‘Something tells me that I might be needing it,’ she told Emma grimly as they were pushed on to the cart to start the long journey to Kentisbury.
Just as it had been in Shebbear, it was now harvest-time in Kentisbury, though it had started a week later there.
Once again, Matilda and Gillota were in the strip fields, toiling alongside their old neighbours, gathering sheaves, stooking and raking. The first shock of their kidnapping had worn off, to be replaced by sorrow and despondency, especially at the loss of their old home.
When their long and uncomfortable cart ride was over, they were turned off at Walter Lupus’s manor house, a grey-stone block set inside a wide compound surrounded by a wooden stockade. The surly guard dragged them by their chains around to the back of the house, where the huts of the servants lay between stables and barns. As he released their fetters by knocking out the rusty pins that held them, Matilda protested that they were in the wrong place.
‘Our home is further up the road!’ she complained.
‘Your home is here now!’ came a voice from behind her. Turning, she saw Simon Mercator, the steward to Walter Lupus, the man who had previously denied her attempt to establish her freedom at the manor court. He was a narrow-faced man with sandy hair and cold eyes, which roamed over her body as if he could see through the thin woollen smock that she wore.
‘We have our own croft, where I was born!’ retorted Matilda defiantly.
‘Not any longer,’ sneered Simon. ‘My nephew lives there now, so you’ll live here as the servants you are. When the harvest is over, you will help with the domestic work around the manor.’
He ignored her loud protests and pushed her into the hut that acted as one of the servants’ dormitories. The earth floor was strewn with rushes, and much of the space was occupied by a wide mattress, a hessian bag stuffed with hay and ferns. Apart from a milking stool and a couple of planks fixed to a wall to act as a shelf for their meagre belongings, the hut was bare.
‘This is where you will sleep with two of the other women,’ snapped the steward. ‘You will eat with the servants in that hut over there.’ He pointed nonchalantly at one of the other thatched buildings that clustered at the back of the compound, then walked away, oblivious to Matilda’s loud complaints.
The lout who had accompanied them back from Shebbear pushed her back into the hut. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut your mouth and keep it shut!’ he growled. ‘Enjoy your last evening while you can, as from now on it’ll be work every daylight hour.’
Matilda was no stranger to that, as before her father was granted his freedom she was accustomed to the life of a villein — but then she at least had her own home, first with her husband, then with her father. Now they were back labouring in the fields, alongside the folk they had known all their lives until they escaped eleven short months ago. Their neighbours were sympathetic to their plight, but as the new arrivals were no worse off than themselves, apart from the loss of their croft, there was nothing they would or could do to help them. However, there was universal dislike and even fear of both the new manor lord and of his steward.
‘Mean, grasping bastards, both of them!’ muttered the man who used to live in the next cottage to them. ‘Walter is a totally different man from his father Matthew, God rest his soul! He is dour and bad-tempered, thinking of nothing but the weight of his purse. He has brought that bloody man Simon Mercator here, as well as those surly ruffians to enforce his will. I reckon they are outlaws from the moor that he’s allowed back in, as long as they do his every bidding.’
Each evening, when the work ceased as dusk was falling, they plodded back to the village with the others and made their weary way to the manor house, where an unappetizing meal was provided in the eating hut. Then, like the rest of the villagers, they slumped on the bed with two of the younger serving girls and slept the sleep of the exhausted until daybreak.
Matilda tried endlessly to think of ways to escape from this nightmare, but there seemed nothing she could do. It would be impossible to run away again — and where could they go, anyway? They no longer had their few animals to live on, and it was impossible to think of getting back to Aunt Emma a second time. Barnstaple was too small a borough to hide in for a year and day, even if they could reach it undetected — and Exeter might as well be at the other end of the world for all the hope they had of getting there.
Gillota seemed devastated by the change in their circumstances, and, although their former neighbours were kind to her and tried to cheer her up, she was quiet and withdrawn, her former bright nature crushed. She seemed permanently fearful of either Walter Lupus or his creepy steward accosting her, in spite of her mother’s constant assurances that she would protect her. As it happened, they saw little of either of these men, the daily work routine being directed by the manor reeve, her father’s successor, who seemed a reasonable fellow, though weak in spirit.
Thanks to continued fine weather, the end of the harvest came little more than a week after they arrived back in Kentisbury. When the last sheaf was stored in the barn, ready for winnowing, it was traditionally the time for the celebration of ‘harvest home’, the expected right of both villeins and freemen to be feted by their lord in thanksgiving for the land’s bounty.
‘If it’s like last year, don’t expect much from this mean bastard!’ muttered the village smith, in gloomy anticipation of the ‘ale’ to be held in the churchyard that evening.
The whole village turned out, many bringing what spare food they could manage, to add to the victuals and drink grudgingly provided by Walter Lupus. Trestles were set out to carry the bread, cheese, pasties, shellfish, boiled salmon and some sweetmeats. A pig was being spit-roasted nearby over an open fire, and in spite of the smith’s pessimism there seemed plenty of ale as well as some cider.
The mood was subdued until Walter and his steward left after a token appearance, when their departure and the effects of the drink began to loosen up the atmosphere. Music was provided by a set of bagpipes, a drum and a fiddle, to which the younger folk began dancing. Even Gillota brightened a little when several of the village boys began flirting with her and soon dragged her into the ring of dancers.
Matilda went to the table to take some food, the labours of the day making her hungry even through her tiredness. She was breaking a piece off a barley loaf to eat with a piece of hard, yellow cheese when someone at her elbow spoke gently.
‘The mussels are good — I suppose they’re from Combe Martin.’
She looked around and saw a face that was vaguely familiar, though for a moment she couldn’t place it. It was a man a little older than herself, tall and broad with a pleasant, open face below his wiry brown hair. He wore a long tunic of good broadcloth, with a wide leather belt carrying a long sheathed dagger at the back.
‘You’ve forgotten me, haven’t you? We used to play in the barns when we were little!’
Enlightenment lit up her face. ‘Philip? Philip de Mora! I’ve not seen you in twenty years!’
He grinned at her mischievously. ‘I’ve been away at the wars, a foot soldier and then an archer. But those days are over, I’m afraid!’
He held up his left hand, two of the fingers of which were missing and the others twisted, with an ugly scar across the wrist.
‘A French sword ended my military career, so I came home a few months ago. But I gained my freedom over it.’
His face became serious. ‘I have heard of your misfortune in that respect, mistress. It is a scandal. Something must be done about the situation in this manor.’
Philip lowered his voice as he muttered the last few words. Then he brightened again and held out his good hand to her. ‘But tonight is for revelling, so let’s join the dance. Your daughter should not have all the fun!’