‘Aye. But she wouldn’t have been in there if he kept the fence mended…“
Master Naylor silenced him with a slightly raised hand and asked at John, “It was your fence that let through Tomkin Goddard’s goat?”
‘No ’let‘ about it,“ John answered, surly with his wrongs. ”The beast shoved right through, broke a hole…“
‘Whereupon you threw stones at the goat?“ Master Naylor asked.
‘Aye! And I’d do it again. That…“
‘Whereupon you, Tomkin, then threw a stone at John, yes?“ Master Naylor asked.
‘Only because…“ Tomkin started.
‘And then you threw a stone at him?“ Master Naylor asked John.
‘Aye. The…“
‘Whereupon your wives, having more sense than either of you, stopped you both from doing more. Yes?“
John and Tomkin shuffled for answer while from the edges of the onlookers their wives nodded vigorous agreement.
Master Naylor turned to the jurors. “You’ve heard them both admit to assault on one another. I suggest you should find them both in mercy for it and…”
‘Here now!“ John protested. ”That’s not…“
‘… fine them accordingly,“ Master Naylor finished.
‘What about my fence? That goat made a great hole…“
‘There was hole there already! That’s how she…“
‘We’ll deal with fence and goat next,“ Master Naylor said quellingly. ”Sirs?“
The jurors’ heads went together, their talk low but brisk and brief before one of them, Martin whose messuage was at the bottom of the village not far from Tom-kin’s and John’s, stood up to say formally, “We find them both in mercy for assault, to be fined one pence each for the fault.”
He and the rest of the jurors seemed to think that ended it, though he was carefully not looking at Tomkin and John’s furious faces, but Simon asked, “And their weapons?” because any weapon used against someone was supposed to be seized, to be sold or recovered by way of fine, for the lord’s profit.
Martin cast him a perturbed glance, but Tod Denton on the rear bench tugged at Martin’s tunic hem, bringing him down to whisper in his ear, the other jurors leaning to listen and all of them nodding agreement before Martin straightened to say for all of them, holding in a grin, “The weapons they used being stones, we leave it to you and Master Naylor to decide their worth and if you want them.”
‘Stones be damned!“ John snarled. ”What about my fence and garden that goat ruined?“
Martin added hastily at Master Naylor and Simon, “And we leave the matter of damage done to fence, garden, and goat to both of you, too,” and sat down quickly.
‘Not that there was any damage done that goat,“ Tod put in. ”She’s a hide like an ale cask. I went to see her and couldn’t find even a bump.“
‘Damn the goat!“ John yelled. ”It’s my garden and fence that took the hurt!“
‘If you kept your fence mended…“ Tomkin began at him.
Master Naylor suggested, without raised voice, “There can be fines for disrupting court, you know.”
Both men shut up and Master Naylor asked Simon, “How would you say we should decide this goat and fence and garden, Perryn?”
Since Master Naylor had so tidily dealt with the worst part of the problem, Simon took this share of it willingly. “I’d say it only right that Tomkin replace what the goat ate in the garden. Three cabbage plants and a dozen young onions.”
‘Ha!“ John exclaimed triumphantly while Tomkin went red-faced and Simon went on, ”And John must repair his fence and keep it in repair to the common good or be fined one pence again whenever there’s trouble with it proved against him.“
Now Tomkin went, “Ha!” and John red-faced, but their wives, knowing a good time to escape even if their husbands did not, came forward, each to take her own man by the arm and draw him off.
It had all gone far more simply than Simon had feared it would, but now they had to face the next matter, and despite it looked to be simpler, a mere shifting of a lease from one man to another, he knew there was going to be trouble not so easily gone around as Tomkin Goddard’s and John Gregory’s.
Father Edmund was summoning the men forward now and all the differences between them were unhappily plain to see. Matthew Woderove glanced from Simon to Master Naylor to the jurors, trying for confidence but his shoulders already beginning to huddle against what he feared was coming. Even his clothing betrayed him-tunic and hosen and shoes as worn and tired and past their best as he was-while Gilbey Dunn, taking place beside him, wore prosperity’s certainty as easily and well as he wore his wide-cut, well-dyed, knee-length gown of finely woven dark russet wool, his hosen unpatched, his soft leather shoes so new they hadn’t lost their shape yet. There could hardly be doubt whether or not the lease for Farnfield, a stretch of rough pasture land along the woodshore beyond the fields, should go to Gilbey, except for knowing how hard the loss would be for Matthew, much though he deserved it, having let the land go to waste while he held it.
Still, the decision would have been easier, Simon thought, if he could have disliked Matthew. It should not have been difficult; the man had no skill at anything, failed at everything, including his marriage to Simon’s sister, though Simon had several opinions-not all of them to Matthew’s fault-about where the failure lay there, and he had long since stopped asking himself how Mary had ever come to marry so hapless a man, there hardly ever being answer to what drew such ill-suited folk to one another, though between Matthew and Mary, Simon knew it had had much to do with Matthew being the handsomest boy in the village in his time and bidding fair to be one of the richest men if he kept on with what his father had begun. But he hadn’t. Nor was he handsome anymore, being one of those men who left their best looks behind them well before they were thirty. Not that Simon felt he had much to his own credit on that side, but at least he’d had the sense to marry Anne and not some shallow-wit like his sister who couldn’t do more for a man than make his life miserable when she didn’t have all she wanted…
Simon made a hasty prayer of penance for the thought’s unkindness and set himself to what had to be done here and now, regardless of how he wished things were for Matthew. Though Gilbey Dunn and Matthew were both Lord Lovell’s villeins, the land and lease in question belonged to St. Frideswide’s, and so it was to Master Naylor that Gilbey was stating his desire to take over the lease on Farnfield since it had come to its end at Midsummer yesterday.
By form, Master Naylor asked, “And you, Matthew Woderove, are you desirous of giving it up?”
Although he had to have known the question was coming, Matthew hesitated as if surprised at being asked, said, “No,” uncertainly, then tried for firmer. “No. No, not at all. It was held by my father and then by me for twenty years now. I want to renew the lease.”
Simon inwardly sighed. He had known it was unlikely that Matthew would simply let it go but he had hoped it anyway. What made despising Matthew difficult was that he tried so hard, meant so well in everything he did, even if it was all to such little avail. Over and over again he had failed where he should have succeeded, ignored where he should have paid heed, and now, because he had ignored the Farnfield land for so long, he was about to fail in his bid to keep it, and failure to keep land was nigh to the worst failure a man could have. He would still have his main holding and the land that went with it, inherited from his father, but leased land was the lord’s to take back and give elsewhere if need be, and Matthew had let it become necessary.
With his face and voice seemingly disinterested in the matter though surely he was having much the same thought, Master Naylor said to Matthew, “You understand that twenty years make changes in things and the lease can’t be renewed under the old terms. What terms do you offer in their stead?”