Page 137 of The Evening and the Morning
“My lady, we have been informed that you are now lord of Outhen.”
“And so the people owe their rents to whom?”
Draca mumbled: “You.”
“Louder, please, so that the villagers can hear you.”
Draca saw that he had no alternative. “They owe their rents to you, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She looked over the crowd, paused a moment, then said: “All stand.”
They got to their feet.
Ragna was satisfied. She had taken control. But it was not over yet.
She dismounted and went to the table. Everyone watched her silently, wondering what she would do next. “You’re Ithamar, aren’tyou?” she said to Wynstan’s assistant. He stared at her anxiously. She snatched the parchment from his hand. Taken by surprise, he offered no resistance. The document specified, in Latin, what dues were payable by each man in the village, with many scribbled changes. It was old, and today’s tenants would be the sons and grandsons of those originally listed.
She decided to impress the villagers with her education. “How far have you got this morning?” she asked Ithamar.
“To Wilmund the baker.”
She ran a finger down the list. “Wilmundus Pistor,” she read aloud. “It says here that he owes thirty-six pence per quarter.” There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd: not only could she read, but she could translate Latin. “Step forward, Wilmund.”
The baker was a plump young man with floury streaks of white in his dark beard. He stepped forward with his wife and a teenage son, each of them holding a small purse. Wilmund slowly counted out twenty pence in whole coins, then his wife counted another ten in halves.
Ragna said: “What’s your name, baker’s wife?”
“Regenhild, my lady,” she said nervously.
“And is this your son?”
“Yes, my lady, he’s Penda.”
“He’s a fine lad.”
Regenhild relaxed a little. “Thank you, my lady.”
“How old are you, Penda?”
“Fifteen, my lady.”
“You’re tall, for fifteen.”
Penda blushed. “Yes.”
He counted out six pence in quarters, and the family’s rent was paid.They returned to the crowd, smiling at the attention they had received from a noblewoman. All she had done was to show interest in them as people, not just tenants, but they would remember it for years.
Ragna turned to Dudda, the headman. Feigning ignorance, she said: “Tell me about these notched sticks.”
“They are from Gab the quarrymaster,” Dudda replied. “He keeps a different stick for each man who buys stone. One stone in five belongs to the lord.”
“Which is me.”
Dudda said sulkily: “So we are told.”
“Which of you is Gab?”
A thin man with scarred hands stepped forward and coughed.
