Fealty

Had she been told a year before, she would have fervently denied it happening. The idea of her family falling into tatters, of struggling to survive, and of the need to go to such extraordinary lengths. But her father did what he had to do, and she believed in him. He knew what was right for them both. So too did he know what was required of him. This was his decision. Though she also knew he would never have wanted to agree to it a mere season ago.

"By the Lord before whom my word and honesty is heard, I will to Aldous Grimwick be true and faithful, to care for his land, to love which he loves and banish which he banishes, according to the laws of God and the order of His world. In return for the protection by his manor, I will devote myself to him and his manor. I swear the manor of Grimwick this oath as I submit myself to his will."

Molle watched the oath of fealty ceremony with dread tugging at her insides. As her father knelt down and bent his head, the Lord of Grimwick took her father’s head into his own hands. She looked away in disgust.

The oath was sealed. Her family had entered serfdom.

***

Morning bloomed with pink, red, and orange petals spreading across the sky. A cockerel crowed in delight. Burying her head in the straw pillow, Molle shut herself away from the sunlight stretching through her open window. The heat was not to be ignored, and by the time the cattle passed their house she could stand it no longer. She shed her nightclothes and pulled on the ragged, moth-eaten clothes that scarcely fit.

Her father stood in the other room, cheese in hand. His eyes swelled with tiredness.

"Good morning, father," she bid, picking up a roll of bread. "Has the ploughing finished?" He did not respond. "Father?"

"Hm? Molle! Good morning." Giving a smile as wide as his sliver of cheese, which was hardly noticeable at all, her father set his eyes upon her. "What was that?" She repeated her question. "Oh, yes. I think so... No. No, we haven't quite finished yet."

Her concern reached new heights. "Father, you should sleep more. I'll speak to the ploughman. Perhaps they'll allow me time with the oxen!" 

Despite her burst of enthusiasm, he did not share any. "I don't... I'll do. I'll do, I will. There's work to be done."

"None that I can't do well enough myself," she retorted. "Please. Rest. You can't afford to be ill!"

His grumbles were incoherent, but it seemed she’d won him over. He sat on the rickety stool beside the table and nursed his food. It was as best as she was going to get, she supposed.

“I suppose they won’t mind you bothering their oxen,” he said, conceding. “Mind you stay out the way though. Don’t want to lose your foot like Old William.”

She smiled. “I’ll be safe, I promise. The ploughman won’t let me stay about them for long.”

Nodding, her father gave a reluctant sigh. It was clear he longed for the outside. She feared he would swiftly catch ill were he to overexert himself.

“Stay inside today. I will make sure the ploughing is finished.” Molle leaned over him, pressing a kiss to his forehead, before leaving the cottage. She ate her bread as she went along the dirt path towards their four acres of land. Half looked ploughed, with long, deep lines running across the dirt, ready to sow barley. The other two acres seemed only half-done, and she looked upon the unmarked field with her teeth embedded in her bottom lip.

If they didn’t have the fields ready, her father would surely become sick with worry.

At the north end, a team of oxen were tethered to the plough, with a small group of men milling about around them. She hopped the nearest fence, her leather working boots smushing the dirt as she landed, then bolted over the acre. Panting as she reached them, the old ploughman looked bemused as she halted.

“You a’ight there, Mary?” he asked kindly. He’d always been pleasant, the sort of gentleman that her mother had admired and kept extra milk for. “Mind yerself.” One of the oxen swung its massive head towards her.

Molle gave it space and a strained smile. “I thought the ploughing would be done by yesterday?” she asked, forgetting her manners. It didn’t awfully matter with them. Not like the ladies and gentlemen who came to town. “Did something go wrong?”

The ploughman glanced at his companions. He took off his straw hat and held it before him in both hands. “Not with the fields, nay. The Lord of Grim’ick pulled us aside yesterday, had us take the oxen across the manor. Show ‘is friends.” The word was said with so much contempt that she almost felt ready to declare her own hatred of Lord Grimwick.

“‘Twas the Bishop of Salisbury,” proudly stated one of the villeins.

“That’s it! Fine fellow,” the ploughman nodded, as though he hadn’t implied a bad word against him. “Very fine, ‘e is… So we had to take the day off, Mary.”

Her hope for others who kindled hatred sank.

Steeling herself, Molle bit back a remark that she much preferred to be called Molle, deciding that she would rather not let a supporter of Lord Grimwick use her nickname. “Oh. I see! That’s quite alright,” she smiled, even tenser than before. “You’ll be done by the end of today, I expect?”

They didn’t seem to take her as seriously as she hoped. The villeins laughed at her.

“We’ll try our best,” the ploughman promised. “Where’s your fader?”

She quickly thought up an excuse. “He’s looking after the hens today.” It was her job, but it was one that they were unlikely to check upon.

He gave a solemn nod. “Your ma loved those chickens.”

Molle flinched. She couldn’t help it. The mention of her poor mother shocked her back, taking a step away even further from the oxen. “She did,” she agreed.

“You copin’, Mary?”

“I’m coping,” she said. Her words were forced. Tears spiked at her eyes. “I have to go.”

Thoughts of spending time with the oxen were far from her mind as she ran away, tracing her footprints in the field back towards the cottage. She couldn’t bear to be around them while they spoke of her mother. Such a kindly woman, struck by an illness none could treat. She cried, her face hot, and struggled over the fence. Only a month had passed since her family’s oath of fealty, their last hope at saving her. But Grimwick’s only doctor had managed to worsen her mother’s condition. It had been a relief to see her pass on, if only so she no longer suffered.

They said it was God’s will, but Molle had begun to question that. She could not bear the thought of all this work and struggle resulting in nothing but the utter destruction of her family.