This is episode forty-nine 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.
A Smile From Lattice
After birthing the calf, Thomas took Tom on a tour of his fields. They strolled beside the border.
“You seem to have birthed many cows before,” Thomas said.
“A few.”
“Where you are from, how many cattle do you have?” Thomas asked.
“Enough to keep me busy.”
“What kind of crops do you farm?”
“Wheat and oats.”
“How many bushels per acre?”
“I do pretty well.”
“What is pretty well?” Thomas asked, slightly peeved.
“What is pretty well for you?”
“Ten bushels would be a very good yield.”
“If you plant one seed, how many seeds will it yield?” Tom asked.
“Four.”
“How much do you take to market?”
“Half.”
“Hmm,” Tom stroked his chin.
Before Tom could speak, Thomas said, “Of the half we keep, half is saved and sown for the next year. We use what remains for ourselves: bread, ale, pottage. What about you?”
Tom feigned interest. “What about your oats?”
“Fifteen to twenty bushels per acre and three to fourfold,” Thomas said. “What about you?”
“We use a very similar crop rotation as you do,” Tom said.
“You are new here,” Thomas said, “how do you know about our crop rotation?”
“On my trek here, I spoke to farmers and innkeepers,” Tom said. “You know what they say, ‘If you want to know God’s thoughts, ask the innkeeper before the priest; the innkeeper is more reliable, so God says.’”
Thomas chuckled. “You are purposely avoiding my questions and trying to steer our conversation. I’m becoming distrustful.”
“What would I have to be distrustful about?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “Although I can read, I am not familiar with the words of the law. Only nobility can afford a pleader or an attorney. Even if they do not employ one, they win in court, all the same.”
“What about your legal situation?”
“The law is the law, but from Duke to Duke it can be applied differently,” Thomas said. “The last ruling was that the land my father legally obtained belongs to my mother. When I’m twenty-one, the title can be granted to me. Elsewhere, it can be granted to me at my present age. Here is my legal situation; if the court should determine my mother is not competent, the Duke can claim the land as his own or award it to one of his friends or to one who has served him loyally.”
“Drake Bouchard?”
“Yes,” Thomas said.
“What about your mother? Is she competent?”
“She bears a humiliation no woman should experience,” Thomas said. “Not only did Bouchard violate her, but he killed her husband, my father, before our eyes. Her burden leaves her as close to death as a person can come while still breathing.”
“Can you afford someone versed in the law to adequately represent you?”
“I trust no one,” Thomas affirmed. “Not even you. My father’s death has left me bitter and seeking only vengeance. I do trust my mother, that’s it. As for you, I ask questions that you do not answer. And you steer the conversation to suit your own interests. You have deceived me at least once. I can’t trust you.”
They walked for a couple of minutes, neither saying a word.
Thomas bolted forward and planted himself directly in front of Tom. Tom stopped.
“Face to face we are, man,” Thomas said. “I can’t figure out your interest in this. I’m not familiar with the ways of businessmen’s and nobles’ trickery, usury, and handi-dandy. Sure, I know about certain frauds and dishonest scales, but the weaving and wavering of schooled nobles, I am unfamiliar with. And you may be all a part of it. You win my confidence and trust and then slowly sink a knife into my back. Is that the way it is plotted? The countryside is full of such villainy.”
“Your distrust is warranted, but not in full,” Tom said. He nodded forward to indicate he wanted to walk further. “Show me more of your land.”
They continued to walk.
“Is this giving you time to harvest another fable?” Tom said sarcastically.
“You see,” Tom said, “from my point of view, I may have greater reason to hold things confidential without informing you.”
“You think I am the one who can’t be trusted?” Thomas said incredulously.
“Not in the way you suppose. I could trust you with any transaction. If we agreed upon a price for some goods and you dropped the money into my hand, I would not have to count it. What we agreed upon would be there—in full.”
“And I’m inclined to view you equally, given the same sort of transaction,” Thomas said. “But I sense you are hiding something of greater value than a handful of coins. I watched as you brought about the birth of a calf. It was not a birth, it was a life. You looked with pleasure and satisfaction at a new life. Life has meaning to you. I sense you are not a scoundrel. And if you are, you have goodness in your soul.”
“I would like to meet your mother.”
“What? You want to confirm she is not stable?” Thomas said forcefully. “And then lend testimony in the Duke’s court?”
“To the contrary, I want to see her in a way that I will explain later.”
“You will not impose on her or upset her in any manner?” Thomas asked.
“Never,” Tom said, “never.”
Thomas motioned with his head to return to the house.
Tomas continued to speak. Tom listened and answered passively. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was full of emotions. He had looked into the eyes of Thomas, a vibrant and spry lad, knowing that he was, at least, a distant thirty-generation progenitor. Now he was about to look into the eyes of an additional generation beyond Thomas—to a woman barely clinging to life.
Tom asked Brain telepathically, “Are these really my ancestors?”
Brain replied, “There are matters of the universe that you will never comprehend. And there are things I will never be able to compute, but I can tell you for certainty, they are you.”
Tom continued to walk with Thomas, mechanically carrying on a conversation.
They walked into the house. Thomas’s mother sat in a chair, staring at a wall and grinding wheat with a quern that sat on a table. She continued turning the handle as if no one entered the house.
“Mother,” Thomas said, bending down to her, “I have brought someone who bears the same name as mine. He is a distant relative of Father.”
Thomas moved aside. He gestured with his head for Tom to move closer and speak to her.
Tom grabbed a stool and dragged it across the plank floor. He placed it in front of her. He eased deliberately onto the stool. He gently placed his hand on top of her hand that ground the grain. She stopped. He looked into her thin, troubled face with gullies swept deep by tears. He slowly slid the quern aside on the table.
“What is your name?” Tom smiled kindly and said with a gentle whisper.
“Lettice,” she said softly.
“That is a lovely-sounding name. It means joy, does it not?”
A smile trickled from one side of her mouth.
“Lettice, look into my eyes.”
Lettice’s attention slowly moved from the wall and met Tom’s eyes.
“Thank you,” Tom said. “I see a good woman, a strong woman, a woman in distress. Your strength will overcome that distress. Someday you will grind wheat for grandchildren. They will be nurtured by your warmth, calm, strength, and love.”
“Hope,” Lettice uttered.
“As you look deep inside me, what do you see?”
A gentle smile rested on his lips. “I see a son.”
Tom leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead.
She moved the quern near and began to grind.
Tom stood and walked outside. Thomas followed.
“What did she mean?” Thomas said.
“There are things in this world that will never be explained,” Tom said. “I think that may be one of them.”
“I don’t understand,” Thomas said.
“Tell your mother you will be gone for a while,” Tom said.
“Where are we going?” Thomas said.
“Just tell your mother,” Tom assured Thomas, gripping his shoulder.
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