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Authors: Michael Jecks
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throat. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘I…’ he had blushed to the roots of his hair, and he looked down at his feet. ‘It’s not true, what he said. I don’t always…’
‘I know. I never believe anything he says,’ Mary lied. She knew Os often glanced at her breasts when he thought no one would notice.
She stayed standing there a moment, watching after her brother. It was so difficult. Since that fateful day, Ben had been horrible to her, and she couldn’t bear to be alone with him. There was something evil about him. She couldn’t tell what he might do, not any more. He was capable of hurting Sampson just to get back at her. She had no one in whom she felt she could confide. Not Father, because he would beat Ben like a dog; not Mother, because she wouldn’t be able to do anything; not Flora because it would only scare her. No. The only person she could talk to was Os – but if she did, it would be impossible for him to control his anger. She couldn’t tell him unless he gave his oath to keep her secret.
‘It’s weird to me that he could have been born to the same parents as you,’ Os said.
‘Yes.’
Her quiet demeanour made him cast a look at her. She could almost feel his eyes studying her, but she didn’t feel it was lascivious, only eager and loving. His obvious adoration was comforting. She felt as though while he was alive, no harm could come to her.
‘Os, I have to tell someone, but I can’t if anything would ever be said again. Can you swear to me, I mean it, swear on your mother’s soul, that you won’t tell anyone about this while I live? You can’t tell anyone at all. Never.’
‘Of course I won’t.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Ben hates me now, because he tried to lie with me. He wanted to make love with me, and I wouldn’t let him.’
‘I’ll beat his brains to a pulp! I’ll cut off his tarse and balls and–’
‘Os, you swore to me! You mustn’t tell anyone! Ever!’
‘I won’t. Not unless there’s a good reason.’
‘There can
never
be a good enough reason. You swore.’
Lives were short in the early 1320s, Surval was later to reflect. The Great Famine had wiped out whole families since it began in 1315, and some said that a tenth of the population of Oxford had died in 1316 alone. Many felt that they would soon follow their fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters to their graves, and they were shameless in their pursuit of pleasure, for what merit was there in caution? Better to live life while it was there, and make sure that a priest took your confession before you died, to guarantee your journey to Heaven.
In the cold winter of 1321, and on into February, the work was constant for all the people about Wonson. Rain it might, but hedges must still be cut back and laid; ditches must be cleared of leaves and twigs so that the water could drain away; roads must be repaired and fields ploughed ready for the grain. Even Surval must labour to keep his bridge functioning.
At the chapel, he knew Mark concentrated on his works: the round of services for the patrons of the chapel itself, and the construction of his wall, mortifying his flesh by unremitting mental and physical effort. Surval was sure that at the end of each day, the young monk was glad to find the peace of his bedroll, thanking God that he had not succumbed to temptation – except he had not yet been truly tempted, and when he was, Surval saw him fail.
It was in the late spring of 1322 that Surval noticed Mark’s mood subtly altering. Suddenly he was less keen on walling, and he spent more time away from the chapel, walking about the lands of the demesne. For weeks he continued in this way, and then Surval saw him with Mary the miller’s daughter.
That summer was sultry and golden; easeful. Many would later say it was the first real summer of the century, and youths and maids of all classes frolicked together in fields, in barns, in haylofts and in private chambers.
‘It’s all right.’
‘I…’ he had blushed to the roots of his hair, and he looked down at his feet. ‘It’s not true, what he said. I don’t always…’
‘I know. I never believe anything he says,’ Mary lied. She knew Os often glanced at her breasts when he thought no one would notice.
She stayed standing there a moment, watching after her brother. It was so difficult. Since that fateful day, Ben had been horrible to her, and she couldn’t bear to be alone with him. There was something evil about him. She couldn’t tell what he might do, not any more. He was capable of hurting Sampson just to get back at her. She had no one in whom she felt she could confide. Not Father, because he would beat Ben like a dog; not Mother, because she wouldn’t be able to do anything; not Flora because it would only scare her. No. The only person she could talk to was Os – but if she did, it would be impossible for him to control his anger. She couldn’t tell him unless he gave his oath to keep her secret.
‘It’s weird to me that he could have been born to the same parents as you,’ Os said.
‘Yes.’
Her quiet demeanour made him cast a look at her. She could almost feel his eyes studying her, but she didn’t feel it was lascivious, only eager and loving. His obvious adoration was comforting. She felt as though while he was alive, no harm could come to her.
‘Os, I have to tell someone, but I can’t if anything would ever be said again. Can you swear to me, I mean it, swear on your mother’s soul, that you won’t tell anyone about this while I live? You can’t tell anyone at all. Never.’
‘Of course I won’t.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Ben hates me now, because he tried to lie with me. He wanted to make love with me, and I wouldn’t let him.’
‘I’ll beat his brains to a pulp! I’ll cut off his tarse and balls and–’
‘Os, you swore to me! You mustn’t tell anyone! Ever!’
‘I won’t. Not unless there’s a good reason.’
‘There can
never
be a good enough reason. You swore.’
Lives were short in the early 1320s, Surval was later to reflect. The Great Famine had wiped out whole families since it began in 1315, and some said that a tenth of the population of Oxford had died in 1316 alone. Many felt that they would soon follow their fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters to their graves, and they were shameless in their pursuit of pleasure, for what merit was there in caution? Better to live life while it was there, and make sure that a priest took your confession before you died, to guarantee your journey to Heaven.
In the cold winter of 1321, and on into February, the work was constant for all the people about Wonson. Rain it might, but hedges must still be cut back and laid; ditches must be cleared of leaves and twigs so that the water could drain away; roads must be repaired and fields ploughed ready for the grain. Even Surval must labour to keep his bridge functioning.
At the chapel, he knew Mark concentrated on his works: the round of services for the patrons of the chapel itself, and the construction of his wall, mortifying his flesh by unremitting mental and physical effort. Surval was sure that at the end of each day, the young monk was glad to find the peace of his bedroll, thanking God that he had not succumbed to temptation – except he had not yet been truly tempted, and when he was, Surval saw him fail.
It was in the late spring of 1322 that Surval noticed Mark’s mood subtly altering. Suddenly he was less keen on walling, and he spent more time away from the chapel, walking about the lands of the demesne. For weeks he continued in this way, and then Surval saw him with Mary the miller’s daughter.
That summer was sultry and golden; easeful. Many would later say it was the first real summer of the century, and youths and maids of all classes frolicked together in fields, in barns, in haylofts and in private chambers.
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