From Here To 1137 AD; Episode 54, Truth and Love

 This is episode fifty-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. 

Truth And Love

The next day, the oxen were hitched, and another day of plowing ensued. Thomas continued to teach Tom the finer points of plowing by oxen. It created hearty laughter and memorable moments.

In a strange way, although Tom was three years older than Thomas at present, Tom felt younger than Thomas. He viewed him as older and wiser. At times, Tom tried to present himself as the older and more experienced, but it seemed unnatural. Whether it was because of the knowledge of an eight-hundred-year difference in civilizations or something genetically instinctive, he simply did not know.

Lattice brought bread and cheese to the field. Thomas stopped the oxen, and they sat beneath an oak tree that marked the boundary between the Bales’ farm and their neighbor’s farm. They talked and ate. The oxen rested.

The cheese was hard, and Thomas shaved it with his knife and passed the shavings to Lattice and Tom. 

“If you defeat Bouchard, will you return to your home?” Lattice asked.

“I will return to my home,” Tom assured. “Bouchard will not defeat me.”

“Where is home?” Lattice asked.

“It is far, far from here,” Tom said. “It is so far away that the name would mean nothing to you.”

“What is its name if it means nothing?” Lattice urged.

“It’s called Ohio.”

“That is a strange name,” Lattice said. “I never heard of it.”

Tom smiled. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“You are a curious fellow,” Lattice said. “I’ve never met you before, but I feel as if I know you.”

“I feel the same way about you and Thomas,” Tom said. 

“If you were here when Geoffrey was alive, you two would have been good friends—just like you and Thomas.”

“I am sure we would have been,” Tom said.

“There is something I am curious about,” Tom said. 

“What is that?” Lattice asked.

“Where I am from, the custom is for the woman to change her surname when she marries a man,” Tom said. “And she takes her husband’s surname.”

“My father was known as James Shepherd, and I’m known as Lattice Shepherd, wife of Geoffrey Bales.”

Tom again gazed into the open countryside. He thought, ‘From this generation to mine, the genetic similarities between Gene Francis and me are greater than Lattice and Tom is to me, yet there is something beyond genetic matching that draws me close to them. It can’t be measured, defined, or seen. It’s just there. Their memory I will carry eight hundred years into the future. But they will remain planted solidly and deep into my heart as if they are walking every step alongside me.’

Thomas interrupted Tom’s thinking. “I will finish when I am at that stake. That is about three furlongs.” Thomas pointed to a stake in the ground a short distance away. “And you rest, Tom. Tomorrow is a big day.”

“Yes,” Lattice said, “Help me back to the house with the cheese, bread, and mugs.”

They gathered the uneaten cheese and bread. They swallowed the last of the ale. Tom and Lattice walked toward the house.

“What is it you wish to speak to me about?” Tom asked. “You really don’t need help carrying these things.”

“I want you to leave,” Lattice said regretfully. “You are confident, but Bouchard is trained. I haven’t noticed you doing anything to prepare for a sword fight. You don’t even possess a sword. When Geoffrey fought Bouchard, he prepared for a month. I pleaded with him every day not to fight Bouchard. He was certain also. I cannot bear to see another man die for my honor. Everyone knows what really happened; that’s honor enough for me.”

“Thomas was willing,” Tom said. 

“I had him talked out of it,” Lattice said. “I asked him who was going to care for me if he were dead?”

“And you were as close to death as anyone, two days ago,” Tom said. “If you had died, Thomas would have picked up the sword.”

“Please,” Lattice pleaded, “leave in the night. Follow the road north and take the next road west. In a day, you will be beyond the realm of Bouchard and Whitford Castle.”

“You know it is in vain you are speaking.”

They reached the door, and Tom held it open for Lattice. They walked in.

“Sit,” Lattice said, gesturing kindly to the table.

Tom sat, and Lattice sat across the table from him.

“I feel there is much I don’t understand about you,” Lattice said. “You say you are related to Geoffrey, and you are from the south. I am from the South. I have never heard of you. Geoffrey never mentioned anyone in his family named Tom.”

“I told you all that I know,” Tom said.

“There is something else,” Lattice said. “You say you are related to Geoffrey and his family, but something is troubling.”

“What is that?” Tom asked.

“I feel we, you and I, are related,” Lattice said.

“Indeed,” Tom said, “that is troubling and difficult to explain.” Tom looked around as if trying to find something to change the conversation.

“The troubling thing is that I feel as though you may be a son,” Lattice said. “I was sixteen when Thomas was born. I had no man before Geoffrey. And if you are nineteen, as you claim, that would have made me twelve or thirteen when you were conceived.” She smiled broadly. “And I know that didn’t happen.”

“Sometimes people have feelings. And they are misread,” Tom said.

“Can you tell when a person hides the truth from you?” Lattice asked.

“You mean lie?” Tom said.

“I suppose,” Lattice said, “but that’s your word and not mine.”

“Sometimes people say things that are not true to protect those they love,” Tom said. “I have been raised to believe that truth is the most valuable thing there is. Only from truth is understanding. Truth and love are the soil and the crop. The crop can only grow if the soil is good and nourished. Love grows on nourished truth.”

“Your own words betray you,” Lattice said. “Thomas knows who you are. I can tell. I vaguely recall you putting something on my chest while I was near death. It was something not from this world. You are not from this world, but you are a part of me in some sort of way I can’t explain.” 

“I made Thomas swear not to tell anything he knows about me, other than what is already known by everyone,” Tom said. “He is a man of his word. I will set him free from his promise, but only to you.”

“I want to hear it from your lips,” Lattice said.

“I have violated the trust handed to me on two occasions,” Tom said. “It has only been to those I trust and love. I cannot conceive that the promise I made was absolute. Explanations are needed, especially to the ones I love and who love you.”

“Do I demand too much from you?” Lattice said.

“Never.” Tom reached across the table and patted her hand. “Have you ever desired that someday you will hold a grandchild?”

“Yes,” Lattice smiled.

“And,” Tom asked, “holding a great-grandchild would be that much more meaningful, but less likely to happen?”

“Yes,” Lattice’s smile slowly faded.

“What if you could live long enough to see a grandchild ten generations into the future?” Tom said.

Lattice chuckled. “That is foolish to ponder. I’ve never thought about such a prospect until now. And even now, it cannot be imagined.”

“I, Tom Bales, am a thirty-third-generation grandson of you.”

Lattice smiled as if she were about to entertain a drunk man’s ramblings. 

“The truth is,” Tom said, “I come from afar: from a land not yet known to people who live here in England today. And I am from a time 800 years in the future.”

Lattice looked away for a moment. 

Tom waited for a reaction. He wondered what thoughts might be rushing through her mind. What element of 1137 AD could she latch onto that might help her grasp the concept just presented to her? He began to wonder if he had overstepped the realm of reason with her. He wondered if he should have ignored her demand to hear it from him and leave it to Thomas. Likely, he, being more familiar, could have gained greater confidence and trust.

Lattice turned back to Tom. She reached across the table and placed her hand gently on his. She leaned slightly forward and looked into his eyes. “You are telling me the truth. I cannot pretend to understand what you have told me, but I know it is the truth.”

 

From Here To 1137 AD; Episode 53, Rabbit Pottage

 This is episode fifty-three 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. 

Rabbit Pottage

Tom strolled back to Thomas’s farm. A rush of jubilation flowed from his chest to his face. He experienced greater pleasure and freedom than he had while walking to Bouchard’s manor. A smile of completeness and satisfaction radiated from his carefree and confident gait. To Tom, the air was sweeter, the sounds more melodic, and the colors of the surroundings more vibrant.

Upon his return, Thomas showed Tom how to plow a field using the oxen. They laughed at Tom’s awkward attempts to plow straight and handle the team of oxen. 

Thomas stood at a distance and called out, “Give me five years and maybe I can make a farmer out of you.”

Tom smiled as the team jolted him forward. He thought, ‘If I could take you to my time and my farm, you would master it all in a week. He is a sharp lad. Wait a minute, that is my grandpa by at least thirty greats.’

While Tom plowed, heading back toward the house, Thomas drove a wooden pole into the ground. When the team reached the pole, Thomas held up his hand, “Whoa!” He walked back to Tom. “That will be all for the day.”

Tom turned and gestured to the sun. “We still have plenty of daylight.”

“One acre,” Thomas said, “we don’t overwork the team. Tomorrow we plow another acre and rest the oxen. The next day, they will be well-rested for another acre. Then they belong to my neighbor. He will use them for two days at the same rate. He will pass them to the next neighbor. I own two oxen, my neighbor owns two, and so on. At the end of six days, they are returned to me, then two more acres are plowed.”

They unhitched the oxen and led them to the barn attached to the house. 

“You take good care of your animals,” Tom commended as they walked around the side of the house to the front door.

“Do you not take good care of your engine that pulls your plows?” Thomas asked. 

“We do,” Tom said. “If we don’t, the same thing will happen to our equipment that will happen to your beasts. They will break down and become weak or useless. We feed and maintain our beasts, but in a different way.”

They entered the house. Lattice greeted them with a warm smile. 

“Mother,” Thomas said, “you have not smiled like this in a long time.”

“I’m feeling better,” Lattice said. “I don’t know what that potion Tom gave me had in it, but it certainly made me feel better.”

“It is important you eat,” Tom said. “Go outside and feel the sun on your face. Take long walks. That will help you remain as you are.”

A pot hung over the hearth that lay in the middle of the room. 

“Walden,” Lattice said to inform Tom, “a neighbor caught two rabbits today. He gave us one, and I am cooking rabbit pottage.”

“How much did the rabbit cost?” Tom said, opening his money pouch.

“No, no,” Lattice said. “If Walden were caught with two rabbits, he could be punished for poaching.”

“What kind of punishment?” Tom said.

“If from Bouchard’s land, Walden could have been blinded or castrated.”

“What!” Tom said. “For a rabbit!”

“Pouching from nobility’s land is serious,” Thomas said. “For a deer, a man can be hanged.”

“Why would Walden take such a risk?” Tom asked. 

“He heard the man who will duel Bouchard is under our roof,” Lattice said. “He wanted such a man to be healthy and vigorous.”

“Bouchard must be hated,” Tom said.

“Hate is the kindest word that can be used,” Thomas said.

“I am not the only woman he has violated,” Lattice said.

“And my father was not the only man he has killed,” Thomas added.

“I’m surprised someone has not lain in wait and killed him,” Tom said.

“If that should happen,” Tom said, “villagers would be questioned and tortured until the name was given.”

“So, the only way to settle a score with Bouchard is by a duel at the royal court,” Tom concluded.

“Or if he should ever die in battle,” Thomas said. “And given what is known about him, that will never happen.”

Lattice said the pottage was done. She used a ladle to fill three wooden bowls. She placed them on the table where three wooden mugs of ale sat. 

They sat on stools at a table, and Thomas placed spoons next to each bowl. While standing, he drew a knife from his side and sliced the bread that lay in the middle of the table.

They began eating and drinking.

“Lattice,” Tom smiled, “this is very good.”

“Yes, Mother,” Thomas smiled. “It is very good.”

“Thank you,” Lattice smiled modestly.

“You are eating from my father’s bowl,” Thomas said.

“I am honored,” Tom said. He paused; the moment seemed surreal.

“Is something wrong?” Lattice asked, placing her hand on Tom’s wrist.

Tom smiled. “No, I just can’t tell you how good I feel at this moment. It is very special.”

They dipped the bread in the pottage and ate. And they drank from the mugs.

Suddenly, three violent knocks at the door made them all jump.

“Constable!” And the door flung open. 

The constable was a burly man with a scraggly beard. He had bulging eyes above round, red cheeks. He wore a heavy fur coat. A foul odor accompanied him. 

Tom, Thomas, and Lattice stared fearfully at the constable.

“What are you eating?” The constable demanded.

“Rabbit pottage,” Lattice said. “Would you like a bowl?”

“Err,” the constable growled. He looked at Tom. “Who are you?”

“My name is Tom Bales.”

“The one to die by Duke Drake Bouchard’s sword,” the constable said.

“I will die an old man,” Tom said.

The constable sneered. “Walden had rabbits. Did he have two and sell you one?”

“No,” Lattice said.

The constable glared at Tom. “You were at Bouchard’s manor today. Did you pouch it from his property while you were there?”

“No,” Tom said. “In fact, I saw no rabbits. But I did see a swine named Bouchard.”

The constable raised his hand and swiped toward Tom’s face. Tom grabbed the constable’s wrist before it could land against his face.

The constable reached for his knife. “Careful, Constable,” Tom said, sure and deliberate. “If that knife is drawn, I will take it away from you and dig your eyes out with my spoon.”

The constable grabbed his knife. Tom increased the pressure on his wrist.

The constable’s hand let the knife drop to the floor and grabbed Tom’s hand that was squeezing his hand. 

There was a crack.

“Ahhhhh, Man,” the constable shrieked. “What are you doing?”

“What will you tell others about what happened to your wrist?” Tom said, staring coldly into his eyes.

“I will tell all that I feel.”

Tom released the constable’s wrist.

“If anyone inquires about the rabbit, Lattice,” Tom said to Lattice, “what should be said?”

“It ran into our house of its own accord,” Lattice said.

The constable held his wrist close to his chest and rubbed it.

“You know as well as I that this woman has suffered much humiliation,” Tom said. “She said the rabbit ran into the house. Make certain she is not charged for lying. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” the constable said.

“I am not your lord or anybody’s lord.”

“As you wish,” the constable said.

“Sit,” Tom nodded toward his chair.

The constable sat.

“You have a broken bone,” Tom said. 

He asked Thomas to fetch four pieces of stiff kindling from the wood pile. He cut a strip of fabric from the constable’s shirt. Tom used the kindling as splints and the strips of fabric to wrap the splints, holding the wrist immobile. 

“Leave this for six weeks,” Tom said. “It will heal and be as good as ever in three to four months.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the constable said humbly.

“Go in peace,” Tom said.

 The constable bowed until leaving the house. Everyone let out a sigh of relief. They chuckled when they were certain he was far enough away not to hear them.

“Let us finish,” Lattice said.

They finished the meal and spent the rest of the day talking about life in 1137 AD Northumberland. 

From Here To 1137 AD; Episode 52, The Insult

 This is episode fifty-two 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. 

The Insult

The next morning, Tom helped Thomas hitch a team of eight oxen to a wooden plow. 

Thomas gripped the handles of the plow. Leather reins extended from the oxen and draped over his shoulders.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try this?” Thomas joked.

“I have a bad back,” Tom quipped.

“You do?” Thomas said, concerned.

Tom chuckled. “That’s a joke where I am from. It is a lame excuse for not doing work. And we often say it to amuse everyone. However, when I come back from Bouchard’s place, maybe I’ll give it a try.”

“I will be glad to teach you,” Thomas said. “He snapped the reins and yelled, “Hie on!”

Tom watched Thomas plow for a couple of minutes. Something seeming difficult to Tom, Thomas performed with ease. Yet, he recognized the hours of struggling that it took to make it appear easy. He thought, ‘Farmers didn’t love to farm. They were desperate and exploited by the nobility. They were offered work and paid only enough to keep them alive and reasonably healthy from harvest to harvest. By the time the first son was strong enough to pull his weight, the father was near being used up. But they survived and, in time, prospered. They are a hardy breed, a brotherhood stretching from Abel to Thomas, and to me. It truly is the oldest profession.’

Tom walked through the fields on his way to Bouchard’s manor. The sweet scent of spring wafted across the landscape. Sheep bleated. Cows bellowed. Dogs barked. Birds sang. Roosters crowed. An orchestration of nature that many composers will attempt to capture. And their efforts bring to humanity beauty, inspired by what brought a pleasing smile to Tom's face.

In Tom’s mind, he heard the classical records his mother often played and listened to: Vivaldi, The Four Seasons, a favorite, Wagner, Ride of the Valkyries, on windy days. On hot summer days, Gershwin’s Summertime.

‘I am so glad Thomas’s mother could be saved. If she died, he would have been worse off than my situation, except for a debt-ridden, egotistical, highly educated, buffoon brother. But, I love him.’

He came upon several hedgerows that he was able to easily step over. Then he came to one that was four feet high and four feet in width.

Tom looked beyond the hedgerow. A two-story gray-stone house with three matching barns rested in the distance. 

Tom walked along the hedgerow, hoping to find an opening. After a little more than a furlong, he noticed an opening near the ground that appeared as though he could crawl through. So he got down on his belly and crawled through the opening. 

He walked the two furlongs to Bouchard’s manor.

He entered the grounds of the manor and barns. A dozen curious peasants came out of the barns and from behind them. 

A small man dressed in clean peasant clothing, who Tom took to be a servant, ran from the house and greeted Tom.

“Good day, sir. If you do not have business with My Lord Bouchard, politely leave until you are here by invitation.”

“Please say to your master, My name is Thomas Bales. I am a relative of Geoffrey Bales and Thomas Bales, the younger. I wish to speak with the man often referred to as The Swine Bouchard.”

The savant stood stiff and astonished by Tom’s remarks. 

“Be about your business, and repeat every word to your master as you have just heard,” Tom flipped his hand to the servant, hurrying him away.

The servant leaned forward and whispered, “He may flog me for saying that.”

Tom cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Duke Drake, The Swine of Northumberland, Lord of Leeches, Sire of Snakes, and renowned raper of peasant women, I am here to demand satisfaction. I bear the Bales family name, and I am here to exact vengeance on behalf of my family. You cowardly cat, cur chicken, and halfwitted and halfhearted heathen hare, never send a servant to do a master’s bidding.” 

Bouchard burst through the front door in a rage. His long, black, curly locks bounced. He wore tight blue silk pants and black buckled boots. Apparently, he didn’t have time to sling on a shirt; he wore only a linen undershirt. His long face and sharp nose parted the wind that he stormed against. In his hand, he grasped a sword and waved it with such velocity that it made a swishing sound.

“I will slit your throat from ear to ear and disembowel you and feed it to the swine,” Bouchard said angrily.

“It will be a fine meal you will be having,” Tom said, “since you are the only swine I see. And certainly not before peasants and servants, they have not attained the breeding to enjoy such barbarism.”

Bouchard slowed his hurried gait and drew to within three paces of Tom. A crooked, evil grin slowly developed. “You are the man I have been hearing about and waiting to gaze upon. You have come to avenge the insolent peasant cuckold, Geoffrey Bales.”

“I will meet you at the Duke’s court, the day after tomorrow. I wish to settle the matter of land disputes, your murder of Geoffrey Bales, the rape of Lettice Bales, and, most recently, referring to Geoffrey Bales as a cuckold. I am assuming you will deny all these well-known and provable charges. And I will demand we settle this as gentlemen—a duel to the death.”

“Gladly, courier boy,” Bouchard said. “It is rumored you accomplished little more in the King’s service than pass notes.”

“And it is a fact you have accomplished little more in the King’s service than pass wind.”

The servants chuckled but covered their mouths with their hands. 

“You will die slowly,” Bouchard said. 

“Bouchard, you wretched pile of buzzard vomit, a question for you to ponder: what is worse than a slow death?”

Bouchard smirked.

Tom smiled. He bowed as if to royalty. “I look forward to our next meeting. See you in court.”