Evaluation Techniques

†

Jack set to work again to try and absorb all there was to know about Burton.

He had viewed the books of account kept by Guy and satisfied himself of the basic fabric and security of the place; now by degrees he needed to acquire a more detailed knowledge.

His evening with Jamie had ended up as a drunken one, but along the way he had picked up quite a lot of knowledge. The priest inferred that Guy was running Burton to his family’s advantage and that was generating a lot of bad feeling amongst the tenants and villagers. Supplies came from Guy’s preferred sources, usually in Lincoln, and the village was suffering financially now that it had lost the opportunity to supply Burton with their own local produce.

Jack was once again in the company of the fat retainer.

“So let’s look at the land. How is it apportioned?” Jack asked, his hands holding open on the desk a map of the manor and the surrounding area.

Guy went to retrieve a small ledger from the shelf. “It’s all in here.” He opened the book part way through. “The rents are here.” Guy tapped a column with a round fleshy finger. “This is those who’ve paid.” He moved his hand to another neat row of figures. “And this is those who are still owing.”

Jack could see that the paid column was nearly completed. That was a shame, he thought: Hastley had already had the income for this year. Gathering a candlestick and an ink pot he dropped them on the edges of the map to keep it open and took the ledger from Guy.

“Mmm…” Jack turned the page back over. “When’s the next rent due?”

“January each year, but it’s a poor time, and we don’t often see much coming in ‘til later in the year.” Guy reached over and turned the book back to the current year.

Jack turned the pages back again and looked at the rents. “There’s been a bit of a rise wouldn’t you say? What’s the tenure?”

“The demesne lands, all at will, with the exception of here,” Guy pointed to two entries at bottom of the page. “These are leasehold: one to the blacksmith and one to Geoffrey Hugh.”

Jack didn’t reply, but he peered closely at the list of names, then raising his

eyes and meeting Guy’s he said quietly. “Isn’t Hugh your wife’s brother?”

Guy stammered. “Yes, but look he’s a good payer, always first,” Guy sounded defensive. “He always pays up promptly. Previous master, begging your pardon, thought it a profitable arrangement.”

“Do you think rents need to rise?” Jack flipped the pages backwards in the book and then forwards again, “these two leaseholds have not had a rent rise for three years, yet the other tenants have all suffered one. Any reason for that?”

Jack asked looking up, closely studying Guy’s face.

“I’m sure they have risen,” Guy mumbled, and reached for the book.

Jack closed the book with a firm hand and pulled it towards him. “No, Guy, they haven’t.”

“Well, the land on the leasehold portions is poor, that’s probably why Master Hastley didn’t put the rent up,” Guy spluttered nervously.

“Make you mind up Guy. Either they’ve had a rent rise, or they haven’t.” Jack glared at him and Guy dropped his eyes to his feet.

Jack opened the book again and ran his finger down the list of tenants and the rents paid, the two large leasehold tracts were worth nearly as much in rent as all the rest of the tenants put together. Jack was about to say as much and managed to stop himself. He would do this properly, and not jump to conclusions. So instead he said, “Do you think we should put the rent up again next year?” Jack’s finger tapped the list of tenant’s names.

“I am sure you know prices are on the up, but if you want to do it, well that’s not for me to decide,” Guy supplied carefully.

“You don’t think it a good idea?” Jack enquired.

“It’s been a poor harvest for the last two years, another and I don’t know if you’ll get the money in,” Guy answered.

Jack wondered whose side he favoured. Had Guy been Hastley’s man, or did he side with the tenants? Or was he on his own side as Jamie had insinuated. He would have to wait and see.

“I will think about it,” Jack said, and then asked, “The markets, when are they held?”

“Last Saturday in the month,” Guy supplied, sounding relieved at the sudden change of subject.

“What sort of trade is there?” Jack eyes were still roaming over the pages.

“It’s very small. Most of the tenants take their produce to Lincoln; the market sells the usual wheat, corn, beets, sometimes animals if they’ve some to sell.”

Jack placed a level stare on Guy’s face. “Does the market supply Burton, do

you buy in from there?”

“The quality is poor. The master preferred for me to bring in produce from the Lincoln markets,” Guy answered, licking his lips, one hand fidgeting with the material on a frayed sleeve.

“You will ride out with me. I would like to see for myself the extent of the land, see exactly what there is,” Jack said, snapping the book closed. He wondered idly how many men it would take to get Guy in a saddle. Two probably, he concluded. Jack was sure he would find out soon enough if what Jamie had said was true.

†

They had been out most of the afternoon. Jack was mildly amused by Guy’s growing discomfort on the horse he was riding, and he had been unable to resist coaxing his own eager mount into a quick trot. Mat’s horse, on loan to the large man, had moved quickly of its own volition to keep pace, and Jack had to turn his face away to hide his mirth as the man slid from side to side in increasing danger of meeting the grass.

Guy had introduced Jack to the tenants he called over from the fields. Some stood nervously without looking up from the soil, some eyed him suspiciously, and a few he noticed had even hidden. He was not enjoying being on display and tired quickly of his new role. They passed the church on the return journey. Jack turned to Guy. “Didn’t you say Jamie had land hereabouts?”

“Yes, up there. Can you see?” Guy said, pointing.

“Wait here, Guy, I won’t be long.”

There were three men working in the field, and initially Jack did not recognise one of the stooped men as Jamie. He was filling a bucket with rocks from the turned mud.

“Hello, lad, and how’s your head?” Jamie grinned as he straightened up.

Jack returned the man’s grin and slid easily from the saddle. “Not as bad I bet as yours,” he replied, tying his horse to the remains of a gatepost.

“Out seeing what’s yours and what isn’t, eh?” Jamie was rubbing his filthy hands down his stiff back.

“So, is this mine then?” Jack kicked at a stone at his feet.

“Aye, that’s yours. And this one,” Jamie tapped another with his boot, “and all these rocks over there.” Jamie waved his arm towards a pile at the end of the field. “If you want them I’ll not stop you coming and taking them.”

“What are you doing working in here?” Jack asked, noting the other men in the field had all backed away towards the far fence, he added, “friendly lot aren’t they.”

“You’re making them nervous,” Jamie replied.

“Me!” Jack sounded taken aback.

“More Guy than you to be honest,” Jamie said, sounding exasperated,

“They’re just waiting for another one of his rent rises, or to have another tariff slapped on them on market day.”

“Now hold on,” Jack said defensively. “I’ve done nothing yet.”

Jamie cast a dark look in Guy’s direction. “Not yet you haven’t. That’s true enough.”

“Do you rent this land?” Jack asked, changing the subject. “I didn’t see your name in Hastley’s ledgers.

“This section here is rented by the Church and some of those who can’t afford to rent on their own work it, and I help them,” Jamie supplied. “It’ll be in your ledger under the name of St Marie’s and it’s the worst piece of land Hastley had.”

Jack, casting his eyes over it, had to agree. He was no farmer, but it was fairly obvious that the uneven ground, thick with rocks, was poor farm land.

Jamie saw him looking over the tract and said, “It’s not so bad over there.” He pointed to where the field banked down towards the stream. “But up here it’s always been poor. The rain washes the soil off,” he continued, shaking his head.

“I had a thought to plant hawthorn or the like over there, give it a bit of shelter from wind, but I don’t know. It’ll bring in birds.”

“I’m no farmer. Don’t ask me for advice,” Jack said.

“I can tell you’re no farmer; this does give that away you know,” Jamie lifted his stick from the mud and tapped the sword at Jack’s side with it. “What are your plans then?”

“Plans?” Jack echoed. “I’ve made none yet.”

“Ah, you’ll be waiting for your brother to arrive and make the decisions, will you?” Jamie queried.

Jack turned a hard gaze on the priest. “Don’t press me. I know what you aim to do. I am no fool.”

Jamie’s face split into a wide grin. “Good, I am glad we are in accord.” After delivering his words he stooped to pick up his bucket and, turning his back on Jack, stomped off across the rock-strewn field.

Jack wanted to shout after him, but managed to contain his words, and instead

retraced his steps to where Guy was nervously waiting for him.

The next stop on Guy’s tour was Burton’s mill.

“Master Hastley had this built last year,” Guy said proudly. “We used to have to take all the grain from the local area to Lincoln, but now its ground here. The Master had a group of masons come from London, it took a year to build.”

Jack gave the structure a sour look.

Guy looked confused. “It’s good for the Manor, sir, we charge farmers to use it and even take in grain from as far a field as Ashford, which is nearly eight miles away.”

Jack tipped his head back to look at the top of the water wheel that was in perpetual motion, driven by a stream that had been cut away from the side of the main river. “I don’t doubt you, Guy. It’s just that I’ve had a bad experience with mills before.”

“Let me show you, this one is very ingenious. Hastley designed it himself.”

Guy ducked inside the open door and Jack followed him. On the inside he could feel the noise of the mill coming up through the soles of his boots. Disappearing through the roof, the central shaft secured to the mill stones was turning slowly.

“The miller can vary the speed, and also disengage the mechanism when it’s not in use,” Guy had to shout to be heard over the noise of the turning stones and creaking of the wood structures that held them. “If you go up those stairs you can see where it is connected to the water wheel.”

In the corner a set of steps disappeared through a hole in the ceiling leading to the mills upper floor. Jack made his way up them and tried not to laugh as he heard Guy heaving his bulk up the steep stairs behind him. As he emerged through the opening he could see the wooden shafts attached to the water wheel turning above his head. His brother would be truly fascinated by this, it made Jack feel less than worthy that the mechanics didn’t stir his interest at all.

Guy had made it up the final few steps and huffed over to stand next to him.

“That door over there leads to some steps down to the millpond, and this opening here means you can get to any part of the main wheel easily if it needs repairing.” Guy had to shout to be heard over the noise coming from the huge wheel turning ponderously on the side of the mill. The opening was enormous and the full width of the wheel could easily be reached from it. A cautious hand on the sill, Jack leant out and looked down at the enormous paddled wheel being turned by the constant flow of water from the stream.

“There are sluice gates, and they can be dropped in place to stop the water flow,” Guy pointed to them upstream from the mill.

“Why would you want to do that?” Jack shouted.

“If the wheel becomes damaged it won’t run smoothly and then the whole mechanism can be affected, that door in the corner gives you rapid access to them. Sometimes, especially during the winter, large rocks can come down with the water and they can break the paddles off,” Guy said loudly in his ear.

Jack, intent on making a rapid exit, headed for the door in the corner and the steps leading to the sluice gates. They were steep wooden ones, leading down to a narrow door at the bottom. Guy didn’t follow him, Jack noted with a wry smile. Opening the door, he could see beyond it the wooden gates that were held out of the water by a pulley mechanism, they could be dropped quickly to stop the flow of the river and the wheel. Water on the other side would back up until it was forced into a currently dry channel and diverted back to the main river.

†

It wasn’t a decision he had reached lightly, and he hoped it was not one he was going to regret. Jamie’s assessment of Guy was proving to be a little too accurate. The rent books confirmed favouritism towards his family members, merchants in Lincoln were all connected to him, and Jack was in no doubt that he would be getting well paid to ensure they remained the chief suppliers to Burton for everything needed to run a small manor.

A week ago Jack had instructed Froggy Tate, who he believed to be one of the less intimidating men in their group, to become Guy’s shadow. He didn’t want to turn the man off and then find out he couldn’t access his own cellars, with no idea which keys fitted which locks. To Guy he had told a different story, Froggy Tate was to ensure his safety, the implication being that the sometimes raucous troop of men under his command could not always be trusted.

Froggy had taken his work seriously, before long he knew the name of everyone of the servants who worked at Burton and what their roles were. He had poked his nose into every nook and cranny of the damp stone manor and was sure that it held no secrets he needed to know about.

Jack had summoned Guy to him, still uncertain about what he was about to do.

If he did turn him off then the sole responsibility for Burton and its day to day management was about to fall squarely upon his shoulders. Jack groaned, he knew he had little choice.

Five minutes later Guy was walking through the hall, a look of shock on his face.

Jack’s report, when Richard received it, was extremely detailed. He has been busy, mused Richard, who for once found himself impressed with the results of Jack’s endeavours.

†

The spade sunk into the top crumbly layer of soil easily but stopped abruptly as the iron edge on the wooden blade struck solid, unyielding stone below. For the umpteenth time that day, Catherine used a word she would have been hauled before the Abbess for using. Removing the spade she tried again, and again hit something solid, jarring her shoulders painfully in their sockets. Kneeling down, she cleared the top surface to expose the rock. This one was too big to lift out.

Wedging the spade under an exposed edge, she tried to prize it from its spot. It didn’t move at all. Too much of it was still held secure by the damp brown earth around it.

Catherine stabbed the spade down into the soil in a frustrated circle. The metallic clang that answered her told her how far the slab’s bulk extended.

Scraping with the spade, Catherine cleared most of the surface soil away, allowing her to lever the rock from its earthy grip. The stone removed, she picked it up and hefted it to a pile of rubble at the end of the vegetable garden to be. Her fingers were sore. Splinters from the spade handle had penetrated into her palms and blisters stood out from the skin on the pads of her hands. The sun had begun to dip in the sky. Please, she prayed silently, let it be time to leave the fields for Vespers and, more importantly, after the church service, a meal.

“Laborare est orare,” the Abbess had said. “To work is to pray,” and had ordered Catherine to work in the fields. It was not her normal daily pastime, but she supposed she had brought it on herself. A sour attitude and her thanklessness for the temporary home provided to her had led her to incur the displeasure of the Abbess. She could not remember the whole of the lengthy lecture delivered by the austere woman, who forced her to kneel on the stone flagging throughout, but “Laborare est orare,” she had been told would remind her of the need for purity in thought, word and deed, which, she decided, was wrong. All day she had stood outside and, on reflection, concluded she had very few pure thoughts at all. In fact, most of them were most definitely blasphemous. It was as well the Abbess was not able to read minds as well as the novice’s scrawled Latin.

The spade went in again. And again it struck a rock, her hand sliding down the rough-hewn handle gathered more splinters as trophies of “Laborare est orare.”

Catherine threw the spade across the part-dug patch and sat down on the earth,