This is episode forty-four of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. If you would like to purchase From Here To 1137 AD, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback.
Peasants, Monks, And Merchants
The road was a little more than a footpath. The rising temperature allowed the surface soil to thaw and turn it into a thin layer of mud.
Tom reached Scalby. It was no more than a cluster of six houses, houses that were a little more than huts.
A shabbily dressed man split wood next to a house. He stopped and looked up at Tom.
“Is this Scalby?” Tom asked and stopped walking.
“It is,” the man said and buried his axe in a log. He wiped his brow. “On a cold day, nothing warms a man like hard work.”
“I agree,” Tom said, “and a good brisk walk.”
“Where are you going?” the man asked.
“Morpeth.”
“Never heard of it,” the man said.
“It’s a ways from here,” Tom said. “I was told if I get to Middlesbrough, someone there can direct me to Morpeth.”
The man pointed to an intersecting path. “That’s the road to Middlesbrough.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
“May I fetch you a drink of water?” the man asked.
“That would be welcome.”
The man grabbed a wooden bucket and brought it to Tom. He dipped his hand in the bucket and cupped two handfuls of water.
“Is there any news from Scarborough?” the man asked.
“I was not there long enough to gather any information,” Tom said. “I had two mugs of wassail and listened to some tall tales about the sea and old battles.”
“Where are you from?” the man asked.
“Suffolk,” Tom said.
“What brings you this way?” the man asked, reaching into the bucket for water and drinking from a cupped hand.
“I was a currier for King Stephen in Normandy,” Tom said. “I heard my uncle had been murdered. The war was all but over. I informed my commander of my uncle’s death and the hardship that it might expose my family. I petitioned him for my wages, discharge, and passport. He kindly obliged my request.”
“A good man, your commander,” the man said. “What will you do in Morpeth?”
Tom dislodged the axe from the stump. He set a log on end and drove the axe through the log, splitting it with one blow, and lodging it in the next log. “I shall exact vengeance on the man who murdered my uncle.”
The man stood and nearly began to tremble. “I have never seen a man as mad as you. Your anger split the log and buried it, stuck it into the stump.”
“My apologies,” Tom said. “All my grief and vengeance came at the same moment.”
Tom pulled the axe from the stump and handed it to the man.
“I should tell you that no one who goes to Middlesbrough passes through Scalby this time of day. It is early morning, they do. No inn can be reached with the amount of daylight that remains.”
“How far to the next inn?” Tom asked.
“At this time of day, it could only be reached by horse,” the man said.
Tom gave the man a nod. “You have been most helpful. Thank you.”
Tom walked toward the crossing of the two roads. He turned to the north. He walked only a short distance until hearing someone running toward him from behind. He turned, and it was the man.
The man held out a small loaf of bread. “Here, take this.”
Tom hid his astonishment and held out a grateful hand. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“It is rye and a day old,” the man said. “But it will feed you and keep you strong.”
Tom reached into his money pouch and handed the man a farthing.
“I would not be charitable of me to accept money,” the man said.
“And it would not be Christian of me to withhold the wages due a man who labored for that bread.”
The man reluctantly allowed Tom to drop the farthing into his hand.
“Lord be with you,” the man said.
“And the Lord be with you,” Tom said and walked away.
Overwhelmed by the humble peasant's generosity, Tom found it difficult to be mindful of his surroundings. Although he felt completely safe wearing the MAS, he wanted to carry on as if a man of the 12th century. He walked as if aware of possible danger at any time.
The sun set. And it became darker than he ever imagined. He came upon a clearing a few yards off the beaten path. He erected the crude canvas shelter. He crawled in and quickly fell asleep.
He woke in the morning to a light layer of snow.
“Brain,” Tom said, “are you awake?”
Brain answered telepathically. “Brain does not sleep.”
“Right,” Tom said. “I have a tin pan. I’ll hold it out, and can you have a bacon, cheese, onion, and tomato omelette instaported?”
“Hold out your tin,” Brain said.
Tom found his tin and held it out. “Ready.”
The omelette appeared.
“I’m not quite ready for all the rigors of the 12th century.”
“Many in the 12th century were ill-equipped as well,” Brain said.
Tom ate the omelette and was soon on his way to Middlesbrough.
The sun melted the light coating of snow. The English countryside came alive. Birds fluttered from tree to bush. Bird songs filled the air, accompanied by tree frogs. He walked to the side of the path to avoid sloshing in the mud.
Toward the end of the day, Tom came upon a stone building. Drawing closer, he discerned it might be a monastery. His instincts were confirmed when three men, whom he assumed to be monks, filed hurriedly from the building and greeted him with smiles and good wishes.
“You must stay with us,” one said.
“By all means,” said another.
“The Lord has brought you to us, along with the others inside. Come meet him.”
Tom joined them as they filed through a plank door and into a candlelit nave. It looked as if it could hold twenty people. Crude wooden benches lined the walls.
“Please,” one monk said, “become the friend of another traveler. And he led Tom to a thin man, dressed in warm but finer clothes than Tom’s.
The man stood. “Randolph Nash,” he introduced.
“Thomas Bales,” Tom said and gripped Randolph’s forearm. Without hesitation, Tom told him where he was from, about serving under King Stephen, and his plan to avenge the murder of Geoffrey Bales.
Randolph told Tom he was a grain merchant from London, seeking new resources of grain.
“You say you were in Normandy under King Stephen,” Randolph said, waiting for Tom to affirm.
“Indeed,” Tom said, “for one year.”
“Then undoubtedly you came across Sir Roger Cromwell,” Randolph said.
Brain said telepathically to Tom. “There is no Sir Roger Cromwell. He likely thinks you are lying and trying to trap you.”
Tom’s eyes rolled to the left and upward as if thinking.
“No,” Tom said. “I knew all the noblemen who served. And furthermore, the name sounds fictitious.”
“Calling a man a liar you are about to eat with is quite astonishing and merits an apology,” Randolph said firmly.
“It is not as bad as what you have attempted twice over. You try to trap me with a false name and cunningly claim I am the offensive one. You, sir, should render the apology, for I will not dine with such a man who will render falsehoods in the Lord’s house.”
“Roger Cromwell is one of my associates in London,” Randolph said. “Back in Scarborough, a sailor at a tavern said he could not remember you on his ship.”
The monks entered the candlelit nave from a doorway at the front. They carried copper bowls of pottage and rye bread. They handed the food to Tom and Randolph. The monks sat on the benches. One of the monks offered a prayer of thanks, and everyone ate without uttering a word.
After everyone ate, the monks collected the empty bowls and exited the nave.
“Well,” Randolph said, “that was refreshing.”
“It was,” Tom said. And he stared at Randolph.
Randolph squirmed uncomfortably.
“If you could divulge the truth, I’m sure you might feel better.”
Randolph swallowed and looked away.
Brain spoke telepathically to Tom. “He is what he says he is. The reason he is uncomfortable is that he lacks the skills to hide his true self.”
“Randolph,” Tom said, “I believe you are a grain merchant. Otherwise, you are being deceptive. Look at me, Randolph, do I appear to be anyone whom you would want to be in fear of if I knew the truth about you?”
Randolph faced Tom. “I am a merchant. I arrived here a short time before you. A man, a bachelor knight, approached me. Two miles from here. Someone reported you to him. You appeared suspicious to someone. In these times, that is enough to have a man jailed and even killed. The knight rode a horse through the wasteland to get ahead of you. He happened upon me and paid me half a shilling to find out who you were. He said he doubted you served the King in Normandy and suggested you may be a spy. Are you a spy?”
Tom smiled. “We’re not supposed to tell.”
Randolph grinned. “Well said. I should not have agreed to this. I’m a merchant, and that’s all.”
“I understand,” Tom said. “You were doing your best to serve the King. Likewise, Randolph, I’m not very good at this either. I confess to you, I have never served the King in Normandy. Deception is not my strong suit. However, I am from far away. I have no side in the King’s quarrels. I have only my own interest to pursue, and it is as I stated, to avenge a relative's death.”
“I believe you speak forthrightly,” Randolph said. “A knight waits not more than two furlongs from here. He waits for me to come to him this evening or in the morning.”
“I have an idea,” Tom said. “We have a mug or two of ale this evening. Rest well. I will leave early. You approach the knight after I leave, and tell him whatever you like. I have the feeling he will soon overtake me and take matters into his own hands.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Randolph said.
“Let’s beckon our monks for some ale and have a pleasant chat,” Tom said.
“Where are you from?” Randolph asked.
“I am from far away,” Tom said. “A place you have never heard of. I have nothing further to say.”
“I perceive you are a man with sufficient reasons,” Randolph said.
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