‘I fear my confession would be full of uncharitable thoughts towards those who hold this manor in their grip,’ she whispered.
When Matilda had gone, Thomas finished his brushing of the nave, then went back to his gloomy dwelling, where he lit a pair of rushlights and sat at his small table. He poured himself a cup of cloudy cider, for he had never been a lover of ale, and began to think about the sorry tale that the woman had related. He had noticed her at Mass, for there was something about her, and to a lesser degree her daughter, that was different from the usual run of villagers. He was intelligent and well read, having been educated at the cathedral school in Winchester many years before, but had no pretensions to second sight, only a sharp awareness of character, and was convinced that these two women had some occult gift.
Sadly, he felt that Matilda’s predicament was insoluble, unless some tangible proof could be produced of her father’s release from bondage – or if the villagers organized a mass protest and forced the matter into the manor court. Given the tyrannical way in which Lupus and his odious steward held the levers of power, this seemed unlikely.
As he sat in the twilight, with the smoky flames of the grease-soaked reeds flickering on each side, he thought of the absolute authority that men like Walter Lupus had over the inhabitants of a manor. Though most were not great barons, often being mere knights or even successful merchants with the ear of the King’s court, they wielded the power of life and death over their subjects, some even erecting their own gallows at the village crossroads. No one could leave the village, accept an inheritance, get married or enter the Church or a trade without their consent – almost invariably dependent on a fee. These lords held their fief from the King, who owned the whole of England, keeping about a third for himself, as with royal manors like Shebbear, apart from the huge estates owned by the Church. These greater barons often sublet manors to lesser lords, taking either military knight-service or a rent from these other vassals. The latter passed this despotism down to their own subjects, so it was no wonder that Lupus could dictate to that poor woman and ignore her demands for justice.
Yet, thought Thomas, there had to be a balance between manor lord and villagers, for each was dependent on the other. In return for the lord’s promise of protection from marauding barons and bands of robbers, as well as his organization of the production of the food that saved them from starvation, the inhabitants supported him and his family by working for him year in, year out. The free men paid a rent, either in money or in kind, and the bondsmen – the serfs or villeins – had to work his fields for at least three days each week, as well as many extra ‘boon’ days, plus providing him with extra support throughout the year in the form of eggs, fowls, pigs and other produce. For that, the lord gave them a ‘toft’, a cottage and a croft, as well as several acres of strips in the fields to work on their free days. Below those were the cottars, a poorer class who had a cottage but no land and paid for their home by working at ditching, hedging, thatching, herding and other menial labour.
Thomas knew that being a serf was not necessarily degrading, as they could own personal property and pass it on to their heirs – in fact, some bondsmen were richer than their free man neighbours. But he accepted that none of this solved this poor woman’s problem. He would do what he could for her, even if it incurred Lupus’s displeasure – at least his incumbency of the parish did not depend on the lord’s gift, as so many did. And, he thought as he pinched out the lights before going to his bed, it did not matter if Lupus got rid of him, as he was only here as a favour to the bishop and would be quite happy to go back to his comfortable lodgings in Exeter.
In spite of Matilda’s attempts with herbs and her advice to Alice to put more green cabbage and especially spinach in Joan’s diet, there seemed no change in her condition and she continued to lose blood. The day after her meeting with Canon Thomas, Matilda sat on the palliasse in their mean sleeping hut and wondered what else she could do for the lady of the manor. Though she detested Walter Lupus for ruining her life, her natural compassion for anyone who was ailing made her concerned for Lady Joan, for she was afraid that death could be the only end result, unless something radical was done.
As a last resort, she felt under the head of the mattress where she and Gillota lay with the other two maids and pulled out the little stone from its hiding place. For the hundredth time, she held it in her palm and studied it. Though it seemed so inert, something told her that it was a force for good. Unlike the great rock in Shebbear, which was alleged to be the work of the devil, the cross-shaped stone seemed benign, though Matilda sensed that in spite of its suggestive shape it had nothing to do with the Christian faith, being infinitely older.
‘If this can work any miracles, then they’ll not be like any of those that the priests tell us are described in the Scriptures,’ she murmured as she slipped the stone into the pouch on her belt.
Going up to the sickroom, she waited until Alice had gone out on some errand, then, while gently putting Joan’s pillow more comfortably under her head, slipped the stone under the mattress. ‘It’s three times thicker than mine,’ she thought to herself. ‘But if it has any powers at all, a few inches of goose-feather won’t stop it!’
Next day was Sunday and Matilda had the chance to speak to Philip when they mingled in the churchyard after Mass. She told him of Canon Thomas’s kind words to her and his promise to see if there was any sign of a document of manumission in Exeter. Then she went on to describe Simon Mercator’s foul behaviour towards Gillota, and the effect on the former soldier was remarkable. Normally placid and amiable, he instantly reddened with anger.
‘The bastard! He can’t be allowed to get away with that! I know of his bad reputation with women, but when it concerns someone you know and respect it’s not to be tolerated.’
She put a hand on his arm in alarm. ‘Philip! Gillota and I are villeins, at least to him, to do with as he likes! We must avoid him as much as we can, that’s all that can be done.’
Philip was not to be mollified, his face set in a grim scowl of determination. ‘I will warn him, for I am a free man – and one used to fighting and confronting enemies. I will make him understand that, if he approaches Gillota again, he will have me to contend with!’
He glowered in the direction of Walter and his steward, who were just leaving through the churchyard gate.
‘I will go to Walter Lupus as well. He is supposed to be the man’s master, though sometimes I wonder who is in charge of this manor!’
Now Matilda was really worried, for she recognized the stubborn streak in Philip and knew he meant what he said. For a moment she wondered if this violent reaction to an insult to Gillota meant that it was her daughter, rather than herself, who interested him, but their ages were so far apart that it would be ridiculous.
‘Please do not be hasty,’ she pleaded again. ‘They are powerful men and the likes of us cannot hope to prevail against them. My daughter and I will just make sure we avoid him at every turn.’
The churchyard had emptied now, and they were obliged to leave as well, though they arranged to meet in the early evening near the mill. Many villagers, especially youngsters and courting couples, paraded the village on a Sunday, as all work, even on their own crofts, was forbidden on the Sabbath, other than tending the animals.
Philip de Mora was a man of his word, and after he had eaten his solitary dinner of thin potage, bread and salted fish, he set off for the manor house, which was on a side turning from the main track that ran through Kentisbury towards Combe Martin.
There was a dry ditch around the outside of the stockade, which Philip crossed at the big gates on a wooden ramp that could be quickly removed as a further defensive measure. No one had attacked the village in living memory – the main danger was from marauding pirates coming in from the coast. The Severn Sea was rife with marine bandits, some based on Lundy Island, as well as from Wales, Ireland and even as far afield as the Mediterranean, but as Kentisbury was a f
ew miles inland, the coastal villages suffered most.
One of the thugs imported by Lupus was lurking inside the gate and demanded to know his business. He was known as Garth, a hulking man with shaggy black hair and a rim of beard around his face and chin, widely suspected of being an Exmoor outlaw who had crept back into the village with Simon’s connivance.
‘I’m seeking the steward,’ snapped Philip, fingering the hilt of his long dagger. ‘Where is he?’
He was in no mood to be questioned further by some low-life servant and strode straight past as Garth pointed towards the door of the hall. This was up some wooden steps, the hall being built over the undercroft, a semi-basement used for storage.
Inside he found the steward sitting alone at a table, though several servants were nearby, clearing dishes and scraps of food from other trestles. A pewter goblet of wine was in front of him and a small wineskin lay nearby. There was no sign of Walter Lupus, who was upstairs with his wife.
‘What do you want?’ growled Simon, looking up at the new arrival. ‘You can’t just walk in here on a Sunday. Come back tomorrow, if your business is urgent.’
If the former archer had not been a free man, the steward would have called for Garth or his fellow thug Daniel to throw him out, but he knew that this Philip de Mora had been a member of the King’s army. He needed to be treated with circumspection in case he had some influential friends, as he had been under the standard of Baldwin de Redvers, Earl of Devon.
‘My business is urgent,’ snapped Philip, becoming flushed with anger once again at the steward’s dismissive manner. He was a tall, powerful man and hovered threateningly over Simon Mercator. ‘I came to warn you that if you act indecently again with that young maid Gillota, you’ll have me to contend with! Understand?’
The steward shot to his feet, his stool clattering over behind him. He was shorter and slighter than Philip, but his years in office as a right-hand man to manor lords gave him an arrogance that compensated for his physical disadvantage.
‘You insolent swine!’ he howled, quickly outdoing Philip for the redness of his features. ‘Get out of here at once, before I have you flogged!’
‘You have no power over me, Mercator,’ snapped Philip. ‘I am not one of your serfs to abuse and torment. I only rent a dwelling from your master, and I can walk out of this village tomorrow – and perhaps I will, except that I need to stay to make sure you behave yourself!’
Several of the hall servants were starting to smirk at their hated steward’s discomfiture, and Simon, suddenly realizing they were present, turned to scream at them to clear off. Then he began to yell for one of his creatures, Garth or Daniel, to rid him of this interloper.
Philip jabbed him in the chest with a finger of his good hand. ‘Think on what I’ve said, steward!’ he rasped. ‘Lay a finger on that girl or her mother, and I’ll find you and beat you senseless! Is that clear?’
Simon’s flushed face now drained into a pallor of rage, as he could hardly credit that any villager was rash enough to speak to him in this manner, especially in front of gossiping servants.
Any caution because of the man having been a soldier was thrown to the winds in his fury. He began to rant and threaten Philip with every punishment from mutilation to branding, but Gillota’s champion had turned on his heel and was making for the door. As he reached it, Garth lumbered up the steps and, at the steward’s screeched command, tried to grab the archer. Philip gave him a hefty push in the chest, which sent him stumbling back to fall over a bench, and by the time he got to his feet the visitor had vanished.
Quivering with rage and damaged pride, Simon Mercator threw down the rest of his wine in a savage gesture.
‘The insolent swine, he’ll regret this!’ he snarled, mainly to himself, as Garth had no idea what was going on. ‘I’ll see him swing for this.’
When they met near the watermill that evening, Matilda’s concern for Philip increased when he told her of his warning to the manor steward.
‘He’s an evil, vindictive man,’ she said. ‘He’ll not take such an insult to his rank lightly. He will plot your downfall somehow.’
She even suggested that Philip should leave the village and seek his future elsewhere, though this was the last thing she wanted from a purely selfish point of view. Even on their short acquaintance, she felt drawn to him, the first time since her husband died that she had even entertained the thought of marrying again.
But he shook his head deliberately. ‘I’ll not stir from here until I know that you and your daughter are safe from this man, even if it takes me years!’
They sat on the grass above the millpond and looked at the big wheel, now silent on a Sunday. It was another example of the hold that a manor lord had over his subjects, as everyone was forced to use the mill to grind the corn that they grew on their crofts, just as they had to use the lord’s baking ovens to fire their bread – all for a fee, of course.
‘They say in the village that you have special gifts, Matilda,’ he said. ‘I recall when I was a lad, there was a wise woman in the village who used to treat everyone’s ills, but it was not your mother, was it?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it was old Sarah, wife of the farrier. I just happen to have picked up some knowledge of herbs and suchlike – no magic about it!’ Matilda played the matter down for her own protection, though a number of the villagers, who had known her all her life, suspected that she had unusual gifts. That ability was now niggling at the back of her mind, worrying that this brave man was heading for serious trouble if he persisted in antagonizing the steward.
As it grew dusk, Philip walked her back to the manor house and then went back to his empty cottage, determined to strengthen his position with Matilda by ensuring that no harm came to her or her daughter.
It was two days later before Alice noticed the first change in the appearance of Joan Lupus. When she awoke, the invalid seemed to be brighter in the eye and sat up in her bed to take more interest than usual in the food that was brought. When Matilda and the older nurse came to change the cloths that staunched her bleeding, they found them dry for the first time in weeks. Next day, her colour was noticeably better, the pallor of her inner eyelids having changed to pink – and the following morning the lady of the manor declared herself strong enough to get out of bed and sit for a while in a leather-backed chair in the solar.
Everyone was delighted, as, unlike her husband, his wife was popular – or perhaps pitied – by the villagers and manor servants. Alice was commended by them for her expert care, and Matilda was content to keep well in the background, wondering if her stone had had any effect or whether this recovery would have happened anyway. She decided to leave it in place under the bed for the time being, in case it was still working its charm.
However, a few days later Joan was so much better that Alice said that there was no need for Matilda to help her any longer, as the lifting and general bed-care now seemed unnecessary. Afraid that she might not be able to recover her stone if she no longer had access to the bedroom, she retrieved it and put it back in its old hiding place. This was in the morning, when she reluctantly went back to her previous toil in the kitchen, but in the afternoon the village was hit by the equivalent of a thunderbolt.
The first Matilda knew of it was when she was returning to the kitchen after tipping a wooden bucket containing turnip and carrot peelings into the pigsty. As she crossed the bailey, she saw Parson Thomas hurrying from the gate towards the hall door, his limp accentuated by his haste. For a brief moment hope surged in her breast that he was coming with some news of her father’s manumission, but then she remembered that it was next week that he was going to Exeter. However, even the faintest hope of some development made her seize some clean platters from the kitchen and use them as an excuse to go to the back door of the hall and lurk just inside, where shelves held the dishes and utensils for meals. Walter Lupus, his steward and bailiff and the miller were sitting at a table within earshot and she could hear the
grey-haired priest’s high-pitched voice quite clearly.
‘It was there the day before yesterday, for I cleaned it myself!’ he announced in an agitated voice. ‘Together with the chalice, it’s always stored in that aumbry in the chancel.’
Matilda knew that he was referring to an oak chest near the altar, where the priest’s vestments and the sacred vessels for the Eucharist were kept.
‘And you’ve looked everywhere else, father?’ rumbled Walter Lupus.
‘Of course I have!’ snapped Thomas, for once made irritable by his concern. ‘Three times, in fact. And there are precious few hiding places in that bare little church.’
Keeping as still as possible in the shadows, Matilda soon gathered that what was missing was the paten that held the scraps of pastry that were used to offer the body of Christ during the Mass. Walter Lupus rose to his feet and thumped the table with his fist.
‘That plate was silver! My father, God rest him, donated it to the church at the time of my birth, in thanks for a son, after having had three daughters!’
Simon Mercator leaned back on his bench to look up at his master. ‘That makes it all the more terrible, sir, for it has sentimental as well as monetary value!’
‘It was good Devon silver fashioned by smiths in Exeter and cost more than nine marks, so my father was fond of telling me,’ ranted Walter. ‘It must be found! Turn the village inside out if needs be!’
The steward and bailiff were on their feet now, Simon trying to reassure the manor lord that it would be retrieved.
‘It has to be in the village. No one from outside has been here these past few days,’ he brayed. ‘I’ll find the thief, have no fear of that! ’
‘What about that poxy carter, that Adam from Shebbear?’ roared Walter. ‘Though he was useful over those women, he’s a shifty character. I’d not trust him with a stale loaf, let alone a silver plate!’
The bailiff shook his head. ‘I’ve not seen him here for weeks. I think he may well have fallen foul of the villagers over that affair and taken his trade elsewhere.’
The Sacred Stone Page 14
