hall. Five hides! All he would need, and sitting there
with naught to do but graze the few sheep of the village priest.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and scanned the
meadow once more. What price? The bailiff had said he would need a
good few crowns just to get the grazing rights, and at least another
twenty pounds of easterlings to turn it over to tillage. He had heard
that from the Dean’s own scrivener who kept the books for the
chapter of St Paul’s and knew the asking rates.
Well, that was that then. He could rent at a king’s
ransom, but never buy, and there would be no special deals for a
soldier home from the wars. In fact the village rumours that there
were yeomen aplenty about with Agincourt silver in their crocks had
doubtless forced the prices up, and the Church was ever ready to
sniff a bargain.
He smiled and stepped past the marker. Good land all
right. Firm beneath his feet and sheltered by a stand of elms hard by
old Tamesis.
But too rich for him. He had brought back so little from
France. The old knight had paid a ransom that worth no more than a
milch cow, and the young lord he had captured at the end of the
battle was also claimed by the Duke of Westmoreland, so there was
less than a few shillings for the likes of a bowman from Chiswick.
Still, he had sold the knight’s armour at Calais, and
picked up three crowns from a Flemish merchant for a jewel-inlaid
dagger he had found on the battlefield. But that was all, apart from
the wages of his indenture. And some he had spent on food, and some
on his passage home, and some on some fine French ribbons for Hettie
to tie back her hair.
As for buying land . . . he looked again at the five
hides. Land! One clean shot with a clout-headed arrow smack into the
breastplate of a French noble, and he could have all the land he had
ever dreamt of. William Bretoun had done it. One clean shot! That’s
all, and the world turns
watch towers at the entrance to the harbour.
‘ England!’ said James.
‘ Where?’ replied Yevan. ‘Can’t see a blamed
thing, boyo. It may as well be Flanders.’
James arrived at Chiswick a week later. He came alone up
the muddy road from Shene, and stopped when he saw the long, low
slope that flanked the broad Tamesis River. He was home:
The same line of oaks crowding along the water’s edge.
The same rich, green sweep of the meadow land that ringed the little
village. The church, the mill, and the old knight’s hall: they were
all there still, and clustered around them along the narrow street
the crucks and cottages of the Chiswick folk.
He turned and looked back the way he had come. There was
no one. In his Company, the Welsh had gone back to their valleys, the
Devon men to Devon, and the Cheshire bowmen to the North. Not even
Eric had come to Chiswick. He was a Penshurst man, and Mat Bromfield
the tanner, who came from near that same village, had agreed to see
him safely home.
James breathed in the early morning air. Home! And
nobody about. Chiswick abed! He laughed to himself, and headed for
the village.
By Christmastide, when the steady frosts of Winter hung
heavy on the orchards and fields of Chiswick, James had done the
ploughing, repaired the cruck, and built a lean-to barn against the
sheepfold. Hettie was with child, her mother had moved in, and the
midwife said there would be an extra mouth to feed by the Summer
harvest.
One day, as the sun dipped and the cold drew in, James
went down to the marker stone that separated his land from that of
his lord, the Dean of St. Paul’s. The land James held was good
land, fresh, deep, and dark from the ploughing. Good for barley, easy
to work, and full fat in the hands of a yeoman farmer.
Still, he needed more and the land of his lord the Dean
looked ripe for the taking. He stared at it. It was no more than
five hides, but it was rich and green and well set. It ran along the
river by Chiswick Eyot, and bordered Sutton manor where the king
himself held a hall. Five hides! All he would need, and sitting there
with naught to do but graze the few sheep of the village priest.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and scanned the
meadow once more. What price? The bailiff had said he would need a
good few crowns just to get the grazing rights, and at least another
twenty pounds of easterlings to turn it over to tillage. He had heard
that from the Dean’s own scrivener who kept the books for the
chapter of St Paul’s and knew the asking rates.
Well, that was that then. He could rent at a king’s
ransom, but never buy, and there would be no special deals for a
soldier home from the wars. In fact the village rumours that there
were yeomen aplenty about with Agincourt silver in their crocks had
doubtless forced the prices up, and the Church was ever ready to
sniff a bargain.
He smiled and stepped past the marker. Good land all
right. Firm beneath his feet and sheltered by a stand of elms hard by
old Tamesis.
But too rich for him. He had brought back so little from
France. The old knight had paid a ransom that worth no more than a
milch cow, and the young lord he had captured at the end of the
battle was also claimed by the Duke of Westmoreland, so there was
less than a few shillings for the likes of a bowman from Chiswick.
Still, he had sold the knight’s armour at Calais, and
picked up three crowns from a Flemish merchant for a jewel-inlaid
dagger he had found on the battlefield. But that was all, apart from
the wages of his indenture. And some he had spent on food, and some
on his passage home, and some on some fine French ribbons for Hettie
to tie back her hair.
As for buying land . . . he looked again at the five
hides. Land! One clean shot with a clout-headed arrow smack into the
breastplate of a French noble, and he could have all the land he had
ever dreamt of. William Bretoun had done it. One clean shot! That’s
all, and the world turns
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