Being the shire reeve for this region, my tasks are numerous, but profitable. My wife calls me ‘fat and happy,’ and she is right on both counts. My belly is round from good mutton, my purse is heavy from my duties, and my hearth is warm each night. Yet, for all my comfort, today is not one I relish.
The Abbess’ tithe barn awaits, and it is my task to oversee the arrival of dues. It is a grim duty, and I find no joy in it. The tenant farmers and the village folk grumble, their faces hollow from hunger, their children clinging to their threadbare tunics. They know the abbey will take its due whether their fields yield plenty or not.
It has been a harsh year. The wheat withered under the summer's drought, the sheep yielded little wool worth spinning, and the orchard’s fruit was blighted. I cannot say how these wretches will survive the winter. Perhaps many will not. But that is not my burden, nor my concern. I answer to the abbess, and the abbess answers to God. And God, through His abbess, has seen fit to raise the tithes once more.
I ride toward the village of Ashenford, where the farmers have gathered their due. My steward, Osric, rides at my side. He is a hard man, grizzled and cold, suited to this work in a way I am not. He sneers at the farmers before we have even reached them.
“They’ll be trying to cheat the abbess,” he says. “They always do.”
I do not answer. It does not matter what I think. The abbess has demanded more, and more she will have.
The village is still waking when we arrive, smoke curling from chimney tops, the air thick with the scent of damp hay and wood rot. A meager cart stands in the center, its wooden wheels sunken in the mud. A few bushels of wheat, a sack of barley, and a handful of shriveled apples—this is what they have brought.
The reeve of Ashenford, a thin man named Alric, bows deeply to me. His eyes do not meet mine, but flicker with barely contained anger.
“My lord,” he says, “we have gathered all we could spare.”
“All you could spare?” Osric spits. “More like all you chose to spare.”
Alric clenches his jaw. I glance at the gathered villagers, noting the ribs showing beneath their tattered tunics, the sunken eyes of the women who clutch their children. There is no fat to trim here. And yet, the abbess will not accept less than her due.
“This will not be enough,” I say, keeping my voice level. “The abbey demands more.”
Alric’s mouth tightens. “We have no more.”
Osric steps forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“That so?” he sneers. “Shall we search your homes then? See if you’ve hidden away a fattened pig, or a store of grain for yourselves?”
A murmur ripples through the villagers, a quiet anger. The shuffling of feet, the tightening of hands into fists. My fingers itch toward my own sword. If Osric provokes them too far, we will be forced to act, and I do not wish to spill blood over a sack of barley.
“Enough,” I say. “We will take what is here. But know this, Alric—if the abbey is not satisfied, it will not be I who returns. It will be the abbess’ men.”
Alric bows again, but the anger in his eyes has turned to something colder. Something more dangerous.
We take the cart, leaving the villagers to their hunger. The road back to the tithe barn is silent, save for the creaking of wheels and the occasional muttered curse from Osric. He is displeased, but he will say no more on it. He knows, as I do, that this is only the beginning.
The abbess is waiting when we arrive, standing beneath the wooden beams of the barn. She is a thin woman, tall and severe, her habit pristine despite the dirt and hay around her. Her sharp eyes scan the cart’s contents before she clicks her tongue.
“This is not enough,” she says.
“The harvest was poor, my lady,” I reply. “The people are starving.”
She sniffs. “God provides for those who serve Him.”
I say nothing. It is not my place to question, only to obey.
She turns to one of her monks. “Send for my bailiffs. They will return to Ashenford and take what is owed.”
I stiffen. “My lady, if we take more, they will not survive the winter.”
She regards me with a look as if I were an unruly child. “That is not our concern. The abbey must eat. The church must be maintained. God’s work must continue.”
I glance at Osric, whose smirk has returned. He enjoys this, the power, the taking. But I do not. My stomach is full, my purse is heavy, but my heart is uneasy.
The bailiffs ride out at dawn. When they return, their horses are splattered with mud and blood.
Ashenford is gone.
Burned to the ground, the thatched roofs blackened husks, the fields trampled into the mud. The villagers are dead, or scattered. The tithe has been collected.
I do not ask how. I do not need to.
The abbess nods in satisfaction.
“God’s will is done,” she says.
I look at the storehouse, at the sacks of grain, the wheels of cheese, the barrels of salted meat.
And I wonder if God is watching….. hah!
( I write these short pieces in an attempt to encourage your curiosity and travel to these places. These photos are of Lacock Abbey. Please enjoy !)
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