Osbert: Osbert

CHAPTER 1

It’s not a particularly grand time to be a farmer..., said Osbert, low and to himself. He spoke low so the others working in the field beside him wouldn’t hear him muttering a complaint. It’s not that bad. ‘Tis monotony, true. Damned meek soils and stones. Morrows of life lost to seasons of years. My life in circles like the rings of trees. Cut, split, sit on a one legged stool, as they watch me turn to charcoal. All is well, they’ll say!

He wanted to be in the heft with his sheep but John’s back, being hurt, had them switching places for the mowing. Osbert didn’t like the company of people until he readjusted. He wanted his shepherding dog and the flock guardians, he wanted the sheep he knew as individuals by their white faces and long curled horns, though he didn’t mind the bright yellow and light purple flowers of the meadows left to grow tall and seed that he was working in.

He looked around at the other men about him, short beards of their status on the manor, short hair for convenience, the Manor having set standards for cleanliness and to show difference to other peoples about and keep a barber. All cutting the hay with their scythes, taking large crescent shaped arcs of grass, at what Osbert imagined were the ankles of an army of mute men; he gave faces to clumps of grass. Life afore the Abbey and after have been them sheep. I’m a shepherd. Woodcutters, miners, smelters – Ox; he thought of Ox’s frequent illegal absences since he had joined the manor. His mind went back to the grass, mute men-men oblivious to their fate; Victim to mine, he thought as sweat trickled through the thick scruff of his face, the long beard of his trade, his father’s status as lease holder. At least I’ve Middeby. Ox lives but doesn’t have it. He caught himself staring at a man named Geoffrey, hard at work, his hair not long enough to be tucked behind his ears. A man oblivious to the fact he was being watched. He didn’t fail to notice he was clean shaven like most men kept themselves. He noticed the man’s effort had put sweat upon his heavy, deep breathing, sweaty face. About him the tall green grass fell to a large arc of his scythe, and it made Osbert wonder if the man appreciated the yellow and purple flowers in the field at all. He breathed heavy and hot beneath his light summer wool tunic and linen shirt, realizing his mind was drifting.  Addle your keep, son.

Nearly over. Just a bit more, just a bit longer. He went from watching the man to looking up at the sky; the day was losing itself to time. I need something more than this, this repetition, this repetition. He smiled at himself. This repetition, this repetition.

He was losing himself to his thoughts, he felt, for the last few hours, his mind constantly fighting against his paying attention to his scythe work and the work songs, of which he cared not much for anyway not liking his singing voice.

Osbert wished for a breeze making him think of the high fells and weeks in weather and alone, but, given none, was glad to have thought to roll down his chausses to below the knee. He was aware of where his skin was open to the air, the ever so slight coolness compared to where his clothes were layered.

He looked away from the sky and noticed Geoffrey looking over at him. Osbert smiled at him. Oblivious, Geoffrey took an exaggerated breath and began cutting. Good idea. Osbert began moving his scythe again, against the grass. Days upon days, until it’s all cut, lined up, dried. He saw it stacked off the ground in the bays of the barn near the house and about the field barns for the cattle and sheep in the winter; summer crops, winter crops; barren soil, living earth. Thank God for the sheep. The ewe, the ram, damn the horns, mind the head, lad! Sheep being herded down from the heft and shearing near the house. He was pleased to think on how well the previous breeding went and that the many lambs were growing healthy and strong. 

He looked over to the hills, bright green and spread with yellow flowers, left for pasture but didn’t see any sign of the Norman-Edward flock, his dog, or his brother. Be farther out. John went early to the heft on a bad feeling from Osbert and to feed the guardian dogs. Osbert’s shepherding dog was caught between staying by his side and following John to the heft. He wished now he hadn’t pointed towards John and ordered Victor away. He felt queer, exposed, even vulnerable without his dog and guilt also, as if he had wronged his dog to send him away with harsh words. He’s better there too. Better to go.

He looked to his work then and cut another swath in the tall grass. He was working slowly now, due to fatigue more used to playing flutes to sheep than hard labor. He almost resented being born stockier than his brother. Osbert wished to be with Victor and the sheep. He wanted to take his worn wooden crook and horn, pack his barely white from weather satchel with its latest bone flute, and escape the low of the dale to the moorland where he could be with his father’s flock. The black and white shepherd, my whitest and dingy flock, and white Stump and Saint allus there about, face out and staring into creation for that which trespass. Trespasses. We must forgive them that trespass against us. Tell that to a dog with sheep, by God! He smiled. He frowned. He sighed.

Osbert stopped for a moment to readjust his grip on the long scythe. His left hand gripped a little tighter about the wooden handle at the end of his scythe, long passed polished smooth from use and from his and others sweat. He readjusted his right hand on the handle midway down the length of the scythe and began cutting again. Yan, tan, three, again... Not that it, has been, or will ever be a particularly grand time to be bound to this particular sort of toil, I s’pose. It is what it is, and that’s that.

Osbert let out his frustration against farming by felling yet another swath of grass with another, Yan, tan, thrice again, four. Swish! He heard the screams of the grass at the ankles he cut. The blade of the scythe, dulling now, required a little more effort, a little more skill to use effectively. Just short two decades of years life experience comes in handy. He creased his forehead and felt anxiety in his fingers along with a budding pain in his lower back. He continued felling grass, taking a step, swinging, taking a step.

He readjusted each hand in turn. The pain was alive in him now and growing with every second’s thought he gave it. He could feel each finger, as if alive and set against him, attacking his calm. It was destroying his resolve to continue.

Osbert leaned back his head and closed his eyes, feeling the dizziness of heat and fearing exhaustion would take him. Light filtered through his eyelids. He focused on it, feeling what warmth the sun, past prime and sinking, would give his body.

Words crept from his lips like a promise, Midsummer. The word was like an answer to a prayer, and he felt better, or willed himself with false hope, to feel better. He leveled his gaze with opening eyes and began to cut. The day wasn’t done until the sun finished its arc. Swish!

St. John’s Eve was just a short time away. He looked forward to the opportunity, as he played out possibilities and memories of other festivals passed in his mind.  To stay up all night, with the knowledge that next day he would be able to rest, the fires, the food; the people in the small Middeby, perhaps a visit from Steward of his manor. Osbert fancied all in the same place and a chance to talk to whom he wished.

Nowt but tiresome mettlesome work, he thought of shearing. God, damn sheep. There has to be a better life than this. He took a step and swung again and felt his back ache. We toil for all. And not one from Reeth does love me. Community Coming together for the good of all. He thought how he was excused from shearing more than once in his life due to his humors. How he was excluded from conversations every time Reeth was involved. Not any of them, God knows.

At least, thee is free. He wanted to belt the person that told him that. What freedom is being fettered? Every morrow same as to morrow last. Every pain, a pain that’s past. Free were— drink. He found himself lonely and tired, wishing to escape from his life as he focused on the small scene of scythe and grass and ground. He thought of sheep again and the heft where he felt most at home. God, bless sheep. God bless me heft.

He felt his back would soon slay him, so he took a second and stood with eyes closed, head turned toward the sun, for just a moment, and then reopened his eyes. He looked forward and right. Geoffrey was leaving him more room than he needed to mow, he was leaving him behind. Beyond him, to his left; he was lagging behind the others. He wondered why no one had said anything, but he figured their own mindless exhaustion had saved him. He smiled at that and looked over his shoulder at the fields toward his largest barn, his eyes largely ignoring the short dry stone walls attached to either side and squared to form a small horse pasture and larger spaces to control stock, tubs for sale in Autumn and when the fells were too harsh in winter. His eyes stared at the barn and he sighed. His eyes fixed on the lathe, with all the space for stores, space for the cattle at night, and stalls for the oxen (Ta, God, Amen!), the dairy house addition of newer stone, and proper house of three room and store room above, the large waddle enclosed garden attached to his lifelong home on the side towards the road, the side towards Middeby, the side, he recalled, that often meant trouble for him should he venture beyond the isolated Dale.

His eyes could not move from the barn. He suddenly became thirsty and famished, and wished for his mother’s sweet beer to quench his thirst and sustain him in the heat; a thought that was supplanted quickly with the wish for a stouter brew. He knew it was somewhere in the barn. He wanted fresh butter before most of it left for market and that was in the coolest part of the main barn. He then wanted Wandesle cheese for its taste. He thought of candied nuts. He thought of a beer Cecilia made that made him have visions and an awful headache. I’m damned hungry. He looked to the barn, too close, in his opinion, to the old well. Cistern, he thought. He made up his mind to mention it to his father again.

Motion caught his eye, between himself and the house. He spied his younger cousin Tolly who was gaily walking through the pigpen, devoid of pigs, the shelter there vacant too. He knew the brown hairy beasts were being better cared for by others in Middeby and he didn’t mind sharing the wealth, to ease the burden, to focus more on their six cows. His cousin was coming equipped with a leather barrel-shaped costrel in his left hand, its shoulder strap hanging, and a small mug (one with the grotesque face on it no doubt) in his right. He brought it to his lips for a long draught.

Osbert turned and began attacking the grass again. He knew the costrel was filled with something special, as they had small barrels of drink in the field for the laborers. He’ll be here soon enough. He looked up and over his shoulder again, after another few swipes, a few more steps. Tolly was giving Geoffrey a short break from scything to drink from the costrel. Geoffrey’s young daughter was still shuffling about, grass on the hem of her tiny kirtle, to collect the grass in a line to dry in the open field.

Osberts’ eyes caught something in his peripheral, a figure he ignored. He looked left, right, checking his kin and the other laborers in the field and then sent his gaze up to the house, once more, that lay far away.  A group of women stood by his house and garden and its croft thereabouts. Young lasses, Ey up now and ‘Ow do, lasses? Yan-tan! Three, five?

His eyes flashed to the green heights about his home, the boundaries of his father’s lease, a refuge from the larger outside world though only trees in darker greens and browns cut in here and there, and all about the dale of the fast flowing, quick to swell with rain, Swale River. He studied the heights about dark and differing greens of summer, where the hefted sheep would be out somewhere up in the moorland with their ever weary, watchful, white guardians. I wonder what you be about on the morrow next? He prayed in a feeling that he should return to the heft by the next rise of the sun.

He saw well, in his mind, the heather at various stages of life from burning, the rock and old stumps that would soon return to birch, tall scars and crags of limestone, Ghosts in the night. He looked about and wondered what his sheep were up to. Ugh. Shearing that brought filth, a second skin of filth and grime and mud and shite. Lasses. He looked back to the scene by the house of home and outbuildings. The young women were standing about watching the men at work in the field. Make yourself known and come about the fields, eh? He scoffed at his half-musing of talking with the young women. Osbert counted them again, paying particular attention to the shapely lass in a light purple dress. She made him think of a lass he knew in his schooling at the Abbey. Agnes. AGNES! It is Agnes, I swear to ‘eck, that be her.

His gaze held tight about her, enveloping her and closing out the world around, then traced in just the right spots, her neckline, breasts, waist and then back to her barbette and round, ruffled women’s coif. He tried for her face, but the finer details were lost to distance. His gaze followed up and down her form, yet again. A well-fitted dress. He watched her hands make a feigning gesture, obviously discussing something with another lady. The dress fit tight about the sleeves and torso and flowed, long to the ground, hardly for walking around, made to impress. Does she? He suddenly felt embarrassed and banished the thought of her trying to impress him, for he was sure it was his beloved Agnes.

Osbert turned forward and looked about the ground. He keyed on a clump of grass. That clump of grass looks like a shield. He found himself staring at it, then recalled he was in the field to work. He adjusted the front part of his short work tunic that he had had tucked into his belt; it was a fashion he was comfortable with. He preferred his long gowns. As he finished tucking in his tunic, he looked back at the lasses again and thought they were probably paying attention to the man working in his underclothes. He looked to the stout Ox, then turned from him. To be bound to manor and no land to provide.

He started cutting with his scythe again.

Goodly Mother Margaret would have us inform you, our good tyke, that supper will be readied whenever it is you be...done with your mess and fettling nowts. Bends and fodder. Reckon, I’d be idle....and go get some supper.

I’m doing fine now. Be there when I’m jiggered missen out and drop.

I do reckon, you as well, would find it champion... Mmm, good supper! But fine! Have it your way, Berty my lad! I do swear you should be a costrel bairn. Good for the constitution! And you look stalled.

He looked behind him, startled, at his cousin’s happy disposition and dismissal of work for idleness of a lad grown doing the chore of a child. Thank you for your help in the field, Osbert smirked, good-cousin Tolly, Costrel bairn.

Nah, nowt of it, Cousin, said Tolly cheerfully. Just about my work, he said producing a costrel in front of him, Spice!

Is it Rose or Apple?

It isn’t either nor I’d have told you. But it is flavored and stout! So treat enough for the likes of you.

Osbert released the lower grip of his scythe and grabbed at the costrel and took a drink –beer, bitter but spiced with an herb he didn’t know that added a certain sweetness to it, some peel perhaps stopped up with it as it fermented. He took it down and smiled at Tolly.

Treat, he agreed, and I should have you know, I were kidding in my compliment. He lowered the costrel.

Tolly chuckled. Point taken, pink to my heart, he said with his empty hand to his chest. He let it drop, though late ‘appen, I made a showing? Either way, Bert, you had yourself not good cousin Tolly nobbut your father, good Ox: who counts for two. Tolly held up a finger and lowered it, and several other good backs besides, with you in the field for the time I were in the house. Would you count all ‘King and yeomanry and conscripted idlers need not be.’ By God, you practically have thy own retinue, Sire.

Tolly turned his face from Osbert and Osbert followed his gaze to the torso of a well-built young lad known by the name Ox. Henry.

Osbert wondered then who his father was and what he was like. He felt a little bad; Ox was working ahead of the rest of the men. He was massively built but of modest height. Osbert thought he looked a bit odd for it. Ox be middlin height to missen, being tall; taller than Tolly, who isn’t. Hate to grapple that Ox. He looked at his shoulders and how the soft hemp shirt held to his lower back with sweat and muscles bled through to his eyes. Ox wiped sweat from his brow, then noticed Tolly. Ox nodded.

Good morrow, Henry! said Tolly in response. Ox went back to his scythe work without a word.

Eh. You see that? Tolly turned to his cousin, Bert, that lad knows what he is good for, does it champion nor does it with nowt like a complaint. Point I make is he does.

Osbert handed the costrel back to Tolly and took up again the handle of his scythe. He does it because that yan needs the brass and has a good deal of Christian charity. Osbert thought a moment. He does it for the pence; for his lahl cottage and to have etten by dusk.

He recalled when the lad first showed up, some years back, a beggar and wanderer of the droving roads and old Roman ways. It was often said about he must have done terrible things to have survived for so long, at such a young age; Osbert recalled him sleeping on hay and canvas in the storeroom. He had long been a good servant, but never a close cousin. He was a closed-off son of a bitch.

Osbert turned to the grass before him and took a step. No choice. No kin. Nowt but ragged waste bolt cloth or homespun gifts instead of payment. The ‘eck you won’t take a coin for that nor addle what you seem fair enough? Jesus, lad. He checked Tolly back away and turned and swiped. Shite. Life’s not so bad, nowt when I compare ours to thine, cousin.

He felt a little sad for the man, as he worked, but mainly just felt annoyed at his cousin’s interruption of his work. He’d rather just continue than be made aware of his sour mood through frivolous conversation. He expected another word any second. He wasn’t going very fast now and feared he’d never finish, if he wasted energy talking, or even listening. Nay, nay, Tolly.

He heard Tolly take a gulping swig when he was tapped on the shoulder with something. Osbert frowned, dropped the lower handle and turned and took up the costrel again. Osbert forced a smile.

I reckon, you be forgiven, but rue the coming righteous fury if we fall behind and myself gets a belt from my father. I pass it to you, arse. Osbert took a swig then passed off the barrel.

Tolly took it, tilted his head to one side and his face contorted, obviously confused. Violence in you. Startles! Discomforting! Mardy and allus melancholy. He quickly brought his head back straight and smiled. Aye, if not for this, for that, I suppose, he nodded, I’ll take your forgiveness next time a quick chelp with Saint of God or the Son in heaven doesn’t do it for me.

Blasphemy, said Osbert out of habit of teachings, not warning, and certainly not scolding. He was aware of his exhaustion. He had opened his mouth to breathe and just noticed it. But mind your tongue or you yourself will have to answer to me fists knocking that much-too-cared-for face in. Heavy armed smithy to his hammer work, anvil-face! It’s a waste to see a barber.

You would know about that, Bert, said Tolly, grinning, all about that. We could be twins! Vanity becomes you, because I love myself as well. Except I’m the comely lad, he followed up with a laugh and a flick of his orange-red hair, bangs cut long and hair left cropped behind his ears, and followed that with another swig from the face mug in his right hand looking off at a worker casually as something to do with himself while he drank. Osbert recalled his linen coif on his head and the scruff on his face. I should’ve shaved afore now.

I’m going to fall over for flies in this weather. Tolly then followed that with a swig from the costrel in his left. Don’t worry, he sighed, I’ll do my share, cousin. I won’t be slack. Just...sup first, eh?"

Osbert took a moment to watch Tolly, as he plodded off behind him looking for the scythe he had left lying in the field behind a length of uncut grass. Arse humor, this whole turn of the moon.

Osbert thought about being sore with him, but only for just a moment, because the feeling wasn’t there. He wasn’t the type to dodge work. And Tolly had brought him ale, which had to count for something he felt. He loved Tolly well. Tolly stood over the scythe and sipped.

You have to pick it up first, Osbert suggested.

Thanks be to you, Bert! Tolly replied, picking up the scythe and jostling it a little in his hands to get in, just so.

Osbert turned back around and, with a step and swing, began attacking the tall grass once again with his scythe. He found his anxiety was lessened: by the drink, by the talk, the break, the very existence of his cousin so near.

He was reminded of the mischief he and his cousin had shared and had to smile. An image came to his mind, a flash of a deer and laughter, a broken wagon. Teasing youthful lasses and fighting lads.

Osbert worked and was amazed at how a certain person’s presence could elevate one’s mood from mardy to damn grand beyond reason, and humors so hot they burned company about from a stoic noiseless crowd to roaring laughter and community. He saw her perfect face, somehow through the sea of bends of grass he worked in his waking eyes, younger than herself of present day. She smiled at him. He felt a twinge of guilt from past deeds her absent, but smiled with her. It’s been so long ago.

He thought it best to not think of her for the time being and concentrated on the mowing before him. He knew the blade would cut deep. He’d cut himself before. How many seasons? Oh, no matter. He moved his scythe. Swish, swash of grass felled. As he narrated, so the action happened. He sensed the child behind him lining it up as he mowed. Then the child began singing a song of a maiden and death. Osbert chuckled, Good tale, eh, bairn, where’d you learn that one, Tim?

Gaffer of pipes and tamper taught me!

You might think he would work with his clothes on, said Tolly, ignoring the child.

Who, what? asked Osbert. He was still cutting grass, thinking of the child, and focused on his mind-numbing task that for a second he couldn’t follow his cousins’ words. Oh, you mean our Ox? He gave it a thought, Aye, he answered as he made another arc with his scythe. He worked and heard Tolly humming; he kept working as Tolly’s humming grew near and rapid. It wasn’t long before his cousin’s scythe was at work close to his own.

’Ow do, Tolly? asked Osbert.

Fair well.

Keep pace! Osbert swiped at more grass, gathering up his energy to lead his cousin forward, to beat him in a personal race.

Aye, said Tolly, But Ox, nobbut a laborer get by with that, and he knows he’s watched— Ox— Christ. Good cousin John wouldn’t stand for it. He’s in his undergear, to be such a sight for them lasses.

Osbert paused, planning on just a quick moment and watched Ox as he waved at the women with a devious smile on the side of his face. Better than embarrassment you enjoy it. A young man should act differently, so lewd. Small clothes! He thought of his undershirt beneath his tunic of linen. I worked just in shirt I’d be in hemp.

Osbert smirked and then fiddled with pursing his lips back and forth. He smiled at himself for no good reason, then looked to Tolly. He could be a bit more delicate about and fair better with the lasses, I surmise.

You surmise?

Aye, Osbert said with a nod and began to cut once more. Might find an old lady take him out of that bachelor cottage and make him a tyke with a house.

Likely...

Osbert looked over at his cousin, who wore a broad grin upon his face, Better than you still, at his being all alone and broke for that inheritance as yet inherited.

It’ll split betwixt John and I. I don’t know, so long as I get to keep to me heft. I hate the company down here. He awaited response and kept moving the scythe back and forth as he moved forward, Tolly, Tolly are you listening? I’m saying I hate your company.

Tolly didn’t answer.

So they both attacked the grass with steps and swipes with the other laborers from their homes on the farm, several lads from the stone and thatch Old House. The men’s house, what once housed Norman and his animals all together now kept men come for work or were pushed from the families one room houses for space. The men’s house sole former use being storage and barn only until more land was opened, Osbert wondered how comfortable any of them that stayed there could be. He wondered what it was like when his father first came to the land between two places to make a farm.

On one swipe of the scythe, his mind went to Ox and his own cottage, how he went about erecting it for himself after a short stay with the lads. Never known you for all your time here but for making pegs a day with you and thatching. Osbert liked the lad fine after their small conversations. He wondered why he didn’t live in Reeth or closer to the lands he worked half a week half days at.

Continued cutting making pleasant sounds of progress, Tolly began to hum a tune to himself again, a ballad Osbert recognized as one his cousin was working on about a maiden and a rock she fell in love with when she fell upon it with her head.

You be horribly bothersome, said, Osbert studying the work before him.

I’m well loved.

By your mother, said Osbert.

By your mother! said Tolly with a belly laugh and a sniff of his nose. I hate this grass. Shite, it just itches. And my lahl hawk Ralph loves me. Nowt like to that dog of yours though. But that dog’s probably the closest thing you’ll get to marriage unless someone fixes it for you. How would you feel about that?

At least I have my dog! You will die alone and in a monastery when the world gives you up for praying for it, said Osbert, smiling at first, and then frowning, eyebrows furrowing in thought, mind dancing with painful twinge emotion. I won’t. Not but a postulate and still failed. He cleared his throat against the thought. He focused on the feeling of the scythe in his hands to prevent the emotion from rousing a memory. He looked at his hands; hands of an invalid, weak. He decided to speak, Would that you are fortunate.

Would that I’m fortunate! said Tolly with mirth to offend, Tolly the monk! HA! I’d be beaten every day for being of too full of life.

Osbert mowed a little slower, a failure. A hard, uncontrolled swipe, the blade dipped and the tip caught dirt. He wiped it off upon the ground. Failure in an unsatisfied life will not lose its sting to time: Time, days, turns of months, plough-plant-let them weed-harvest, years, Ad infinitum and broken by mardy morrows and middlin’ morrows the grandest. ‘Eck and shite and damn to ‘ell.

Tolly worked and when Osbert checked his cousin’s progress again it seemed to him Tolly was pretending not to notice the effect Osbert’s own words had caused to him. He was looking down and at Osbert from the corner of his eyes. He tried too hard. His body language pretended with too much effort, conversation wasn’t attempted, and Osbert knew well that he knew. He turned and took a step and went to work.

The silence between the youths lasted a while, only steps and tearing cuts against grass made any noise. The child behind Osbert hummed a bit, but quit, most likely bored with no one to complete on his tune. Was I any different? Childer, allus much the same of course, excluding, except myself. I bled by barber and bled by choice and bled my mind with pontification from backend till new growth. Dammit.

Osbert felt he had words for Tolly, a conversation that might ease his mind’s situation, but no way to let them out or find them he felt trapped in his foul humor. He was almost coming up with things to say, he felt, but just as they began to form, the all too familiar feeling of them getting blotted out, or eaten up whole, before escaping his tongue and making his head lighter by their release came and they disappeared, snatching hope from places of darkness. Come out! His mind began to wonder at the strange things he would see sometimes, mostly when alone in the heft. He started to wonder if they held some kind of special meaning.

I think too much about too lahl, he pondered as he swiped the scythe again. There’s nowt. I would... He couldn’t think clearly. For some clarity, I...his cutting was interrupting his mind’s working.

He stopped for a second and looked behind him at the child, at the others doing work lining up grass. The young, the older, those not considered fit for scythe work, were piling up the grass behind the mowers, all making progress against the inevitable coming dark. Osbert turned about and angrily got lost to his work.

He heard something. The grass wasn’t making noise. Where’d that sound go? He cut again and heard the scythe slice through the stalks this time. Heh.

It was something far way— over the weather scared fells in their summer colors about the farm’s fields, beyond the water in the dome of the sky. It was too remote to make out, but the sound repeated.

You should know, Bert, murmured Tolly, I love you, cousin.

I...love you too, replied Osbert.

The grass wasn’t making sound again. Another swing and it came back. Me mind. I need to be alone. Step. Draw back and swing. Fall soldiers!

Osbert, he heard. "Osbert." He looked to Tolly but he knew it wasn’t him. He furrowed his brow and kept cutting. He knew he was pulling away from reality, and figuring the dark dog of mental silence was returning to him, a beloved cousin in winter, a harsh reality; a crack in the sky. The dog ran away.

You... said Tolly.

A pause for dramatic effect, wasteful speech, damn vessel of communication. ‘Appen he has no words.

...be such a melancholic sard, if ever there were one.

Osbert laughed. He laughed the fog right out of his mind— for the moment. Harsh or tender, cousin, you have a way with language.

Oh, said Tolly, as if something just came to his mind, Nay, that were too counted and figured and I was just watching you mow and you’re— Oh! This will help! he cleared his throat, She is one of the lasses up at the house, Bert. Osbert said nothing in reply and after a few seconds waiting between them, Tolly added, Agnes.

Osbert slashed at some grass with his scythe. His heart did something. His mind tried to say something.

Aye, replied Tolly in kind, You should go spy her and try not to stumble up and over your tongue, say a few words to her. What say you? You think? It’s only fitting seeing as—

Seeing as what? said Osbert sharply, as sharp as he could. He grinned. He knew Tolly couldn’t see it. He was being flooded with excitement and a nervousness that compelled him to throw down his arm and return from foreign lands.

Tolly made a grunt. Um...Er... Tolly was fumbling to explain, but not finding words.

Osbert’s grin broadened to a smile, Nobbut kidding, love. He looked at Tolly, who wore an anxious scrunched up face. Osbert’s smile revealed teeth. Tolly smiled wide. I’ll be back shortly! said Osbert.

Tolly laughed. Go get her, lad! Remember to talk with her and not at her!

Osbert gently tossed his scythe from his hand to the ground. It made a sound. He looked at Tolly and noticed he had looped the strap of the costrel of ale at his belt and pulled in through to tie it. Osbert grabbed at it. Give us this.

He was aided by Tolly’s hands in unlooping it. Osbert brought the container to his lips and took a sip then started off toward the house.

Adieu, Berty, love, said Tolly seeing him off with a wry grin.

Osbert grinned and turned towards the house. Berty, I wish he wouldn’t call me that. He waved with his left behind him for Tolly, wondering if he was watching to see it. It’s not that bad. I won’t die from this. He studied his feet walk upon the earth. He looked up and saw his father, Norman.

He walked near his mowing line in the grass. Converse? He decided against it. His father looked up and saw him, then kept mowing.

Going to the house for a fill? asked Norman.

Osbert walked past him, debating if his father meant something by that or was just making an observation, an idle attempt at conversation. He spun to look at his father, who let the lower handle of his scythe out of his grasp and let the blade hit the ground. He wiped sweat from his brow with his free hand.

Give us some of that ale? asked Norman with a deep breath, a sniff, and a wry smile.

That’d be it then. Osbert began to wonder about that smile, though. He handed the some-lightened costrel to his father. Agnes. Refill. Insinuation or insult? He thought it clear he had not drank enough all day to be drunk, he hadn’t done it last night till morning either, and he had not taken money to get beer in Reeth or Mead at the monastery.

Osbert watched his father take the costrel’s mouth to his and thought of how much he had been drinking the last few years; he wanted to taste a fine wine. Refill. Smile. Did his eyes gaze upon the lass?

Norman lowered the costrel; then raised it. Know you any speed, this morrow? I’m a man about it. He took one more draught before passing the vessel back. Osbert took a draught and watched his father’s stubbly face smile, revealing creases not covered in dirt, the grime enhancing the age thereon in such a way, that to Osbert, it looked as if it were a sort of river system. Drops of sweat rolled down his father’s brow. Something within Osbert did feel his father weary.

Osbert passed back the costrel, and as Norman took another long draught, Osbert decided the virgining wrinkles must be ditches instead of rivers. He looked to the yard and saw Agnes was missing. Not mine, never, nah -

Aye! That’s good, said Norman. Osbert turned to watch as he wiped his lips and tapped his brow with the sleeve covering his forearm. A might stout. How’s that scythe? Norman asked, before taking yet another swig from the costrel. He threw his head back and gulped once, then twice.

Lacking edge to cut, and allus, I said you got a bad iron, said Osbert, looking off towards the house. Two of the lasses were missing, as he now saw, but the only one that counted was the one in purple. She was missing. It only mattered if she was the one he sought. Either way, or regardless, she was gone. Agnes, he mouthed.

Eh. Well, seemed to be working, his father observed.

Pardon? asked Osbert looking back to his father. Oh, aye. It works. If I hadn’t practice, or taken care, I would have taken a notch to me leg.

Scythe’ll take an edge. Burr it this way and that enough. Have your stone?

Er... said Osbert wondering how he could explain losing it.

Where might you put your stone, Son?

House, Osbert flashed his glance back to the house with the slightest turn of his head to the right and then flicked his eyes back at his father. Norman’s head was turning back from looking at the house as well. I reckon I know where it is.

Aye, well, it’s not too far for you, younger-legs, said Norman as he made a move to hand Osbert the costrel.

Osbert reached out and grabbed it. Thanks. He tipped up the vessel and tilted his head back to finish it as the last bit flowed past his lips and down his throat he tasted its bitter yet sweet twist upon his tongue.

He was glad of the conversation and annoyed at the same time. His was unsure as to which was better: talking to his father, or moving on toward the inevitable awkwardness of seeing Agnes after what he had done.

Osbert didn’t move and decided to speak. We could use a new shovel. Cap it with iron? She could be inside, or gone, been a while now.

Norman reached out for the costrel. Osbert recalled Agnes and her mother Isabelle (Simon de Samer. He wondered if he recalled her father’s new taken name correctly) were always on the move. Osbert absently let his father take the small leather barrel.

His father brought it up in a cheers. Don’t be bothered by owt but necessities! he said, sounding triumphant for getting to try on his new proverb. Osbert noticed his father’s rough, homespun work tunic was stained.

Must you allus do that thing?

Besides, said Norman, shovels we have still eat earth well enough as they be. Norman tried to get drink from the costrel. He tilted it all the way back, took it away from his lips and studied it, looking disappointed by its being dry.

Osbert gave a wry grin and studied his father. Norman’s face studied his sons, before looking off at the sun to check the time.

Iron rusts, said Norman, looking back at his son.

Wood splits, said Osbert, and a russet or grey will keep it good, just bury it and work at it some with some after.

Norman smiled, But...

Osbert smiled.

Nowt lasts. They both said.

Hmm..., said Norman, You have spoken that now enough you have got me saying it.

Osbert chuckled, once; a gesture not a response of emotion. His nerves began to be plucked by his mission to get to that house of his childhood, and yet, superimposed upon that anxiety, was the excitement of seeing the lass he was fond of. It’ll say something dull, if I find a word. He felt rushed to get there and let what would happen.

You should’ve brought it.

After what I did... Osbert said to himself, thinking of Agnes and her trying to stay in touch and him running off and staying staggering drunk for seasons of years instead of talking to the lass he promised from Wandesle to always be cousins with.

You be forgetful sometimes, said Norman, Do you think—

He felt her lips. He looked back toward the house.

Aye, on rare occasion it’s forced. He looked and saw the other lasses but the one in purple was missing. The girls there were in matching colors and modest. It’s unnatural for a natural fool, however.

You can train a mind to remember. You should work on that. Counting is one thing and you do that well, and many cannot, but you should work on simple other things too. Allus improve yourself!

The door looked as if it had just closed. Had it? Did it? Osbert felt his anxiety increase, he almost took a step. He needed to get there, if she was still there.

I don’t know.

Well?

He looked back at his father. Well what?

Since you seem not to be paying attention... So will you be on about collecting that stone and joining us at work? I counted on those arms and back. Norman smiled.

I’ll not be long.

Norman made a move to hand Osbert the costrel. Osbert snatched it with a turn of his body, a Father, a nod, and a step toward the house. It didn’t take him many steps before he was no longer sure he wanted to get to the house and, possibly, see the lass but his speed let him know otherwise.

He studied his mind as he watched the house upon the hill bob up and down in time with his plodding gait. He knew what he wanted. He rushed to reach his goal. He knew why he hoped he couldn’t get it. He tripped in his mind. Conflict not uncommon, for yan such as I – consistently inconsistent. His stomach knotted.

Why care so much? he asked himself as he felt his stomach knot tighter with each step, Who in ‘eaven or ‘eck would know? he asked, when he was far enough away from his father and the workers in the field to be his only audience. On earth or sea? Eh..."

If she be there, foreboding: sensible; and if not: this knot’s unwelcome side effect of  pessimism and possibly, misstep. He started watching his feet. I didn’t see her mother. If she’s without escort I shouldn’t even. He looked up and found himself almost traveled the distance to the house. Nah words. Ow do, he mouthed. He scoffed and blew a growl. Daft, fool lad.

He looked at the lasses to his right, still watching those in the field. He nodded. He looked back at the house. ‘Ow do, Morrow, Woo, shite. And the simple lad is simpler still in speaking words, forgotten his known ‘court and noble’ and forgotten the other village tongues, I reckon. Then a word came to him sweeter than any he could contrive or wish to remember. He smiled and spoke it low to himself. Agnes.

He thought again about the knot in his stomach and found it missing. Replacing it was a tantalizing excitement. He was being flooded and intoxicated by the warmth of the sun and the coolness of a breeze. The air of summer was no longer stale, he was no longer tired. He was smiling; sweet summer, sweet Agnes. He smiled wide, nearly to the house.

Ey up, Osbert!

Osbert’s good mood cooled a bit; he knew her at once by her voice. He looked over to the lasses and imagined his breeze was being burned up by the sun, and all air about him devoured. He would rather not know the lass he was looking at. Why wasn’t the damn nod enough?

Best forgotten. Shrill thing, hateful thing. Mistake. He sighed and summoned his strength. He decided upon a smile and a reply. G’day. Short. That works fine. Civility. Grand work, Bert. Halt? He stopped walking. He forced his smile to grow wider on his face. Nah. He turned to the house and started walking.

If she be in that house, more steps needed. He tried to feel his inner breeze but the sun was falling to the horizon and burning him with a loathsome hot kiss. He nearly stepped on a chicken, but with a quick change of direction and angry clucking it saved itself. Osbert’s feet carried him forward but he allowed his eyes to watch the bird strut off to his left and around the corner of the house, which had him looking at the door again.

Osbert remembered he hated most of his chickens. He liked the way the annoying ones tasted, but he didn’t much care for their incessant chicken mumblings. He heard a cock call. Except Quill. He was the most protective cock they ever had against foxes (save one cockerel that attacked a fox to his doom) and docile towards other animals and his mother. Good cock. Yell all you want. He chuckled and found he felt better. Nah, I’m going to vomit. He took a deep breath, still towards the house, slower now, to think. He told himself to take another breath and did so.

He leaned himself forward and took a step to follow his weight. Ask, Ow do? He took another step. Ask, How a’te, lass?, How be you? How are thee, Agnes? He kept walking and reached the door.

What if she be not here? Something asked him inside his mind, without forming the words. He looked over his shoulder to see the lass moving toward him. She halted, as if struck, and held her right hand half clenched below her collar bone.

He scrunched his face, and decided on the door and lifted to reach it but his hand couldn’t find it.

Osbert.

His heart skipped. His face fell slack. His eyes widened. He returned to his body and shot his head to the center and stood staring at her figure. Blue eyes with hues of grey, eyebrows, lips, cheeks, freckles, coif covering hair, hair hidden by crispinette, barbette at her throat. There was an entire face, a head, a hat. A purple dress, complete lass that was turned woman. It was a young woman with a name. His head was so full of nothing and everything he couldn’t reason existence.

Uh.

Your hand be upon my breast.

Agnes.

Aye, precisely, Osbert, my name,  I’m Agnes! Ha!

He noticed then, with surprise that his hand was, in fact, precisely where her dress ended and the pale skin of her chest converged at a low neckline. His heart raced and he willed his arm to move, but it was hers that moved over his and pointed down at his hand with her first finger.

So. I’m, I’m sorry, I’m... Heh.

Aye, she smiled and blushed, and we skipped greetings.

He moved his hand to his side. And courting never happened.

Her blonde hair was braided back from her face and flowing undone in waves behind her cute ears and shapely shoulders. He knew its length, from just a glance remembered from spying her from the field; he thought of the curve of her back. He followed her hair about her face down its path, down her body. He imagined he saw it as if from behind, then saw the pale skin that her purple gown hid from view. Face to neck, to breasts, to waist and a flaring of young hips. He looked up at her face.

Youth and beauty; he studied the shades of color in her grey-blue eyes, the softest skin. Could I touch that...he imagined it would make him happy forever. He remembered he had just touched her chest. He felt riled, excited and immodest, uncouth, and dirty.

I’m so-sorry, he stammered, staring into her eyes, and then smirked with pushed together eyebrows, quite awkwardly.

She smiled quickly. He chuckled. He studied the most adorable and delicately placed freckles across her perfect nose, soft cheeks...

Aye, and good morrow to you, Osbert. How’s the working coming along? she said with a slight tilt of her head.

It’s maffin’. Daft.

Hmm... Aye, I imagine so thou does look rather hot and I’m sweating earlier just walking the road.

Rather mess. Oh gawd, a mess. He worried over his appearance, knowing his hair was disheveled, its red looking brown with sweat, his soaked bangs stuck about his forehead. He wondered if he was covered in dirt from the scrap he and Tolly had had around luncheon in the field. He never put his straw hat back on. His skin might be pink now.

She looked awkwardly to the side. He looked awkwardly to her feet. He wondered where his eyes went as he studied how he might look in his mind. He noticed her feet, new shoes?

Osbert.

He looked up quickly. Dammit. Her skin was beautiful. She smiled. Her smile was beautiful. Could I kiss that, I suppose, I’d be happy. He was staring.

What’s wrong? Her face said something was definitely wrong. It began to look troubled. The lips and eyebrows, definitely were telling Osbert something was wrong.

What?

She smiled again and began to laugh.  She stopped laughing, and with a raise of the eyebrows and a flick of the head had him turning to look behind him. He saw nothing. He looked back and smiled.

Oh! he said as realization struck fast that he was standing in front of her in a doorway. He placed his left foot behind his right and pivoted out of her way. Sorry, Agnes.

He watched her waist pass his vision and turn into what he shouldn’t look at, but did anyway, quickly, before looking away. In a bit! she called, continuing to walk away. There was something lyrical about that voice. She walked out of his view, where it stayed towards the ground.

You damn fool. Embarrassment instantly eclipsed the excitement given him by her proximity. What to say? He looked up with a frown and watched her almost bounce away. Nice arse. Vulgar and offensive, he furrowed his brows. Ugh. I’m awful.

She turned to make off down the road, and as she did so, waved to where the lasses were still standing. Osbert looked. The one lass who had halted earlier was staring at him. Er...

A whistle – Osbert looked back to Agnes as she was waving to everyone in the field. He looked to see who looked up from their work, Ox amongst them. His eyes returned to the lass as she turned down the road. Thither? – Wherever she pleases. Osbert wished she would stay put. Her and her mother – wings, birds.

Did you speak to Agnes? Margaret’s voice came from deep in the house, from behind him; he remembered he stood about the doorway. They were seen.

Nah, exactly, he said loud enough to make sure she would hear him above her work.

His eyes followed the lass until she was out of his line of sight. He had half a mind to leave the farm to watch her go, to watch her go where she might after she reached the low walled high roofed cruck houses, the church’s smooth grey walls, and taller, but with thatched roof still... Why give us a chapel of ease, when we have our caves and wells? His mind wandered but came back the lass. 

He felt he might run her down to wish her well, say a proper greeting, followed in turn by a quick, though far from awkward, farewell. Adieu, he said to himself, not knowing when he would see her again. He imagined she would kiss him, if he chased her down and confessed his love. He felt hot from his fancy, and knew better. He wished things had gone differently. He felt weak and troubled by his awkwardness, by their contact. Her ‘appen middlin. Middlin’... ‘Appen she was happy to have eyes on myself? Long live the damned, he said low to himself recalling passing out from bleedings.

Osbert turned and walked through the  door of the house. ‘Eck. His mother looked up from chopping vegetables for the kettle. Osbert gazed upon the flaming hearth bordered by simple tapestry hanging to the left side, and his father’s and brother’s swords, four bow staves horizontal on pegs, and a spear tied to the wall with band and upon pegs.A’te and that lass Agnes no longer of a kind?

He looked on farther right to the painted blue iron cervelliere his father wore as escort and a thick brown woolen scarf. Beneath the helmets the layered linen gambeson hung. He studied the dingy garment for a moment. We’d need. I want— of a kind? Whence came at? Agnes. Dammit. She’s not touched, by any tale, though peculiar. He wanted to fight, to strike something hard with his fist straight through.

He smelled the baking bread; his mother had the small brick oven by the hearth blazing hot with flame. You don’t ever spend time with them of your own age, he turned his attention to her as she collected from a small table on delicate trestles, bits of chopped carrots upon her broad cooking knife and slid them into the boiling aromatic substance that would soon be a supper of pottage and, he hoped, spiced beer or rarer wine. Agnes be younger than I? Years behind.

And what exactly is a Nay, not exactly? his mother Margaret asked.

I’m not sure, mum, he said, And I have a Tolly. He stared at the floor. I should’ve shaved. Sheep don’t care but lasses do. He looked upwards to his mother. And what be this ‘of your own years’ business? Agnes is many years younger than I? And she be only half-blooded, and bloody God knows what else her be besides on her mother’s side. I don’t know that family.

She had turned to him and stood with her knife to her side, So that never came up? She gave a smirk and then a weak, feeble smile, and then turned around towards the kettle.

Possible, but apparently I can’t remember anything, he said fussily.

And all I meant by those of your own age is I mean make time for yourself when that lass isn’t about. You spend all your time with sheep.

He smirked. Shepherd. Put there for reason of being touched. He looked at the low table on its long beam and crosslegged trestles and low bench on its sturdy trestles against the left wall, noticed his bedroom doorway to its right. Poor woman, third comes out all wrong. He looked to the table. He began to shuffle towards it. He wondered if his sister Osanna was doing well.

Osbert made the bench, turning around at it and plopped down hard, the jolt of impact expelling an involuntary huff!  He leaned his back to the table in a way not to disturb the tabletop, placed the costrel upon it, and idly watched his mother. It took some adjusting of his eyes and squinting to really see well in the low lighting of the house. He studied the beams and supporting timbers roof of the ceiling until he noticed every detail. Hearing his mother move about, he looked down again; she wore an apron and a homespun natural colored dress. Nothing bright on a day like the morrow I woke to, but she was beautiful. She stood out, somehow radiant, against the plain unadorned grey stone walls and simple wooden furniture of the house, against the rushes on the floor, the odds and ends and shelves attached to the walls, the light from a conical topped lantern sitting in its familiar place on the table, to his left and behind him, the light from the hearth to his front left, the dark hole of the small brick oven to the right of the hearth. She walked by it then. His mind had lost track of her movements but his gaze went after her as she entered the room she shared with his father at the far side of the main room.

He looked back to the lantern. Needs to be lit. He threw his legs over the bench and under the table. He studied it for a second then looked beside it and found a half-burned candle with its blackened cotton wick. He took it up in his left hand, and walked over to the hearth, finding a hot ember fallen away from the flame, touched the wick to it till it took a light. Sheltering the flame with his right hand, he walked back to the lantern retaking his seat; he carefully placed the candle inside the lantern and closed it, dulling its light through the thin horn panels and slightly darker swirls of them here and there. He crossed his forearms on the table and placed his chin upon them and studied the glow penetrating the horn plated sides of the lantern and thought of Agnes.  

Better to appreciate the food, he heard his mother say in his head from memory and repetition as he watched the light. There had always been a lit lantern at supper, he recalled. He closed his eyes. A memory of a very young Osbert playing in the snow came to him. He walked through the door to a raging hearth billowing a healthy smoke and blackened touched and burned by fire and smoke masonry, smiling mother with open arms, and a lantern upon a set table full of warm bread. His eyes blinked a moment’s sting away. He was happy then. Better to— Why do people oft repeat—

I don’t see why I need to spend my time with lads my age. All dull. I have a Tolly. He’s enough.

Tolly, said his mother from behind him,