Margaret Moore - The Baron's Quest

“There are twenty-two who pay rents in cash, my lord,” Chalfront replied eagerly. “David Marchant the miller pays the most, fifty shillings a year, and John the Smith pays the least, two farthings. The rest are listed here.” He indicated another closely but neatly written parchment.

“And these?” Etienne waved at the following group of names on the same parchment.

“Those are the villeins ad opus. Beside their names, you will see that I have noted what work is expected of them per week and per annum, my lord.”

Etienne gave the bailiff a brief nod and the list an even briefer glance. “You seem to enjoy making lists, Robert.”

“I enjoy having things neat and orderly, my lord,” Chalfront replied respectfully. “I would draw your attention to my notes regarding the mill rate and pannage, my lord, and—”

“My head aches,” the baron said truthfully, silencing the bailiff. He picked up a document with an elaborate seal, and another one with a smaller seal. “This is my Charter of Extent,” he said, indicating the former, “detailing the lands, services and rents I am supposed to receive, and this is the Charter of Custumal, the obligations and rights of the tenants, that I found among the late earl’s papers. I want you to examine them and tell me if everything is in order.”

The bailiff’s pale blue eyes widened. “You would trust me with this responsibility, my lord?” he marveled.

“Yes,” Etienne replied, only then considering that perhaps he was not wise to give this fellow such a duty. “For the present. My steward, Jean Luc Ducette, will be arriving in a fortnight. He will examine the records when he arrives. He had better be able to confirm what you have to tell me.”

The bailiff nodded enthusiastically.

“What are all these other lists?” Etienne asked, gesturing vaguely toward another pile of papers.

“I thought you would wish to have certain information before the tenants swear their oaths of loyalty. Here are three new men who have yet to pay their gersum for becoming your tenants,” Chalfront said, pointing to a group of names on the topmost document. “This man needs to pay the merchet before his daughter weds next month. These two men have died since the earl, and no one has collected the heriot. And finally, my lord, I really think you should decide about the pannage.”

“What did the earl usually ask for the privilege of letting pigs roam in his forest?”

Chalfront named sums that would have been appropriate in the last century, and Etienne said as much. “No wonder the earl found himself penniless,” he added. The baron eyed Chalfront shrewdly. “Why did you not inform the earl that he was not demanding nearly enough?”

“I did, my lord,” Chalfront said with great humility. “He refused to listen, even when I made it clear that he had set himself and his family on the road to ruin. He was a man who wanted very much to be liked by his tenants. Too much, perhaps, but it is certain that they all genuinely mourned at his death.”

If Etienne needed any additional confirmation that the late earl was a man of misplaced priorities, Robert Chalfront just provided it. It was not important that one’s tenants liked their lord; it was important that they respect him, obey him and make him a wealthy man. “I see.” Etienne ran his gaze over the unprepossessing man sitting across from him. Would a man like that truly dare to upbraid his master? Would he have the courage to make the consequences of the earl’s misplaced generosity apparent? Or would he mumble and stutter and try to follow the lord’s instructions somehow?

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