Sara Douglass - The Wounded Hawk

Well … that time was far off, God willing, and there would be many years yet to rearrange his rhymes into decent verse.

Tusser reached the edge of the field and nimbly leapt the drainage ditch separating the field from the laneway. Once on the dusty surface of the lane, he looked quickly about him to ensure no one was present to observe, then danced a little jig of sheer merriment.

Harvest was home! Harvest was home!

Tusser resumed a sedate walk and sighed in relief. Harvest was home, praise be to God, even though it had not been an easy year. No year was ever easy, but if a steward had to cope with a new lord descending upon his lands in the middle of summer …

When he’d commenced his stewardship of Halstow Hall eleven years ago, Tusser had been proud to serve as a servant of the mighty Duke of Lancaster … even if the duke had never visited Halstow Hall and Tusser had not once enjoyed the opportunity to meet his lord. But the duke had received Tusser’s quarterly reports and had read them well, writing on more than one occasion to thank Tusser for his care and to congratulate him on the estate’s productivity.

But in March preceding, Tusser received word that Lancaster had deeded Halstow Hall to Lord Thomas Neville as a wedding gift. Tusser was personally offended: had the duke thought so little of Tusser’s efforts on his behalf that he thoughtlessly handed the estate to someone else? Was the duke secretly angry with Tusser, and thought to punish him with a new lord who was to actually live on the estate? A lord in residence? The very idea! Tusser had read the duke’s news with a dismay that increased with every breath. No longer would Tusser have virtual autonomy in his fields … nay, there would be some chivalric fool leaning over his shoulder at every moment mouthing absurdities … either that or riding his warhorse at full gallop through the emerging crops.

Good Lord who findeth, is blessed of God,

A cumbersome lord is husbandman’s rod:

He noiseth, destroyeth, and all to this drift,

To strip his poor tenants of farm and of thrift.

Thus it was, that when Lord Thomas Neville had arrived with his lady wife and newly-born daughter, Tusser had stood in the Hall’s court to greet them with scuffling feet and a scowl as bad as one found on a pimply-faced lad caught with his hand on the dairymaid’s breast.

Within the hour he had been straight-backed and beaming with pride and joy.

Not only had Lord Neville leapt off his horse and greeted him with such high words of praise that Tusser had blinked in astonishment, Neville had then led him inside and informed him that Tusser’s responsibilities would widen to take in Neville’s other estates as well.

He was to be a High Steward! As Tusser strode along the lane back towards the group of buildings surrounding Halstow Hall, he grinned yet again at the memory. As well as Halstow, Tusser now oversaw the stewards who ran Neville’s northern estates, and the second estate in Devon that Lancaster had deeded Neville. Admittedly, this necessitated much extra work—Tusser had to communicate Neville’s wishes and orders to the northern and Devon stewards, as well as review their estate books quarterly—but it was work that admitted and made full use of his talents.

Why, Tusser now had the opportunity to send his verses to his under-stewards! Thus, every Saturday fortnight, Tusser sat down, ordered his thoughts, and carefully composed and edited his versified directions. He was certain that his under-stewards must appreciate his timely verses and homilies.

Tusser tried not to be prideful of his new responsibilities, but he had to admit before God and the Holy Virgin that he was not completely successful.

Not only had Neville praised Tusser’s abilities, and handed him his new responsibilities, but Neville had also proved to be no fool meddling with Tusser’s handling of the estate. He had a deep interest in what happened to the estate, and kept an eye on it, but he allowed Tusser to run it in the manner he chose and did not interfere with his steward’s authority.

Neville was a good lord, and surely blessed of God. And his wife! Tusser sighed yet again. The Lady Margaret had an agreeable manner that exceeded her great beauty, and Tusser rose each morning to pray that this day he would be graced with the sweetness of her smile.

Aye, the goodness and grace of God had indeed embraced Halstow Hall and all who lived within its estates.

Tusser turned a corner in the lane and Halstow Hall rose before him. It was a good building, built of stone and brick, and some two or three generations old. Originally, it had consisted only of the great hammer-beamed hall and minstrel gallery, kitchens, pantries and larders, and a vaulted storage chamber that ran under the entire length of the hall, but over the years Lancaster had caused numerous additions to be made, even though he had never lived here. Now a suite of private chambers ran off the back of the hall, allowing a resident lord and his family some seclusion from the public life of the hall, and new stables and barns graced the courtyards.

The sound of horses behind him startled Tusser from this reverie, and he whipped about.

A party of four horsemen approached. Tusser squinted, trying to make them out through the cursed sun … then he started, and frowned as he realised three of the four riders were clothed in clerical robes.

Priests! Cursed priests! Doubtless come to eat Halstow Hall bare in the name of charity before moving on again.

Priests they might be, but Tusser had to admit to himself that their habits were poor, and they showed no glint of jewels or gold about their person. The lead priest was an old man, so thin he was almost skeletal, with long and scraggly hair and beard.

His expression was fierce, almost fanatical, and he glared at Tusser as if trying to scry out the man’s secret sins.

Evening prayers will be no cause for lightness and joy this night, Tusser thought, then shifted his eyes to the fourth rider, whose appearance gave him cause for thought.

This rider was a soldier. Sandy hair fell over a lined, tanned and knife-scarred face, and over his chain mail he wore a tunic emblazoned with the livery of the Duke of Lancaster. As the group rode closer to Tusser, still standing in the centre of the laneway, the soldier pushed his horse to the fore of his group, pulled it to a halt a few paces distant from the steward, and grinned amiably at him.

“Good man,” said the soldier to the still-frowning Tusser. “Would you be the oft-praised Master Tusser, of whom the entire court whispers admiration?”

Tusser’s frown disappeared instantly and his face lit up with pride.

“I am,” he said, “and I see that you, at least, are of the Duke of Lancaster’s household. Who may I welcome on Lord Neville’s behalf to Halstow Hall?”

“My name is Wat Tyler,” said the rider, “and, as you can see, I am a sergeant-at-arms within good Lancaster’s household. I ride as escort to my revered companions,” Tyler turned and indicated the three priests, “who know your master well, and have decided to pass the night in his house.” Tyler grinned even more as he said the last few sentences. “Perhaps you have heard of Master John Wycliffe,” he nodded at the fierce-faced old priest, “while his two godly companions,” now Tyler could scarcely contain his amusement, “are named John Ball and Jack Trueman.”

Tusser bowed slightly to the priests, narrowing his eyes a little. He was well aware of John Wycliffe’s reputation, and of the renegade priest’s teachings that the entire hierarchy of the Church was a sinful abomination whose worldly goods and properties ought to be seized and distributed among the poor. Many of Wycliffe’s disciples, popularly called Lollards for their habit of mumbling, now spread Wycliffe’s message far and wide, and Tusser occasionally saw one or two of them at the larger market fairs of Kent.