by Tim Holden
‘By compensation, although I am not required to do so, I will afford you thirty days grace to live here whilst you make arrangements for your family. Unless that is, you quarrel with me. Should you do so, I will have you thrown out now with force, as our contract permits me to do.’ Flowerdew knew that, like all peasant farmers, Richard Smith could not read or write. He had no idea what he had agreed to when he had taken on the cottage and its acreage.
‘Sir, why? What have we done to displease you?’ Richard pleaded. His wife and daughter sobbed in disbelief.
‘I am entitled to use my land and my property as I see fit. I would advise you not to concern yourself with why. Instead, consider what you do next.’ He watched the man’s reaction. Smith looked shocked and upset, but not likely to erupt into anger. The offer of the cottage for a month had dampened the flame of his resistance, as Flowerdew had hoped. Instead, in a spectacle Flowerdew found pathetic, Smith fell to his knees and tearfully begged him to reconsider. His wife did the same.
‘Despite what people might say, I am a fair man,’ said Flowerdew, taking a sovereign from the purse around his waist and tossing it towards Smith. ‘This sovereign for your troubles.’ The coin hit the earth floor with a dull thud. Smith scrambled from his stool and gripped the coin in his fist. ‘May God have mercy on your souls,’ said Flowerdew. ‘But if you make any mischief for me, now or later, my men will come back and gut you like a fish.’
Flowerdew squinted as he stepped from the darkness of the cottage into the morning light. He exhaled, glad the moment was over and happy to breathe the fresh air. He didn’t care two turds what happened to the Smith family, but delivering news that came close to a death sentence was still a disagreeable task. His shoulders softened as he looked around. It had gone well. The Smiths had been quiet, and no blood had been spilt. The rest of the village was still indoors. The only sounds were the dawn chorus and sobbing from inside the cottage.
The five riders mounted their horses and wasted no time in leaving the village.
‘Why did you do that, father?’ asked Edward.
‘Why should I not?’ replied Flowerdew, following the lawyerly habit of answering one question with another.
Edward looked puzzled.
‘Richard Smith was a copyholder tenant,’ Flowerdew explained. ‘I let him farm our land. He gave us some of the proceeds, and he kept the rest for himself, but he has no right to that land. We have enough provisions without the surplus generated by his labours, and I have a better use for the land.’
‘What will you do with his land?’
Edward was showing no signs of regard for the welfare of the Smiths and their new son-in-law. That boded well for the day when he would rule the manor. ‘Our land, Edward,’ said Flowerdew correcting his son. ‘For now, we will allow the remaining villagers to harvest it and, after our share, they can divide the rest between them. The extra grain will ensure they don’t starve.’ Flowerdew cleared his throat. ‘Then, after the harvest, we will use the land for our sheep.’
‘Do we need more sheep?’
Flowerdew smiled. ‘The old rights to land are changing, Edward. Money is more important today, more important than food, and more important than traditions and customs. If we can make more money from harvesting sheep’s fleece, that’s what we must do.’ He’d heard rumours the day before that the price of wool had plummeted. Fortunately, he’d agreed a contract for this season’s wool well in advance. His flock had been the first to be sheared, and he’d already been paid. Better yet, farmers holding out for a better price might soon be in trouble, which could present an opportunity for Flowerdew to buy up either sheep or fleeces at knock-down prices. He would keep his ear to the ground.
‘What about the commoners?’ asked Edward. ‘How will they survive?’
‘That’s the wrong question. Ask yourself, what would they do in our position? These people are lazy and would cheat us if they could. Have you ever heard them complain when our sheep graze their acreage in winter? No. They’ll gladly take our manure to sweeten the soil when it suits them. In the past it has suited me to accommodate the commoners, but less so today. Richard Smith doesn’t have enough children to farm his acreage. The Smiths are a burden to the village.’
Edward looked puzzled. Flowerdew could see he was thinking hard. ‘Will their extra acres make much difference?’ he asked.
‘All these questions. You’ll make a fine lawyer one day.’
‘Or a knight in armour!’
Flowerdew did not want his son to dwell on the glory of military service. ‘It is only twenty acres, Edward. Not much on its own, but you increase your wealth by adding to what you have. Would you rather it benefit the Smiths or the Flowerdews?’
Edward hesitated. ‘The Flowerdews,’ he said.
‘Good. We’ll take the crops this year, and then leave the land fallow for grazing. Better to act now than wait until the food is harvested.’
‘What will you do with the money from the wool, father?’
‘You can do many things when you have money, Edward.’ Flowerdew looked across at his son. ‘But looking after it is the first thing to do, whether you’re a man, a family, even a country. England has no money. King Henry waged war on France and Scotland, and war is expensive. He had nothing to show for it.’ Flowerdew took a coin from his purse and passed it to Edward. ‘Look at this. Do you see how bits of silver have been sliced from the edge of the coin?’ Edward nodded. ‘King Henry couldn’t raise any more money with taxes, so he had people clip silver from coins, then they melted it down, blended it with copper and made more coins.’
Edward was struggling to grasp the theory. ‘Why not just make more coins?’ he asked.
‘A pound of silver has to weigh a pound, or it isn’t worth a pound. And the silver must come from somewhere. The country can’t pay its bills. Not that it matters to a dead king. It’s King Edward who has to clear up his father’s mess.’
‘The king has the same name as me, and we’re the same age. Will I have to clear up your mess one day, father?’
Flowerdew laughed. ‘No, Edward. When you are older everybody will respect you. That I promise. You will have money and rank and perhaps even the ear of the young king.’
Edward smiled, imagining himself alongside King Edward.
‘But you will have responsibility, too. One day you must do the same for your eldest son, and when he is old enough, he must do it for his eldest. The Flowerdews will be a family that everybody in the land respects.’ He reached over and squeezed the boy’s shoulder.
They rode a few minutes in silence, then, as they turned into the gates of Hethersett Hall, Edward asked, ‘Will King Edward waste his money as well?’
‘Who knows,’ said his father. ‘But a friend in debt is a friend indeed.’
5
Alfred had thought his life couldn’t get any worse, but since he started at the tannery he’d believed his fortunes were finally on the rise. Lynn had stopped crying, but her mother was screaming at Richard, who was staring at the floor, gripping his sovereign.
‘Richard, we’ll starve!’ screamed his wife. ‘Richard!’
Richard sat motionless.
‘Alfred, you go. Speak to Anders Marshwell. The village must stop this.’
‘I can’t. I have to go to Wymondham.’
‘That’s just typical of you, Alfred Carter. Our family won’t survive the winter, and you think only of yourself.’
‘I’m now the only breadwinner in this house. If I lose my job, what then?’
‘You selfish shit,’ Lynn snarled. Alfred flinched.
‘Do … do something,’ sobbed Lynn’s mother.
Lynn stared venomously at Alfred. ‘Go on. Sort this out. We have a baby on the way.’
‘Which is why I’m going to work. So I can get paid.’
Lynn snatched a pot from the floor and hurled it at Alfred. He ducked, and it hit the wall, causing the hens to skitter across the floor.
‘It’s not
my fault,’ snapped Alfred as he got to his feet.
‘That’s it, run away. Let us starve. And don’t come back. You stink of tannery shit.’
Alfred shook his head. Did they think he’d conspired with Flowerdew? He’d just been evicted, too. ‘Lynn, you need me now more than ever.’ He pulled the door shut behind him, muffling the abuse from his wife. He washed his head and hands in the well – the whiff of pit thirteen had not quite disappeared – then went to the church and waited for the walking party going to Wymondham.
*
Richard Smith was still numb, as though he had fallen through the ice on a frozen pond. He stared blankly at Mrs Marshwell, the village’s ale taster. She was on her knees in front of the hearth, scraping glowing embers into a clay pot. She poured a little water on the fire to stop the smoke from filling the hall. Today’s brew would need to wait until the farmer’s meeting was finished.
It had taken Richard some time to recover from the shock, not helped by the hysteria of his wife and daughter, but once he had regained his composure, he and Lynn had alerted the village to their eviction.
Richard waited for the other farmers in the village to arrive. They were gathering, as always, in the open hall of the Marshwells’ farmhouse, around the corner from his cottage. The Marshwell family claimed to have farmed in Hethersett since the time of King William. All Richard’s life they had lived in this house, the largest farmhouse in Hethersett and the usual venue for village gatherings. They met every new moon to agree how they would best farm the land. Flowerdew hadn’t owned Hethersett long and preferred to distance himself from village affairs, so long as he received his share on time. He had even retired the bailiff. Other than sending a clerk to inspect crops and confirm yields, he left the villagers to their own devices.
Anders Marshwell took his wooden seat on the dais at the end of the hall. His large body filled the chair. A lifetime of outdoor labour had weathered his face and made his hands large and crooked. He owned this building, a hundred acres and twenty beasts, more than anyone else in the village. At fifty he was the oldest of the village commoners and had acted as reeve for the past nine years. He liaised with Flowerdew and presided in judgement over village matters. Anders looked around the room, counting the men present. Women were not involved.
Richard looked at his shoes: worn leather and fraying canvas. He had to gain his fellow men’s support this morning. If the majority of the farmers agreed, Anders would attempt to persuade Flowerdew to overturn his decision. At that point Richard’s fate would rely on Flowerdew’s goodwill and his fear of antagonising the villagers. A few other villages had revolted against their landowners recently, so this was a straw to clutch at, at least.
But if Flowerdew did not reverse his decision, Richard faced the prospect of spending his final years as a homeless vagabond, unable to support his family. He thought of the homeless man who roamed Hethersett and the neighbouring villages begging for bread. He had a large ‘V’ branded on his forehead. Tears began to well in Richard’s eyes. He wiped them with his finger and whispered a prayer to himself.
The last to arrive filed in, muttering and nodding acknowledgements to one another. Richard could feel their eyes on him. Tom Broom, a young farmer, came and sat next to Richard. He was fifteen years old, and the thought that his fate rested in the hands of the likes of Tom scared Richard. The young only ever thought of themselves.
‘Your leg’s shaking so much we should put it on the footplate of the knife grinder!’ joked Tom.
Richard forced his leg to be still. He sat upright and turned away from Tom and, at the same moment, Stuart Marshwell walked in. Anne, the eldest of Richard’s three surviving daughters, was married to Stuart, the third son of Anders Marshwell.
Anne had fallen pregnant to Stuart when she was thirteen. Custom demanded they marry, much to the disappointment of Anders Marshwell, who hadn’t wanted his family bonded to the poorest in the village. To Anders’s credit, other than demanding a large dowry of one cow, he neither persecuted Richard for his son’s carelessness nor showed any preference to Richard in village matters. Richard hoped he might rely on his blood tie to Anders today. If not, would the sovereign in the purse hanging from Richard’s belt make a difference? Anders was a fair man and not known to be corruptible. Might he be offended? Richard resolved that bribery would be a last resort.
The hall was nearly filled. Forty-two farmers in Hethersett were eligible to attend the meetings, and it seemed that they were all here. Anders curled his finger to call Richard over. He spoke to Richard in his soft and slow manner, as if comforting a sick animal, asking him to relate the events of the morning once again.
When Richard had finished, Anders announced his decision. ‘You’ve had a shock, Richard. By the look of you, you’re not fit to represent yourself, so I will appoint John Robertson to represent you.’ He signalled John over. ‘Richard, explain to John the events as you described them to me, unembellished.’
Richard felt relieved. He didn’t relish the task of speaking in front of his peers. John Robertson was known to be a fair man; he was big and had a presence that meant people didn’t tend to quarrel with him.
‘Who will speak against me?’ John asked in his slow, thoughtful manner.
‘James Newell,’ said Anders.
Richard’s heart sank. Not only could James Newell, the older brother of George, the milliner, be cruel in his pursuit of winning an argument, but he also had cause to see Richard suffer. They had been in dispute ever since Richard had borrowed his ploughshare and returned it broken. James claimed he was still owed for the breakage. Richard maintained the plough hadn’t been properly sharpened and its fixings were neglected. There was no sense in arguing with Anders’s choice, though, as Anders was not a man given to changing his mind.
Richard explained the morning’s events to both John and James. He rarely looked at James.
Once Richard had finished, Anders called for silence in the hall. When the conversations had petered out, Anders stayed seated and recounted Flowerdew’s actions that morning. Richard confirmed his account was accurate. He returned to his seat on the bench against the wall. The room was quiet. Richard leaned forward, his fingers crossed.
Anders had introduced this new system of decision-making after a fight broke out at a farmers’ meeting. Nowadays there were too many present for each one to have his say, and it was easy to speak without thinking and thus upset neighbours. So to stop this – and to avoid hearing the same points made again and again – two people made opposing arguments. The matter in question was then decided by a show of hands. Anders would usually abide by the decision of the majority.
John Robertson stood to Anders’s left, facing the farmers. He cleared his throat. ‘How would you like it?’ he began. ‘Being woken by the lord and thrown from your home. Your wife in tears. Knowing that without the charity of your fellow man, you will surely die?’ He paused. ‘That’s what happened to Richard Smith this morning.’
Richard felt numb again. Being at the centre of things felt unreal. While part of him relaxed, knowing there was nothing more he could do, another part was as taut as a bowstring. His stomach rumbled, but even though he hadn’t eaten, he couldn’t face food until he knew his fate.
John Robertson was speaking, and Richard realised that his thoughts had been drifting. He leaned back against the wall and made an effort to listen.
‘… Don’t be tempted to think this is the will of God,’ said John. ‘This is the will of Flowerdew, nothing more, nothing less. Mark my words, whatever he might tempt us with today or tomorrow, this is calculated to return him a greater profit. I wager Smith’s acreage will be covered in sheep by this time next year, just as he’s covered our common with his sheep, leaving us only barely enough to survive. This man has no knowledge or respect for the customs we live by. He understands and respects only one thing: money.’
This remark drew a cheer from many of the crowd. Richard allowed himself a brief moment of hope
. In this very room they had debated Flowerdew’s character on repeated occasions. In the time he’d owned Hethersett he’d shown no interest in the welfare of the commoners or their ways. They were sure that if he could farm the manor without them, he would.
‘First, it was half our common,’ concluded John. ‘When he can take no more of that, he takes land from Richard here. What will he take next? Look at the man next to you: will he be next? Or will it be you?’
Richard looked around the hall. There were nods. Nobody cheered, but he could see they were taken by John’s argument. He’d appealed to their self-interest and their survival instinct. Richard squeezed the sovereign in his purse hard.
John Robertson stood down, and James Newell replaced him. James had a lazy eye, and one half of his gaze was directed at the floor. He looked at Richard. Richard looked away.
‘I won’t deny that what has happened to Richard Smith is unfortunate,’ said James. ‘It is sad, even, but we must be realistic. This year’s crop will be a poor one. Richard’s share will be distributed between us, for which we all should be grateful. Flowerdew could keep the excess, but he knows we need more to survive. Despite what John says, Flowerdew hasn’t sought profit in this act. We must not reject his charity. It is a fool who rejects a kind gesture and later expects to be offered the same kindness again. I put it to you that Flowerdew, like any of us facing a hard winter, has sacrificed one of his animals to feed his family, in this case, us.’
Richard could see a few heads nodding.
‘Tough choices are necessary,’ James went on. ‘Ask yourself, why would the lord choose Richard Smith ahead of any of us? His family is small. He has only a wife to feed now his daughter is married and therefore the property of her husband, Alfred. If he weren’t so often drunk, Alfred, and not Richard, should bear the responsibility to provide for her.’
