by Ann Swinfen
‘Harvest always eats up the hours,’ she agreed, as she accepted a bowl of rich onion soup from Hilda. ‘Still, ’tis a day of rest today, so we must find a quiet spot and you can tell me all that has happened since last summer. We missed you at Christmastide.’
‘It could not be helped,’ I said. ‘The roads were blocked even in Oxford. I cannot imagine how bad it must have been here. I remember some winters when I was a boy – the village was quite cut off, and it was hard even to reach the village from the farm.’
‘Aye, but it was usually later. January, not December. I have never seen so much snow so early in all my lifetime as we had last winter. We were indeed cut off, from around Advent to the Feast of St Edward the Confessor, when it began to thaw a little.’
‘We will come this Christmas if we can,’ I said as I received my own bowl of soup, then my attention was called away by Philip and Jordain, who were disputing some fine point of theology.
‘And John Wycliffe would say quite otherwise,’ Jordain said, ‘for he holds that, if we look carefully at Our Lord’s own words . . .’
I smiled and turned to Susanna, who had just taken the seat opposite me. I gave a nod toward the two scholars.
‘I have enough of this in Oxford,’ I said.
‘Who is this John Wycliffe?’ she asked, beginning to spoon up her soup. ‘They have mentioned him before.’
‘Another scholar, about my age,’ I said, ‘or a little older. He has some very strange ideas, about returning purely to the Bible itself, and casting away all the centuries of learned commentaries by the Church. He thinks the Bible should be rendered into English, so every man may read it for himself. Women too, if they are lettered.’
She paused, with her spoon halfway to her mouth. ‘That sounds like dangerous talk. The Church will not like it. Will he not be taken for a heretic?’
‘Aye, he might,’ I said soberly. ‘That is, if anyone pays him any mind. The students attend his lectures in droves, for he is a fine speaker. Talk of his ideas may well spread beyond Oxford.’
She shivered. ‘With the Pestilence, and the French wars, and strange ideas in men’s minds, the world which seemed steady when we were children has begun to tilt enough to afright one, this way and that.’
I had never heard Susanna speak in such a way, for usually she was wholly occupied with governing her household.
I began to spoon up my soup, rich and brown and thick with onions. ‘What do you mean by strange ideas – some other than those of John Wycliffe?’
‘There’s a restlessness in the country, since the Pestilence. Men breaking free from their old duties, wanting what their fathers never had, villeins wanting their freedom. This affair of Mordon paying higher wages. In the past, none of our regular labourers would have left us. Loyalty counted for something then. But now?’ She shrugged.
‘Certainly there are far more masterless men roaming the country,’ I agreed, ‘and regularly bondmen from the country arrive in Oxford, hoping to earn their freedom by staying a year and a day.’
‘Aye, but it is more than that.’ Edmond had been listening to us. ‘There is a general restlessness, certainly. When so many have seen the death of those they love, ’tis no surprise that they want to seize upon what life is left to them. Here in Leighton it has been no more than a shifting below the surface, like the fermenting of a cask of ale. Yet it needs but a little to make it break out and boil over.’
‘Like the arrival of a new lord who is set on ruling with an iron hand?’ I said.
‘Aye,’ Edmond said. ‘Just so.’
Chapter Four
The following day, Monday, was given over to the final cutting of the barley field, and the carting of all the remaining wheat sheaves back to the barn. We were nearing the end of the field and I suppose we were all growing tired and careless, when there was a sudden yelp from Guy, who dropped his scythe and straightened up, swearing.
‘What’s amiss?’ Edmond called, laying down his own scythe, and started across the field toward him.
Guy was cradling his right arm in his left hand and looking furious.
‘Stinking camomile,’ he shouted. ‘A whole patch of it. Take care!’
I joined them.
‘Be glad it wasn’t an adder,’ I said, for I had seen two myself amongst the wheat on the first day, but fortunately they had slithered away.
Guy shrugged. The skin of his right hand and forearm was already showing red patches. Later, there would be painful blisters.
‘Where are your gloves?’ Edmond asked, severely. ‘Why do you think I handed them out before we started the harvest?’
‘I forgot to bring them with me today.’
Guy was shame-faced. He had also discarded his shirt again, which might have provided some protection for his arm. Stinking camomile, or mayweed (as it is sometimes called) is a pernicious weed when it gets in amongst the corn. The rash it causes can be severe.
‘Come back to the house with me,’ Susanna said. ‘I will put some salve on it. That will not cure it, but it will give you some ease.’
As they went off, James and Thomas set to without a word to root out all of the stinking camomile with great care, before throwing it on a bonfire in the yard. The rest of us cut the remaining barley, keeping our eyes open for more of the weed, having no wish to suffer the burning rash, which sometimes led to a fever.
When we had finished, the village women were invited to glean whatever overlooked grain they could find in the wheat and barley fields. Gleaning of the commonly held village fields was the accepted custom, but we had allowed the women and young children to glean in our fields at least as far back as my grandfather’s time. It was a small charity, God knows, but one that was appreciated. Later, in a day or two, Edmond’s small herd of cows would be driven into the harvested fields to graze the stubble and manure the ground. When the sheep were brought back to the farm from the higher grazing grounds, they would be turned into another field, or follow after the cows, cropping closer to the ground than cattle may do.
‘A good day’s work,’ I said to Martha, wife of the village blacksmith, as she was leaving that evening with two large and well-filled baskets of salvaged ears of wheat.
‘Aye, Master Elyot,’ she said, wiping her hot face on her sleeve. ‘And good plump ears they be. ’Tis as well, for there will be no gleaning on the manor fields this year.’
‘The new lord will not permit it?’
‘He will not. He has sent word by one of his foreign servants that anyone caught gleaning in his fields will be imprisoned and fined.’
She spoke with bitterness, and had good cause. The manor fields were extensive and offered rich pickings for the gleaners.
‘Well, he may live to regret it,’ I said, ‘for the spilt grain will seed itself, so next year he will have barley amongst his wheat, and wheat amongst his barley, and oats everywhere.’
‘Aye, so he will.’ She grinned broadly, and went off cheerfully.
‘Foreign’, to Martha, meant someone from beyond Oxfordshire, or even from the next village.
It was as well the gleaners had come swiftly to gather up all the spilt and overlooked heads of grain, for over the next two days, as we hurried to stow the barley safely under cover, we watched the thunder clouds building up ominously in the east. Even as the last load was driven into the farm, heavy drops began to fall, speckling the dust of the yard with shining disks as round as silver pennies.
As the afternoon faded into evening, the rain grew heavier, thrown by a rising wind in fistfuls against the windows. My mother had gone home to her cottage before supper, and the rest of us ate by the light of rush dips, which Susanna clipped into their metal holders and placed on the table and the court cupboard standing against one wall.
Afterwards, Rafe climbed onto my lap, while Alysoun leaned against my shoulder and Rowan settled herself on my feet.
‘Tell us a story, Papa,’ Alysoun begged. ‘You always tell us a story when there is a storm.�
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‘Aye,’ Rafe said, nodding solemnly.
‘Not always,’ I protested. ‘Besides, no one else wants a story.’
In the circle gathered round the fire, faces turned toward me. The rain had brought a chill with it, and Edmond had built the fire up after the women had finished cooking.
‘Aye, we’d all be glad of a story to pass the time,’ Edmond said.
Beatrice glanced up from her mending and smiled at me.
Looking around, I saw that scarce anyone was idle. Most of the women and Hilda were sewing or mending, though Susanna was knitting. James and Thomas were untangling a bundle of old leather harness, with a pot of creamy polish sitting on the floor between them, somewhat ineffectually helped by Jordain’s two students, while Jordain and Philip were looking over some exercise in geometry that Stephen had been working out on his horn book. Guy’s arm was badly inflamed and a little swollen. He would not be so careless again, I reckoned.
I was the only one with no task in my hands, apart from Edmond’s two little girls, Megan and Lora, who were curled up asleep under the table with one of the shaggy farm dogs who had managed to worm his way into the warmth of the house.
‘Aye, Nicholas,’ Susanna said, ‘with all the books you have, you must know plenty of stories.’
‘Well–’ I said. I hesitated, wondering what sort of story would suit the present very varied company, and wishing Walter, our family storyteller, were here in my place.
Thoughts of hunting must have been at the back of my mind since my talk with Alan, for I said, ‘This is the story of the hunt for a miraculous white stag.’
Alysoun wound her arm around my neck and leaned closer.
‘As all good stories begin,’ I said, ‘once upon a time . . . but although it was long ago, we do know when and even where it happened. This all goes back to pagan times.’
I drew a deep breath. ‘There was a famous Roman general called Placidus, who served the Emperor Trajan, and not only was he a great general, but he was famed for his kindness and generosity to the poor and needy. Moreover, he was also noted for his skill in hunting deer.’
‘Like the deer in Wychwood?’ Alysoun asked.
‘Aye, my pet, like the deer in Wychwood.’
‘One day, word was brought to the court at Rome that an elusive white stag had been glimpsed in the mountain forests near Tivoli, a little way inland from Rome. Now you must know that there are many legends associated with white deer. Some say that they can never be caught. Others say that you must never kill a white deer, for they are magical messengers from another world, and to kill one will bring down terrible disaster on the huntsman and all those he loves. Still others believe that if you follow a white deer for a year and a day, it will bring you to a place where you may live forever in bliss.’
‘Like Paradise?’ Stephen whispered.
‘Like Paradise,’ I agreed, reluctant to mention that in some versions of the story the magical place was a pagan fairyland, and not a Christian Paradise.
‘Whatever stories had been told to him, the emperor ordered Placidus to hunt the deer and bring it back to Rome. “Alive, if you may,” he said. “If not, bring back his carcass, and I will have him stuffed, for I know of no other who possesses a white stag, alive or dead.” Now, I do not know whether Placidus warned him of the dangers of killing a white stag. Perhaps he did not know himself, but he bowed and said, “My lord, it shall be as you wish.” Then he sent for his huntsman and his servants, his hounds and his dog handlers, and a few of his closest companions, and set off for the woods around Tivoli.’
‘Was that far from Rome?’ James asked. ‘A day’s hunt? Or a longer journey?’
‘Not far,’ I said firmly. In truth, I did not know, for I had never been to Italy, but a storyteller must have the utmost confidence in his story, or his listeners will not believe him.
‘They set off early in the morning, at dawn, and almost as soon as they reached the forest, the lymers picked up the scent of a deer. Placidus was not sure whether it was the white stag, but he sounded his horn, and off they went in pursuit. Even if it was but a common deer, it would prove a good quarry. But suddenly Placidus caught sight of a flash of white between the trees. The dogs had picked up the trail of the white stag! The huntsman sounded his horn, and they galloped after it, deep into the wood.’
Someone had refilled my ale cup, and I drank deeply. It can be thirsty work, this storytelling.
‘On and on they went, weaving between the trees, crashing through the undergrowth. One of the other knights lost his hat, caught on a branch. The horse of another picked up a sharp stone in its hoof, went lame, and had to leave the hunt. One by one the company fell away, till Placidus and his huntsman alone were left to pursue the white stag, although the lymers and alaunts with their handlers struggled valiantly to keep up. On and on, till they had lost their way, and it was beginning to grow dark, though the white stag shone amongst the dark trees of the forest like a shaft of moonlight.’
Alysoun had climbed on to my lap beside Rafe, her arm clutching me tightly about my neck.
‘Suddenly the white stag halted and turned to face Placidus. He was alone now, but his huntsman was not far behind, and he could hear the cries of the dogs. Suddenly he saw – there between the magnificent branching antlers of the stag, a fourteen-pointer – an image of the crucified Christ, shining whiter even than the stag, casting a path of light that reached out and touched Placidus. “My son,” a Voice said, “fear not.” But Placidus was afraid. He could not tell whether the voice came from the stag, or from Christ on the Cross, or from somewhere in the air about him.’
I was seeing the scene myself, now. It was both beautiful and terrible, and I shivered.
‘The Voice spoke again. “Come to me, my son, place your trust in me.” And Placidus knew at that very moment that he must abandon the pagan beliefs in which he had been reared, and embrace the True Faith, though at that time true believers were few in number, despised and persecuted. “You shall suffer much,” the Voice continued, “but do not despair, for in the end you shall achieve the Kingdom of Heaven.” Then, just as the huntsman and the dogs caught up with him, Placidus saw the vision of the Crucifix fade, though the white stag still stood there, one hoof slightly raised.’
Alysoun began to bite her thumbnail, and I saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. I patted her arm.
‘The huntsman raised his crossbow, the dog handlers bent to release the alaunts, which would pull down the white stag once it had been shot. “Stop,” Placidus cried. “I forbid you to shoot it.” They all stared at him in astonishment. The stag put one foot forward and bowed to him, then bounded off into the forest.’
I heard Alysoun let out her breath in a gulp. ‘He was not killed, you see, my pet,’ I whispered in her ear.
‘When he returned to Rome, I do not know what Placidus told the emperor, or whether he suffered any punishment for refusing to shoot the white stag, but as soon as he might, he had himself, his wife, and his two young sons baptised into the True Faith, and he took a new name, Eustace. Afterwards, the family had many adventures, both his wife and his sons were captured, and he himself suffered, but they were reunited at last, and after his death he became St Eustace. So, should you ever see a white stag, do not kill it, for it may be a holy messenger.’
I sat back. I was not accustomed to telling a story to so many people, but I had been caught up in St Eustace’s vision of the unearthly white stag.
There was silence for a moment, then Stephen said, ‘Have you ever seen a white stag, Master Elyot?’
I shook my head. ‘Never. But you must ask Alan Wodville. He has been a huntsman since boyhood. If there is a white stag in Wychwood, no one is more likely to have seen it than he.’
‘I shall ask him tomorrow,’ Stephen said.
Edmond stood up and stretched. ‘You tell a good story, Nicholas. But, Stephen, I fear we are unlikely to see Master Wodville tomorrow. There will be no work on the harves
t, I am certain.’
He was right. Caught up in telling the tale, I had not noticed how the force of the storm had increased, but everyone now saw the flash of lightning through the half open shutter, and heard the roll of the approaching thunder. The flames of the rush dips flickered in the intruding fingers of the wind. Rafe, who feared thunderstorms, took a firm grip on my sleeve as Edmond crossed to the window and pulled the shutter closed, bolting it securely. Even so, it rattled in the wind.
‘Harvest or not,’ Margaret said, ‘it is long past the time for these children to be abed.’
She helped Susanna gather up the two little girls from under the table, where they had slept through storm and story and all. Stephen somewhat reluctantly hobbled away to the room he shared with Philip on the ground floor.
‘Come,’ I said, as I struggled to stand up. Alysoun slid from my lap, but Rafe clung round my neck like a monkey from Africa. ‘You may stay with me tonight, Rafe, while the storm lasts.’
‘And me,’ Alysoun said jealously.
I sighed. ‘Very well.’ There would be little sleep for me that night, with two wriggling children sharing my bed.
The storm reached its peak around midnight, and Rafe sat up in my bed, white-faced, while the thunder crashed about the farm.
‘The lightning may hit us here,’ he said anxiously. ‘We do not have St Peter’s and St Mary’s to catch it.’
The blessed protection of two church spires in Oxford was certainly lacking on the farm. Even the village church stood lower down the hill, and its short tower would hardly serve as a lightning catcher.
‘Ah, but here we have the whole of Wychwood to protect us,’ I pointed out. ‘Some of those huge trees are far, far taller than the spires of our Oxford churches. Great oaks, centuries old, standing firmly on guard. Just think of it! No lightning will bother our low-built farmhouse, when there are all those tall trees to choose from.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said reluctantly.
Alysoun turned over, grunted, opened one eye, then fell asleep again. Finally Rafe relaxed as sleep overtook him again. I tried to ease the two of them over far enough that I might sleep without clutching the edge of the bed like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a plank. Here in the bedchamber of my boyhood, the bed was narrow, tucked in under the sloping eaves. There was a rustling in the thatch above my head as some small creature – bird or mouse, or even a squirrel – burrowed in for comfort from the storm. By the sound of the rain hitting the shutters of my unglazed window, there was sleet mixed with the rain, a sorry change after the heat of recent weeks. The crop of oats would be taking a battering out there.
