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No Man's Child  by anoriath

~ Chapter 11 ~

'He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk.'

FOTR: The Council of Elrond

~oOo~

~ TA 3007, 17th day of Cermië: With the number of holdings now upon the Angle, each full virgate owes 16 bushels of tithe.    Full virgate – with 16 acres planted is 160 bushels, less 48 to seed and 16 of tithe is 96. Half virgate 48 bushels. 7 families come to Angle TA 3004, 8 families in Angle TA 3005, 13 in Angle TA 3006.  13 families with 48 bushels each is 624 bushels sum.  One oxgang per full virgate.  7 new oxgangs needed should we have again 13 more families flee hence. More, should the increase in numbers hold. 

~oOo~


The broad leaves of the bean bushes tremble in the breeze, their green so bright they seem to glow against the blackness that is the dirt. Ahead, boys switch at goats with their long withies stripped from the willow trees. The beasts trot down the path with their stiff-legged gait, swaying bellies, and wagging beards as their young herders call out and press them to their day's pasture.

The folk of the Angle ply their hoes upon the soil, the heads of their tools rising and falling as they work their way down the rows, ridding the field of weeds. The day afore they worked the lands of my lord's house, turning aside the soil about a field of wheat so tender it hung as a green mist rising from the soil. His reeve paced out the furlongs in my lord's fields and directed its ploughing and planting.

Today Master Herdir has set the men to work in the fields along the path to the square of the Angle. The musk of fresh-turned earth and their song floats across the valley, and I catch a word or two among the music. Halbarad, whose broad hand clutches my journal to his hip, walks behind me to guard his lord wife's steps and bear her burdens. He watches the men and his stride marks time to their steady rhythm. I wonder should he know it.

He is, as always, quiet of voice and solid of step. Glad am I, for I am deep in the figuring of tithes and what the fields may yield. I shake my head, for I can make little sense of my thoughts.

Should he be so endowed of his holdings, twenty-four acres, a full virgate, a man might have in the Angle. Of it he will plant but sixteen each year, leaving the fallow eight for the pasture of his and his fellow's beasts and fodder for their winter. Should the Valar be so kind, he might hope to reap ten bushels from each acre of wheat or beans and lentils in the summer and then rye upon the fall. One hundred and sixty in all, forty-eight of which he owes to the next planting's seed and sixteen of which he owes the House of Isildur in tithe. This leaves him with ninety-six, all of which he will need to feed and otherwise provide for his own family o'er the year. The House shall need as much and more, for it feeds not only its own, but provides commons to my lord's men, provision for his men's households should they be of the Angle, and the succor of those of his folk in need.

Aye, aye, and aye! This I know and understand. But what of those of our people who flee to us after the ploughing and planting of seed? How shall the land feed them?

Should a dozen families flee hither, we shall need over five hundred bushels to feed them. That is at least fifty acres of land to be worked!  Who shall work it? True these twelve new to the Angle could plough up acreage in the spring, and shall owe the House, together, a total of nigh two hundred bushels that might be used to feed five more families should we be spare in the giving or the families are small.

But where shall come the seed for their next spring's planting? And whose land shall it be? Shall those who work it owe a tithe to the lord for his holding, or shall it remain in the name of The House? Or is it somewhat altogether new and none shall own or owe tithes of it? 

And then there is this, a man who holds a full virgate in the Angle is a man of wealth. What of those who hold less? A half-virgate can feed a family in a good year but leave no surplus for trade for the family's other needs. Shall our wandering folk of the clans of the Gornwaith or homesteaders of the Bavrodhrim all become cotters, then, with no land of their own?  Shall the Angle become of two kinds, those who are landed and those who slave in the service of the bread they might earn from day's-work?

Ai! My head hurts.

My lord's lady mother's ledgers contain no accounting of such things. She lived simply, quietly and with few visitors. I found but the occasional reference to those who came to her for aid, and for nigh a generation of men, with my lord gone to lands far from his home and his mother under the care of the Lord of the Hidden Vale, there has been no House to record such things. So, no matter how oft I pore over the steady columns of figures, I find no help there.

The hens cluck weakly in their pens outside the Elder's home, the sun beating upon them and bending their heads beneath their wings with its sleepy warmth. Well, I am come, and am no closer to my answer than I was afore.

"I shall return for you upon the noon meal, my lady," Halbarad says shortly as he thrusts what are now my ledgers into my hands, and it takes a great act of will for me to forebear from staring at him.

So, this is what Halbarad thinks of my efforts. He thinks me a fool and, knowing it is not his place to say so, waits for the Elder to teach me a lesson in it. In truth, I am unsure he may not have the right of it.

"My thanks to you, Ranger Halbarad," I say and settle the leather folder upon my hip. It weighs as much as a newborn babe and seems to have brought as much unrest to my nights.

He takes his leave and I think him relieved to be gone, for I sent word ahead of my desire to speak with the mistress and she stands in her open door.

"Good morrow, Mistress Pelara," I say, and she bows her head and greets me in return, bringing her knuckles to her brow.

"You are welcome in my home, my lady," she says, but the words are stiffly delivered, and I wonder at her true feelings on the matter. Still, she backs away from the door and allows me entrance.

The Elder is nowhere in sight, and, in his place at the table, I see Mistress Pelara has laid out her accounts. They await my scrutiny and it is to them she ushers me. The brazier yet sits by the table, but its belly is cold, and the table bare of aught else but her lists. No sharp smell of rosehips and chamomile nor tart words fondly traded between father and daughter to greet me. I am not a fool. Or mayhap, say rather I am not so much a fool as to think she would welcome me warmly under such circumstances, but I had hoped for better than this.

"Would you wish for refreshment, lady?"

"Yes, Mistress," I say, should it only be to relieve me of her gaze, and she bows, leaving me to the pages of lists.

Ai! 

I have made my way through the accounting of tithes received in the past weeks and have moved on to the purchases made on my lord's House's behalf when the mistress returns. I am appalled! How could one house require so much in beef, pork and grain? And in but a sennight's time! Ai! What must the mistress think of my sense of economy? Ah, there is but one thing to think. It is apparent from these lists I have none.

She sets upon the table a pitcher of strong-smelling ale, and though she now sits across the table from me, I dare not lift my face from the sheets. I must seem to be turning the most intense of studies upon them, but I care not, for my cheeks are on fire for my shame. She waits impatiently, her arms tucked under her breast. I marvel she has said naught and think her only waiting to see what excuse I have to offer for my failings. Oh, I cannot say I place much blame upon her feeling. For here I sit in the Lady Gilraen's place, a woman much younger in years and wisdom than either the lady or her maid.

The letters are as the tracks of the Elder's clucking hens for all I can make sense of them, though they are placed upon the page with great care. I blink my eyes clear and swallow what little pride I might have left. Oh, yes, aye, there are among the lists an accounting of the purchase of onions and greens, aye, a mattock and spade, aye, that too, and an undue number of pots and blankets--

Blankets?

It seems the table tilts beneath my eyes and my thoughts draw sharply upon the page. How is this? Blankets, ten of them, and made of sturdy wool, purchased in exchange for a half-bushel of rye. What need has my lord's House of blankets? I brought many with me, of my own make, to a house that already had many of them. Where are they, these blankets I did not make and have not seen? And indeed, then, has the House truly consumed so much of what is contained herein? To my recollection, we have not had so much of pork as these lists might tell, and most assuredly not of beef. 

My lord commanded I not bring insult to the house of the Elder and his daughter, but now I must wonder do they not take gross advantage of his goodwill.

Mayhap I did not hide my displeasure so well as I thought, for the mistress shifts about on her seat and then launches herself to her feet. She goes to the tall chest and, wrenching it open, draws from it a cup. She says naught nor meets my eye when she pours the ale and sets the cup afore me.

"My thanks to you, Mistress."

I drink of the ale, lacking aught better to do. The taste is smooth with a deeply roasted mash of oats and somewhat else I cannot discern and know shall never be revealed. The mistress well deserves her reputation and no doubt keeps the tale of its brewing closely guarded.

"I have not yet set the doings of the past two days to the ledgers, lady," says she. "More of our folk came out from the Wild seeking aid, and we spent much of the time getting them settled."

I nod, swallowing the ale, for I had noted the lack, though had thought it of little account. I am silent for a moment more, for I need weigh my words carefully.

"Mistress, you kept these books in the same manner as e'er you have for the House?"

"Aye, as the Lady Gilraen directed me, so I have continued."

"And you keep therein an account of what is purchased in its name and is given to it in tithe?"

"Aye," she says, and from her look it seems she marvels I do not find this evident in what I have read.

"But not, I take it, strictly that which is put into use by the House."

"No, what need had the House was my lady's care and I did not question it. I was given to understand you to be occupied with the concerns of the House and of a mind to keep to it, and so I did not take its inventory.  Should I have been wrong, I would beg forgiveness of you, lady."

"And so, how much of this," I say and, ignoring the implied insult, indicate the ledgers, "was purchased in the name of the House, but was not for its use?"

I think this stings, for Mistress Pelara's face stiffens into subtle lines of resentment.

"My lady did as was proper and provided for those in need of the Angle atimes, but mayhap you would not know much of that."

The ale turns bitter upon my tongue, but it is not its brewing that gives it its taste.

"Aye, I am sure she deserved thy loyalty and thee made her a very good servant," say I.

At this, she colors and seems to bite back her anger. It is good, mayhap, the mistress does not speak, for I, too, need take a cooler breath, for greatly now do I rue the words that slipped from betwixt my lips. Ah, but they were petty and unworthy of either my father's daughter or my lord's wife.

Ai, I am making such a mess of things should I not mend this my lord shall greatly regret his choice. I shall indeed feel the cold weight of his disapproval and deserve it.

I rub at my brow and I think the mistress, too, reconsidering, for her gaze falls all places but upon me, and a quick glance reveals her face is drawn and weary.

"Mistress, you do not deserve harsh words, and I am shamed to have delivered them," say I and she nods, worrying a fold of her skirts between her fingers.

With a sigh, I look again to the ledgers she keeps. ‘Tis much as I expected, and I find few answers in their lists.

"Aye, Mistress, I do wish for the House to provide for those in need of our folk, but they are of such numbers they lie spread across the whole of Eriador. Should but half of those dispossessed make their way to the Angle--." Here I stop and shake my head.

"Would you have them go hungry and want for shelter, then, lady?"

"No! They lay heavy upon my thoughts, Mistress. I know not how to meet their need, but I know the House of Isildur shall not be sufficient aid."

"Aye." Mistress Pelara rises, her face grim.  With this, she goes to the chest and pulls from it a bowl of hardy cakes wrapped in linen that smell of oat, walnut, and honey.  "Did you know of the dispute between Elder Lorn and the wanderer of the Imlothrim clan?" 

"Aye," I say, for indeed I had heard of it. The Angle's council found in favor of its own and the family newly become our neighbors were thrust from the land which they claimed. It had not helped that the man of the wandering clans had been an unpleasant sort and had set his boundaries o’er another's who could claim it for nigh on six generations back. It had come to blows between more than just the two men involved and bred resentments and fears among those who had no need of them. Such was the chilling effect, those not born of the Angle were allowed little right to find land on which to settle. And so, by default, did this new custom of the Angle come to be, conceived in fear and birthed by distrust.

"Aye," she says, her voice echoing harshly in the small room. "'Tis easier to fear the wolf at your door than the warg that howls from o’er the hill."

"Will you not help me, Mistress?"

"Och!" she grunts, her voice muffled behind the doors of the chest. There she takes up linens and a cup for herself. "And you will need help. You may have married our lord, my lady, but it will matter naught until you are mother to his heir."

Glad am I for the chest's doors, for I know not how well I hide the suddenness of my alarm at her words. Oh, I am not so thick this had not occurred to me, but I had not known it so common a thought it might be stated thus baldly. 

"Should you think to gain the ear of the Council through me," Mistress Pelara says as she set the bowl of cakes and an empty cup upon the table, "and thereby through my father, I would caution you against it, my lady. Though it love the lord and respects his law, the Angle would ever be ruled by its own."

"In truth, Mistress, I had not thought it."

The sound she makes as she sits would be of scorn, had it not come from a face made bitter by disappointment. "And you think, lady, you will succeed where the Council has not?"

"I have somewhat the Council does not."

She does not reply, for it seems she thinks it unworthy of her efforts. Instead, she shakes her head, and unwraps the linen from the cakes and arranges the napkins to her liking.

"Do you not know?" I ask, and her eye comes upon me sharply for the mirth with which I warm my voice. "I came not to supplant you in your place among those of the Angle.  I came to elevate it. I came in hopes that I might have the ear of a woman of the Angle who knows well their workings."

"Me?" she scoffs.

"Mistress," I say, "my father may have been of the Angle, but my mother was not.  She was of the clan of the Nadhorim and wandered from winter to summer pastures with her father as do all those of our folk of Emyn Uial and the North Downs.  Loathe was she to give up the life and consented to my father’s offer of marriage only when her family fled south.  I owe a debt to both. I have not forgotten it. Are not there many of us with just that debt? Did not we all come upon the Angle as a refuge from some Darkness?"

"Aye, but some ere others by some hundreds of years," she says and pours herself of the ale.

"Tell me, when was the last time the Angle's council esteemed them enough to ask aught of its women?  You cannot convince me you have no thoughts about our Elders’ rulings you would not gladly have shared with them, had you the chance.”

"Well, then," she says and sets her cup and pitcher upon the table of a sudden. The cup is but half-full and yet she leaves off her pouring. Ah, but there is a wicked gleam deep within her gaze as she sits.  “Should you wish me seated upon the Council in effect, were it not in fact, what is it you have in mind, my lady?”

~oOo~

We have taken to accounting the yield and work of the Angle in a spill of beans and lentils upon the Elder's broad table. Cups, pitcher, and bowl are empty, and crumbs litter the space between us, for the hours of the morning draw swiftly to a close.

"But," begin I, my head hurting. I point to lentils grouped in piles of two, six, and more. "Have we not enough oxen, now?"

"No, my lady," Mistress Pelara says. "You forget the need for meat o’er winter increases with each family that arrives.”  And here she points to a pile of beans in groups of three to six each.  “Should they not eat from our herd of cattle, they shall eat the fish, rabbit, and mutton of those who will need more to replace what was eaten.”

"Ah," is all I can think to say.

"Aye, well, we must take to convincing Elder Tanaes to leave off his slaughter of all the good beasts of the Angle come winter. Mayhap the bulls shall mature the more quickly and take to the halter and plough should we convince them of the need."

"Aye, and the hay that will be their fodder shall leap from the meadows and settle in our barns ere the first snow falls, too," I say rubbing at the fine hairs beneath the linen about my head.

At this the mistress snorts. "Ah! Well, my lady, it will matter little should we cannot convince the Council to break ground on new land. We shall need neither the oxen nor the hay to feed them, shall they not see reason."

"Aye, aye, aye," I say and resolutely turn again to the beans stacked afore me.  “And the Council will not break new ground for the increase in portioning of tithes to and the number of votes wielded by the House when it sits with them.”

“Aye, my lady, and they fear the House would soon outweigh them in their deliberations should all our folk flee hence.”

“Aye, well, ere we discover what they need to allay their fears, we must decide how dear the price we need ask of them.  And it must be asked.  Should we not assart more land for planting we shall soon have folk who will sacrifice their pastures and plant them instead.  And soon the soil shall strangle for it and we will not get much in yield no matter which field is planted and how good the weather for it.”

Ten families have I yet accounted for, and more to go, one bean per acre of land. Mistress Pelara goes on then to divide them into those that have been ploughed and those that lie fallow. So deep are we in our figuring, we saw not the shadow cross the doorway nor heard the thump of stick and scuff of feet following it.

"What are you about, Daughter?" comes the Elder's voice. He squints into the dimness that is his hall from the bright summer day behind him. "Is it safe to come in, now? Or am I still to be banished from my own home?"

"Nay, Father, come in," she says and makes room for him on the bench.

He blinks and shuffles to the table, his eyes squinting at the mess upon the table.

"What is this about?" he asks when he comes near.

I dare not answer, for my lips move with the numbers I count, and I fear to lose my place. I do not wish to do this more times than necessary.

"The lady counts out what acres the Angle claims to the plough and I divide it by what they may yield," Mistress Pelara says, her fingers busy, and her father huffs impatiently.

He shakes his head and seeks out a bare spot on the table, so he might use it as a prop and ease his bones to sitting. The wood creaks beneath his thick fingers and he lets loose a long breath.

"Father-," she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Oh, aye, there is great need for it," he says, and knocks about the table with the head of his stick, seeking to lean it against the wood. "But you'll not get all you hope from it, mark my words."

His light eyes take in the scattering of beans. "How much yield have you figured there, hmm? Five bushels per acre?

"Seven, Elder Maurus," say I and pause in my counting.

"Eh, what?" he asks, cupping his hand about his ear.

"Seven!" I say, and the Mistress goes on, "And that figuring in what the land may refuse to yield or take back as its own."

"Ah!" he says. "Best to count on no more than three, then."

"Father!" she says. "When has the land ever yielded so poorly?"

"Did you think of the wet that can come upon the harvest? Hmm?" he asks. "Or fields so muddy they cannot be ploughed 'til the season is half gone? You may not recall it, Daughter, but well I remember the winters that followed. Hunger, there was, until the Angle and all about was sick for it.  So many the dead, it was all we could to bury them, weak with starvation and illness as we were ourselves.  Poor sods traded e’en the clothes off their backs for a bit of grain, and still died naked in the cold for naught to burn to keep them warm."

"Aye, Father, 'tis true, but we could then plough all the land from here to the Misty Mountains and still go hungry in such a season."

"And do not forget the rot!  Plant all the new fields you like, harvest it and it all come to naught in the end," he says, and I wonder had he heard aught his daughter said. He waves his hand above the table. "Ah! Convince the Council to plough new ground and grant all who come here holdings.  Holdings and barns and sheds are of no use should not the folk have means by which to defend the land, no matter what the Angle gives up in exchange. "

The mistress looks upon her father, her eyes stern and lips pressed in a thin line. "You have been talking with Master Bachor, again."

He grunts and lifts his cap from his head to slam it upon the table, scattering the beans. He rubs wearily at his pate and brow.

"Well, then, Father. You have done what you can," she says with a more sympathetic look. "Give it a rest."

"Bah!" he says and waves her away. “Should you not be getting the noon meal ready, Pelara?"

"Come up with you, then," his daughter says and, though she gives him a weary look, by dint of her hand beneath his arm, lifts the old man to his feet. "Go, get you some rest and, when you awake, I will make you cakes for your tea after the meal."

He takes his stick from her and begins his creaking journey to their inner rooms.

"You have not eaten them all, have you?" His glance comes quick upon the crumbs and empty bowl. "Tut! Daughter! The oat cakes? How could you? You know I am partial to them," he says, his voice grown soft and querulous.

"Aye, now, Father, you will get your cakes," she says, walking with him and easing his way. "There is more where they came from."

"Aye, but for how long, Daughter? How long, eh?"

And with that their voices fall to murmuring within their private rooms. The broad rug of morning that shone through the open door has shrunk to a mere pittance of its former length. Halbarad is late in his promised return and I worry for the meal I am to serve my lord and his guest, for I left the Grey Wanderer and my lord sitting in the garden and lighting their pipes. My lord seemed determined to smoke his share of the wizard's supply of leaf, but I think he shall soon find it insufficient and wish for somewhat to fill his belly as well.

In my hosts' absence, I scrape together the lentils and beans, careful to keep them to their separate piles. Soon my journal is assembled and tied, and the Mistress' pages stacked according to each date and purpose. True it is, I may have little of substance to show for it, but, all in all, I think the morning well spent.

~oOo~






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