The beaters were fed, given a tankard of ale and a brief rest and instructions before they returned to the forest. Edward had provided a sumptuous picnic for the hunters, with smoked spiced meats, cold portions of roasted duck and capon, gammon, cheese and fresh bread, all washed down with wine or ale.
After the meal the hunters moved to another section of forest, to which the beaters had been instructed to move and drive the game. Brand and Leof joined Alfward’s group, while two cheorls, each with an attendant, joined Alan’s group. A short time later the hunters were half a mile away in a different and more densely-vegetated section of forest. Again the beaters could be heard as they approached, although at first it appeared that all the game in the forest had gone to ground and were in hiding. Once again the beaters were following the basic requirement of approaching from downwind of the hunters, so that the prey couldn’t scent the hunters as they waited.
Suddenly, from the bushes some ten paces away appeared a sow with five piglets running close behind, and then a moment later a large boar who had positioned himself between the apparent threat and his mate. The sow and piglets ran past without being molested by the hunters who were following the hunting precept that a female with young was never attacked- based on the requirement to have something to hunt in following years. The boar, however, was another matter and was fair game. The two Englishmen loosed their arrows at him. Alan had more sense and dropped his bow, drawing the sword that he wore at most times he was outside his own Hall, like most men of station. A hunting arrow wasn’t going to stop an enraged boar that was ten paces away. The one arrow that did strike the boar in the shoulder did get his attention, making him turn to directly charge the hunters, which his poor eyesight had previously prevented him from seeing.
With a squeal of fright the two cheorls turned to flee, but one was slightly too slow and the enraged and wounded boar was on him, gouging him from behind with sharp tusks. Alan took a step forward, sword held low. The boar saw the movement and turned ready for another charge. As the beast launched itself forward, Alan crouched ready to allow the animal to impale itself on his sword, intending to then roll clear. At the last moment there was a movement from Alan’s right and Leof interposed himself, spear held low and aimed at the boar’s chest- but with his eyes tightly closed. There was a scream from the boar and then Leof felt himself grasped by the collar and dragged to the side. Alan’s voice in his ear shouted, “Keep your eyes open, and when you’ve stuck him get the fuck out of the way! A dying boar with a spear in the chest can still kill you! Well done, boy!” Alan gave him a gentle buffet on the shoulder and then ruffled his hair. After a moment of thought while he considered the boy’s young age he said, “See Brand on Monday morning and start weapons training. You’ve got the guts to make a fine warrior!”
The injured cheorl gave up the ghost an hour or so later, despite the best efforts of those in the hunting party. Although Alan had tried to assist he wasn’t overly upset about the fate of his fellow-hunter. After all, he hadn’t known the man, who had died not by mischance but due to his own stupidity and cowardice. Alan wasn’t disappointed with the outcome of the hunt. While he had a vague sense of regret about the death of the cheorl, he was satisfied that the day had proven to have had substantial benefit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thorrington August 1068
It was mid-August. The warm dry weather that everybody prayed for had not happened and for the last two weeks while it had been warm it had also been wet. There had been frequent heavy showers but no heavy soaking rain that would flatten the crops. Alan’s own crops of wheat, rye, barley and oats, sown and harvested first by the villagers as part of his lordly perquisites, were now in his granaries, threshed and winnowed. About half of the villagers’ grain had been harvested and the farmers had been waiting anxiously for the rain to stop and the crops to dry to permit the remaining grain to be threshed and to be stored without mildewing.
Alan had ridden through the light rain to Beaumont at the request of Siric the steward and head-cheorl Alstan. They were standing up to their knees in the crop in a section of the village land where had been sown rye, that most important of grain which formed the basis of the villager’s diet. Alstan handed Alan several heads of rye, and held some stalks of wheat in his other hand. The plant heads had a white tissue on them and drops of honeydew. Alan looked closely at the crop close to him and could see a few other plants similarly affected.
In reply to Alan’s raised eyebrow Alstan spoke a single word. “Ergot!”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” said Alan. Alstan and Siric nodded solemn agreement. “How bad?”
“We’ll burn the wheat crop as soon as it dries enough,” said Alstan. Alan winced. Wheat and salt formed the cash-crops that the village sold to buy items it couldn’t produce; rye fed the villagers; oats and barley fed the animals in winter. “This is the worst patch of rye. It’s not a high infestation at the moment and probably half, maybe two-thirds, of the rye strips are clear at the moment. The oats and barley seem alright- they’re always less affected by disease. We’ll have to burn the stubble and inspect almost each grain of the crop. We can’t feed any of the hay or grain to the livestock of course.”
Alan nodded. “You know what the infected grains look like? Good. You’ll have to watch closely for your people suffering St Anthony’s Fire- a burning feeling in their arms or legs, seizures, vomiting or hallucinations. Also poor circulation in the arms and legs, particularly toes and fingers. We don’t want people getting gangrene. I’ll let the other villages know. When you get your harvest in, tell me what you have and whether you need more rye grain. And let’s all pray to God that it stops raining and we get a nice dry wind!”
By late August the prayers had been partially answered, with the heavy rain having improved firstly to scattered showers and then to two weeks of blessed dry and sunny weather. The fields of each village in the Hundred had swarmed with virtually the whole population. Men, women and the older children advanced in a line, field by field, backs bent and sickles moving in rhythmic motion, the cut crops being gathered into sheaves tied together with a stalk, which the younger children and the elderly then placed in stooks at the end of the field to be collected later by wagon or cart. Even the professional soldiers took time out from their training to take part in the most important rustic pursuit of the year. Only the very young, very old or very sick- or the very rich and important- were absent from the fields.
Alan had spent several part days in the fields early in the harvest, when his own fields were being reaped by the villagers in priority to their own as part of the duty that each villager owed his lord- in this aspect English custom and that of the Normans were similar. While he felt that his time could be better spent otherwise, working up a sweat in the fields next to the villagers and then sitting with them in the shade while they consumed the lunch he provided them of rye bread, cheese and ale was a beneficial bonding process. Whilst his back ached from bending low for several hours at a time, he at least found that the calluses he had on his right hand from sword-practice prevented blisters being caused by the sickle. His left hand was another matter…
Early on Wednesday 27th August 1068 the blessed event that Alan and Anne had been awaiting took place. Anne had been unable to sleep, with increasingly powerful cramps in her abdomen. The last few hours, with Alan snoring gently next to her, had been really annoying. If she was awake, why should he be asleep…. After a sharp contraction and a grunt, Anne elbowed Alan and said, “It’s time. Get the midwife.”
After a delay of several seconds as he came awake and gathered his thoughts, Alan lit a candle for light and did as he was bid, shouting, “Synne! Call for the midwife, boil some water and let’s get on with the rest of it!”