Margery Gascoigne pulled her skirt up to her knees and strode across the farmyard. She wore riding boots and a cape to protect her from the wind. The boots were not for walking but were the best she had to guard against mud and slime. Harald walked by her side. Margery was determined to show her son what could be achieved by resolute action. His pussyfooting never ceased to infuriate her. Hugh Orpington had won the case at Dorchester and hefty damages had been awarded against Roger Knowles. He had chosen to pay in the form of sheep and the first consignment had arrived.
'There you are, Harald.' She pointed over the wall. 'That's what happens when you do things properly. The reeve's men brought them this morning. They're the first of the delivery Roger Knowles has been ordered to make.'
Harald peered to where a hundred or so woolly beasts were munching at the grass. A glance told him all he needed to know.
'Aren't they fine?'
'No, Mother.'
'Harald, you're only saying that out of spite.'
'I'm saying it because they're no use to us.'
'Harald, they're beautiful and fat.'
'The value of sheep is in their wool, Mother. You can only kill a sheep once and, when you do, you have to sell the flesh at the local market. You can shear a sheep many times and find a market for its wool as far away as Damascus. That's how John Baret makes his money but he doesn't buy his wool from people who waste good fodder on a mangy bunch of animals like these.'
'You mean you don't intend to keep them?'
'No. I'll send them to market in Dorchester.'
'Why not sell them to the abbey? Peter says Abbot Bradford intends to increase his flocks and is prepared to pay in silver.'
'I'll have no dealings with that man.'
'You're starting to sound like Richard Vowell. I thought you didn't agree with his campaign against the abbey. Has he changed your mind?'
'Abbot Bradford has changed my mind.'
'What's he done now?'
'His bailiffs committed an act of violence against a lady.'
A twinkle appeared in Margery's eye. 'Are you referring to Alice de Lambert? A little bird told me you are seeing a lot of her.'
'What little bird was that, Mother?'
'A little bird that lives in Honeycomb Woods.'
Harald shuffled his feet.
'There's no need to look sheepish, Harald. You should take a mistress. A nun would be an admirable choice. The poor things have so little joy in their lives. You could provide something that's missing.'