The Yeoman's Son

[alt-player.livejournal.com]

This was one of Regulus's favourite stories as a boy. Since it has cropped up several times now, I thought I'd share. Consider it a gift for the Easter holidays.

Regulus received his copy of this book from his maternal grandparents, Pollux and Irma Black, for his fourth Christmas. It is a 50th-anniversary reissue of a beautifully illustrated edition of the work in which the artwork is, as Regulus has told Pansy, reminiscent of Ivan Bilibin's turn-of-the-twentieth-century Russian book illustrations or of the work of the French illustrator, Edmund Dulac. Reg was especially drawn by the page showing the yeoman's son in his billowing robes and tall boots and to the picture of the father, poised and proud upon his tall horse.

Sadly, the text offered here is without his book's beautiful illustrations.





The Yeoman's Son


Once, many and many a year ago, there was a boy who lived with his mother and father and two small brothers in a comfortable yeoman farmer's cottage nestled beside the wall of a great lord's estate. For many generations, the father's fathers had served the lord faithfully, and always they had prospered and lived in peace.

It was said that the boy's earliest grandfather, so many grands ago, had saved his liege lord's life. In exchange, the legends told, the lord had given the man two precious gifts: title to the land on which his cottage stood and a great, finely wrought stone infused with magic that the lord promised would protect the family so long as they possessed it. The faithful yeoman made it the capstone of a new gateway arch through which all who entered his yard must pass, and many believed that no harm could come to the family so long as the stone remained in place. Others claimed that so long as the family kept possession of the stone, there would always be an heir to inherit the father's land. And so it proved, for many and many a peaceful year. In each generation, the fathers served their lords faithfully, and the family lived and thrived, untroubled by any misfortune.

*~*~*

And yet, as ever it happens in this imperfect world, fate would not allow this family's happiness to go untested. One day, a new lord took possession of the manor, a new lord who did not respect the traditions of his fathers and who was not content with what he inherited. One day, this new, young lord turned a covetous eye on the little property beyond his wall, with its lovely orchard and its rich fields edged by woods, leaping with deer. That property, he thought, would make a lovely hunting lodge and a convenient, commodious place to house his mistress, for the only thing the young lord loved better than hunting was disporting himself with lovely women.

And so one morning in early spring, the young lord rode out from his courtyard, down his long lane lined with ancient oaks, out through his gate, and on around the great high wall of his estate until he came to the gated yard of his yeoman's farm. When the yeoman came out into his yard, the lord summoned him to his gate and demanded that the man sell him his property. The yeoman did not ask how much the lord wished to offer; the land was not for sale. Once again, the lord demanded that he sell, but the answer did not change. He had lived there all his life, as had his fathers before him for as many generations as anyone could remember. The young lord became very angry, and he swore that if the man would not sell him the farm, he would charge the high steward to find evidence of fraud in the deed of gift by which the property had passed from his own ancestor to the yeoman's many-times great grandfather. The yeoman replied that he was confident no flaw would be found in the deed, and he repeated that he would never, under any circumstance sell the farm he loved.

Enraged, the lord cast a blasting curse and knocked the ancient keystone from its place in the gateway arch. The yeoman leapt back just in time to avoid disaster as the archway crumbled and fell in ruins all around.

At the sound of this catastrophe, the man's wife rushed out into the yard, and together, she and her husband set about the sad task of clearing the heavy debris. When they found the capstone, it was heavier than any stone either of them had ever known, and it was only with great difficulty that they were able to levitate it onto a sledge and shift it out of the way.

Neither of them had ever examined it closely before; it had always perched high above their heads, and they had never considered that any harm might ever come to it. Now, however, everything had changed. As they examined the stone, they found that a small chip had been blasted from the stone's base.

'How will we rebuild the gateway?' asked the yeoman. 'I have no skill in masonry, and I know of no trained masons nearby. It will be months before we could hire one to come here for this small task. And the gate itself must be repaired right away, or we will be chasing our animals up and down the lane.'

'But what of the stone, husband?' asked the wife. 'The legends are clearly true: one look will tell that this is a magic stone of power. One touch, and the hair rises on my hand. It is a precious thing, and we must hide it, lest it be stolen from us.'

The yeoman agreed, and, together with their eldest son, the couple hid the stone that very day, fearing that the lord might return to seize it for himself.

Every day after that, the family feared that the lord would return or would send his officers to claim the land had not been securely bestowed on the family by his ancestor all those many years ago. But days became weeks, and then a month, and no word came. They planted their crops and tended their animals, and all the business of daily life was just as it ever had been. Until one morning, late in May, hooves sounded out beyond the wall, and the yeoman and his wife knew that the fateful day had come.

The yeoman and his wife walked together, hand in hand, out to the new wooden gate they had crafted themselves because the beautiful, old iron gates had been damaged beyond repair. It was not the lord himself, but a messenger, who dismounted and walked to meet them. He said not a word, but handed a scroll of parchment, sealed in black wax with the lord's own mark. A challenge.

And so, on the last morning of May, as the mists rose up from the dew-draped meadows, the yeoman told his son to be brave and steadfast, to care for his mother and to do his utmost to keep the land, whatever the outcome of the duel that day. To his wife he gave a locket he had transfigured from the latch salvaged from the ancient iron gates; it contained a shard of grey stone and a curl cut from his black hair, tied with a blood-red ribbon. Last of all before mounting his tall steed, he raised her hand to his lips. And then he rode out of the yard with a brave clatter of hooves upon cobbles.

The duel ended badly. On both sides. Straight off, the young lord broke the codes of honour, casting his first curse before the count was complete, but even wounded, the yeoman prevailed, bringing that unscrupulous nobleman to his knees. Before their witnesses, the lord renounced all claim to the property and signed a note promising that neither he nor his heirs would ever challenge the right of the yeoman or his heirs to hold that land for as long as their line continued. When all the witnesses had placed their marks on the note, the yeoman bowed and turned, but before he had taken a step, he swooned. Despite the Healer's best efforts, he died where he fell. He was buried with his wand in his hand, wearing his lord's livery like all his fathers and grandfathers before him.

*~*~*

Life without him was very hard for the mother and her children. The boy helped his mother as best he could, but fortune frowned on them, and all their work was to no avail. They hadn't enough to eat: their orchard suffered blight and the trees set no fruit; their garden shriveled before the plants matured; their animals sickened so the cow gave no milk; the pig grew frail, not fat, and the hens laid no eggs. No magic the mother knew could restore them to health and wholeness.

The mother loved her children very much, and she worked very hard to earn a living that would sustain them: she was a skilled seamstress, so she took in sewing, but that made them little money as the only village nearby was very poor. Still, people were often willing to trade a few vegetables or a bucket of milk or a basket of fruit to have their worn clothing mended, and occasionally one would need a shirt or breeches newly made, and for this they would offer more. For his part, the boy worked very hard to help his mother care for his younger brothers, and at harvest time, he worked long days in their neighbours' fields and orchards.

But their labour could not keep hunger, weariness and sorrow at bay. It seemed that fate was determined to look askance on them. Each time it rained, the roof sprang new leaks, but they couldn't afford to pay the thatcher to make it water tight. The boy did his best to cast Impervius charms wherever the ceilings dripped, but his magic was no match for the autumn storms. Each time the wind blew, draughts found new chinks in the walls through which to whistle their chill way in, but the family couldn't afford the dauber's fee to fill the cracks. The mother did her best to fill each crevice with scraps from her sewing basket, but her efforts were no match for the wintery blasts. Each time they lit a fire on the hearth, the chimney drew more poorly until they were choked with the smoke and smuts that poured into the room, but they had no money to pay the sweep. The boy climbed high upon the roof and cast the best scouring charm he could muster, but it was no match for the grit and grime of many seasons' use.

*~*~*

One night, the boy lay awake as he so often did, listening to the wind whistle in the eaves. The sky was clear and and the night was bright: the moon was nearly full and its light reflected off the snow. He couldn't say how he knew it, but suddenly he did know that someone was moving stealthily across the yard. 'Alas,' he thought. 'When the keystone sat high above our gate, we never feared a thief.'

The boy rose from his bed, pulling the quilt close about him for warmth, and he crept to the window. Below him he could see the gate standing ajar and footsteps leading into the yard. Fear mounting, he wondered if the door were tightly latched; perhaps the intruder meant to murder them in their beds! But then he saw movement in the shadows by the kitchen garden, and as he watched, he saw a man raise his wand and cast a spell down into the depths of the well. A moment later, the man turned and crept away through the yard, pausing only to charm the snow smooth where his footprints had marred its surface. Then the gate slid shut, and he was gone.

The boy rubbed his eyes, thinking he surely had dreamed it all. There was no sign to confirm that it was real. He yawned a great yawn and rubbed his eyes again, and in the morning when he woke, he had forgotten what he'd seen.

It came back to him with ugly certainty, however, when he entered the kitchen to find his mother fastening her cloak and wrapping her scarf tight about her head so she could ride to the Commons for water from the village pump. Their well, she told him, had gone dry while they slept. As she opened the gate, the boy saw his mother pause and glance upwards to the place where the keystone once held pride of place, but then she shook her head and turned away.

That night and for many after, they took turns, the boy and his mother, holding vigil for their enemy's return. On the nights when he kept watch, his mother placed the locket--his father's last, most cherished gift to her--around his neck as though it would protect him, and, indeed, throughout each watch the yard remained empty. Weeks and then a month passed with no sign of threat. Still, the boy could not rest, knowing they could ill afford any further loss.

*~*~*

And then one night in early spring when all was darkly shrouded, he heard the latch snick open on the gate. By the time he reached the window, he could see the thief in the yard below, wand pointed at the stable door. There was no time to plan, no time to think. The boy pulled on his boots and flung his cloak around his shoulders; he picked up his wand, and he ran. Swiftly but silently, he slipped out through the kitchen into the yard. He did not slow his steps until he reached the stable door, but there he stopped in his tracks. Though there was little light to assist him, through the half-open door he saw a dark figure standing before the only occupied stall. The horse snorted and shuffled anxiously. The boy slipped through the doorway and sidestepped into the deeper shadow it cast within.

A moment later the thief jerked into action. Throwing back his cloak, he raised his wand towards the stall.

'Stop, foe!' cried the boy. He would not stun a man from behind; such a thing would be base cowardice.

But the intruder spun, curse already forming on his lips.

'Protego!' The boy's spell was barely in time, but he was quick with his next. 'Stupefy!'

His opponent was agile, and he easily parried the boy's spell. They circled one another in the stable entrance, wands slicing, spells careening, flaming, crashing.

His opponent was highly skilled. For every spell the boy cast, he answered with two, each more dangerous than the last. And he was canny. With every turn, he pressed the boy backwards half a step until he collided with the heavy stable door.

But the boy was on familiar ground; he knew the door's measure. In the half-breath's pause while his opponent relished his advantage, the boy hooked his foot around the door and launched himself sideways. His enemy's eye was caught by the door's closing arc, and he missed the spell the boy shot high in the air above their heads. A heartbeat later, the man lay dead, crushed by the great keystone, which had, months before, been hoisted into the rafters to the side of the stable entry.

*~*~*


Few souls braved the chill April rains the day they said last rites for the young lord of the Manor. The boy and his Mother stood in the chapel alongside the family, and when the service had been sung, the boy knelt before his new lord to pledge fealty to the greater man. And this lord did prove to be a noble man, worthy of his name. He was a good neighbour to the young yeoman and his family, helping them recover their fortunes. That spring they restored the gateway arch, replacing its keystone in its rightful place. And then as summer warmed the world, fate smiled upon the family once again: their crops flourished in the fields; their cow gave rich milk; their animals were fat and fertile once more.


And all was well with the yeoman farmer. One day, no doubt, he himself would have a son. And then grandsons and great grandsons, for as long as fate allowed.

Comments

[lucky-guess.livejournal.com]

Oh my goodness! Thank you for this.

[sugarjet03.livejournal.com]

Thank you for sharing!