The manor Hall, behind a wooden palisade, was a burnt-out ruin. “A good call by you on my sleeping arrangements,” commented Anne quietly.
Alan grunted in reply, “There’s damn-all left here,” he agreed.
Several cheorls, freemen of moderate means, approached, dressed in rough and plain tunics and trews. “God Hael, gum?eod! I am Alan of Thorrington. This manor, and several others nearby, have been given into my hands.”
The village headman introduced himself. He was a dark-haired man called Siric, above middle years but not yet elderly. He was large but not corpulent, perhaps because of lack of food in recent times. He named the other men with him and they then quickly showed Alan and the others around the village and before conducting them to Norton Canon, Monnington and Bobury. The damage to the two latter villages, which were on the river, included the ruination of their watermills, with the water-wheels being smashed and the buildings burnt. ‘At least the water-races and the mill-stones themselves still exist,’ mused Alan. They were back at Staunton by early afternoon, bringing with them the headman and elders of each village. They crowded into the tavern at Staunton as the Moot-Hall was still under repair.
“Hlaford! You clearly have had a difficult time over the last six months or so,” began Alan as he addressed them. “You’ve lost loved ones and valuable members of your communities. The previous lords died fighting to protect what was theirs, and King William has now given these manors into my hand. I hold directly from the king.” That comment caused some raised eyebrows and mutters. “I speak to you in Anglo-Saxon English, a language with which I am familiar. I hold other lands in East Anglia. My wife Anne is Anglo-Saxon, or at least Anglo-Danish,” here Alan gestured in her direction. “So are most of my warriors. Sir Robert de Aumale is my good friend and I have appointed him seneschal of these manors.
“Because of the damage to these lands the king’s taxes have been remitted for three years. Other than obligations to provide customary labour and also food for my men, any obligation owed by the villages to me as lord are waived until Christmastide, and possibly longer. There will be twenty armed men in my employ here at Staunton under Sir Robert to protect you. I expect every fit freeman, irrespective of whether or not they have military obligations, to train and be a worthy member of the fyrd. Every man. You live in the shadow of the Welsh mountains and the men who ride east from them. You know from what happened just a few short months ago the need to protect your own village. I will provide the weapons and my men will provide the training.
“A fort will be built here at Staunton. This will be not to oppress you, but to protect you. All will contribute labour to its building and all will be entitled in time of war to seek its shelter. This labour will be the traditional burgh-bot given to make or maintain fortifications for the village. Workers will be provided food and drink as is usual on each day of labour.
“I acknowledge the difficulty with food. The Welsh carried off all the milled flour and burnt what they could not carry away- even your seed stock for the spring planting. I’ll bring in seed for you to sow and provide it to you at no cost. Some of your oxen were hidden and can still pull a plough. Others were stolen or killed. The ploughs were burnt, but the village smiths can make new ones within a few weeks- the plough-shares themselves remain. Men may need to plough the land by hand come springtime, but I will provide what assistance I can. Your dairy cattle were taken. Probably half of your swine remain, as you were quick enough to drive them into the woodland, where taking them was difficult for the Welsh. Similarly with your cattle.
“I advise regarding the lord’s rights, that for this year only until Christmastide, I waive the traditional lord’s rights regarding taking boar, deer and wild cattle in the woodlands, for the own use of each man and his family. On an on-going basis, I waive the right to take fish by hook and line in the river, hare and fox in the fields, and pigeons. This should put meat in every pot every night.
“One wagon of flour should arrive tomorrow or the next day. I’ll send several others over the next few months. That will be rationed out and distributed free of charge to those in need.
“I’m not, generally speaking, a generous lord. But I recognise that these are difficult times and that those who have a call on my generosity are in need. You are my people; we have mutual obligations. When your villages are in a better position, should I then be in need, I would expect your support- as I now support you.” Alan nodded and sat down.
After several short speeches of appreciation from the village headmen, Alan, Anne and Robert walked over to the site of the former manor Hall, walking through its blackened walls and collapsed roof.
“It’ll be easier to start again,” commented Robert.
Alan grunted agreement. “Where?” he asked.
Robert pointed. “Probably just over there. This time a ditch and rampart, plus the palisade. Do we need a motte?”
“It’s not really worth the effort involved,” replied Alan. “The Welsh don’t go in for prolonged sieges and you couldn’t get all the people into the small tower for safety anyway. It should be sufficient to have a nine or ten foot deep trench, with spoil on the defensive side, and properly made embankment with a palisade on top; the old timber can be reused. That should be nearly impossible to breach quickly. You won’t be burnt out of house and home again, with the Grace of God, and some basic precautions.”
“So let us go and smite the Philistines on the other side of the border, for the Lord our God is with us!” commented Robert.
Alan clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s just kick arse and let God worry about the rest!” he replied with a laugh.
Appropriately, at that time the parish priest Father Siward walked into the village. The small thin man wore a brown habit and with a straggly moustache, he looked for all the world like an anxious mouse. Siward had been visiting his congregation at Byford and had his rectory nearby at Monnington. He ushered Alan and Anne into a small annex off the church sanctuary, the vestry where he changed his vestments before celebrating Mass. Siward urged them to sit at the stools while he perched himself on a small table after he had offered what hospitality he could, a cup of sour communion wine.
“What of your parishioners’ spiritual needs?” asked Anne.
Siward showed himself to be both quick-witted and compassionate with his reply. “The last six months have been a difficult time for the parish, and indeed the shire. The Welsh swept in like… not a plague of locusts as they were much more violent and dangerous than that, but you know what I mean. They stole everything they could and what they couldn’t steal they deliberately spoiled. The standing crops were burnt and the spare seedstock ruined. There are many still without the shelter of their own homes. Food is scarce and bellies empty. Fortunately, the river provides us with fish for meat and we were able to harvest some vegetables. There’s no grain for bread, or even to ferment to make ale! The dairy cattle and milking-goats were stolen, so there’s no milk and no cheese. The worst is the loss of the oxen. Without them we’ll be unable to plant more than a small amount of crops, even if we are able to procure any seed to sow. Most of the other cattle, sheep and swine were driven off into the forest and many were saved, but it’s been a struggle to keep them alive in the winter with most of the fodder gone. However, we’ve enough livestock to breed back to former levels, given time. Let us pray to God that the remainder of the winter is not harsh and that God gives a bountiful harvest in the autumn.