Chapter 2: The Victory Levy

The king’s musicians reached Willow before the grain wagons.

Godric heard the drum from inside the mill, where he was holding a sack beneath the weighing beam. At first, the sound disappeared beneath the machinery. Then the drummer found a gap between the grinding stones, and the beat came through clearly enough to make the miller lift his head.

“Already?”

He checked the weight, scratched a number onto his board, and waved Godric toward the doorway.

“Set it there. Keep the mouth tied.”

Outside, blue cloth flashed between the houses.

Nine days had passed since the notice went up. In that time, the barley had been cut, the first sheaves threshed, and several men who had hoped their fields looked worse than they were had discovered otherwise.

Master Pell had come through, too.

Godric had seen his wagon from the far end of a field, where he was helping his father bind sheaves. By the time they finished, the wheelwright was gone.

Now another procession was arriving, and everyone was expected to watch.

At its head walked a boy carrying a pole twice his height. A white phoenix spread its wings across the blue banner above him. Two drummers followed, then a piper, then a mounted officer with polished buckles and a small wreath of green branches tied beneath his horse’s throat.

Behind them came the men with the ledgers.

Godric recognized one of the wagons. Its left wheel had a pale new rim.

Pell’s work.

He stepped aside as the procession entered the green.

Ella was waiting near the well with Lira. Someone had given her a strip of blue ribbon, which she was trying to knot around her wrist.

“Help.”

Godric tied it.

“What’s it for?”

“The victory.”

“Which victory?”

She looked toward the banner, as though the answer might be written on the other side.

“The king’s.”

The drums stopped.

The officer rose in his stirrups and began to speak.

Six years had passed, he told them, since His Majesty’s armies had broken the northern host. Six years since the border fortresses were restored and the roads made safe for honest travelers. Dorth remembered the fallen. Dorth honored those who still guarded its peace.

Godric had been seven when the victory bells rang.

He remembered sitting on his father’s shoulders. Someone had baked honey cakes. Tarin had dropped one into the dust, picked it up, and eaten it before anyone could object.

He remembered that better than the war.

The officer finished, and a few people clapped. The reeve clapped harder. The musicians began again.

A clerk at the rear of the procession climbed down from his wagon.

“Householders to the mill,” he called.

By noon, the mill yard had been divided by a length of rope.

Grain went on one side. People waited on the other.

The collector sat at a table beneath the eaves. He had narrow shoulders, a damp patch beneath each arm, and a silver ring that clicked against the wood whenever he reached for his ruler.

Beside him, a younger clerk entered figures into a ledger.

Two laborers emptied sacks into a wooden measure. When it was full, they drew a straight board across the rim, sweeping the excess onto a cloth. The measured grain went into the crown’s sacks. The spillage went into a smaller bucket.

Godric watched that bucket.

It was filling slowly.

Across the green, the officer’s party had been given benches outside the bakehouse. The smell of hot bread drifted into the yard.

“Renn,” the clerk called.

Widow Renn approached the table with a folded scrap of parchment. Her eldest son stood behind her, gripping the handles of their cart.

The collector examined her paper.

“This records delivery from last winter.”

“Yes.”

“The current assessment remains outstanding.”

“I know. I brought it because the winter amount was paid in full.”

The collector glanced up.

“The arrears concern the holding beside yours.”

“The Fen holding.”

“Yes.”

“They left.”

“So the reeve has informed us.”

“They left before the sowing.”

The collector set her paper down and aligned it carefully with the edge of the table.

“The shortfall falls under the village guarantee.”

Widow Renn did not answer immediately.

Godric remembered the Fen children carrying bundles down the road in early spring. Their mother had said they were going to her brother’s. The smallest boy had kept turning around because their dog was following them, though someone had apparently decided it would stay behind.

“What has that to do with my grain?” the widow asked.

“The holding remains in arrears.”

“Then take it from the holding.”

“It is vacant.”

“Yes. I just told you.”

A few people laughed.

The collector waited until they stopped.

“The amount has been apportioned among the remaining households.”

“How much?”

The clerk told her.

Her son lowered the cart handles.

“No.”

The word came out sharply enough that one of the guards looked over.

Widow Renn put a hand against her son’s chest.

“We can pay our share,” she said. “We cannot pay theirs.”

“That is the assessed amount.”

The boy behind her was nearly grown. Godric had seen him carry two sacks at once without bending beneath them. Now he stood with his mother’s hand against his shirt and said nothing.

The collector slid the parchment back.

“Your delivery will be entered as partial.”

“What happens to the rest?”

“It remains due.”

One of the laborers reached for a sack on their cart.

Widow Renn caught the tied mouth.

“That one stays.”

The man paused.

“Seed,” she said.

The collector looked at the sack, then at his ledger.

“We are recording grain received. Any amount retained does not count toward your obligation.”

Widow Renn’s hand tightened.

For a moment, Godric thought she would pull it back.

Then her son bent and lifted it onto the platform.

Darin arrived with the reeve shortly afterward.

He had washed and changed his shirt, though there was still a pale line of river mud beneath one fingernail. Under his arm, he carried a board covered in figures.

Godric moved closer.

“We’ve measured the lower strips,” Darin told the collector. “The miller has recorded what’s come in from the upper fields. There is enough to show the yield is short across the parish.”

The collector held out his hand.

Darin gave him the board.

“These are your figures?”

“Mine and the miller’s.”

“Were the measurements witnessed?”

“The reeve was with us.”

The reeve nodded.

“I can attest to the field boundaries.”

The collector looked down the columns.

“We are authorized to receive the assessment. We are not authorized to alter it.”

“We’re asking for time,” Darin said. “Hold the shortfall until the later crops come in. Let us bring the figures before the provincial office.”

“A petition may be submitted.”

“Here?”

“No. Here we can register notice of appeal.”

“Then register it.”

The collector placed the board on the table.

“The filing fee is eight copper pennies.”

Darin waited.

Godric waited with him.

“For the appeal?” his father asked.

“For its registration.”

“And once it’s registered?”

“The petition must be submitted through the appropriate office.”

“With another fee.”

“That depends on the relief requested.”

Darin rested both hands on the edge of the table.

“Would registration suspend collection?”

“No.”

Behind Godric, someone swore.

His father looked back at the villagers, then at the board.

“So we pay to say we intend to ask.”

“You pay for the entry and certification.”

Darin took his purse from inside his shirt.

Godric knew how much was in it. He had counted the coins two nights earlier while his father checked their grain figures.

Three pennies.

Darin opened it anyway.

The collector watched.

“Could the village submit jointly?” the reeve asked.

“Provided a responsible householder is named.”

“I’ll be named,” Darin said.

The reeve glanced at him.

“Darin.”

“I said I’ll be named.”

The collector pulled a narrow sheet from beneath the ledger.

“Eight pennies.”

Godric looked across the yard.

The officer was breaking a loaf in half. Crumbs fell onto the front of his blue coat.

There was bread on the table beside him, bread in the hands of his men, bread cooling in the bakehouse window.

Eight pennies to have someone write down that Willow did not have enough.

“You could use some of that,” Godric said.

His father turned.

The collector followed his gaze toward the green.

“That is a separate provision.”

“It’s still grain.”

“Godric,” Darin said.

“They’re eating it while you’re—”

His father caught his arm.

Not hard. Hard enough.

The guard nearest the table straightened.

Godric felt everyone notice him at once. Heat spread up his neck. He wanted to finish what he had been saying, though he could no longer arrange the words.

The collector looked at Darin.

“Take your son outside the yard.”

Darin picked up his board.

They went.

His father did not release him until they reached the far side of the mill.

Godric pulled his arm away.

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“You were speaking loudly enough to make him think you might.”

“So we’re not allowed to speak?”

“You heard me speaking.”

“He didn’t listen.”

“He answered.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” Darin said. “It isn’t.”

That stopped him.

From the other side of the wall came the scrape of the measuring board across another load of grain.

Godric kicked at a stone.

“He’s sitting there taking it.”

“I know.”

“He could give Widow Renn her sack back.”

“He could.”

“Then why are you being polite to him?”

His father looked tired. There was grain dust in the folds of his clean shirt.

“Because I need his name on the refusal.”

Godric frowned.

Darin turned the board toward him.

“If I take this to someone above him, I need to show what we asked for, what we offered as proof, and what he decided. If I get dragged out of the yard for striking him, that will be the only thing anyone writes down.”

“I wasn’t going to strike him.”

His father glanced at Godric’s hands.

They were closed.

He opened them.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Darin leaned against the wall.

“When they called the Fen holding, were you close enough to hear?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“That everyone else has to pay.”

“The words, Godric.”

He tried to remember.

The collector had tapped the parchment. He had looked annoyed when Widow Renn explained that the family had left.

“The shortfall falls under the village guarantee.”

Darin nodded.

“And he called what she gave him a partial delivery.”

“Good. Who heard?”

“Her son. The miller. Tarin, I think.”

His father took a piece of charcoal from his pocket and wrote along the bottom of the board.

Godric watched the words appear.

It was a small thing. The grain was still being carried away.

But his father had found something they could carry away too.

The eight pennies came from five households.

The miller gave two. Darin gave his three. The others arrived one at a time, warm from pockets or wrapped in scraps of cloth.

Mira brought the last.

She put it into Darin’s palm without asking him to explain.

Godric stood beside them while the collector counted the coins.

Eight small clicks.

The younger clerk drew up the entry. Darin bent over his shoulder to read it.

“Here,” he said.

The clerk stopped.

“You’ve written unwilling to meet the assessed amount.”

“That is the standard entry for—”

“Unable. We are unable to meet it.”

The collector looked over.

“Change it.”

The clerk scraped the word away.

Darin waited until the correction was finished before he signed.

Then he asked for a copy.

“That requires—” the clerk began.

The collector made a brief movement with his hand.

“Give him the acknowledgment.”

When they left the table, Darin carried a narrow strip of parchment bearing the date, a registration number, and a seal no larger than a thumbnail.

Godric leaned close to see.

It did not look like eight pennies.

His father folded it carefully and put it inside his shirt.

By late afternoon, the musicians had gone.

The grain wagons remained.

Godric helped the miller gather the loose straw and replace the sacks that had split during unloading. His toe hurt inside the oversized boot. A blister had formed on the other heel, and every few steps he had to stop himself from limping.

At the well, the guard with the pale scar beneath his jaw was trying to get a drink while holding his horse.

Godric set down his armful of straw and passed him the dipper.

“Thank you.”

The man drank, then poured a little water into his palm for the horse.

“Long day,” he said.

Godric looked at the wagons.

The guard followed his gaze.

He did not speak again.

Tarin was waiting beside the mill door.

“Did your father get it changed?”

“The entry.”

“The amount.”

“No.”

Tarin picked a splinter from the doorframe.

“My mother gave them the grain she’d put aside for winter bread.”

“Can’t she use the rye?”

“That was the rye.”

Godric looked down.

Tarin threw the splinter into the dust.

“They were supposed to stop after the war.”

“Were they?”

“My father says so.”

Godric thought of the officer’s speech. Six years of peace. Fortresses restored. Roads safe for honest travelers.

He had wanted to travel those roads.

He still did.

That made it harder to decide where to put his anger.

Lira came around the corner carrying an empty basket.

“Your mother’s looking for you,” she told him.

“Why?”

“She needs help.”

Her eyes moved briefly toward the crown’s wagons.

“Come on.”

At home, the shutters were closed.

There was enough light between the boards to see Mira kneeling beside a grain sack. Ella sat at the table with her slate, making an effort to appear occupied.

Darin had lifted a loose floorboard beneath the bed.

Godric stopped in the doorway.

His father looked up.

“Shut that.”

He closed the door.

Two glazed crocks stood beside Mira. One had held dried peas the previous winter. The other was usually kept on the high shelf, waiting for whatever fruit they could afford to preserve.

Now she was filling them with barley.

“Is that ours?”

“The portion we kept,” Darin said.

“For eating?”

“For sowing.”

Godric moved closer.

The space beneath the floor was shallow, lined with flat stones. His father checked the bottom for damp, then laid down a piece of old sacking.

“But they measured ours.”

“They measured what we delivered.”

“They said the rest was still due.”

“Yes.”

Mira lifted the first crock. Darin took it from her and lowered it carefully into the space.

Godric stared.

That morning, his father had put on a clean shirt and carried figures to the collector. He had paid for an appeal. He had insisted that the clerk change one word.

Now he was hiding grain beneath the bed.

“What about the petition?”

“I’m taking it.”

“Then why—”

“We have to be able to plant while we wait.”

His father said it quietly, without impatience.

Mira tied a cloth over the second crock.

“Pass that cord.”

Godric handed it to her.

There was a knock at the back door.

All four of them stopped.

Then Lira’s voice came through the wood.

“It’s me.”

Mira let her in.

“Widow Renn asks if you have another pot,” Lira said. “One with a lid.”

Mira looked toward the shelf.

“The brown one. Wrap it in your apron.”

Lira took it down.

Godric thought of the sack in Widow Renn’s hands, and her son lifting it onto the platform. Perhaps they had kept a little somewhere else. Perhaps they were trying to borrow enough to begin again.

He wanted to ask.

Then he saw the way Lira held the pot against her, concealing its shape in the cloth, and understood that she would rather he didn’t.

When she had gone, Darin lowered the second crock into place.

There was still a little barley left in the sack.

Godric knelt and held its mouth open while his mother poured the remainder into a smaller jar. Several grains caught in the seam. He picked them free with his fingernail.

His father replaced the floorboard.

“Bring me the bed leg.”

Together, they shifted the frame back into position. The wood scraped across the floor, leaving a pale mark.

Godric rubbed dust over it with his heel.

Darin saw him do it.

For a moment, Godric wondered whether he would be told off.

His father only reached for the empty sack.

Across the room, Ella began rubbing something from her slate. The blue ribbon slid down her wrist.

“What are you doing?” Godric asked.

“My sums.”

She turned the slate toward herself before he could see.

Mira began preparing supper. Darin sat at the table with the acknowledgment, his figures, and a fresh piece of charcoal.

Godric watched him smooth the parchment.

“Will someone read it?”

His father looked up.

“I’ll take it to someone whose work is to read it.”

“And then?”

“We’ll see what they say.”

Godric wanted a better answer. His father seemed to want one too.

Beneath the bed, the crocks were hidden. Outside, a wagon creaked past the house on its way toward the bridge.

Godric could hear the weight of it in the wheels.