Master Fourteen

This was the most ordinary of days in Eakley, a small village under the barony of John Ackford. The sun had risen early, but before it began its daily patrol, William Moore, now over forty, had already finished a good deal of work in his fields.

As the light grew stronger, the village gradually emerged from the gloom—a rooftop here, a low wall there—until, from a distance, the village center revealed itself as a ragged street lined with clusters of rough, thatched cottages.

Today would be another fair day.

Standing on a rise outside the village, William made his assessment. It was a blessing, of course, but it meant the day’s labor would be all the heavier. On such good days, one had to push to complete as much of the endless farmwork as possible.

Driven by nature’s urging, William’s hands moved more swiftly, and the scythe laid the pasture grass low at a faster pace. In one corner of the field, his two sons were also hard at work. The second son, Grace Moore, reaped alongside his father, while the youngest, Ross Moore, busied himself turning yesterday morning’s cut hay in the sun.

Save for the occasional pause to sharpen a precious scythe, the three worked steadily in silence—for there was much to do and little time left. Summer was already half gone, and only a few days remained before the second plowing. Just yesterday, passing east of the village, William had seen a person of importance: the bailiff, with two servants in tow, inspecting the lord’s land.

William disliked such scenes, for they heralded the approach of the summer’s most grueling labor service—a summons that arrived each year. This was no odd, piecemeal chore that his eldest, Idra, could just about manage alone; the plowing required every able man in the family.

The thought brought a wave of anxiety. Five more strips of hay still stood uncut; the peas and spring wheat on the common had been weeded only once all summer; the livestock shed, postponed year after year, was little more than a foundation; and the newly cleared strip at the forest’s edge, gained with such difficulty, was already in desperate need of repair.

Not all these tasks could wait until the family’s feudal obligations were over. Only a few days of good weather remained for haymaking, and the peas and spring wheat on the common could not be left unweeded for a fortnight longer. Moreover, after serving the lord, their own land and the common would also need a second plowing—the most crucial work of summer, to which every villager devoted their utmost energy and time.

The livestock shed would have to wait—most neighbors lived with their animals anyway, and it was sometimes convenient. The new strip at the forest's edge could perhaps be left until autumn. Half a day during the summer prayers might be spared for a quick weeding of the peas and wheat on the common, but, come what may, the hay simply had to be cut at once—if that were delayed…

William didn’t want to finish the thought. Last year, the Mundhams had missed their haymaking, and as a result, a cow and three goats hadn’t survived the winter. Now the whole family was hungry, and last time William passed by the woods, he’d seen Mrs. Mundham and her two children stealing fruit from the lord’s trees—an offense that, if caught by the forester, would mean another fine.

And yet, William hesitated. If the new strip weren’t repaired soon, damnable rabbits and voles would riddle it with holes, and the summer’s surge of weeds and brambles would soon overrun the hard-won wheat. That patch had only been granted to William’s family by the bailiff two years before, and though it was but a single virgate, the endless toil of clearing thorns, digging stumps, and leveling the land had consumed nearly all their spare time for over a year. If they didn’t tend it before the summer prayer, half a year’s effort would be wasted, and the buckwheat sown with such hope might not even yield seed.

William also knew his eldest, Idra, now grown, longed to marry Richard’s daughter, and hoped, once wed, to be granted a share of the new strip, whose rent was half that of his father’s other land. This matter could not be put off much longer; in another year or two, Grace would also be of age, and William could never manage two sons’ marriages and their plots at once.

Preoccupied with these worries and leading his two sons in their toil, William worked with increasing speed. The sun climbed higher, and after two hours’ steady labor, sweat pouring down his back, the hay at last lay flat. Then, with his sons, he spread the day’s cut grass to dry, turned yesterday’s hay twice, and, gathering their scythes, the three men left the field.

Down the slope, around two shallow valleys, and over a narrow footbridge, William made his way along the village path. As he passed the Atwaters’ cottage, someone called his name from behind.

“William! Hey, William—wait up!”

William turned. Holset, balding and breathless, gripped a pitchfork as he hopped over two stumps, hurrying toward him.

“What is it, old Holset?”

“Can you spare three marks of time this afternoon?”

“I need to cut hay,” William replied, his first priority ever in mind.

“So does everyone,” Holset panted, wiping the sweat from his brow. “The summer service is nearly upon us. Freeman and I talked this morning—we’ll haul the dried hay together today. Your hay’s still lying in the field, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“How about we do it together this afternoon? Freeman has his cart ready, and I’ve borrowed harness and ropes from the steward.”

William considered. It was a little early to start hauling, but the hay already dried amounted to a good load. If they worked together for three marks, they might save some time.

“All right,” William agreed. “At midday, we’ll fetch the cattle from the common. When the sun passes the second stump, we’ll meet at Freeman’s to load up. The hire for the harness and ropes, we’ll split three ways.”

With the afternoon settled, Holset and William walked on together, exchanging the latest news:

Wilson’s wife, finally unable to endure constant abuse, had disappeared that very morning—someone had seen her with the little girl heading west, and all guessed she’d fled into the hills. The reeve was now looking to fine Wilson.

The bachelor Byrne, forever hungry, had at last gone to the steward and taken on three virgates of the lord’s land—never to leave the village unless he served the lord for thirty years and paid off the redemption for each plot.

Poor, childless Alice, who’d scalded her foot fetching water days before, was not recovering but worsening; the widow might never see another summer.

And so on, and so on.

Holset soon reached his own door, just as their talk turned to how Agnes’s family had gained a new calf. “Well, enough for now—see you this afternoon, old William. Goodbye, Grace… and goodbye, my lord!”

At his cottage door, Holset lifted a hand to his thinning hair, tipped an imaginary hat, and bowed with comical solemnity.

My lord… ha! That old rascal…

William couldn’t help but smile. None of the great men of the barony would ever appear outside Holset’s cottage—the “my lord” in his mouth was simply the nickname his youngest, Ross, had recently earned.

Chapter Fourteen: "My Lord" (Part II)

William couldn’t recall the exact day, but remembered that sometime recently, as they worked the new strip, Ross’s voice had grown hoarse—perhaps from the heat.

At the time, William had worried a little, but the very next day he realized that Ross’s sore throat was, in fact, a most fortunate thing.

With his voice gone, Ross could no longer complain of hunger, nor protest over scant food, nor whine about work being too hard or too heavy.

Since Ross’s voice grew hoarse, William’s worries about the boy had lessened considerably.

Even better, deprived of speech, Ross seemed to channel his pent-up energy into the farmwork. Where before he had always been distracted—fiddling, asking questions, complaining—now, every morning, he set out with his father and worked quietly and diligently in the field.

Of course, to a seasoned farmer like William, Ross’s skill was still lacking. Many tasks were awkward, his hands unpracticed. Some jobs, though taught before, had to be demonstrated again, step by step, before he could grasp them.

Even so, William was satisfied. For all Ross’s shortcomings, it was clear that lately the boy had truly been applying himself.

Now that his voice had recovered, William worried the old ways might return, but thankfully, perhaps out of habit, Ross had not lapsed into complaint or idleness.

Yesterday afternoon, Ross had even mown half a virgate of hay on his own—half the amount his seasoned father could manage. This reassured William greatly.

Was this what it meant to grow up?

He glanced back at Ross, carefully watching his step. William, father of four sons and two daughters, knew well that growing up was no matter of weeks or days.

At thirteen or fourteen, children were full of dreams. Ross was no exception—like all the village boys, he loved listening to the stories told by passing messengers. William remembered that on the very day Ross’s voice went hoarse, he and two neighbor boys had waylaid the courier from the next village for ages.

Perhaps it was then that the strange ideas took root.

Yes, strange ideas.

The title “my lord” came from that. No one quite knew what story the messenger had told, but from the next morning onward, Ross would stand at the door with a wooden bowl, swallow, and insert his finger into his mouth, repeating this three times with three bowls of water.

He then dug out a rag from a chest, washed it obsessively, and every day after brushing his teeth, used it to wipe his face.

That first day, the family had laughed harder than they had since the summer prayers or harvest festival. Idra had even given Ross’s antics a fitting name—“brushing teeth, washing face.”

But they soon realized their laughter was premature. That night, after finishing the day’s work and supper, instead of going straight to bed, Ross took his rag to the stream and wiped himself down from head to toe!

The next day, he did it again.

The third day, again!

And more: Ross began washing his clothes. Everyone knew that clothes were just another piece of household gear—worn when cold, set aside when hot, perhaps hung out and beaten a bit, but as for washing them—what was the point?

The very idea of “washing clothes”—even the words together—struck William as absurd, as if one might “walk food” or “cut water.”

But Ross insisted on washing his clothes—every day, just as he brushed his teeth and wiped down.

Compared to these, his other habits—using the same bowl and spoon for meals, drinking only the hot water used to blanch peas, avoiding dung in the path, wrapping his hands and feet in leaves before work—had ceased to surprise them.

After days of this, the family and even William had grown used to it. They no longer minded. Children always had their odd fancies; as long as Ross kept his quirks to himself, ate no more than his share, and didn’t trouble the family, why interfere? If he returned to his old, idle, complaining ways, who would take up the extra work?

Still, William longed to know what story the messenger had told to inspire so many oddities.

Three days before, he got part of his answer.

It was morning. Two farmers from a neighboring village, driving a scrawny cow laden with buckwheat, were passing through Eakley just as William, Richard, Holset, and a dozen other men gathered for communal work.

Seeing such a group, the visiting farmers stepped aside, making room as best they could—pressing up against thick bushes on one side, for the other was a flourishing wheat field. They could hardly step into the crops, so they squeezed as close to the brush as possible. Still, the passage was narrow.

The Eakley men, ever polite, filed past—Richard first, then his three sons, then Holset and his four sons, William, then Idra.

Ross was next.

The visiting farmers, seeing the long line, noticed Ross only as he approached. In an instant, the two men whipped off their hats, steadied the buckwheat, tugged the cow, and, without regard for thorns, plunged into the bushes, bowing low…

…to Ross, whom they greeted, most respectfully, as “my lord.”

Perhaps, being with him daily, the villagers had not noticed the gradual change; perhaps, being so familiar, their minds had never leapt to anything so strange.

But it was only then, at the strangers’ deferential greeting, that Eakley’s people realized: at some point, little Ross, with his neat, well-brushed hair and scrubbed face, had come to look, from head to toe, just like the lords who visited Eakley only every few months.

William understood then that the messenger’s story must have been about a person of great importance—perhaps a bailiff, or even a steward.

He saw now that Ross’s daily peculiarities were all imitations of such a figure.

No wonder such habits were unheard of among the villagers—brushing teeth, washing face, washing clothes, all to impersonate a grandee before strangers.

The boy’s ambitions were lofty indeed.

At least, William decided, he would grant him that much—lofty, as far as his imagination could reach.