Extract from the chronicle kept at St. Brigid's abbey, Oakley, Wiltshire. A.D. 1066. This year died King Edward, and Harold the earl succeeded to the kingdom, and held it forty weeks and one day. And this year came William, and won England. And in this year Christ-Church was burned. And this year appeared a comet on the fourteenth before the kalends of May. And this year died Osmund our lord, who fought for king Harold and was slain by an arrow to the great heaviness of his family, and his lands were taken into the hand of King William and given to the Norman knight Ancel.
The air was cool and damp and the westering sun glinted through the clouds into Ancel's eyes as he came to the top of a rise in the road. "I suppose that's the place," he said to his man-at-arms, reining in to take a good look at this first of his new manors here in England.
"Yes, m'lord," agreed Hamo, halting a neck-length behind and to his left. "Ten miles from Wilton, they said, is Swinbroke, and we'd see the stream disappearing into the wood, with a mill on the south side. This must be it."
Ancel nodded absently, absorbing what he saw. He would want to be sure the mill was in good repair, and that the steward kept a close eye on the miller. Only half the receipts of the mill went to the lord of Swinbroke; the second part was owned by the church of St. Frideswide in Oxford. The woodland was sufficient to the manor; forty acres of it to five hides of ploughland and seventy acres of meadow and pasture. The peasants' payments of pannage to let their pigs roam among the trees all year should make a tidy sum; that without considering that the trees were a good resource if and when he needed to rebuild the hall. Which he should go to look at first, since he had been informed that the steward would be on this manor. If the man seemed competent and willing to be loyal to a new master, Ancel intended to keep him in service. That would be far easier than sending back to his estates in Normandy for someone who would not know the local language or customs in any case.
Come to think of it, he hoped he could make himself understood. He had learned a little of the barbarous English tongue in the past several months, but only a little. If he was in luck the steward would understand Latin; it was beyond hope that he would speak good Norman French.
They rode on past stubbled fields, and some plowed afresh and sown with winter wheat. In the distance Ancel saw two teams of scrubby oxen at work, men with goads behind them urging them on. Scattered blots of dirty white on the hillside were sheep grazing on the first of the spring growth. Ancel approved. Clearly his predecessor's steward knew what he was about.
When they had passed through the village that straggled by the stream – children coming to gaze curiously at the finely-dressed strangers – and halted in the yard before the hall, he sent Hamo to find the steward, who a servant told them was down at the mill. Waiting, he walked around the outbuildings and then entered the hall itself. No better than Ancel had expected, but well-kept, with trestles stacked neatly and green cloth hangings on the walls. He stood near the fire pit in the center of the large room, warming himself.
"Sir, here's the steward," Hamo said from the doorway. "Ketel is his name."
Much to Ancel's relief, Ketel spoke passable Latin, though with some strange words thrown in that Ancel assumed to be English.
"I had word that you would be arriving some time this week, my lord, and I am at your service. If you wish I will be happy to take you to see your other three manors as well; I was in charge of all four for sir Osmund who held them before. . ." Ketel trailed off.
"Before, yes. I believe that family had been here for some generations?"
"Yes, sir. At least eight generations, so I was told. But such are the fortunes of war, as they say, and I'm prepared to work hard for a fair master," said Ketel, looking squarely at Ance.
The Norman was startled by such blunt speech, but inclined his head in acceptance. "Tell me a bit about the other three manors. I'll begin to look over Swinbroke today, the others later."
"Well, there's Clerebroke, Springhill, and Long Plumwod. At Clerebroke is where sir Osmund's wife has been living since word came of the deaths, first of young Alfward up at Stamford Bridge, and then sir Osmund himself at Hastings. But the lady Mildthryth knows you're to hold the estates, sir, and she's prepared to leave now that you're here."
"Any other children?" asked Ancel sharply.
Ketel cocked his head slightly. "A daughter, sir, called Estrild, but she is off in the north somewhere, visiting her mother's kin, I believe. I suppose her mother will join her there. No other close relations, not that I ever heard. Neither sir Osmund nor his father Eadred had any brothers or sisters that lived to grow up."
"Good," murmured Ancel to himself. Aloud he said, "Take me to the mill here now. You can tell me more about the manors as we go."
"Let me give orders first to make all ready for your stay, sir," said Ketel, "since it is nearly time for vespers and dusk will come soon."
"Very well," Ancel said.
Over the next fortnight he became acquainted with his new properties as well as his new steward. Ketel gave every appearance of being reliable and honest; he was able to read and write, though only in English, but Ancel went through the accounts that Ketel had kept for his late lord and was favorably impressed.
He did not see the widow Mildthryth when at Clerebroke. Instead he sent her a message that if she did not wish to journey far to the north at this season, she could remain until warmer weather brought drier roads – a gesture that surprised his steward, Ancel could tell, but Ketel did not know all that Ancel did. She returned thanks for the kind offer without indicating whether she would accept it.
Sitting by the fire back at Swinbroke late one evening, Ancel inquired if there was anything else of urgent importance concerning his lands that he had not yet learned.
"Two things I can thing of, sir, though they ought not to be spoken of together, in a way," said Ketel.
"Well, what is the first?"
"When I was showing you around Swinbroke, I didn't take you to the far side of the wood, up on the ridge above, you recall."
Ancel thought about it. "No, you did not. I didn't even realize that was part of the manor."
"Oh, it is, sir, but not a part much taken note of, not by us. It's said to be ill-luck to go up there." Ketel laughed unconvincingly.
"Why ill-luck?" asked Ancel.
Ketel shifted on the bench and swallowed a gulp of ale. "Well, because of the stones. They say that sheep that go in between the stones never come out again. And once or twice not just a sheep, but the shepherd himself has disappeared."
"Stones? A circle of stones?"
"Yes, that's right. Not as big as those ten miles or so off to the east of here, but bigger than this hall. How do you know, sir?"
"I have seen such standing stones in Brittany and Normandy, too," said Ancel, keeping his voice calm though his pulse was racing with excitement. In responding to his message of last December, his wife Avice had been less than enthusiastic about the prospect of visiting these new English manors, although she agreed that it would be good to increase their holdings and status. But to have a henge on their own estates – she would certainly wish to come now. "I have heard similar superstitions there, but the fellow who supposedly disappeared in one of those circles was found six years later in Rouen, working as a tanner's apprentice. So much for rumor and superstition."
"If you say so, sir," said Ketel doubtfully, "but I'll warn you that no one here will be willing to pasture sheep up there, neither theirs nor yours. At most, in a bad season, they'll cut hay from around the circle, but not within it."
"I am duly warned," Ancel said. He was pleased that it sounded most unlikely that anyone would wander past when he visited the henge. "And what was the other matter you thought I should know?"
Ketel looked relieved to shift to a different topic. "Ah, that's to do with the monastery at Oakley. It's in one of the account-books, one I didn't have a chance to show you today. What it is, is that the income of Long Plumwod has been used to endow the monastery, so the receipts go there, not to you, I fear."
"So a group of monks get the revenues, not I? King William did not make me aware of this, nor the scribe who wrote out the grant," said Ancel with some heat.
"Well, not quite. It's all a bit muddled, in fact, sir. As best I understand it, old sir Leofgeat – he was sir Osmund's great-grandfather – only granted the monastery that income for five lifetimes of his family. Now with both sir Osmund and Alfward dead, those five lives are up, so the income should come to you again, unless you decide to continue the grant. If I may be so bold, sir, the monks at St. Brigid's are well thought of, saying prayers as they do not just for Leofgeat and all his family, but for all those on the estates as well. And in bad years they help those in need nearby; my cousin Leoba who lives in Oakley told me of it. The abbot is a good man, she says. I'm sure he would hope to speak to you before you make any decision on the matter."
Ancel sighed inwardly. He had no great interest in the Church, and he could use the income himself, but he had better at least go to see this popular abbot. Unfortunately he had sent Hamo off to Wilton several days before. The other man's English was rather better than his own, and Ancel wanted him to make some discreet inquiries about the family of Osmund. He had received certain useful information already, but Hamo himself had not yet returned, so Ancel would have to go to Oakley alone.
He rode north, over several rolling hills, then eastward on a narrow lane the few more miles to Oakley. St. Brigid's abbey was small, supporting only six monks and their abbot Petrus, so Ketel had explained the previous night. But it had two fine stone buildings inside its own walled enclosure at the edge of Oakley, a church to the saint and a second that served as both dormitory and refectory where the monks slept and ate. The kitchen, barn, and other outbuildings were ordinary cruck-built edifices, with wattle and daub forming the walls between the great timbers. Ancel knew that the revenues from Long Plumwod were perhaps fifty shillings annually; the monastery must have had other donations to enable such substantial constructions.
Reaching the locked gate, he shouted until one of the monks came to let him in. At this late morning hour, Ancel found the abbot not – as he might have expected – in either the church or dormitory, but instead in the kitchen garden, preparing it for winter. A polished rod perhaps a handspan and a half long rested on the ground next to him, and as he rose Petrus casually tucked the object away into his sleeve before greeting his visitor courteously.
"Sir Ancel? I am very glad you have come to speak to me in person. St. Brigid's is a most worthy establishment; I hope to persuade you to continue supporting us."
"I don't think you need to worry about that any more, Petrus," said Ancel, his pale blue eyes looking almost white in the cool sunlight. He glanced about to ensure that none of the other monks were in view, and made a small gesture with his left hand.
Petrus blinked.
"You should be more careful of your wand, you know," Ancel admonished him. "What if one of your monks saw it?"
"What if. . ." Petrus laughed in half-swallowed gasps. "Ah, my dear sir Ancel, you have not realized. This is probably the only entirely wizarding monastery in England."