Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [413]
Although the process was already well known in many parts of England, because it was mainly open sheep country, the practice of enclosure was never such a striking feature of life at Sarum as it was in other areas. But enclosures there were, and it was Forest’s enclosure that forced young Will Wilson off the land.
Since it was obvious that Forest did not want him there, the villagers did not encourage him to stay with them. For several weeks he tried to find shelter and scrape a living. Local farmers gave him a day’s work here and there, and shelter for the night, but no home. In the city, the closed community of the craft guilds showed little interest in the penniless and friendless young labourer when he tried to find a place as an apprentice. One of the inns told him he could clean out the stables, but after the innkeeper hit him for obeying an order too slowly, he decided to leave.
What was he to do?
“There’s nothing for me at Sarum,” he sadly decided. “Plenty for others, but not for me.” He missed his poor cottage in the valley at Avonsford. “If even that’s gone,” he finally decided, “I may as well try my luck elsewhere.”
And so it was on an April morning that he had come to the Avon valley to see the sunrise for the last time before he took his leave.
The mists were clearing now; he could see the river water and the long green weeds. People were stirring at the manor house. As the last trails of mist drifted downstream on the river the swans returned and, arching their powerful wings, made their comfortable landing on the water.
He turned to go.
He had said his farewell to Avonsford; now there was one last visit to make – to the great cathedral in the valley, whose graceful, soaring spire had been the dominant landmark of his short life. He would take one more look, pray there, and then be on his way.
It was difficult to wrench himself away from Sarum.
There was, however, one problem with his plan. When he left the city, where should he go?
He had no idea. He supposed one place was as good as another. It was a question he had been asking himself for over a week, without coming to any conclusion; and now the time had come.
“I shall go to the cathedral and ask St Osmund,” he murmured. It seemed the sensible thing to do.
It was as he came towards the little wooden bridge below the village that he saw her.
The lady of the manor.
She was standing in the middle of the bridge, apparently staring down the river, but she turned to watch him approach.
She was wearing a long, black cloak and her head was bare, so that the grey hair fell half way down her back.
He hesitated for a moment, for he was a little afraid of her: then he corrected himself.
“What’s she or the lord of Avonsford to me now?” he muttered and pressed forward.
She continued to watch him, impassively.
He wondered what this fine lady was doing down by the river so early; but who knew what was in the minds of the gentry? As he came close, he could not help thinking:
She’s old now, but she must have been beautiful once.
In fact, Lizzie was forty, though she knew she looked more. She had walked alone down to the river because just after dawn her husband, waking in a bad temper and after a few angry words when she foolishly contradicted him, had seemed about to strike her. Now that she was visibly growing old, she had supposed that his violence towards her might grow less, but it had not. Rather than begin the day with pain, she had quickly left the house and walked down to the bridge.
She too was watching the mist lift over the lovely manor house.
How strange to think that this place – everything that high-spirited girl Lizzie