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Authors: Michael Jecks
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Surval stumbled over them wherever he went. The passing away of Sir Richard in June was sad, but came as no surprise. He had been unwell for years, and his gradual death was explained by many as caused by his broken heart after learning that his lands were to be forfeit to Sir Ralph. News of his mortality was bruited abroad, but affected even his own peasants only slightly. Their time was taken up by the ceaseless round of work, repairing or building new homes for man and beast, and seeking members of the opposite sex.
In the glorious weather, long balmy evenings ran on from hot work in the fields, and couples went to drink in taverns and alehouses after slaving all day.
In retrospect, Surval was pleased that Mary’s last year had been so happy.
In the bright hall of his new castle, in the early spring of 1323, Sir Ralph de Wonson sat still a short while after his Reeve had spoken, and his face blanched as he took in the news. ‘But it’s monstrous!’ he thundered. ‘It can’t be true. Have you been there yourself? Have you seen the body?’
His son Esmon sniffed and looked bored, but Lady Annicia put a hand out on her husband’s wrist to calm him. She knew how his rage could explode.
Sir Ralph shook her hand off and glared at the Reeve. ‘Well?’
‘My Lord, there is no doubt. I haven’t been there myself yet, but I trust Elias. He’s no fool.’
‘CHRIST’S PENANCE! If I find this is true, I’ll take the man’s
ballocks
with my own knife and feed them to him!’ Sir Ralph bellowed and slammed a clenched fist into his left hand.
Then a thought struck him. His brother! The bastard had once killed a woman after getting her pregnant. That was why he had come back here to Gidleigh like a whipped hound, tail between his legs! Could he have taken Mary and realised that he couldn’t stay here if his second offence became known?
‘Christ Jesus!’ he swore. He felt numbed, broken.
Lady Annicia pursed her lips, for she was always distressed to hear the Good Lord’s name spoken blasphemously, but she curbed her tongue. It was only fair that her husband should be disturbed after hearing such terrible news, and in his present mood he was likely to strike her if she remonstrated with him.
‘What did Elias actually see?’ he asked, leaning forward in his new chair.
Piers Wike the Reeve was a slight man in his early forties, with narrow features and dark eyes. He had a strong cast in his left eye which lent him a somewhat piratical air that was entirely at odds with his nature. Shorter than the knight, he stood only some five and a quarter feet in his bare feet, but that might have been due in part to the bowed back, a defect granted to him at birth by a drunken midwife, so his mother said. ‘My Lord, Elias said he heard a shout in the late forenoon, while he was out at Deave Lane ploughing. Said he was turning, heading away from the moors, when he heard it.’
‘Heard what? Get on with it, fool! God’s precious wounds, you would take an hour to describe a nail!’
‘Elias said he heard voices, a man and Mary both shouting, and then she gave a scream, and there was a slap. There was silence for a while, and then someone ran off, up towards Throwleigh. He thought someone had been arguing, didn’t think more of it than that. Didn’t realise there could be anything wrong, what with no more shouting or nothing, so he didn’t make a move. Then, later, when he left with the ox team to settle them for the night, he found her lying in the roadway, poor chit.’
‘You mean to tell us that someone has killed one of our serfs?’ Esmon drawled. ‘Actually damaged our property? What a scandal!’
The knight stared at him and took a deep breath, his face growing purple. His mood was plain enough, even to an exhausted Reeve, and although Piers was tired out, he was no fool. He quickly continued, ‘As I said, it was Mary, the older daughter of Huward the miller. She was beside the roadway, as though she
In the glorious weather, long balmy evenings ran on from hot work in the fields, and couples went to drink in taverns and alehouses after slaving all day.
In retrospect, Surval was pleased that Mary’s last year had been so happy.
In the bright hall of his new castle, in the early spring of 1323, Sir Ralph de Wonson sat still a short while after his Reeve had spoken, and his face blanched as he took in the news. ‘But it’s monstrous!’ he thundered. ‘It can’t be true. Have you been there yourself? Have you seen the body?’
His son Esmon sniffed and looked bored, but Lady Annicia put a hand out on her husband’s wrist to calm him. She knew how his rage could explode.
Sir Ralph shook her hand off and glared at the Reeve. ‘Well?’
‘My Lord, there is no doubt. I haven’t been there myself yet, but I trust Elias. He’s no fool.’
‘CHRIST’S PENANCE! If I find this is true, I’ll take the man’s
ballocks
with my own knife and feed them to him!’ Sir Ralph bellowed and slammed a clenched fist into his left hand.
Then a thought struck him. His brother! The bastard had once killed a woman after getting her pregnant. That was why he had come back here to Gidleigh like a whipped hound, tail between his legs! Could he have taken Mary and realised that he couldn’t stay here if his second offence became known?
‘Christ Jesus!’ he swore. He felt numbed, broken.
Lady Annicia pursed her lips, for she was always distressed to hear the Good Lord’s name spoken blasphemously, but she curbed her tongue. It was only fair that her husband should be disturbed after hearing such terrible news, and in his present mood he was likely to strike her if she remonstrated with him.
‘What did Elias actually see?’ he asked, leaning forward in his new chair.
Piers Wike the Reeve was a slight man in his early forties, with narrow features and dark eyes. He had a strong cast in his left eye which lent him a somewhat piratical air that was entirely at odds with his nature. Shorter than the knight, he stood only some five and a quarter feet in his bare feet, but that might have been due in part to the bowed back, a defect granted to him at birth by a drunken midwife, so his mother said. ‘My Lord, Elias said he heard a shout in the late forenoon, while he was out at Deave Lane ploughing. Said he was turning, heading away from the moors, when he heard it.’
‘Heard what? Get on with it, fool! God’s precious wounds, you would take an hour to describe a nail!’
‘Elias said he heard voices, a man and Mary both shouting, and then she gave a scream, and there was a slap. There was silence for a while, and then someone ran off, up towards Throwleigh. He thought someone had been arguing, didn’t think more of it than that. Didn’t realise there could be anything wrong, what with no more shouting or nothing, so he didn’t make a move. Then, later, when he left with the ox team to settle them for the night, he found her lying in the roadway, poor chit.’
‘You mean to tell us that someone has killed one of our serfs?’ Esmon drawled. ‘Actually damaged our property? What a scandal!’
The knight stared at him and took a deep breath, his face growing purple. His mood was plain enough, even to an exhausted Reeve, and although Piers was tired out, he was no fool. He quickly continued, ‘As I said, it was Mary, the older daughter of Huward the miller. She was beside the roadway, as though she
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