by Smith, Skye
The market stalls that did well at these village fetes were the ones who did business by barter. Peasants and farmers did not need coin, nor miss coin, because the villages and farms were mostly self sufficient. The men were wealthy enough to buy staves, bows, arrows, and points, but they had no coins to actually pay with. There were only so many chickens that John could take in exchange for his wares.
They were learning first hand why folk were leaving the towns, and why shops were closed everywhere, and why builders and shopkeepers were giving up their trades to become farmers. Now that the parasitic Norman manor lords were without the henchmen needed to collect their greedy share of everything, now that Norman armies weren't munching their way around the kingdom, there was a surplus of food everywhere.
With a surplus of food, and a shortage of coin, food prices had never been lower for those that had any ready coin. Since food prices were so low, the manor lords and the town burghers were still eating well, but they had become very tight fisted with their coins. The were saving them for future meals rather than spending them on luxuries.
For fifteen years the most profitable businesses had been those that sold luxuries and high living to the Normans. The priests, lords, and knights had willingly paid good coin for the luxuries that they needed to keep up their status amongst other Normans, such as fine cloth and fine horses and stone houses and food that was imported or out of season. All the high markup goods that made shop-owners and ship-owners wealthy. With the Normans hiding behind their stone walls, or hiding in Normandy, no one was buying luxuries anymore.
So it was with the coins. Gold coins were used to hold the wealth of lords, but silver coins were used for holding the wealth of folk, and copper coins were used to pay for everyday things. True, the minters and jewelers would still trade silver coins for gold ones, but wives and children needed copper coins for doing the marketing.
With the low price of food these days, even copper coins were becoming too valuable for use in the local produce markets. "I still regret," John moaned, "that I brought silver coins to keep these tournaments running, rather than sacks of copper coins." Marion raised her eyes to the sky and sighed. She had told him so, more than once.
It was a strange and wonderful time to be in Wessex. Usually in years when there was a lack of ready coin, there was also widespread poverty and starvation. Not this year. Never had the folk been so well fed. Normally in such times men would be forced to work long hours for some master, and women were forced to sell their charms for food. Not this year. Everyone seemed to be taking the summer off to enjoy life. In the warm weather between the end of the planting and lambing season and the beginning of harvest season, the daily chores took but a few hours a day.
Even work that was not seasonal was at a slower pace such as women's work such as making cloth and clothes, and cooking and cleaning and caring for children. This summer such work was not crushed into too few hours after slaving long hours in the land lord's field. It was a summer like none could remember. A summer of happiness, of family time, of visiting neighbouring villages, and of feasting and festivals. The Normans on their henchmen were not invited.
The festivals were not just saints day feasts, but wedding feasts, and birth feasts, and funeral feasts, and feasts just because another Norman's horse had accidentally wandered into the onion fields. With the land lords no longer having enough henchmen to grab the lords share of everything, there was no more marriage tax, so this summer there were weddings a plenty, and there was no more death tax so no one was being buried in secret.
Raynar finished helping Marion put the displays away and then ambled over to the fete's ale garden to see if they were willing to exchange copper coins for silver ones. He was invited to join a table of some of the wealthier elders of the village. This included the cooper, the smith, the miller, and a very friendly monk. The monk had been sent by the local abbey to fill in as the parish priest, because the former priest had fled, with his genitalia still intact, to Normandy.
"Yee's a friend of big John, then?" the miller asked with a smile, as he filled Raynar’s pot from the jug of ale.
"Aye," Raynar replied. "as are most carters. He's a good man to know, and honest and generous."
"I'll agree with that," the cooper said. "He gave me a bow and some bow staves, for naught. Just gave them to me. And he gave some to these two as well." He pointed to the smith and the miller.
All Raynar could do was smile and take a long swig of ale. Mmm good ale. Of course John would have given these three craftsmen some bows, staves, and armour piercing points. There is no such thing as a hungry miller, so his sons would be strong enough to use the bows. Once the smith had sample points, he could duplicate them. The cooper was in the business of bending wood, so he would understand how to carve the seasoned Yew staves to enhance their spring.
"Ray," came a call from across the tables. "May I borrow Sleepy to take these girls safely home?" It was Robin and he had a gaggle of giggling girls with him.
"Aye," Raynar called back, and then under his breath he told the smith, "though I don't know how safe they will be from his wandering hands."
"They'll be fine," the smith replied. "They outnumber him, and they will choose his route to make sure that two of them together will be the last to be dropped off. They are young, but they've all been done before. Our effing lord and his henchmen take the virgins young. Err, took them young. Used to take them young," He corrected. "but not any more. Not unless they want to be gelded."
The monk was quite tipsy and bubbled in good humour. He explained his good mood as being glad to be away from the politics of his abbey. "Our abbot passed away," he explained, "and before our chapter could choose a new abbot, the bloody Bishop sent us one of his priests to fill the post. We sent him packing of course, but now the Bishop has forbidden us to hold an election to replace our abbot from within our chapter."
Raynar continued chatting to the monk for he was a great source of local news. He always seemed to get along well with monks, whereas not at all with priests. The ale garden was now filling up with the archers from the match. Thanks to John, most of them had something to show for their entrance fee. A few good metal points, if nothing else. Others were stroking their new bows or were showing them off to their friends and relatives.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Hoodsman - The Second Invasion by Skye Smith
Chapter 14 - Hobbling Normans in Wessex in summer 1084
Alan and John eventually joined Raynar at the ale garden and since they were offered free ale they soon had that sleepy look that ale brings to all men who had risen at first light and worked all day. Marion and Acca must have been left watching the carts. On this long summer day the sun would not be down for another two hours and then there would be at least an hour of twilight. Meanwhile the women and youth and children had joined hands to form a long chain and were dancing in rings and loops around the common.
There was a yell and some screams and every man looked up from their ale to see a cart racing across the common at break neck speed, while rocking wildly from side to side. It was Robin, yelling about something, while the girls were laying, sitting, or sprawled in the back screaming in that high pitched way of teen girls. Sleepy was well used to the cart and slowed it without tipping it, and brought it to a lurching stop beside the tables. The summer dust that the cart had raised did not stop, however, and it wafted over the men at the tables, to their coughs and complaints.
"Armed men," Robin called out over the coughs, "armed mounted men. Coming fast. Right behind us."
It was warning enough for a dozen men to reach for their bows and string them. The man who had been laughing heartily while trying hopelessly to string John's personal bow, Black Betty, now tossed it to John. Raynar motioned to the miller, and the man threw him the longbow he had just been given that day, and then passed the three arrows across the table.
Everyone in the common was now looking across the field
towards the thunder of approaching hooves. The dust of a squad of hard riding men came into sight, perhaps twenty of them, though not moving nearly so fast as Sleepy had been moving. The squad did not turn onto the common but instead kept to the road and in moments were out of sight behind the next stand of trees.
"My God, oh my God," the monk yelled out from where he was standing watching. "That was the Bishop's priest, his choice of abbot. They are riding towards the abbey. This can't be good."
"How far to the abbey?" John asked.
"Three miles, no more," replied the miller.
"Then I suggest," John announced in his booming voice, "that a few of us go and see what is up, while the rest of you get your families to safety and set up some ambushes in case that squad doubles back to loot the village." The local men looked at each other, shrugged because the big man spoke sense, and set off calling for their women and children.
The group of volunteers that formed to go to the Abbey crowded into Sleepy's cart, or trotted beside it. It included the four that had run the match, the three who had won the match, and the monk who was no longer tipsy, but very awake, and very fearful. The sun had still not set when they reached the abbey compound, but there were long shadows so one of the local lads trotted ahead of them, keeping to the shadows, to scout the open gate.
The lad was soon back. "There is one guard watching about twenty good horses, still saddled. The door to the abbey is closed. I didn't see anyone else."
"Bugger," said the smith. "with those horses they could loot any village in this valley without even breathing hard."
"So let's take the horses away from them," Alan suggested. Many a Norman had lost his fine mount to the bands of horse thieves in the Peaks forest. Bands that Alan was on more than friendly terms with.
"Our village is but three miles away," replied the smith. "They will do murder there to get their horses back."
With a rustle Raynar reached into the pack on his cart and a little while later produced something short and shiny. "This is a Venetian face razor," he said. "Made of silver so you don't infect your face if you cut yourself. Come over here and take a look at Sleepy's back leg. You three lads especially." He pointed to the three lads who had won bows today.
The men crouched and watched, as did Sleepy with slight alarm because Raynar was touching the inside of her left rear leg. "See the hock on the rear leg. If you feel around the bottom of it you can feel a small muscle underneath the hide. It may be small, but without it a horse cannot leap or run. If I were to make a tiny nick in that muscle with this razor, Sleepy could still walk, and still carry a man on her back, but it would hurt her to go faster, so she would refuse. Just a nick mind you, not right through."
"Aye," the smith agreed. "The muscles below the hock are as important as the muscle that runs behind a man's heel. Small but vital for running."
"So, if we get rid of the guard," Raynar suggested, "we could nick the hock of all of those horses. A man on foot could then outdistance them."
"And ruin the horses. We may as well steal them."
"A nick will heal in a few months. Only if we slice it through will they be lame forever. In that case you can leave them to fatten until winter, and then walk them to the soup pot before you butcher them."
It was agreed. They would lame the horses to limit the threat their riders posed to the valley. Sleepy was left in a copse while the men ranged forward keeping out of sight of the gate. "Listen all of you," Raynar spoke in a hoarse whisper. "If we need to raise an alarm for the village, then the man closest to the cart must use it. Point Sleepy in the right direction, tell her to run, and then hold on for dear life."
The monk wandered towards the guard near the horses and kept talking to him in a loud voice, not just to keep his attention, but also to mask the sounds of the two men who crept up behind him and grabbed him and threw him to the ground. In a minute he was trussed up and gagged, and the horses were theirs. Slowly and gently so that the horses would not panic, the local smith nicked each of the left rear hocks.
"I feel a huge guilt for doing this," moaned the smith who had spent a lifetime shoeing horses, "but I would rather I be doing it to make sure the nick is small and in the right place." It seemed like hours in the doing, but when the smith stood up and patted the last horse, it was probably less than a half hour to do all.
With the horses now partially lame, and the immediate threat lessened, the monk left their company. Before they could stop him, he ran to the main door of the abbey and swung one side open and rushed inside. Once the door was open, they could hear voices, but not the sounds of prayers or chanting. These were howls of pain and screams of panic. The monk raced back outside yelling to them, "There is murder being done in the abbey. The alter itself is dripping in blood."
Those were his only words before a black robed priest grabbed him by both arms to stop him from escaping and swung him around to push him back through the doorway. As he did so, another man, a warrior wearing a plume of authority on his helmet, stepped into the poor monk and skewered him with his sword. The monk screamed for but a second before falling to the ground, a limp body.
The priest must have only then realized that the monk was raising an alarm, but to whom. He faced out into the abbey compound and stretched his eyes to see if men had been watching the killing. An arrow half the size of a throwing spear hit him square in the chest, lifted him backwards off his feet and towards the giant door, and it pinned him to that door. Such was the awesome power of Black Betty, the bow that only John could draw.
The plumed warrior stopped in his tracks and stared at the priest now hung from the door. That split second of staring cost him his life, for three arrows smashed into him. John, as big as he was, sprung up the stairs to the main door with the grace of an acrobat, saw that all three men there were dead, and then called with his bellow into the abbey.
"Oye, you with weapons in the abbey! We have the building surrounded by archers," he lied. "Your priest and your captain are dead. Stop the violence against these holy men and seek terms." Just in time he ducked his head back behind the one door that was still closed, as a crossbow bolt came whistling outside into the compound.
One of the local lads ran passed Raynar and towards Sleepy. "I'll go and bring the village men," he yelled. "With the horses lamed, it is safe for our men to leave the village." He leaped aboard the small cart and hurried Sleepy with the reigns and guided him back to the road. With a whinny and a howl of the lad's delight, they were away at the gallop.
"Rotten sod," another of the lads cursed. "I wanted a turn driving that cart."
John turned to them from where he was standing in the safety of the one closed door and called to them, "They are telling me that they have hostages, and that there are wounded monks who will die soon if they do not get help. Our archers are to back out of range and let them leave in peace."
Raynar wracked his brain to think like a Christian. Doing that was always difficult for him because Christians were superstitious to the point of being illogical. As he thought he walked up the stairs to stand beside John. Then he called out through the door in courtly French. "You have killed holy men on holy ground. Unless you are forgiven by a priest or a bishop before you die, you will burn in Hell forever. Throw your weapons out, and then walk out the front door to your horses, and we will let you go in peace to your bishop to seek his forgiveness. If you do not, you will die in this abbey today, and go straight to hell."
There was a murmour of voices inside discussing his words. This was a good sign. "Before you can kill us, we will have killed all of the monks," the reply came back.
"They are all holy men and well prepared to meet their maker," Raynar called back. "As the angels lift them to Heaven they will watch you being dragged down into Hell. We cannot let you leave with weapons because we fear for our village. We will not risk our families to save monks who are destined for heaven."
The answer was slower coming this time. "The bishop is the only l
aw in this shire right now, and we are his men. You have already killed his priest, his chosen abbot. If you kill us, then he will destroy your village, and kill all of your men, and sell off your women into brothels."
"Exactly," Raynar called back. "That is why we would rather not harm you. Please leave the abbey and ride back to him. But not with your weapons. We do not trust you with horses and weapons so close to our village." There was a long, long silence from within. They must have been chewing their options amongst themselves. It was a bit of good luck that both the captain and priest were dead and of no help in making their decision.
Playing for time, Raynar kept silent, but once he saw a gang of village men arriving he called into the abbey, "You were just following the orders of the priest and your captain. You no longer have any orders because those orders died with the priest. If you do more harm, then that harm will rest on your own shoulders, on your own necks."
The first men through the door were monks. Five of them walking like a living shield. Right behind them were two men who stopped the shield of monks while they had a good look around. They looked with both surprise and horror at the size of one of the men who had been talking to them. He was the size of a small shed and his head towered above them. Worse, they saw close up how the priest had been pinned to the door by a monstrous arrow.
"You two, go into the compound with the rest," they told Raynar and John. Then they yelled out to everyone. "Everyone step back out of arrow range. Once you are out of range, we will come out without weapons, except for our four arbalesters. They will keep you covered until we gather our horses. Any false moves and these monks die."
The village folk and the archers did as they were asked and backed up out of range of the crossbows. By this time there were a lot of village men about, because the day's fete had attracted folk from villages all around the valley. Over a hundred men for sure. Some of the folk were tenants of the Abbey, and they were livid with rage at the Bishop's men, but they kept their peace for the sake of the monk hostages.
