The servant opened the door and motioned for them to enter.

John removed his cap and stepped into the steward's chamber. Agnes followed close behind.

The room was smaller than John expected. A narrow window looked out across the village. Beneath it sat a large oak table covered with ledgers, loose papers and an ink pot.

The steward sat writing.

He did not look up.

John and Agnes stood waiting.

The scratching of the quill upon parchment was the only sound in the room.

At length the steward scattered sand across the page, closed the ledger and looked up.

"John Hargreaves."

"Aye, sir."

"Thee may sit."

John sat upon the stool provided. Agnes remained standing beside him.

The steward opened another ledger.

"Thee holds land near Moorhouse Lane?"

"Aye."

"One cow."

"Aye."

"Six hens."

"Aye."

The steward nodded and made a note.

"And thee still owes dues to the manor."

John shifted uneasily.

"I intend to pay them after harvest."

"After harvest."

The steward wrote something down.

John could not see what.

The questions continued.

About the land.

About the harvest.

About his work for the lord.

About the manor court.

The steward already seemed to know most of the answers.

More than once he corrected John on a date or a sum owed.

It felt less like a conversation and more like a weighing.

As though the steward were measuring him.

At length the steward closed the ledger.

His eyes drifted towards the corner of the table.

Only then did John see it.

The prayer book.

Agnes saw it too.

Her face paled.

The steward noticed.

He reached for the book and drew it towards him.

"A curious thing."

Neither John nor Agnes spoke.

The steward opened it.

A small pressed flower slipped from between the pages and landed upon the table.

He picked it up between finger and thumb.

"Oxenhope meadow?"

Agnes looked surprised.

"Aye, sir."

The steward smiled faintly.

"My wife used to gather them."

He placed the flower back inside the book and closed it.

For a moment nobody spoke.

Agnes watched as the steward's fingers rested upon the worn leather cover.

Now it belonged to someone else.

Then the steward looked directly at John.

"Thee attends church?"

"When I can, sir."

The steward raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Outside, the church bell sounded the quarter hour.

"The parish vicar is concerned with the spiritual welfare of all within the parish."

John felt his stomach tighten.

"You understand."

"Aye, sir."

The steward rested his hand upon the book.

"A prayer book like this found in thy cottage gives cause for questions."

"It belonged to her grandfather," said John.

"Aye."

The steward nodded.

He studied Agnes for a moment.

Then looked back to John.

"I have seen worse things."

The words surprised him.

John had expected anger.

Perhaps even threats.

Instead the steward leaned back in his chair.

"His lordship requires tenants who keep the peace."

"Aye, sir."

"The Church requires attendance."

"Aye, sir."

"And I require dues to be paid when due."

John nodded.

The steward tapped the cover of the book.

"This will remain with me."

Agnes lowered her eyes.

John said nothing.

There was little point arguing.

The steward stood.

The meeting was over.

As John rose, the steward walked towards the window.

"Oh, and Hargreaves."

John stopped.

"Aye, sir?"

The steward looked out across the village below.

"The vicar takes a keen interest in newcomers to the parish."

John felt his stomach tighten once more.

The steward paused.

"I daresay thee shall be hearing from him soon enough."

The steward turned back towards them.

"Good day, Hargreaves."

John placed his cap back upon his head.

Agnes followed him from the chamber.

Neither spoke as they crossed the yard.

Behind them, inside the manor house, the steward returned the prayer book to his table.

For a long while he stared at it.

Then he opened the chest beside his ledger.

He placed the prayer book inside and closed the lid.

The key turned with a dull metallic click.

Then he returned to his accounts.

Outside, somewhere in the village below, the church bell began to ring.

John Hargreaves left the manor believing the matter was finished.

The steward knew otherwise.

Men could hide a prayer book.

They could deny old loyalties.

They could even kneel in the parish church.

But memories had a way of returning when they were most inconvenient.

And the steward had an excellent memory.

 

 

 

                                                            -XII-