Epic Historial Collection (195 page)

Wulfric spoke simply. “My father held ninety acres of the lord of Wigleigh,” he said. “Fifty acres were held by his father before him, and forty by his uncle who died ten years ago. As my mother is dead, and so is my brother, and I have no sisters, I am the sole heir.”

“How old are you?” said Nate.

“Sixteen years.”

“You can't even call yourself a man yet.”

It seemed Nate was going to make things difficult. Gwenda knew why. He wanted a bribe. But Wulfric had no money.

“Years aren't everything,” Wulfric said. “I'm taller and stronger than most grown men.”

Aaron Appletree, one of the jurors, said: “David Johns inherited from his father when he was eighteen.”

Nate said: “Eighteen isn't sixteen. I don't recall an instance where a sixteen-year-old was allowed to inherit.”

David Johns was not a juror, and he was standing next to Gwenda. “I didn't have no ninety acres, neither,” he said, and there was a ripple of laughter. David had a half virgate, like most of them.

Another juror spoke. “Ninety acres is too much for one man, let alone a boy. Why, it was farmed by three until now.” The speaker was Billy Howard, a man in his middle twenties who had wooed Annet unsuccessfully—which might be why he wanted to side with Nate in putting obstacles in Wulfric's way. “I've got forty acres, and I have to hire laborers at harvest time.”

Several of the men nodded agreement. Gwenda began to feel pessimistic. It was not going Wulfric's way.

“I can get help,” Wulfric said.

Nate said: “Have you got money to pay laborers?”

Wulfric looked a bit desperate, and Gwenda's heart went out to him. “My father's purse was lost when the bridge collapsed, and I spent what money I had on the funeral,” he said. “But I can offer my laborers a share of the harvest.”

Nate shook his head. “Everyone in the village is already working full-time on their own lands, and those who have no land are already employed. And no one is likely to give up a job that pays cash for one that offers a share of an uncertain crop.”

“I will get the harvest in,” Wulfric said with passionate determination. “I can work day and night, if I have to. I'll prove to you all that I can handle it.”

There was so much yearning on his handsome face that Gwenda wanted to jump up and shout her support for him. But the men were shaking their heads. Everyone knew that one man could not harvest ninety acres on his own.

Nate turned to Perkin. “He's engaged to your daughter. Can't you do something for him?”

Perkin looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you should transfer the land to me, for the time being. I could pay the heriot. Then, when he marries Annet, he could take over his land.”

“No!” Wulfric said immediately.

Gwenda knew why he was so against the idea. Perkin was nothing if not sly. He would spend every waking minute between now and the wedding trying to figure out a way of keeping Wulfric's land for himself.

Nate said to Wulfric: “If you have no money, how will you pay the heriot?”

“I'll have money when I get the harvest in.”

“If you get the harvest in. And then it may not be enough. Your father paid three pounds for his father's lands and two pounds for his uncle's.”

Gwenda gasped. Five pounds was a fortune. It seemed impossible that Wulfric could raise so much money. It would probably have taken all his family's savings.

Nate went on: “Besides, the heriot is normally paid before the inheritor takes possession—not after the harvest.”

Aaron Appletree said: “In the circumstances, Nate, you might show leniency on that point.”

“Might I? A lord may show leniency, for he holds sway over his own possessions. But if a bailiff shows leniency, he's giving away someone else's gold.”

“But we will only be making a recommendation, in any case. Nothing will be final until approved by the new lord of Wigleigh, whoever he may be.”

That was true, strictly speaking, Gwenda thought; but in practice it was unlikely a new lord would overturn an inheritance from father to son.

Wulfric said: “Sir, my father's heriot was not so much as five pounds.”

“We must check the rolls.” Nate's response was so quick that Gwenda guessed he had been waiting for Wulfric to challenge the amount. Nate often engineered a pause of some kind in the middle of a hearing, she reflected. She presumed it was to give the parties an opportunity to offer him a bribe. Perhaps he thought Wulfric was concealing some money.

Two jurors brought from the vestry the chest containing the manorial rolls, the record of the manor court's decisions, written on long strips of parchment rolled into cylinders. Nate could read and write—a bailiff had to be literate, in order to compile accounts for the lord. He searched through the box for the right one.

Gwenda felt that Wulfric was doing badly. His plain speaking and evident honesty were not enough. Nate wanted above all else to make sure he collected the lord's heriot. Perkin was maneuvering to get the land for himself. Billy Howard wanted to do Wulfric down out of sheer malice. And Wulfric had no money for a bribe.

He was also guileless. He believed that if he stated his case he would get justice. He had no sense of managing the situation.

Perhaps she could help him. A child of Joby's could not grow up without learning something about guile.

Wulfric had not appealed to the villagers' self-interest in his arguments. She would do so for him. She turned to David Johns, standing beside her. “I'm surprised you men aren't more worried about this,” she said.

He gave her a shrewd look. “What are you getting at, lass?”

“Despite the sudden deaths, this is an inheritance from father to son. If you let Nate quibble about this one, he'll question them all. He can always dream up some reason for arguing about a legacy. Aren't you afraid he'll interfere with your own sons' rights?”

David looked worried. “You might have a point, there, girl,” he said, and he turned to talk to his neighbor on the other side.

Gwenda also felt it was a mistake for Wulfric to demand a final ruling today. Better to ask for a temporary judgment, which the jurymen would grant more readily. She went to speak to Wulfric. He was arguing with Perkin and Annet. When Gwenda appeared, Perkin looked suspicious, and Annet put her nose in the air, but Wulfric was as courteous as ever. “Hello, my traveling companion,” he said. “I heard you left your father's house.”

“He threatened to sell me.”

“A second time?”

“As many times as I could escape. He thinks he's found a bottomless purse.”

“Where are you living?”

“Widow Huberts took me in. And I've been working for the bailiff, on the lord's lands. A penny a day, sunrise to sunset—Nate likes his laborers to go home tired. Do you think he'll give you what you want?”

Wulfric made a face. “He seems reluctant.”

“A woman would handle it so differently.”

He looked surprised. “How so?”

Annet glared at her, but Gwenda ignored the look. “A woman would not demand a ruling, especially when everyone knows that today's decision isn't final. She would not risk a no for the chance of a maybe.”

Wulfric looked thoughtful. “What would she do?”

“She would just ask to be allowed to continue working the land, for now. She would let the binding decision wait until the new lord is appointed. She would know that in the interim everyone would get used to her being in possession, so that when the new lord showed up his approval would seem like a formality. She would gain her objective without giving people much chance to argue about it.”

Wulfric was not sure. “Well…”

“It's not what you want, but it's the most you can get today. And how can Nate refuse you, when he has no one else to bring in the harvest?”

Wulfric nodded. He was working out the possibilities. “People would see me reaping the crop, and become accustomed to the idea. After that, it would seem unjust to deny me the inheritance. And I'd be able to pay the heriot, or some of it.”

“You'd be a lot closer to your goal than you are now.”

“Thank you. You're very wise.” He touched her arm, then turned back to Annet. She said something sharp to him in an undertone. Her father looked annoyed.

Gwenda turned away. Don't tell me I'm wise, she thought. Tell me I'm…what? Beautiful? Never. The love of your life? That's Annet. A true friend? To hell with that. So what do I want? Why am I desperate to help you?

She had no answer.

She noticed David Johns speaking emphatically to one of the jurors, Aaron Appletree.

Nate flourished the manor roll. “Wulfric's father, Samuel, paid thirty shillings to inherit from his father, and a pound to inherit from his uncle.” A shilling was twelve pennies. There was no shilling coin, but everyone talked about shillings just the same. Twenty shillings made a pound. The sum Nate had announced was exactly half what he had originally said.

David Johns spoke up. “A man's lands should go to his son,” he said. “We don't want to give our new lord, whoever he may be, the impression that he can pick and choose who shall inherit.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

Wulfric stepped forward. “Bailiff, I know you can't make a final decision today, and I'm content to wait until the new lord is appointed. All I ask is that I should be allowed to continue to work the land. I will bring in the harvest, I swear it. But nothing is lost to you if I fail. And nothing is promised to me if I succeed. When the new lord comes, I will throw myself on his mercy.”

Nate looked cornered. Gwenda felt sure he had been hoping for some way of making money out of this. Perhaps he had expected a bribe from Perkin, Wulfric's prospective father-in-law. She watched Nate's face as he tried to think of a way to refuse Wulfric's more modest request. As he hesitated, one or two villagers began to mutter, and he realized he was doing himself no good by revealing his reluctance. “Very well,” he said with a show of grace that was not very convincing. “What does the jury say?”

Aaron Appletree conferred briefly with his fellow jurors, then said: “Wulfric's request is modest and reasonable. He should occupy the lands of his father until the new lord of Wigleigh is appointed.”

Gwenda sighed with relief.

Nate said: “Thank you, jurymen.”

The court broke up and people began to head home for dinner. Most of the villagers could afford to eat meat once a week, and Sunday was the usual day they chose. Even Joby and Ethna could generally manage a stew of squirrel or hedgehog, and at this time of year there were plenty of young rabbits to be caught. Widow Huberts had a neck of mutton in a pot on the fire.

Gwenda caught Wulfric's eye as they were leaving the church. “Well done,” she said as they strolled out together. “He couldn't refuse you, though he seemed to want to.”

“It was your idea,” he said admiringly. “You knew exactly what I needed to say. I don't know how to thank you.”

She resisted the temptation to tell him. They walked through the graveyard. She said: “How will you manage the harvest?”

“I don't know.”

“Why don't you let me come and labor for you?”

“I've no money.”

“I don't care, I'll work for food.”

He stopped at the gate, turned, and gave her a candid look. “No, Gwenda. I don't think that would be a good plan. Annet wouldn't like it and, to be frank, she'd be right.”

Gwenda found herself blushing. There was no doubt what he meant. If he had wanted to reject her because she might be too weak, or something, there would have been no need for the direct look, or for the mention of his fiancée's name. He knew, she realized with mortification, that she was in love with him, and he was refusing her offer of help because he did not want to encourage her hopeless passion. “All right,” she whispered, looking down. “Whatever you say.”

He smiled warmly. “But thank you for the offer.”

She made no reply and, after a moment, he turned and walked away.

19

G
wenda got up while it was still dark.

She slept in the straw on the floor of Widow Huberts's house. Somehow her sleeping mind knew the time, and woke her just before dawn. The widow, lying next to her, did not stir when Gwenda unwrapped her blanket and stood up. Finding her way by touch, she opened the back door and stepped into the yard. Skip followed her, shaking himself.

She stood still for a moment. There was a fresh breeze, as always in Wigleigh. The night was not totally black, and she could make out vague shapes: the duck house, the privy, the pear tree. She could not see the neighboring house, which was Wulfric's; but she heard a low growl from his dog, tethered outside the small sheepfold, and she murmured a quiet phrase so that it would recognize her voice and be reassured.