by Ann Swinfen
‘I hope it may be large enough to take the cart,’ Jordain said as he joined me again.
‘Surely,’ I said. ‘Else how do people get about here, with the river cutting through, dividing village from village, and the villages from Abingdon and Dorchester?’
The ferry proved to be more than ample for horse and cart, a wide shallow vessel, like a much larger version of the punts the watermen of Oxford used to get about, especially amongst the maze of streams to the west of the town. Like those boats, this ferry was poled, not rowed, but it required two strong men, for it was heavy. When the river was running full and fast, it would be difficult, even with two men, but today the water level was low after the weeks of hot weather, never relieved by rain. The river had shrunk in upon itself, leaving shelving banks of mud upon either side of the river.
The ferry was usually boarded easily from the bank or a wooden landing stage, but the shrinkage of the river meant making our way down over the slippery mud, and Edric’s horse baulked at the prospect. I could hardly blame him. The treacherous footing of the mud, followed by stepping on to a dipping, swerving platform of planks, was enough to alarm any horse, and I suspected that this fellow had never before been asked to board a boat. He stood with his feet planted firmly on the ground – forefeet on the mud, hind feet on the grass – head down, stubborn as any mule, and would not move.
Usually I have a good hand with horses, but this one did not know me and was being asked to do something both unfamiliar and frightening. I cannot think how long it took us to persuade him on to the ferry, but it must have been at least half an hour, by which time the ferrymen, Jordain, and I were all red-faced, irritable, and sweating, and the horse, standing trembling on the ferry, was wild-eyed and seemed like to overturn the whole boat, and us with it.
The ferrymen set to, poling us across the river as fast as they might, clearly anxious to be rid of us. The bank on the far side, being a little less steep, made it easier to disembark. The horse, seeing the promise of solid ground ahead, lurched forward, setting the ferry pitching and nearly throwing me into the water. Hastily Jordain paid the men, and did not mention that they would be seeing us once more, on our way back.
‘All that to do again,’ I said, wiping the sweat off my face with my sleeve. ‘And with the cart loaded as well.’
‘Perhaps the horse will make less of it,’ Jordain said hopefully, ‘now that he has made the crossing safely once.’
I doubted it. The horse had been truly frightened, but at least he was calmer now.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s an inn there, new built and clean, by the look of it. I should be glad of a quiet drink before we drive the last mile or so to Long Wittenham, and it will calm the horse to rest for a few minutes. What do you say?’
‘I say I agree, and heartily. It looks a fine place. As you say, new. By all I can tell, no more than a year old.’
I did not even trouble to climb into the cart again, but walked at the horse’s head to steady him, until we reached the inn, which was no more than a stone’s throw from the ferry landing. The timbers of the framework were still the gold of freshly cut timber, not yet having assumed the soft silver of weathered oak. At the most they had been felled no longer ago than last summer. The thatch of the deep pitched roof was still crisp and fresh, and on a bench beside the door two ancients sat with tankards of ale upon their knees, watching us with interest.
‘Aye,’ said the innwife, when I asked. ‘Us been open just this twelvemonth past.’
‘It’s a fine spot you have here,’ I said, ‘next to the ferry. A welcome spot for travellers.’
‘’Tis so. Be youm going far?’
‘Only to Long Wittenham. May I beg a bucket of water for our horse? He took fright at the ferry and is it a fair sweat.’
‘’Deed you may, my dear.’ She dimpled at me. ‘Jack, lad,’ she called into the kitchen behind her, ‘fetch the gen’lman a bucket of water for his horse.’
With the horse unhitched and settled, Jordain and I took our ale outside and joined the two locals on the adjacent bench.
‘Had some trouble with the ferry, did youm?’ one of them said, ending with a wheezy laugh which set him coughing.
‘Aye.’ I grinned into my ale. Clearly these two ancients chose their present seat for its advantageous view of the ferry and any misadventures that might befall its passengers.
‘’Tis a hired horse,’ Jordain said earnestly. ‘He does not know us, and I fancy he has never been required to step aboard a boat before. We come from Oxford, where all the crossings of the rivers are by bridge.’
The old man nodded sagely. ‘Aye, us could be doing with a bridge here, but who’s to pay for ’un, that’s what I’d like to know? Us poor folk a’nt got the means, and th’old lord be going fast, so they say. Won’t see the summer out.’
‘Ferrymen’d be out o’work,’ his companion said gloomily.
‘Aye.’
I pricked up my ears at the mention of a lord. Would this be the Farringdons’ overlord who had turned them out of their home? Questioned, however, the old men set me right.
‘Ah, Mistress Farringdon, poor woman. Friends of hers, be youm? Her man’s holding was further south nor here. She come with the lasses to stay at Hobb’s farm, two-three months ago, would it be? Mebbe four. Nay, the big lord hereabouts be Sir Anthony Thorgold, but when he’s gone, as he will be soon, who’s to say who ’twill be?’
Thorgold? I felt my heart lurch and I looked astonished at Jordain. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but I forestalled him.
‘How do you, mean?’ I said, trying to sound casual.
‘’Tis like this, see.’ The more garrulous of the old men looked into his empty tankard and coughed again. ‘Eh, but my throat be powerful dry.’
I took the hint and signalled through the open door to the innwife to bring more ale. When the old man had soothed his parched throat, smacking his lips in appreciation, he drew a deep breath.
‘Sir Anthony and his lady had a fine family, see, two boys and three girls that lived past babes. But the girls all died young, before they could be marrit. Both sons, they was marrit, but the firstborn, Sir Harold, had no children. The younger – that was Sir Stephen – had a daughter, but he died, and his widow wed again.’
At this point I was holding my breath. This must be Emma’s family, no question.
‘It is a story of sad loss. You say there is doubt who will inherit when Sir Anthony dies,’ I prompted. ‘Will it not be the elder son?’
‘Nay, first he lost his wife to the Pestilence. His father wanted him to marry again and get an heir, but ’tis said he had no heart for it. He was a sickly child, and nobbut a weakling of a man when all’s said. He died, spring of last year.’
‘Leaving the old lord all alone,’ the other man said, with gloomy relish. ‘None but hisself in that great manor house. Wife gone. Daughters gone. Sons gone.’
‘But you said the younger son had a daughter,’ I said casually, avoiding Jordain’s eyes, which I knew were fixed on me.
‘Oh, aye, but she went for a nun.’ The old man dismissed the granddaughter with a shrug. ‘So there’s no one left. Sir Anthony has no close kin at all.’
The innwife had lingered in the doorway, listening to all of this.
‘I did hear tell,’ she said, ‘as how the man who married Sir Stephen’s widow has a mind to claim the manor and all.’
‘Nay, how can that be? He’s no kin to Sir Anthony.’
‘Kin since he’s stepfather to the granddaughter.’
‘That don’t make ’un kin.’
They began to argue about it.
‘Where is Sir Anthony’s manor?’ I interrupted.
The innwife pondered. ‘Two miles, about, south of here. You’ll pass the turn if youm going to Hobb’s farm. A turn on the left, between here and the village. It lies over toward Little Wittenham.’
‘’Tis time we were on our way,’ Jordain said, getting up from the bench. ‘W
e thank you, mistress, for your excellent ale.’
I bowed to the two old men, who were sharing out the last of the flagon of ale.
‘A sad story,’ I said. ‘I hope that somehow it may have a better ending.’
I could barely contain myself until we had the horse hitched to the cart and were on our way. Hobb’s farm, we had been told, was just beyond the village, no more than two miles along the road, which followed the river.
‘Emma Thorgold,’ I said, as soon as we were out of hearing. ‘Mistress Farringdon’s niece. She must be the granddaughter who has “gone for a nun”. Except she hasn’t.’
‘It does seem probable,’ he conceded. ‘It isn’t a common name, and since the Farringdons come from these parts, it seems likely that Mistress Farringdon’s sister–’
‘Of course she must be. Emma’s mother married the younger son of a landed gentleman. But we did not know of this before, that she is the only one of the family left. She must be the old man’s heir.’
‘I wonder whether Mistress Farringdon knows of this.’
‘It seems to be common gossip hereabouts,’ I said.
‘It may be that the locals do not gossip to her. She has only recently come into the neighbourhood.’
‘Perhaps. So the word is that Emma’s stepfather is trying to seize her inheritance. Could he do that?’
‘As the old man pointed out, he is not kin,’ Jordain said.
‘I do not know what the law is. I suppose he became Emma’s guardian when her mother died. He would have power over her until she was wed. But if she entered a nunnery, what then?’
‘Would the nunnery not take possession of her property?’
I shook my head. ‘It is too much for me. We must ask a lawyer. What is the name of this stepfather, do you know?’
Jordain shook his head. ‘Mistress Farringdon has never mentioned it.’
A little further on we passed a well made road on our left, which must lead to the Thorgold manor. It soon disappeared amongst trees, and although I held the reins, there would be no chance to turn aside that way today.
A little while afterwards, Jordain pointed ahead, as a cottage came into view. ‘Look, this must be Long Wittenham.’
We drove slowly along the single street, lined on both sides by a huddle of cottages. The village stood on a slight rise of ground, but behind the cottages on our right, water meadows sloped down to the river, where sheep were grazing. Just as in every other village I had seen in the last few years, many of the houses stood empty. No smoke rose from their roofs. Doors hung askew. And the thatch on many roofs was ragged and sagging into holes. A few children, half naked in the sun, were playing knuckle-bones in the dust of the street. They watched us go by with lacklustre eyes. Their faces were thin and pinched.
‘A poor village,’ I said. I wonder whether they are villeins of this manor belonging to Sir Anthony Thorgold.’
‘Some say that villeins have learned the value of their labour, now that there are so few left to work the land,’ Jordain said, ‘but the law stops them claiming more for their labour than before the Death, nor does it allow them any easing of their customary obligations, but ties them all the more closely to their lords.’
‘Yet it does not stop them running away,’ I said.
‘Easier for young men to do so. Not so easy for a family like these.’
‘Aye, that’s true enough. See! There is the track the innwife told us about, leading to Hobb’s farm.’
‘You’d best drive carefully then,’ Jordain said. ‘Remember that wheel, shattered on this track. We do not want to find ourselves marooned here for weeks.’
We proceeded along the broken, rutted track with great care, for it was in a dreadful state, so I was near shaking with relief when we reached the house without mishap. Whether we should be able to return undamaged, once the cart was heavily loaded, I was not so sure.
The house was no more than a single storey, with a low attic above, and it was surrounded by a mob of children. A woman who might have been thirty, but looked like fifty, thin and careworn, was scrubbing clothes in a wooden tub standing in the dirt yard, while another woman, with her back to us, whom I recognised as Mistress Farringdon, was scattering scraps for chickens, which ran about amongst the children. As I brought the cart to a standstill before colliding with either chickens or children, the girl Juliana came out of the house with another basket of clothes. Although the unknown woman stared at us blankly, Juliana recognised us at once.
‘Master Brinkylsworth and Master Elyot! What do you here?’ She dropped the basket beside the wash tub and ran across to us. Laying her hand on the horse’s side, she looked up at us, her face radiant.
‘Have you come to fetch us to Oxford? Oh, Mama, see who is here!’
Mistress Farringdon turned, and her face too lit up with a welcoming smile.
‘No wonder there is little room here,’ I murmured to Jordain under my breath. I thought they must all pack in at night like salt fish in a barrel.
It took only a few minutes to explain that we had decided to help them convey their belongings to Oxford, to spare Master Hobb and his cart the necessity of making the journey. The relief on his wife’s face was plain to see. She was polite and as gracious as a woman could be, with a gaggle of children pulling at her skirts, falling over with howls, and fighting like puppies around her feet. One of these children, I supposed, must be Mistress Farringdon’s granddaughter.
As if she guessed my thoughts, Juliana drew a somewhat grubby child out of the pack, a fair-haired girl with the face of an innocent cherub and the scabbed knees and elbows of an infant fighter.
‘This is my niece, Maysant,’ she said, ‘my brother’s child. Make your reverence, Maysant.’
The child bobbed a curtsey and put a dirty thumb in her mouth.
‘I fear my man is away at the hay harvest, the other side of Wittenham,’ Mistress Hobb said. ‘We share our labour here, turn and turn about. It will be our hay next week.’
‘Do not concern yourself, mistress,’ Jordain said. ‘Master Elyot and I will soon have the cart packed up, if Mistress Farringdon will show us what is to be taken.’
After that, we were all hard at work, the women and the older children as well as Jordain and me. First to be loaded were the pieces of furniture – a large table and stools, a dresser, two coffers, the parts of dismantled beds, a smaller table. Once these were in the cart, I wondered whether it would hold any more, but somehow we managed to pack in between these items bundles of clothes and bedding, a few cushions, kitchen pans, some sacks of dried food. To this Mistress Hobb added a basket of eggs and another of food for the journey.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘the only remaining problem is where to fit in the three ladies. Perhaps Maysant had better ride the horse.’
The child did not appreciate my teasing, but simply stared at me in astonishment. Juliana whispered in her ear, whereupon she favoured me with a reluctant smile.
‘I think if we moved these stools,’ Jordain said, suiting the action to the words, ‘we could make a fairly comfortable seat for you, Mistress Farringdon, with these cushions, and your back against the back of the driving bench. If you do not mind facing the way we have come?’
‘I will be very comfortable there, Master Brinkylsworth,’ she said, ‘and Maysant can sit on my lap. I expect she will fall asleep before we reach Oxford.’
‘’Deed I shall not, Gandma,’ the child said, the first words I had heard her utter.
‘Juliana is slim enough to sit between us on the driver’s bench,’ I said.
She looked delighted, so I cautioned her. ‘It is a very hard seat. Perhaps you should have a cushion.’
‘I have no need of a cushion,’ she said firmly, ‘I am not one of your grand ladies. Will you let me drive?’
‘Er,’ Jordain said, looking at me helplessly.
‘We shall see,’ I said, having more experience than he in dealing with young girls. ‘This is a borrowed cart and a borr
owed horse, and he has had one fright already today. He did not care for the ferry.’
Once we had the women settled, we made our farewells to Mistress Hobb and the children. Mistress Farringdon leaned over the side of the cart to kiss her friend. There were tears in her eyes.
‘I do not know what we should have done without you, my dear, all these weeks. May God bless you and yours, for all your kindness.’
The other woman blushed and patted her hand.
‘Send me word when you are settled, Maud. That pedlar will come by next month. You may send by him.’
‘I will so.’
Not trusting the cart over the pitted farm track, especially now that it was somewhat top heavy with its load, I decided to walk beside the horse and lead him until we reached the Long Wittenham road. It was a slow, tricky trip along that track, which seemed to take twice as long on the return journey. I hoped this would not be repeated all the way back, or we could not reach Oxford before nightfall, even on this long summer day. However, once we reached the road safely, I joined Jordain and Juliana at the front of the cart, and we made our decorous way back through the village, where the same children were now playing some game which involved kicking an ancient and dented pewter cup between two sticks driven upright in the tired grass of the verge.
As we reached the turn to the Thorgold manor, I twisted round to speak to Mistress Farringdon, who was sitting behind, back to back with me.
‘The innwife told us that Sir Anthony Thorgold lives down there,’ I said. ‘Would that be your niece Emma’s grandfather?’
‘It is,’ she said, without turning her head, for she was holding the child Maysant steady, who had indeed fallen asleep.’
‘He is very old.’ Juliana clearly felt her mother had not said enough. ‘And he is very ill. Dying, probably.’ She said it respectfully, with a hint of something in her tone that I could not quite place. ‘We went to see him last year, when William was still alive. Sir Anthony did not like it that Mama’s sister had married again. That was before she died in childbirth, and Emma was staying with us, so she went with us. I think Emma had not seen her grandfather for some time.’
