there’s no good view of the hill. But look to your right!”
He waved at the broad prospect that had opened below them. For a couple of miles the ground fell smoothly to where a sunlit river shone silver. Beyond it the hills rose again.
“That’s the Calder,” he said. “And those few dwellings beyond it make Burnley.”
Margery considered it observantly. This, she thought, was farmland, but not the farmland she had known in Kent. This was a rougher land, with the cattle lean and the trees in scattered clumps. Stubble fields seen here and there suggested lighter crops than the Kentish farmers cut. Roger saw her thought.
“These are no wheat lands,” he said. “We contrive a little of it for our own tables, but the most of our folk must needs make shift with barley--and little enough of that.”
“And is barley all your people’s living?”
“No. There’s pasture too, as you may see, and it’s better than you’d suppose. Even in the Lacys’ time there were vaccaries here.”
“Vaccaries?”
“Cow pastures. What else? But here’s the open ground. Now see!”
They had ended the climb at last, and now to their left the ground fell steeply to a silver thread which she guessed to be the Sabden brook. Beyond it was the great hill, bare and stark in the sunlight.
“What’s on the hill?” he asked.
Margery looked keenly, and at once she saw what he meant. The hill was in full light, and from the one end to the other its great flank was dotted with white specks which could only be grazing sheep.
“There’s our true living,” said Roger. “There they graze. There’s wool to be clipped and carded and spun, and cloth to be wove and dyed. And beyond all that, there’s flesh to be roasted and boiled, and there’s milk and cheese for some. God’s chosen animal, the sheep.”
Margery gurgled with amusement. This, as a theological pronouncement, was new to her.
“And is it a good living, sir, that this chosen animal gives?”
Roger frowned at that.
“No,” he answered shortly, “not for all. It’s very well for us who are the owners. It’s well enough for the yeomen, who in their way are owners too. But for the common sort it’s not nearly so well. Sheep give less work than wheat, and there are folk in plenty here who eke out their barley bread with stolen mutton. How say you, Tom?”
“I’d say less, sir, if they’d let their thieving stop at mutton.”
“I’ll not gainsay you. That place yonder is Fence.”
They had dropped from the crest of the ridge now, and were riding along its outer face with a grey stone hamlet in view below them.
“Fence? That’s an odd name sir?”
“There was store of deer there once, kept safe behind a fence.”
Margery nodded. She was admiring the sweep of this sunlit valley, with its green and silver set against the blue and white of the sky.
“And those are the Hoarstones,” said Tom Peyton.
He was pointing at some tall stones rising out of the ground to their right, and Margery grew curious; but for once, Roger did not know the answer.
“Ask me not,” he said. “We call them so, and none knows how they came, nor whence.”
“The country folk,” said Tom Peyton, “have a tale that the Devil sits among the stones on certain nights, and the fairies on the other nights.”
“Fairies?” Margery smiled. “You keep fairies here?”
Roger grunted.
“I’ll not vouch for the fairies,” he said, “but we’ve certainly got the Devil.”
They had a minute’s silence, and then Margery was at it again.
“This Rough Lee to which we go,” she said. “Is that where this Mitton lived?”
“Aye indeed, and as house steward!” Roger laughed aloud. “God’s Grace! House steward in a yeoman’s home, as though Dick Nutter were a belted earl! It’s a woman’s madness!”
Margery looked at him inquiringly, and he explained it patiently.
“I mean Mistress Nutter,” he said. “Mistress Nutter of the Rough Lee--known through the
He waved at the broad prospect that had opened below them. For a couple of miles the ground fell smoothly to where a sunlit river shone silver. Beyond it the hills rose again.
“That’s the Calder,” he said. “And those few dwellings beyond it make Burnley.”
Margery considered it observantly. This, she thought, was farmland, but not the farmland she had known in Kent. This was a rougher land, with the cattle lean and the trees in scattered clumps. Stubble fields seen here and there suggested lighter crops than the Kentish farmers cut. Roger saw her thought.
“These are no wheat lands,” he said. “We contrive a little of it for our own tables, but the most of our folk must needs make shift with barley--and little enough of that.”
“And is barley all your people’s living?”
“No. There’s pasture too, as you may see, and it’s better than you’d suppose. Even in the Lacys’ time there were vaccaries here.”
“Vaccaries?”
“Cow pastures. What else? But here’s the open ground. Now see!”
They had ended the climb at last, and now to their left the ground fell steeply to a silver thread which she guessed to be the Sabden brook. Beyond it was the great hill, bare and stark in the sunlight.
“What’s on the hill?” he asked.
Margery looked keenly, and at once she saw what he meant. The hill was in full light, and from the one end to the other its great flank was dotted with white specks which could only be grazing sheep.
“There’s our true living,” said Roger. “There they graze. There’s wool to be clipped and carded and spun, and cloth to be wove and dyed. And beyond all that, there’s flesh to be roasted and boiled, and there’s milk and cheese for some. God’s chosen animal, the sheep.”
Margery gurgled with amusement. This, as a theological pronouncement, was new to her.
“And is it a good living, sir, that this chosen animal gives?”
Roger frowned at that.
“No,” he answered shortly, “not for all. It’s very well for us who are the owners. It’s well enough for the yeomen, who in their way are owners too. But for the common sort it’s not nearly so well. Sheep give less work than wheat, and there are folk in plenty here who eke out their barley bread with stolen mutton. How say you, Tom?”
“I’d say less, sir, if they’d let their thieving stop at mutton.”
“I’ll not gainsay you. That place yonder is Fence.”
They had dropped from the crest of the ridge now, and were riding along its outer face with a grey stone hamlet in view below them.
“Fence? That’s an odd name sir?”
“There was store of deer there once, kept safe behind a fence.”
Margery nodded. She was admiring the sweep of this sunlit valley, with its green and silver set against the blue and white of the sky.
“And those are the Hoarstones,” said Tom Peyton.
He was pointing at some tall stones rising out of the ground to their right, and Margery grew curious; but for once, Roger did not know the answer.
“Ask me not,” he said. “We call them so, and none knows how they came, nor whence.”
“The country folk,” said Tom Peyton, “have a tale that the Devil sits among the stones on certain nights, and the fairies on the other nights.”
“Fairies?” Margery smiled. “You keep fairies here?”
Roger grunted.
“I’ll not vouch for the fairies,” he said, “but we’ve certainly got the Devil.”
They had a minute’s silence, and then Margery was at it again.
“This Rough Lee to which we go,” she said. “Is that where this Mitton lived?”
“Aye indeed, and as house steward!” Roger laughed aloud. “God’s Grace! House steward in a yeoman’s home, as though Dick Nutter were a belted earl! It’s a woman’s madness!”
Margery looked at him inquiringly, and he explained it patiently.
“I mean Mistress Nutter,” he said. “Mistress Nutter of the Rough Lee--known through the
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