Laverna Lodge and Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1371
In the forty-fifth year of the reign of Edward III
So, hen, what’re you thinking?” Alyson didn’t even look up from the spindle. A few of us were in the solar spinning. It was a freezing-cold day. The windows were sealed with frost, and a bitter draught managed to ease its way through the cracks and crevices, diluting the warmth of the fire that we practically sat upon. Hereward and Wake were curled at my feet. Part of me wished I could lie beside them or borrow their thick coats a while.
Trust Alyson to notice I was preoccupied. I watched the thread growing between her experienced fingers. She was waiting patiently for an answer.
I glanced at the servants. Hob and Aggy had just come in from finishing their chores and were preparing to work the loom. They were pretending not to listen while soaking up every tidbit to share it in the kitchen later. Milda and Rag were in the barn fetching more wool to spin. Though I trusted Hob, Rag and Aggy, and Milda of course, I couldn’t risk what I had to say being heard, let alone repeated. For Alyson was right. I’d spent weeks wool-gathering until, this very day, I believed I’d finally found a way to deal with my spendthrift husband.
“Why don’t we walk in the garden?” I abandoned the spinning and stood.
“What?” exclaimed Alyson, recoiling in horror. “Outside? In all the snow and wind and freeze our bloody tits off?”
I jerked my head toward Aggy and Hob.
It was easy to forget the servants. I know that sounds callous and cruel, but when I was a servant at Noke Manor it was our God-given duty to blend in, to become all but invisible. We used to pride ourselves on not being noticed. If we were, then we’d failed in our duties. Worse, we’d have nothing to gossip about.
“Now you mention it,” said Alyson, rising, “a walk in the fresh air is just what I need.”
“The hounds too,” I added. “We’ll take them.”
Just the word “hounds” was enough to propel the dogs to their feet.
Before long, with cloaks, gloves, and clogs over our soft boots, we were trudging about the grounds. Hereward, Wake, and two puppies we’d kept, part of a fourth litter who’d grown fast, came with us, fanning out, snuffling and exploring, glad to be outdoors. The hoofprints of the horse of yet another creditor were stark in the snow.
We walked in silence, watching the dogs, waving to Milda and Rag as they returned to the house, their breath escaping in torrents of white mist. The blacksmith’s shed gave us a welcome blast of warmth and we slowed our pace to enjoy it. Inside, we could see Master Ironside’s huge silhouette against the flames as he plunged a piece of molten metal into water, his leather-aproned apprentice beside him. Almost immediately, they were hidden by steam.
We continued, coming upon another of the servants, a tall man with thin brown hair and stooped shoulders, chopping wood in a corner of the courtyard and moaning as pain shot up his cold arms. Drew and Arnold, a pair of young men who had six teeth between them, most lost in brawls, were raking up horseshit in the barn, whistling and shouting insults to each other in jest. Drew was as short and burly as Arnold was tall and lanky. Upon spying us, they stopped, doffed their caps—Drew exposing his already balding head and Arnold his mop of pale curls—and leaned on their rakes, curious to see us outside. Neither had family to speak of, just each other. We’d barely passed from sight when we heard them discussing the state of our minds. As far as they were concerned, we must be loon-mad to be out in the weather when we could be in the warm solar.
Once beyond the courtyard, we set out toward the nearest of the drystone fences that marked the boundary between the grounds of the lodge and the pastures. Before us the land rose to the west, a cluster of charcoal trunks at the crest of the hill the only color against the snow. Even the sheep were hard to see, but they were there, huddled beneath the trees, released from the barn for a brief time to forage and move about. A servant named Wy, who was training one of the other pups that had come to us, a big young hound named Titan, was responsible for herding them. Wy was a slight, shy man with a terrible stutter, a pronounced limp, and scars on his hands from where the knife had cut him when he was first learning to shear. He was good with all the animals. Patient. Gentle. Mistress Emmaline said he preferred the company of beasts to folk. They never mocked his speech or asked why he limped. Milda heard that when he was younger, a group of boys beat him badly, jumping on his leg and breaking it. If it hadn’t been for Drew and Arnold pulling him out of the ditch into which he’d been thrown and taking him to the barber in Bath to have the bone set, he might have died. The three had been close ever since. Drew and Arnold would not hear a word said against Wy, and were always watching out for him. I liked them a great deal for that.
To the east, the land was flat, a huge expanse of snow broken only by drystone walls. Underneath the thick blanket lay a mix of pasture and the fields of the villeins. Men and women were abroad even today, shoveling the snow, trying to expose the topsoil. A few children tagged along, one throwing a stick for a rangy dog that bounded through the drifts, shaking its coat every time it returned to the child’s feet. Laughter and voices carried. The cottages were dark blots on the landscape, their coated roofs the only exception, gray smoke spiraling skyward. There were more houses without smoke to identify them. In the past months, once the harvest had been brought in, and excess stock slaughtered at Martinmas, the occupants had abandoned them. One day they were there, the next they were gone. Rents were owed, tithes too. My heart sank upon seeing them empty. At least four families had gone, two with small children. Not that I blamed them, not when the land they’d been given was so meager and the expectations of their landlord so great. Mayhap, just mayhap, if I trod carefully, I could change that. Papa’s words from so long ago echoed. “Of men, the best and wisest don’t care who has control over what or who in the world.”
What I could do with all this if I had control. If I had a say.
To the southeast, the hills dipped into a shallow valley, the church spires of Bath spindly fingertips pointing heavenward. A mixture of thick smoke and mist hovered over the town, marking its location the way a shingle does a shop. It was reassuring to know that a short ride away, there were people, trade, markets, Father Elias. Over the last few months, my reception in the town had been a great deal more welcoming as people understood I was working hard to pay off Turbet’s debts. If only I could prevent him from incurring more, we might actually inch into profit one day.
I looked out over the landscape, inhaling the clean, almost metallic smell of the snow, and listened to the snuffles and happy barks of the hounds. Mayhap, there was a way. It was cruel, it was dangerous too, but if something bad achieved something good, was it a sin? Was it evil?
Alyson leaned against the stone wall and released a long sigh.
I rested next to her. “You were right. I’ve been thinking—”
“God help us,” she said, crossing herself.
I elbowed her in the ribs. “I’ve been thinking,” I repeated. “I might have found a way to stop Turbet running up more debt and being so free with our inheritance. What’s left of it. Mismanaging the tenants and so on.” I nodded in the direction of the empty cottages and thought of the wool contracts. “Racking up more and more debt.”
“Isn’t it too late for that?” she asked, shielding her eyes with her hands as she surveyed the area. Even though there was no sun, the snow gave off a powerful glare.
“Mayhap. But for all that Turbet’s a profligate of the highest order, he’s not making the sort of money he needs to maintain his lifestyle. At least, he isn’t if this—” my arm encompassed the land, “and his debtors are anything to go by.”
“You know they are,” said Alyson. “And to be blunt, Eleanor, I’m looking forward to just once going into town and not having some poor sod run up to us with a weepy story about how your husband owes them money.”
“Me too,” I sighed.
“Milda told me the cordwainer and the grocer are refusing to serve us until the last bill’s paid,” said Alyson dourly, examining the thin leather of her boots.
I looked down at my worn clogs. “Aye. They’re not the only ones. The miller and fishmonger said the same. In starting to pay off Turbet’s debts with the little coin I keep aside from weaving, I’ve made matters worse. There’s now an expectation they’ll all be paid before we can purchase anything else or ask for credit again.”
“Have you told Turbet?”
I gave a dry bark of laughter. It echoed. “I’ve tried. But you know how he is. Things are so bad, even Jermyn’s tried to make him see sense. Mistress Emmaline. Father Elias. Turbet refuses to listen. Says it will all be fine once summer comes and the harvest is done and the wool sold. What he actually means is when the rest of the contract money is paid.”
Alyson made a harrumphing sound. “That’s months away.”
“Exactly. And there’s no guarantees even then. Not after what he did last year, buying those bloody northern sheep. The flock’s reduced, the condition of their coats is not known. He sold those alien merchants an unknown quantity and quality. Worse, a false promise. And look at the tenants’ lands. Turbet made them plant all their strips instead of leaving every third one fallow. What if the wheat’s diseased? What if the rains are like they were a few years ago? The villeins have nothing to fall back on.”
“He’s a fool.” Alyson screwed up her eyes. “He’s unable to plan for more than his next fine paltock, fur, barrel of wine, or ham hock.”
I clasped my hands together. “I tried to tell him that.” I touched my breast. “But what would I know? You’ve heard him; doesn’t even matter the evidence is before his eyes, if I say it, then it’s foolish. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Pa didn’t feel that way,” said Alyson quietly.
A wave of longing washed over me. “He did not.” I kicked the snow about with my clog. One of the pups paused in her digging and cocked her head to watch me.
I continued wistfully. “As long as my husband listens to the likes of alien merchants, never mind bloody Kenton Haveton and that fop, Master Kit, who all agree women are wicked, stupid, and prone to playing men false with all our wiles, he’ll not give consideration to anything I say.” My hand described a broad arc. “Certainly not about this.”
“Then how can you ever hope to make a difference?” asked Alyson, watching the hounds galivant about.
I gave a grim smile. “By giving him no choice but to listen—to listen and do exactly as I say. After all, it really doesn’t matter who’s in control, does it? So long as the result benefits everyone.”
Alyson slowly turned to face me, her expression doubtful. “Really? That’s what you’ve been thinking about? That’s your words of wisdom?”
I laughed. It was genuine. “Nay, not mine, but Papa’s or, rather, someone called Toll-a-me. He believed it didn’t matter which sex is in charge, as long as good is done in the world.”
“Was he a eunuch?”
I laughed harder. “Mayhap.” My laughter died. “But if I can gain control over everything, including paying off debts properly, then we might be able to make something of this. I mean, look at what’s here, Alyson. There’s so much land, fine land, and that’s before you include ours. Yet it’s being mismanaged. The house too.” I turned and leaned back against the wall, facing it. Alyson did likewise. The lodge looked rather imposing with its two stories and chimneys. “We could do so much. We just need to be considered, thrifty. All I need is for Turbet to give me authority to make changes, even for a while . . .”
Alyson frowned. I could tell she wasn’t convinced. “And young Gaunt there,” she said, pointing to the larger of the pups, who was busy chasing his tail, “might transform into a dragon.” She spun back around and rested her elbows on the wall. “How, in God’s name, do you propose to make this miracle occur? How are you ever going to make Turbet Gerrish listen to you, a hapless, hopeless woman?”
“Like this,” I said, and there by the drystone wall that separated the pasture and villeins’ lands from the lodge grounds, with no one but the hounds, the sheep, the wind, and dazzling light to hear us, I outlined my plan.