12
The lords of the little manor of High Hall, Edmund de Welles and his sister Margery, were relatively poor by the standards of most medieval landlords, and even in normal years would have struggled to maintain their household and status on the income they received from the produce of their demesne farm and the rent from their tenants. Lady Rose was of a higher social rank and appreciably wealthier. For not only was Walsham manor many times more valuable than High Hall, but Lady Rose held a number of properties elsewhere.
The High Hall demesne farm lay close to the manor house and comprised around 150 acres of arable land, as well as pastures and some woodland on which cattle, sheep, and pigs were kept. Although the de Welles had more than thirty tenants prior to the Black Death, the majority of them held very small amounts of land, for which they paid little in rent. However, the modest amount of cash the de Welles received from their tenants was boosted by the work most of them were required to perform on the demesne farm, as well as the sizable fines and dues that had to be paid whenever a tenant died or a tenancy changed hands, and various other levies exacted through the manor’s court. Labor services tended to vary in relation to the size of holdings, and in a rental of 1327 William Wodebite, one of the more substantial tenants, is recorded as owing three shillings, three pence, and three farthings in cash each year, as well as fifteen winter works and twenty-two harvest works, six hens and five eggs. The efficient farming of the demesne required substantial inputs of labor, and tenants probably supplied more than a fifth of the labor requirements through the year and a much higher proportion at harvest time. In addition, the de Welles employed a few full-time servants (called famuli) on annual contracts, for whom they provided accommodation as well as quantities of food and clothing. Finally, because of the unevenness of the workflow in the course of the farming year, they would have relied on hiring casual labor by the task or by the day at busy times.
By far the most important problem facing landlords in the aftermath of the plague was a shortage of people, both to refill the landholdings made vacant by the deaths of so many tenants and to work on their farms and in their households. The situation was made worse because the supply of laborers shrank even more dramatically than that of tenants, not simply because half or more of the former laborers had died, but many of the survivors acquired land for themselves and thus had less time and inclination to work for others.
Since there are no surviving account rolls for High Hall or Walsham for the period of the Black Death, we do not know for certain what wages were paid, but copious evidence from other manors shows that wages soared and many tasks went undone. The closest evidence comes from the manor of Fornham All Saints, just northeast of Bury, where additional day workers were being hired at enhanced wages from April onward because of the shortage of full-time servants. Farther away, at Cuxham (Oxfordshire), farm servants were given an extra shilling (12d) between April and June 1349, “to encourage them to work better,” and in September the plowmen, carter, and shepherd were given further cash bonuses of 5s. On the estates of Westminster abbey, pressure from farm servants led not only to substantial increases in their cash stipends but to improvements in both the quantity and quality of their food rations. Casual laborers apparently fared even better, with their wages at least doubling in the year of the Black Death, and they were commonly given substantial additional benefits including food. Even the notoriously mean bishop of Winchester was forced to pay 4d a quarter to get his wheat threshed, rather than the 2d or 2.5d he had paid formerly. Yet, despite these very substantial increases in wages and perks, most employers still found it impossible to hire all the labor they needed, as the reeves of a number of Westminster abbey manors confirmed when they reported that the winter wheat could not be sown because it had proved impossible to find enough men to plow the fallow in the summer of 1349.
The fourteenth-century calendar was punctuated by the celebration of a host of saints’ days, festivals, rituals, and holidays, many of which ordered or marked the ecclesiastical, farming, and communal years. The cycle of ecclesiastical feasts roughly coincided with the cycle of traditional popular festivals, which in turn often marked points in the farming year. The calendar continued to grow as new festivals were inaugurated and additional saints given their feasts. Corpus Christi was, perhaps, the most spectacular addition to the calendar. It was first observed in England in 1318 and grew rapidly in popularity among both Church authorities and the laity. The feast celebrated the Body of Christ in the Host, and through that evoked the whole body of true Christian people. Its emphasis on blood, suffering, and mutual assistance struck a chord with the pious in the midst of confusion and death.
Sir Edmund de Welles, lord of High Hall, survived the pestilence, along with his sister Margery, although many of their household perished. Since well before the pestilence arrived in Walsham, Edmund had followed a strict regime of covering his head with a cloth, plunging his nose into cauldrons filled with excrement and urine from the hall’s privies, and inhaling deeply. Although he suffered from repeated bouts of diarrhea and violent vomiting, and exhibited intermittent symptoms of extreme frailty, he did not fall victim to the plague. His escape was held by some people wise in these matters to prove that the lord of the manor had discovered the surest means of avoiding the infection. Edmund’s private physician, initially skeptical about this regime, later began to reason that by adopting it, his lord had enjoyed twofold protection. First, the noxious vapors Edmund constantly kept around him and inhaled probably repelled or negated any air poisoned by plague that might come near; and second, any residual plague poison that did manage to enter his body was likely expelled by his violent shitting and vomiting. Yet the doctor remained puzzled that Edmund’s valet, who inhaled the same vapors and experienced the same favorable emetic experiences as his master, had died of plague, while Margery, who had ridiculed her brother’s antics and retreated to live in the far end of the house to avoid the unpleasant smells, had also been spared.
Whereas most folk were satisfied simply to survive from day to day while the plague raged, Edmund became increasingly anxious not just about his bodily health but about his financial health as well. He fretted over the turmoil on his little manor, the uncollected rents, the plethora of unpaid fines arising from the death of so many of his tenants, and the fate of the animals which had to be collected for death duties, looked after, and sold for the best price. And he was alarmed about the vacant holdings, the whereabouts of unknown heirs, and above all about the lack of proper written records or even accurate hearsay information as to what was happening to his lands and his tenants. Edmund was well aware that his demesne farm, with its ample fields, animals, and buildings, was suffering from severe neglect. He had prided himself that it was one the best-run farms in the area, but now it was deteriorating rapidly because there were so few people tending it. Most of his full-time and part-time farm servants had died or were ill, his tenants did not turn up to perform their customary labor services, and there were scarcely any laborers who could be hired for reasonable wages. Just as worrying were the serious and growing threats to his lordship and the respect in which he was held. If order and correct procedures were not restored soon and his rights and dues properly witnessed, written down, and accounted for, he feared permanently losing authority over his tenants, with his lordship irreparably weakened or even destroyed.
It was for these and other reasons that Edmund made up his mind in the middle of May, when plague was raging with extreme virulence in and all around Walsham and High Hall, that a session of his court had to be held. However, he wisely decided to change his normal practice of presiding in person over the court, a role he had always greatly enjoyed, and remain shut up safely within the walls of his hall. So he asked John Talbot, the parson of the neighboring parish of Rickinghall, to deputize for him. Though Talbot was at first reluctant, the fatness of the fee Edmund eventually offered was sufficient to persuade him.
Because High Hall manor was so small, with less than forty tenants, the normal attendance at the courts was far lower than at those of Walsham itself. In the early morning of May 25 less than fifteen people, all fearful of catching the plague from each other, gathered reluctantly in the courtyard of the manor hall. John Talbot was clearly ill at ease and anxious to get things over with as soon as possible. He had arrived in Walsham only the day before and, although he clutched some parchments in his hands, which he repeatedly referred to, it soon became obvious to all that he had not been able to brief himself adequately on the business before the court. Talbot began, as Edmund de Welles had instructed, by ordering that the cottage and plot of land of Henry Trusse, a freeman who had died, should be taken into the lord’s hands until the heir came to court, and then he set yet another deadline for the Wodebite brothers to repair the vacant houses on their lands. Then, with a theatrical flourish, Robert Sare, a prominent freeman, galloped into the courtyard on a fine white horse, strode proudly up to the table where Talbot sat, knelt and swore fealty to Sir Edmund and Lady Margery for the lands that he held of them. Talbot was so taken aback at this fine show and so flattered to have such a wealthy man kneeling before him, that he quite forgot to ask the Wodebite brothers who they had secured to pledge to the court on their behalf that they would carry out the required repairs.
Rather flustered, Talbot announced that he was moving on to try and deal with the consequences of all the deaths among the lord’s tenants, of which there had been eleven to his knowledge. A shout from the small gathering asserted that at least another five tenants had also died or would be dead in a couple of days, but Talbot responded by saying that he could only deal with those deaths of which he had prior knowledge and confirmation.
He began, “John Goche and Peter Goche, villeins, who held certain tenements from the lord, have died. It is ordered that these tenements should be seized until the heirs come.” But before he could say more there were loud protests from the gathering. John Wodebite stepped forward and stated forcefully, “It is a breach of custom for the lord to seize these holdings. Everyone in the village knows who the heirs of the Goche brothers are, because they each have young sons who are alive and well.” Another villager brusquely informed the parson, “If you don’t know what to do, we can tell you. On the payment of a heriot and perhaps a small fine, their landholdings should pass to their sons, and the court should assent to the sons, and the holdings, being placed in the hands of guardians until these boys become of age.”
Talbot attempted to compose himself, but at this point another more aggressive voice from the gateway informed him that he should not be in charge of the court at all, seeing that he did not know what he was doing, or even where the Goche brothers’ holdings were, or how much land they contained. Talbot was shaken by the rudeness of the assembled peasants, and he attempted to quieten them down, first by rebuking them, and when this had little effect, by reassuring them: “Lord Edmund is anxious to identify the true heirs to all vacant holdings and has no desire whatsoever to occupy these lands himself or to go against custom in any way. I can assure you that everything will be sorted in an appropriate manner in due course. But as the lord’s agent and as steward of this court, I am responsible for making sure that no mistakes are made. Therefore I can only accept properly authenticated statements, not hearsay and gossip shouted at me from the floor.”
With a show of authority, Talbot attempted to move on to the next item of business, which was the death of William Isabel, another of the lord’s villeins. But it soon became clear that he knew no more about this matter than he knew about the Goches. Once again, because he had not been told what lands Isabel had held, he was forced to use the same vague phrase about “certain lands” rather than the precise location and acreage. Once again, to hostile murmurings, he reported that Isabel’s lands should be taken into the lord’s hands temporarily until the true heir was found. However, this time there were no assertions from the gathering as to who this might be, just sad shakes of the head and soft confirmations that all the Isabels in the village had died, including the feisty Idonea who had caused the lords and ladies of High Hall so much trouble. Nor was there any dissent when Talbot stated that William Isabel’s estate could not pay the customary heriot because William did not have any large animals when he died. Therefore the heir, when he or she was found, would have to pay a fine in money before taking possession of the lands.
Talbot was on firmer ground when he came to the death of John Chapman. He reported that Chapman had held a messuage and two acres of land, and according to the custom of the manor, John’s three-year-old daughter, Agnes, was the heir, but that until she became of age, the land would be granted to his widow, Agnes. As the Chapmans’ cow had died, he ordered that the heriot to be rendered to the lord was a ewe. Agnes had come into court as she was keen to establish her rights, and kneeling before John Talbot, she swore fealty to Sir Edmund and Lady Margery. Talbot granted her possession on accepting 6d from her as a fine for formal entry into the land. John Wodebite stood up and confirmed that he would act as surety for Agnes. When she had completed the ceremony, Agnes hurried to John Wodebite and eagerly inquired of him how her daughter was faring. She was told that little Agnes was well, and they agreed that as nobody in John’s household had been taken sick it would be best for her to remain where she was for the time being.
The full information Talbot possessed about the Chapman inheritance proved to be exceptional, and he was soon forced to revert to brief and incomplete summaries for the majority of the remaining deaths. However, he was able to note on his roll that John Helpe had given a mare to the lord and lady on the death of his brother, Robert, and that neither of Robert’s other brothers, Henry or Gilbert, had turned up to claim their share of the inheritance. The death of Margery Wodebite was also noted with some alarm by the gathering, since, as her brother-in-law John mournfully remarked, “If God has not seen fit to spare so holy and devout a person as Margery, what chance has any of us of surviving?” Talbot called the meeting to order and announced that Margery had left no beast which could serve as a heriot, so her sister had paid a fine of one silver shilling to take possession of her four acre holding. By the time this part of the proceedings had been concluded, the deaths of eleven tenants in all had been recorded on the roll.
Finally, as the gathering prepared to disperse, Talbot proposed electing Adam of Angerhale as collector of rents and dues, to replace the previous officeholder who had recently died. To Talbot’s great relief, both Adam and the assembly agreed. He knew that Sir Edmund would be delighted to hear that he had strengthened the manorial administration at such a difficult time, but he did not know that his lord would soon be hearing complaints that the court proceedings had been handled incompetently.
A rumor had been circulating that Edmund de Welles was holding his court because he had received word that the pestilence was coming to an end. But that hope was soon shattered. Death continued to rage without respite through the rest of May, and at times its ferocity seemed even to strengthen, if that were possible. Robert Sare, who had theatrically braved danger to swear fealty at High Hall court, expired soon after, and Adam of Angerhale accompanied him to the grave, not living long enough to carry out any of his new duties. In the ensuing weeks the sorely depleted ranks of the once populous parish of Walsham were thinned still further, and, to Agnes Chapman’s alarm, John Wodebite’s wife was taken sick.
For most villagers attendance at Mass was the only occasion when they took courage and willingly braved the dangers of exposure to disease by mixing with others. Surely, it was thought, God would not allow his church to become a place of contagion. Even under the darkest clouds of pestilence there were relatively few who allowed their fear of mingling to outweigh their fear of neglecting the service of God or missing his blessing. Even if they felt that God was deaf to their own pleas for mercy, they had the souls of their dear ones to pray for and, sad to relate, there were many who had to assuage the guilt of deserting their sick relatives in the time of their greatest need.
As the pestilence persisted, stoical resignation and even lethargy progressively overcame panic and hysteria. Surrounded daily by death and the fear of imminent infection, many of those who had yet to succumb to the sickness welcomed the deadening of their senses and the dulling of their emotions that the enormity of their predicament brought. Though only a few would openly admit it, there was also confusion about what God’s will was and what he wanted them to do. It was commonly observed in conversation that none of the prayers, processions, confessions, censings, kindling of candles, or ceaseless Masses had given protection against the pestilence or lessened its force. Rather, death had raged ever more fiercely. And secret doubts were harbored about whether it was worth trying to anticipate God’s demands or assuage his anger.
The Rogationtide and Whitsuntide festivals passed without much celebration, and far fewer people attended because there were far fewer people alive. In previous years large bands of enthusiastic and triumphal villagers had joined the Rogation procession. Led by priests with bells, banners, and the cross, they had progressed along each of the parish boundaries, beating the bounds of its territory, blessing the fields, bridges, crossings, and mills, enthusiastically driving out the evil spirits which brewed enmity between neighbors and sickness in man and beast. This year, however, the procession in the third week of May was a thin and mournful affair attended by a handful of the most zealous, and it had quickly assumed the aspect of a penitential procession. The Whitsun Communion on May 31 was also a subdued ceremony, and what had always been one of the leading sermons of the year was given by a young, recently tonsured clerk because the rest of the clergy were needed elsewhere.
But then, just as it seemed as if all might perish, there were slight, at first almost imperceptible signs that the scourge might be starting to wane. There had been disappointments before as the toll of deaths had fluctuated—first surging, then falling back, only to soar again with indescribable ferocity—but this time hope progressively turned into belief and conjectures into reality. By the first week of June there were indisputable indications the clouds of contagion that had rained death on Walsham were lifting. Not only were significantly fewer new victims observed day by day, but the battle between the frailty of the victims and the potency of their affliction began to become less unequal. A larger number of buboes began to break down of their own accord, more carbuncles shrank, more inflammations cooled and faded in color, more fevers abated and raging pains in the head subsided. As what they were witnessing bore relation to the knowledge they had that even the most devastating visitations of the pestilence overseas had eventually waned and then disappeared, and that the pestilence was no longer raging in southern England, the gloom slowly began to lift from people’s hearts and smiles began to replace frowns. Villagers emerged from their houses, timidly at first but then with greater assurance.
In a spirit of optimism, clergy and laity decided to make a special effort to mount a procession for Corpus Christi feast day on Thursday, June 11 (see figure 30). Though it was too early to be confident that the present waning of the pestilence would lead to its total demise, people yearned to celebrate their deliverance and speed the contagion on its way. Master John strongly favored these optimistic sentiments, believing that the celebration of the Body of Christ would help lift morale and confirm the church in its rightful place in the center of village life. He hoped to create an atmosphere of wonder, excitement, and exultation, so that his parishioners could put behind them the disappointing festivals held since Easter.
Master John knew in his heart that no more than one in every two of his parishioners was still living, and he feared that some of the survivors would be reluctant to leave their homes and that some were doubting their faith. So he decided that the procession should be severely shortened to the cluster of roads and paths in the vicinity of St. Mary’s, in order to ensure that there were crowds of observers all along the route. In the early morning of the feast day groups of children went along strewing flowers, leaves, and rushes on the ground. Those participating in the procession were arranged in a strict order of precedence as they arrived, and as usual there was much squabbling among the lay folk as to who would occupy the best positions following the Host and clergy. At the head of the ranks were at least six clergy dressed in their finest cassocks and copes, one bearing the great latten cross of the parish, another the painted wooden Madonna and child, and others holding books, handbells, and smaller crosses. In prime position came Master John, holding aloft the Host in its ivory casket, walking slowly under a red cloth canopy supported on poles held by choirboys. Following closely behind him was Margery de Welles with her friar confessor and two members of her household; Edmund had decided he was not well enough to attend. Then came the brothers and sisters of the pious fraternity of Corpus Christi, who had given 2s toward the occasion. Each one held candles, except for the two most senior guild members who proudly grasped painted wooden poles which supported a newly woven banner depicting a pelican feeding its young from the blood of its breast. The villagers who followed behind were carefully positioned according to wealth, office, and popularity, with the precise order of precedence being even more contentious than usual, owing to the multitude of holes that had been torn in the accustomed village hierarchy. It was the first procession for very many months that was not driven solely by a desperate supplication for mercy, and at times it resembled a celebration of deliverance.
But the mood in the service that followed turned somber. The liturgy was underscored by almost continuous low grieving moans from the body of the congregation, punctuated by howls of sorrow, as husbands mourned for their wives, wives for their husbands, parents for their children, children for their parents. The days and weeks of isolated grief swelled to a crescendo in its public expression, and Master John frequently paused during the liturgy and stepped back, nodding with understanding, till the sobbing subsided. He delivered only part of his usual Corpus Christi sermon. Severely abbreviating his lengthy account of the seven miracles of the Body of Christ by omitting most of the homilies and moral tales with which he normally accompanied it, Master John moved swiftly to pray for the souls of the multitude of departed. In the days before he had made a special effort to collect the names of all who had died from his assistant priests and lay helpers, and now he recited them for the congregation and God to hear. Even though he read more quickly than normal it took him fifteen minutes to reach the end of his list.
Rising to a crescendo of supplication, Master John beseeched God, “We pray that the pestilence may be brought to a speedy end here in Walsham and in the country about, just as we have heard that it has now ceased to kill in London and in many other parts to the south. Be merciful, O Lord, and spare your sorely scourged and pitifully enfeebled parish any further divine punishment.” Fortunately, it was not long before these pleas were heard.
In early June, as the deaths in Walsham finally slowed from a flood to a flow and then to a trickle, Lady Rose thought it safe enough to instruct her estate steward to travel to her most valuable manor to bring its disrupted administration to order and hold a much needed session of the court; on the same journey he could also visit the other properties and interests that she held in the region. Although Lady Rose had always taken a close interest in the fat revenues that Walsham manor produced for her, she had never resided there for more than short periods, and in her advancing years she had relied heavily on her third husband, Hugh, and her estate steward, John Blakey, to keep the local officials, demesne farm, and manorial tenants in good order. Sir Hugh had died in the pestilence, and Lady Rose increasingly turned to her son, Henry, for advice.
Living with the rump of her household in a remote house deep in the country, Lady Rose found it almost impossible to obtain reliable information about Walsham, and her estate steward, John Blakey, had been too preoccupied with the death of his wife and two children to pay much heed. But in recent days news had started to dribble through to her, and it was unremittingly dire. Many holdings were lying vacant for want of tenants, her demesne farm had scarcely been tended for weeks on end and was now in a very poor state; the local peasant officials appointed to act on her behalf were apparently either dead or shirking their duties, and her tenants were failing to perform their customary work. As a result the fields were exceptionally weedy, and a fair proportion of her livestock and draft animals were suffering sorely from a variety of ailments. Still, Blakey ruefully remarked to Lady Rose, “Since God decided that he had to strike Walsham with a plague, he could have chosen a worse time to do it.” Spring lambing had been massively disrupted and most of the young lambs had perished from lack of care, as had many of the ewes which had borne them. But, more importantly, much of the spring plowing and sowing had been completed before the plague arrived, and there were more than 250 acres of wheat, barley, oats, and peas growing on her fields, and there was plenty of time to prepare for the harvest, which was still many weeks away.
Since Lady Rose was reluctant to risk her son by sending him to Walsham, she would have to rely on Blakey to make decisions on her behalf. From the conditions on the manor where she lived and the other she held nearby, she knew that short-term compromises with tenants and laborers would be necessary in order to get things back to normal in the shortest possible time. So she told him, “My priority is to fill all the lands left vacant by the deaths of my tenants before the weeds take over and the cottages fall down. Therefore, you should use all my rights and powers to compel reluctant heirs to take up their obligations. Set some examples; punish some of them harshly to cow the others. Yet also offer some incentives where necessary. If either the land or the heirs are poor, you should reduce the entry fines you ask them to pay, and you may also allow them to pay in stages, if you think fit. I am not at all keen on reducing their rents, but you can grant some allowances, as long as they are strictly temporary, on the poorest lands, if they are impossible to let otherwise. But be very careful. You must not be too generous, for that will encourage others not to pay their customary dues.”
At this point Blakey sought to intervene with a question, seeking clarification. But Lady Rose raised her hand to quiet him and plowed on: “I need to restore order and my rights, and I need to raise money. So I cannot abide having lands left empty. If, after searching very diligently, there are any lands for which you cannot find heirs or anyone else willing to take them on the customary terms, then I will permit you to let them on short leases of a year or so, until someone comes to take them on the old terms, as they surely will when the world returns to normal. Or, if even that proves impossible, then get my reeve to sell the pasture rights, animal by animal, to those who would wish to put their cattle and sheep on it. Finally, but only as a last resort, you must take any land that is entirely unwanted in hand, and have it farmed for me at a profit. But again, do so only on a short-term basis, so that I can take my full rights again when the world recovers to normal. Above all, be very careful not to allow any peasant to get the better of you, or any of my revenues to be lost or my assets to be run down, or my lands to be occupied for less than they are truly worth.”
Blakey was becoming hopelessly confused as to whether he should be harsh or conciliatory, but he had little time to ponder as Lady Rose went swiftly on. “I know you will tell me it is difficult to hire good workers, but I am determined that you should not throw my money away by paying common laborers outrageously high wages. I am aware that you might have to offer some small additional rewards to those of my full-time farm servants who have remained loyal and hardworking during the pestilence, but be restrained, show no sign of weakness. Most importantly, you must force my own tenants to work for me all the days that they are required to by the ancient customs of the manor. More than this, I rely on you to instruct my tenants that when they hire themselves out as day laborers, they must first offer themselves to me. I am their lady and I have the right to first call on their labor, and at reasonable rates of pay.”
Blakey assured Lady Rose that she could place absolute trust in him, and that he would do all in his power to uphold her interests and rights and would take full stock of the situation in Walsham before granting any concessions on fines, rents, or wages.
When John Blakey arrived in Walsham at the end of the first week in June, he was shocked to find conditions far worse than he or his lady had imagined, and only one of the three major officers the community had elected to run the manor was fulfilling his duties. The reeve, Walter Osbourn, who was responsible for managing the lord and lady’s demesne farm and its buildings, had perished, and so too had his deputy. Matthew Gilbert, the manor woodward, had been too upset and too busy since the death of his wife to carry out any of his duties, let alone offer additional assistance in the running of the manor. Only Geoffrey Rath, whose responsibilities as hayward were to manage the tenants, collect their rents and services, and ensure they behaved themselves, was there to meet him.
The steward sat in shocked silence as Geoffrey Rath told him that scarcely any of the tenants were bothering to turn up on the required days to perform their work on the lady’s farm, in blatant breach of their tenancy obligations (see figure 31). Blakey’s mood darkened further when he learned that shortly before he was taken ill, Walter Osbourn had handed over an extra shilling in cash to each of the remaining full-time farm servants in order to get them to carry on doing even a small part of the duties for which they had been hired. And he had become almost incoherent with rage by the time Geoffrey admitted that, in desperation, he had been forced to pay almost twice the normal daily wage to hire workmen and women to save the farm and its livestock from complete ruin.
Blakey remonstrated with Rath, “There is not the slightest chance that such outrageous and unsanctioned payments will be allowed as legitimate expenses by her lady’s auditors. In fact, not only will I not support them, I will see to it personally that you are required to repay any excess above the normal wages.”
But rather than being cowed by these threats, Rath was defiant. “Your eyes will soon be opened by spending a few days in Walsham,” he told the steward.
Later that day Blakey learned that the same farm servants who had received the unwarranted extra shilling were now demanding yet another shilling to be paid at once, and an extra bushel of the best wheat every ten weeks in addition to the eight bushels of mixed grains they had always been given. If they did not get the money and the corn, they asserted, they would all run away to be day laborers and be far better off. Blakey immediately summoned the spokesman of the servants intending to discipline him, to make him aware of his obligations to the lady of the manor, and to inform him that they would henceforth be reverting to the precise terms of the contracts they had freely agreed to last Michaelmas, before the arrival of the pestilence. But the ringleader turned up with a group of his fellows, and the meeting broke up in disorder when Blakey was told by the plowman, “I don’t give a pea for the lady’s plow,” and the men stormed off.
Before the spluttering steward could compose himself, Geoffrey intervened and drew John Blakey aside: “We must stop these men walking out. It would be a disaster for the lady if these servants break their contracts and cease working. There would be no chance at all of us hiring replacements, and even if we were able to we would have to pay them more than these men are demanding. There are simply too few people seeking work and far too many jobs for them to do.”
Geoffrey went on to try and explain to the steward that most of the laborers in Walsham had died, and most of the survivors had been able to find land of their own and were busy farming it. Blakey tried to wave him quiet, but Rath pressed on, venting the frustrations that his post had brought him over the previous weeks. “What is more, because of all the deaths and all the vacant holdings that have to be filled, hardly any of the lady’s tenants are willing to work in full the days of labor they owe on the demesne farm. I have tried bribes of food as well as the threat of fines or even eviction, but I have been unable to get more than a handful of these tenants to turn up and work. What can we do?” He did not wait for Blakey to answer. “There are far fewer people offering themselves for hire, but we still have the same number of acres to cultivate, and even more animals to look after than normal, because of all the heriots that I have carefully collected. I have offered wages that you see as outrageously high, and a good meal on top, but still I have not been able to find nearly enough willing to work, and fewer still who are willing to work hard. Most of those who have turned up and taken the lady’s money have been lazy and obstinate, moving slowly at their jobs and sitting around idling or playing games for much of the day. I have to spend most of my time wandering round prodding them to get off their backsides. I have also been forced to take on women and boys to do men’s work, but even they demand excessive wages.”
John Blakey had been shocked into silence and eventually began to show more understanding by raising his hand in mild appreciation of his hayward’s dilemma. But Rath would not be humored. “It is an impossible job that I have to do. And, anyway, I was not elected reeve but hayward. I am doing the work of the reeve, and much more besides, but I do not receive the stipend of a reeve, let alone all the extra money and perquisites I deserve for suffering abuse from almost everyone in the village for acting diligently in my lady’s interests.”
Rath had been serving as hayward for three years and had made a good income from the office. From Lady Rose he gained remission of the rent on his land and some other gifts of cash and corn but, more importantly, as an officer of the manor court he pocketed a host of small offerings from those who had to appear there, who had transgressed the village bylaws or sought some favor or other. For a halfpenny or so, Geoffrey had many times forgotten to present a case of trespass or report a missed labor service or the breach of the bylaw prohibiting the serving of ale in unmeasured cups and jugs. For a more substantial fee, he had always been willing to assist in the negotiation of lower fines for miscreants and act as a pledge in court for villagers in need of the formal support of a man of good standing. For the time being, he decided, he would remain in office. In the current disorder there might well be the chance of even greater rewards.
While the pestilence raged, Lady Rose whiled away some of the hours isolated in her remote manor house calculating the profits as well as the losses which the huge toll of deaths among her tenants might bring, in particular, the size of the windfall she was about to receive from the animals collected as payment of death duties. Before her steward departed for Walsham, she had given him detailed instructions on the necessity of accounting for every single animal that was due to her as heriot from the property of every dead tenant, and how to ensure that these were indeed the best animals. She also insisted that all the heriot animals be well looked after, fattened up, and then taken to a good livestock market to be sold for the highest price. She knew that a significant number of her Walsham tenants were wealthy enough to own some very fine cattle and horses indeed, and as she checked back over the court and accounts rolls of recent years, which she kept in a chest in the castle, she found that cows had generally brought her 8s or 10s each, and mares, calves, and steers around 4s each. Even if only two score of her tenants had died of plague she would receive very many gold pounds which would more than compensate for the loss of rent and the reduced sales of produce from her farm.
But now the steward sat in stunned silence while Geoffrey recounted at great length and, he had to admit, often in plausible detail, why Lady Rose’s dreams were far from coming into reality. First, Geoffrey reported that it had proved impossible to collect all the heriot animals that were due, not just because he could not find the time or the help to do so, but because he could not always discover who had died. What is more, Geoffrey argued, although it was essential to collect the heriots quickly from unoccupied farms before they perished from accident or hunger or theft, it had often seemed best for the present to leave the rest with the new tenants since he had no means of properly looking after them. He couldn’t hire a reliable herdsman, the manorial pound was full to overflowing, and he was having to dump animals in any available vacant field.
When the steward asked, “Why have you not sold them?” Geoffrey laughed. “I have tried, but I have only been offered ridiculously low prices that I knew you would not accept. At best half of what they fetched before the pestilence, but usually far less. There are so many animals for sale and so few buyers. Have a look round the village, and you will find sheep and even cows wandering around without owners.” Blakey thought about interrupting but did not know quite what to say. So Geoffrey continued, “On the other hand, perhaps they should be sold for whatever we can get. For they are eating so much that the lady’s own livestock are having to go short of fodder, and that will cause the milk yields of her cows to fall, the wool of her sheep to coarsen, and her oxen to lose strength. Anyway, many of these heriot animals are in poor condition, and likely diseased in some way or another, so they could infect her lady’s stock.”
The steward kept his temper and bit his tongue, but inwardly he refused to accept Geoffrey’s word or his competence. For the next couple of days he toured the village with his hayward noting livestock prices and seeking to hire sufficient men and women to tend the lady’s animals, weed her land, clean ditches, build new fences, and carry out essential repairs on the demesne buildings. When they went to the green opposite the church, where men and women had always gathered early each morning to offer themselves for hire, they found it was almost deserted. In desperation, they offered the customary wage of three halfpence per day without food to the poor specimens who were there, and were ridiculed and abused, and told that none of them was prepared to labor for less than 3d per day in good sound money, no clipped coins, and a good meal on top. The steward then marched Geoffrey off to the nearest alehouse, where they found a number of fit young men and women drinking and gambling. After announcing who he was and demanding that they all stand up, he offered the men 2d per day and a meal of bread and pottage if they would follow the hayward to the demesne at once. But none off them accepted. So he remonstrated with them, reminding those who were the bondsmen and women of Lady Rose that they had the obligation to work for her whenever she wished, and at the rate of pay she felt appropriate. Most gave excuses, but two of them reluctantly agreed to serve at two and a half pence per day, as long as they were given a hot meal at noon with generous slices of meat. Blakey agreed but made it plain he would only hire them for the one day on these terms.
As they walked back to the farm, Geoffrey praised the steward for getting workmen so cheaply and gently suggested that he should have secured them on a longer contract. “Times have changed. When the pestilence was raging, these humble folk saw that those who performed even the meanest of tasks were able to demand three, four, or five times what they had always been paid. They have tasted what to them are riches, and they have no intention of returning to the old wages. Why should they when they can get far more than we are offering from the bailiff of Edmund de Welles? Or indeed from any number of farmers, large and small, in this village and all those round about, who need help and are able to pay for it.”
As if that was not enough, Blakey found the lady’s truculent plowman waiting for him when he went exhausted to his lodgings. Tugging disparagingly at the dull russet tunic and dirty white shirt he wore, the plowman excitedly reported that Edmund de Welles had just given his plowman a brightly colored doublet and gown, and a girdle decorated with pewter, which had been the second best outfit of Sir Edmund’s bailiff until he died in the plague. Then he reminded Blakey that Lady Rose was a far greater lord than Sir Edmund, and her reputation could be damaged if her servants looked scruffy. So he brazenly demanded similar livery to encourage him to work harder for his lady. As Blakey ordered him to be thrown out, the plowman warned that if he did not get what he deserved, he would not stay around to undertake the plowing of the fallow land that would have to be done over the next few weeks if the winter wheat was to be sown on time (see figure 32).
The sleepless night Blakey spent worrying about what he had seen and learned since he arrived in Walsham was not wasted, for in the morning his mind was made up. Since the lady’s farm and its buildings were in sore need of repair and enormous amounts of work had to be carried out urgently to save them from ruin, he would have to make concessions in the short term, which could easily be reversed when the world returned to normal. He would not do anything that would permanently diminish his lady’s rights, but he would do what was necessary to stop immediate decline. So, first thing, he gave the hayward permission to reach agreements with a small number of workers at whatever wages it took to secure them, as long as he was careful to note their names, the number of days they worked, and the pay and other perquisites they were given. He told Rath that under no circumstances would he be drawn into negotiating with rustics himself, and he privately vowed to get his own back on each and every one of them who overcharged him, when conditions returned to normal. In the afternoon, as a show of strength and in order to frighten the others, he gave orders to sack the young assistant dairymaid when she asked for an additional shilling in cash to be paid to her at the Michaelmas reckoning. It was only later that evening he learned that the senior dairymaid had run away with a young laborer the day before to seek her fortune elsewhere.
John Blakey had already spent far too much time bickering with laborers and now needed to sort out the tenant farms. In all the years he had worked for Lady Rose, he had never had to cope with anything remotely like the task that faced him. During his time as steward only about five to seven tenants of Walsham had died each year, and he had never before dealt with the inheritance of more than a handful of holdings in a single court session. Yet now he reckoned that many scores of tenants had died, and some people he remembered as sober and reliable witnesses were claiming that less than one person in every two had been left alive.
As a matter of urgency, the steward needed accurate evidence to be gathered on each and every holding that had become vacant or changed hands. This had to include the name of the former tenant, the rent and other obligations that were due from the tenement, whether or not the best beast had been taken as heriot, who the correct heir was, whether or not the heir had been found and whether or not he had taken possession of the land, and what entry fine should be paid. This information would have to be obtained through a multitude of systematic, detailed inquiries in the village, beginning with Master John, who would know all of the deaths. Being a practical man, Blakey had brought with him a rental of the manor compiled many years ago that listed one by one the landholdings, their tenants, and the rents and obligations due from them. He had been pressing for some time for a new rental to be drawn up, but Lady Rose and her husband had never got round to agreeing the expense. Even though the record at his disposal was long out of date, it would still prove an essential tool in his struggle to compile an accurate and complete record of the manor and what had happened to it. He had been amused to learn of the crude mistakes made when John Talbot had presided over the High Hall court a few weeks ago, and he was determined not to repeat them.
But everywhere the affairs of the village were in turmoil. The discontinuity and confusion caused by the sheer scale of deaths among villagers, which had time and again slashed through many of the lines of succession to landholdings and cottages, made the correct identification of heirs a monumental task. Each tenement had to pass down the bloodline in a precise sequence, and where wives, sons, and daughters had died along with the father, then the brothers, sisters, and grandchildren of the deceased had to be identified. That was only going to be a relatively straightforward task if they were close kin and living in Walsham or nearby. But, if there were none, then nephews, uncles, or cousins had to be found, wherever they might be living. Finally, even if distant but rightful heirs were eventually identified by the testimony of villagers, if they were not living in Walsham there would be little chance of discovering in time whether they were alive or dead.
Knowing that he needed assistance, Blakey decided to appoint a panel or jury composed of the most prominent men in the village. They would be chosen with the approval of community leaders for their wisdom and honesty, and would ask questions and pool their knowledge of the manor and its families, and of the horrendous events of the last couple of months. But when he set about doing so, he soon discovered that finding appropriate members for the panel was an unexpectedly difficult task. Although Walsham manor had always been well administered during the steward’s time, the pace of change had been relatively slow and it had never been difficult to find experienced and generally capable men available to fill its main offices, inquisitions, and juries. But now, many of the usual reliable and knowledgeable candidates for such posts had died, and the few wise and able men who had survived the plague had many other preoccupations. Therefore, it was only after considerable effort that the steward and Geoffrey Rath managed to get together a panel of fifteen men. In this task they were helped by the eagerness of a number of relative newcomers to serve, since they were flattered by being asked to exercise such power for the first time, and by the desire of a number of long-standing residents to serve in order to ensure that order was restored and custom strictly followed. Further, one or two boasted that they would use their position to keep an eye on the behavior of the steward and his lady.
Over the next few days the jury spent a great deal of time gathering information, and Master John was most helpful in providing the names of the dead. But when the steward met with the jury, he found that far too much of the evidence to hand was conjectural, hearsay, or partial. Reluctantly, he decided that there was no alternative but to try to firm it up using the villagers who attended the court session, which he would do by asking the assembly to confirm or amend the record. Blakey was also beginning to appreciate that even a successful court would leave a substantial amount still to be done. The jurors tried to impress on the steward the truth of the remarkable rumors circulating the village that a good number of peasants were refusing to take up the lands they had inherited. But he dismissed them contemptuously: “Rustics always take whatever scraps of land they can get, even if it is of the very worst quality, and at whatever rent I choose to ask. In any case, I will show them what is good for them, if they are too stupid to know it for themselves. I have the legitimate means to compel heirs, and indeed any of my lady’s serfs, whether they are the kin of the deceased or not, to take up any tenancy my lady wishes, and to pay the rents and obligations due from it. I will not stand by and let even the smallest of my lady’s rights and authority be gainsaid.”
He then instructed them to tell all tenants of Walsham manor that the court would be held soon after sunrise on the following Monday, June 15, and he sent a message to Master John asking him to announce the meeting in church on Sunday.