Following on from the Past in Mind project there have been some exciting developments. Firstly some volunteers have rocketed from the project launchpad into a new world of voluntary work, academic study and personal achievements. On top of this, the project manager Jenny McMillan has written an article about the project which has been published in an International Journal. (The link to this will be posted shortly). And in addition there is going to be a book based on the project, which is due to be published in 2014. We always knew that the Past in Mind project was breaking new ground, but who would have thought it would continue to reach new heights once the main work had finished?
The publication of the Day in the Life monologues which were performed at the Conquest Theatre in Bromyard in April 2013, is long overdue. So to rekindle the flame of this fantastic project, here they are at last. All the pieces were written by volunteers and staff involved with Past in Mind.
A Day in the Life of Pottery
My origins lie beneath the Malvern Hills.
While Walter Potter held me in his hands in crude clay form, I fancied I might end up in a lady’s chamber. How proudly I would sit there, I thought, holding her trinkets. But then I mused upon the fact that I might find myself discarded, for I have it on hearsay that some young ladies are prone to fickleness.
Many a fine piece of Malvernware has been seen in the back of a cart, because Dorset clay has become more fashionable. So I got thinking as I was in Walter’s hands perhaps I would prefer to be pride of place in a gentleman’s chamber instead. But presently that vexed me also. For I heard the other day that one of my cousins – a fine young bowl – was gambled away in an ale house and is now unaccounted for. Hhm!!
So if ladies apparently change their minds and men gamble, where does that leave me? Someone warned me against idle gossip, but it does make my position quite precarious. I hope I break into bits right here in Malvern and go back to my beloved soil. My future is so uncertain! I’m destined to leave my home and I have no idea what Walter Potter plans to do with me.
These were my thoughts before I was made one of the finest cooking vessels in Mercia.
My cart journey to Studmarsh was painful and cumbersome. And I had to suffer the humiliation of being poked by a jug and jostled by square dishes that used the coarsest Medieval language. One of them told me I was not a fine vessel and that I’d know about it when my underside was roasting in the fire. I tried to ignore the foul-mouthed dish, but I must confess my rim quivered.
When we arrived in Studmarsh I tried to make my sides glow so that the lads sent to unload us would not handle me roughly. One of those loathsome square dishes said we were all utilitarian and that the cook here was descended from a hairy Viking. I didn’t understand what any of this meant but it sounded painful.
We were all sent to the kitchen in batches and assigned our proper places. I was disgusted to find myself within earshot of the square dishes, ruffians through and through despite their squareness.
Although it was an uncomfortable start we had pleasant times in the stone house. I produced many steaming stews and even helped out at weddings. The Viking cook turned out to be a friendly wench from London who valued me dearly and called me her prize. Then the Black Death came.
As the deadly plague ate through Studmarsh, laughter became rare and my services were seldom called upon. One by one the people of Studmarsh died or drifted away, and inevitably I too became broken. I rested in the soil for the next six centuries.
In 2013 I am a mere fragment of my former self. Yet last year a piece of me was found near an inner wall of the great stone house, and since then I have been properly cleaned and cared for. Humans in strange attire seem fascinated by me. If Walter Potter could see me now, even as a fragment, he would be immensely proud.
A Day in the Life of William Colley
William Colley is my name. Born in this fair Herefordshire land in 1638 and passed before my sixtieth year was seen.
I am a man of truth and faith. My bible is my guide – God’s law I do uphold.
I have been blessed – the Lord gave me a good and loving wife and 7 children too; Timothy is my eldest boy and Ann my youngest girl.
Many changes and hardships I have borne in this my earthly world. I remain a puritan, a loyalist, Orangeman – so God be my judge.
I leave this will in 1695 –
In the name of God Amen I William Colley of Norton in the parish of Bromyard in the county of Hereford gent being well in Body and of sound and perfect mind, memory and understanding (thanks be given to God Almighty for the same)
And calling to mind the uncertainty of this life and that all flesh must yield unto death when it shall please God to call doe make this my last will and testament ………………………………
I Bequeath my Soul into the hands of God Almighty my maker trusting in and through the merits of my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ to have full and free pardon and Remission for all my sins and to inherit everlasting life ………………………………………………….
I give and bequeath unto my eldest son Timothy Colley the Bedd and Beddstead together with all the furniture and appurtenances whatsoever thereunto belonging being in the Bedd chamber of my said son Timothy.
I give and bequeath unto my son William Colley the sum of twenty shillings to be paid by my Executrix hereafter named. I give and bequeath unto my loving wife Elizabeth Colley the Bedd and Beddstead with all the furniture thereunto belonging in the Chamber over the Hall being a lodging Chamber and wherein we usually lie
I William Colley have put my hand and seal this 17th July in the 7th year of the reign
of our Sovereign Lord William 3rd by the grace of God of England, Scotland,
France and Ireland……………..year of our Lord one thousand six hundred and
A Day in the Life of Doug (the Ancient oak)
I am the Pedunculate oak tree, guardian of the Studmarsh field. Five
centuries of life have passed beneath my branches. There have been
occasions when my leaves have wilted under the weight of local gossip. Yet a well-bred Pedunculate, such as I, must always be discreet!
This probably makes me the best diplomat in Herefordshire. But really, when the Bloody Assizes are leaving a trail of broken necks across the country, does it matter who kissed the farm boy on the Common?
I’ve had five centuries to put things in perspective. A secret, lies, confessions, promises – I have witnessed them all. I’ve comforted the sick and lonely, and given young lovers my blessing. I have also showered acorns on the heads of drunkards who use my trunk as a chamber pot! Even a diplomat such as I, has limits.
It is the Summer of 2012 and a motley group has arrived in Studmarsh field.
With the utmost dignity I’m embracing my new role as the resident coat, hat
and bag stand. They appear to like me, these transient diggers. As for me,
I’m far too old to have opinions. I am trying to remain undisturbed, but
someone is measuring my girth with a tape measure. No one has measured the Pedunculate of Studmarsh before!
It seems that for the first time in nearly five centuries I am to be given a reference number. I almost decayed on the spot when I overheard this (for no one tells me anything directly).
My formal identity is Pedunculate of Studmarsh, Sir Douglas Quercus – or
Doug for short. I rather like it. How many Pedunculates do you know who are
listed as a veteran on the Internet?
A Day in the Life of a Visitor to Studmarsh By Christopher Skinner
My name and what people call me is Adam Vinetree, and this is the tale of my travels Northwest from Dorset (My place of birth) to find work and seek employment. I will undertake any task and put my hands to whatever job will pay enough to shelter me, buy me food and find a wench so that I can finally settle down.
I had tried to settle in many different places, but alas, could not stay long for the Plague ever seemed to be round the corner taking the friends I had in my youth and the few that I had made on my journey. In my experience of work I have cared for livestock, can use horse and plough and I learn very quickly. I have sheared sheep and picked up the art of the blacksmith, the locals in villages I have passed and stayed in are attracted to the blacksmith for he is the local place for talk and news.
I entered a small village signposted with the name of Studmarsh; this seems to be a name describing the large number of cut tree-bases and wet-ground beneath me. I entered the village and headed for the plume of smoke and hubbub surrounding a hut with a large chimney, there were a few locals and my eyes were attracted to a pretty young girl who stood out as the most attractive girl I had ever seen! Tearing my eyes away, I pushed through the crowd to talk directly with the big man holding great metal pincers and throwing logs on the fire.
“Scuse me sir, is there anywhere local I can work? I can fetch timbers for the fire, push the bellows and make and repair horse-shoes.” – I also said to him, “I am new in town and need a hot dinner and a place to sleep.” The blacksmith stopped what he was doing and scratched his chin. -” I can spread the word about, stick around the area and I’ll see what I can do.”
I thanked him and turned to leave, and there was the beautiful girl I saw earlier – approaching me!
She stopped in front of me and said; “Hello, my name is Alice and I overheard your conversation. My Father is looking for an extra man to till our land for grain. I think I could persuade him to let you sleep in the cleaner part of the goat shed, there is plenty of bedding and Daisy is pretty good, even with strangers. “
I cannot believe my ears! I know that Alice had not asked her Father yet, but I was quietly confident that I had found a place to work, sleep and the chance of finding a wife within thirty minutes of entering the village!
Alice gave me such a coy look; I could not help but smile. She took my hand and led me through the village to where she pointed to the raised flat area at the top of the valley. There was a large settlement to the right of the track, at the top of the valley, Alice told me that this was her home – I could see that this family were not stuck for a coin or two, so we headed for the large gates to the property and as we were to push them open, something caught my eye.
Festooned upon several of the village doors was the dreaded sign of a red cross painted in crude, hurried strokes.
I stood there and took it all in, sure as sure the village was slowly becoming doomed, Alice started to cry in the background, saying “You will stay here with us – won’t you? “ My heart almost gave way at that point this girl was at the end of her tether, her risk of infection was almost a certainty. The plague itself was seething through the large towns and settlements and people were dying in no particular order, if I stayed here I would almost certainly succumb to Black Death, if I leave I would never see this pretty a face and the wealth this family had, ever again.
Maybe I stay and barricade Alice and I both in together – maybe I run and die a slow, horrible Death…The End
A Day in the Life of – The Black Death
I am the Black Death. I hover near a labourer’s sick bed and embrace the physician who tends the dying man. I breathe over the Vicar as he hurries in with oil and prayer book. I tiptoe round the maidens who are weeping outside, and two of them I kiss. And finally I whisper into grandfather’s ear that I shall see him tomorrow. My work is done at this small cottage in Studmarsh.
Sweeping my black cloak along the grass I stride onwards towards the mighty house of stone. I am the Black Death. I do not discriminate. Rich or poor, strong or infirm, rosy wench or fair-haired lad – I see no difference between them. Thus half the population of Studmarsh I carry off to the graveyard. And half I leave behind in mourning.
Ah – They were the days! For indeed fifty years have passed since I first visited Studmarsh. I am but a spectre now, leaning on a broken gate. The windows of the building have been smashed in. Half the roof is missing and rain tumbles into the empty chamber. I am the Black Death. Decay and disorder are my legacy. I rip up social fabric and toss the rags to the four winds.
As I turn away I spy a drunken cleric slumped on the grass – flagon in his left hand, ripped prayer book in his right. Some of the torn pages are flitting across the meadow like wingless butterflies.
But who really cares?
Who has enough stamina to protest? Has anyone even noticed?
Who in Studmarsh is still intact?
I am the Black Death. It’s 1397 and decaying Studmarsh is still mine.
A day in the Life of Abigail
My name is Abigail. I flutter through time, passing through Studmarsh from
age to age. One moment I am picking flowers in the meadow. Next I am
watching through an upstairs window; watching you. You are trying to capture me – but I am the elusive Abigail.
Elusive Abigail, I run through Studmarsh tossing my hair and laughing as it
glistens in the golden light. Then I am wailing, for my father has just died
in his bed.
This is grieving Abigail.
This is a finely dressed Abigail drowned in a black cape of loss. The Abigail who makes you shudder on a windswept night at the thought of ghosts. Yes, I am that ghost you thought you saw by the oak tree. Yet before you catch me I am galloping away on a black-maned mare, breaking through time into new pastures. It is my wedding day now. Listen to the peeling bells!
This is time for more laughter on Studmarsh.
Perhaps on a summer evening you might hear me making merry just as I did on that joyful day.
I am the woman who holds all the memories. They are my secrets. If you
listen carefully you may hear whispers in the water. Bond’s Dingle or the
watery marsh – who knows? Elusive Abigail likes to tease. She jumps out
and surprises you. She lies in dusty books then runs away when you open the
page. Abigail flies through time, neither young nor old. You think you know
her, but you merely know her name. Abigail: “joy of my father”.
I am elusive Abigail, the unknown woman of Studmarsh. You will never catch
me, for you will never know me. Strange, as I am standing right behind you,
giggling because you’re reluctant to turn round.
A Day in the life of A student on Past in Mind
I am a student
I come in many forms -
I am the archaeology undergraduate on fieldwork practice
I am the sixth former not yet decided
I am her friend from an African conflict where education stopped
I am Benjamin, in my the third year of a nursing degree
I am all of these and more ………and……. I am now a volunteer in Studmarsh excavating the past!
What did I expect? I didn’t know.
Should I be here? I have no experience of surveying or excavating!
Should I be here with people from Mind? I didn’t know.
Who is a volunteer and who is not? Who is an archaeologist and who is not?
Who has mental health problems and who has not?
When you look at me, the student what do you see? Do I wear a hoodie and do drugs? You’re not sure?
Do you know I’m shy and want to find my way in the world?
Will I be accepted on this dig? Will I feel different? Will I stand out? How will I know what to do? What will I learn? PAUSE
This is what I learned –
We were all nervous and unsure and excited and a little lost …and… eager to gain knowledge and skills…….and we all had fun and shared jokes with Chris and Dai and with each other. We found pottery and uncovered walls and ……….felt just a little in touch with the young and the old……the women and the men from all those years ago and …. with each other as volunteers………………….. all of whom became students of discovery at this place called Studmarsh.
A Day in the life of a real-life child of Studmarsh (Mandy Palmer)
My memories of Studmarsh go back to the hot summer of 1976, when the spring in Bond’s Dingle was the ideal place for cooling off in the hot summer sun. It set me wondering if the Biddle children of Studmarsh and the Colley Children of Studcroft, used it during the hot summers of the 1670s.
Three hundred years had passed, had this place really changed that much in that time?
Just a few years after the Battle of Worcester, Elizabeth Biddle was born in 1662 and sister Abigail in 1663, the youngest of a large family, and may well have played in that same spring at Bond’s Dingle as teenagers. Their parents Richard and Mary, just like my own, didn’t have to worry that they would come to any harm but would return home as soon as they were tired and hungry.
Fifty years before them, Plague had caused twenty-five deaths in the Bromyard area.
During the harsh Winter of 1977/78 we sledged down Studmarsh bank on empty fertilisers bags, I wonder what the children of Studcroft, Alice, Roger, Ann and Eleanor Colley, would have used as sledges four hundred years previously when in 1577 there is alliance between England and the Netherlands and Francis Drake sails around the world.
I’d like to think that their father William would have made them a makeshift sledge!
Did they let the much younger Biddle children from Studmarsh, James and John, with the toddlers Roger and Margaret, join in their fun?
Annoyingly for myself and my siblings, school got in the way of these activities; however this was not the case for the children of Studmarsh and Studcroft all those years ago. The girls would have been raised to marry well and the boys educated at home in book-keeping and farm business.
I suppose we will never know for sure whether we played the same on Studmarsh but I’m sure that we would all agree on one thing, be it four or five hundred years ago or just yesterday, Studmarsh was the ideal place to grow up.
A Day in the Life of a Blind Storyteller
That winter of 1435 I saw the trees standing tall and stark, but I never saw
them glisten in the Spring. For many months I lay in a fever, caught between
heaven and earth in a world of ice and fire. Many people would arrive with
baskets of herbs and leave with the smell of death lingering on their
It is said that Robert the cleric begged The Lord Jesus to carry me away in his arms, for he could not bear to hear my cries of anguish. But The Lord Jesus shook his head and sent an Angel to sit beside me. When the fever finally left me, I woke to find my eyes in darkness.
Such a darkness it was, that it left a cold imprint on my soul. It is true
that I cursed my fate, and some believed I was born of the devil. But what
The Lord takes away with one hand, He gives with another.
I was given the freedom to wander into many different worlds, and a tongue
to describe my adventures. You are trapped in a world where trees have green leaves and brown trunks. But I see trees in thousands of different colours.
You have to travel on foot or by horse. But I have wings that let me fly. I
can go anywhere without moving from this room.
Travellers come from afar to hear my tales. They bring baskets of bread, or
kindle for the fire. Even when melancholia steals my wings, I find herbs and
fruit outside my door. When I feel my wings pinned once more against my
back ready for another journey, the colours I see are even brighter and the
lands I visit are more enchanting.
Many people ask me what it is like to be blind. But I reply that I am not
blind, for I see far more than they do.
A Day in The Life of a Volunteer in ‘The Volley’
I have just entered The Volunteer Inn, Harold Street, Hereford. Brimming with people, bursting with chatter its strong current sweeps me inside – I almost feel as if I am drowning. The wooden floorboards seem to be harbouring a multitude of toads. I listen to them creaking and croaking as I make my way to the back room.
Sitting in the back room of the aptly named Volunteer Inn, are a sizeable group of volunteers. There is tangible excitement and expectancy. We are beginning our research today. No one knows where this might take us. I am already captivated by the idea of exploring unchartered territory. The sense of adventure helps me to overcome the claustrophobia which is starting to smother me in this crowded room.
Good research techniques are vital, and I eagerly digest the information being given to us. I can feel the dust that has gathered since my University days. It forms a furry film across my grey matter, and I have an overwhelming urge to shake my head in order to disperse it.
But the old thrill of those bookworm days comes leaping back as I realise that this Project is seriously Academic. We are visiting the Records Office in a minute, and I am carried away by a wave of childish excitement at the thought. Then my stomach drops as anxiety gnaws away inside me. I might not be up for this. My brain could have eroded from twenty years of rust for all I know. At least I am not short of enthusiasm, and this eases my apprehension.
Once in the Records Office the enormity of the Past in Mind Project hits me. This Victorian building is stuffed with ancient maps and manuscripts dating back centuries. Everyone in here right now is a mere pin point on the landscape of time. I wonder if anyone will come across my name in a few centuries from now, when I am but an archive. It makes me realise just how mortal we all are.
I feel privileged to be a volunteer. This is giving me the chance to make a genuine contribution – to the National Archive, to the local community, to our group.
I am spurred on by this thought, and I know that the other volunteers are driven in a similar way. I cannot help feeling exhilarated and optimistic. This feels really, really good.
A day in the Life of One in Four
One in four people will experience mental ill-health at some point during their lifetime. The following account is experienced by an ordinary person leading an ordinary life- Someone who happens to be ‘one in four’.
Today I have an interview for a place at University.
When I try to go out, the front door is no longer a door. It is a griffin preventing me from leaving the house. If I fight it there will be more of them waiting for me outside, but I want to be an archaeologist, and all the griffins in England won’t stop me getting there. have to fight it now. I make it outside. There is a cold wind and people walk past me shivering or blowing into their hands. I hold my head down, for I cannot tell if they are friendly or hostile. Someone is talking on their mobile. Does this mean there will be people waiting for me round the corner? Ready to hurt me like they did before – I must change my route. They’ll be expecting me to go past the park. I decide to cut through town but this means I have to walk faster, always making sure I keep my head down so no one can catch my eye.
Then it dawns on me that I have forgotten my gloves. I am exposed. I stand out. I am a target. I thrust my hands deep inside my pockets, hoping that no one has seen. Suddenly I hear my name. I spin round, expecting an attack. I am totally defenceless; I shut my eyes and prepare to take a hit. But no one is there, only a river of faceless people. One of these faceless people has been watching me since I left the house. Any minute I might feel a hand on my shoulder or a knife in my back. My heart tries to clamber through my chest. I freeze with fear, and my whole body crawls with cold sweat. “Who called my name?” I call out in panic but no one answers. A few people stare and then edge away from me. I know those surreptitious glances.
They think I am mad. I am a threat to them. I might harm their children. I want to yell out that I am the one who is afraid. I forgot my gloves this morning – I am the one in danger!
I’ve got to get home. I feel outnumbered in this unfriendly town. But my legs are now blocks of wood holding me to the ground.
I scream inside, unable to move forward. I ask a passer-by to call me a taxi but she hurries on, pretending she never heard me. Like other people, she sees my agitation but fails to see the human being inside. No one wants to help me. People are really staring now. I feel so alone in this crowd. I hold my head, unsure what to do. I start willing my body to move from this place. Very, very slowly, I am able to inch forward but I cannot go back the way I came, for it is too dangerous.
Two hours later I am quivering outside my front door. The familiar front door is no longer a griffin but an ally. He pulls me inside and then shields me from the outside world.
I am listening to a message on my answer phone informing me that as I failed to make my Interview they cannot offer me a University place. The caller wishes me well and adds that I may apply again in a year’s time.
A Day in the Life of ‘Making our Mark’
Reading the landscape
Plotting out the markers in the field
Angles of photos taken…from the North, the South, the sky above………
Degrees……… minutes……… seconds…
The protractor moves by my hand……. yes my hand! (Suddenly, and for the first time I know how to navigate the World!)
Clayey…..silty…….. grainy…. brown -… no, brown with reddish tints
Colours, hues… (I’d never noticed or…. known how to notice until now…)
Taste it…….. feel it…… sense it………
…001, 002, and 003…Context…… bedding planes…….. bedrock…..’getting your eye in’ as Dai would say…..
Make a mark……….make a judgement………… watch the trowel……. gently does it…………..
Sparkling Quartz – like shiny, tiny sharks’ teeth or little baby milk teeth – looking up at us from the soil…”
Walls emerge, doorways too?
Now walking, not waddling respectively through people s’ front rooms…… seeing their crockery……sensing their lives….
What did they eat?
High/low/middle fortune in life?…did they ‘keep up with the Jones’?
Did they grow up with their husbands-to-be…?
Did the fields feel as long and treacherous, come winter or summer………..How far was ‘far’ to them
Did they have the same dreams…see the next parish, town……… country – or were they too bogged-down by life & making ends meet
…did the plague come knocking?
Boggy, uneven, hard to till land… ……….. that today sees cattle graze…….. so warm & peacefully
They left us their Horse shoes, cooking pots – blackened in production & from making wholesome, hard-toiled-for, food for their Precious Families…….. Nails…. glass……..shards……. such ‘treasures’ that saw so much life & passed down through the years and generations…
Did they experience the same emotional ‘rush’ when they found something washed exposed by rain and brook – nestling the pieces of their ancestors’ lives, treasuring, dreaming…
Reworking them, knowing how precious they were to their makers – & knowing that such things should never be discarded so lightly…
They will never be forgotten, they have made their mark in a settlement that will now never pass out of history because of what they have shared so preciously with us.”
They have made their mark and we the volunteers of Past in Mind have made a mark and it has made a mark on us!
A Day in the Life of an archaeologist’s trowel
It’s a rainy day in August and I’m sliding into the Earth. Clumps of mud cling to my back. I go under, diving beneath a long stretch of rock.
It feels good to rustle the soil again and give the worms a rude awakening. My handler is experienced which helps me glide smoothly.
Down, down I go; flipping over as I hit a large stone. I surprise a centipede whilst I right myself, but I plunge past him without an apology. (A trowel’s prerogative!)
The world beneath is still and silent. I am disturbing the sacred calm with
my weaving metal nose. In front of me is a tiny blue sherd which I gently
tease from its bed. As I do so, the soil rolls down my back in slimy lumps.
As I become accustomed to the darkness I begin to hear the slow heartbeat of the Earth. It sounds like a pendulum patiently marking time. Then her
heaving lungs cough out the dust of former centuries. Suddenly I tap against
a pewter ornament which fuels excitement from the world above. Staring up I
glimpse the mottled sky. Those grey clouds look ready to burst. Several
faces peer down at my trophy and I take a few deep breaths as it leaves its
resting place for good. There are gasps of approval. “She’s a beauty!” I
hear someone say. I flutter my handle self-consciously.
Then I slice down to the hole where the pewter ornament once lay, and inhale its lingering residue. Beatles scurry forward across my nose which makes me want to sneeze. This is turning out to be a good day.
A Day in the life of the prayer of Edward III, King of England 1375
(To be read leisurely)
This land is cursed!
Dear God, what mortal sin have I committed to deserve such wrath?
My farms and orchards lie in fallow or in ruin, for want of hands to tend them.
My servants and my lackeys all dead or fled to the wildest reaches of my kingdom and the villages barricade themselves against my tax-collectors, for fear they will bring the murderous pestilence with them. And so my coffers run dry. Is there no respite from this Breath of Beelzebub?
This horror – inflicted on us they say by the heathen Turk from the East – respects not rank, nor blood, nor cloth. It slaughters the high-born and the peasant with equal relish and turns both to stinking putrescence. They say there are not enough living to tend the sick nor bury the dead and so the corpses pile high at village edge, groaning for Christian burial.
They say the North country has blocked its roads to travellers. They say the Midlands are ravaged beyond repair. They say the Cornishmen flee to their ancient forebears in Bretagne, where they may or may not be granted entrance. The world is on the move and only we, trapped in our castle-keep are forbidden flight; for if we flee, the kingdom will fall into ancient, pagan chaos and the rule of law will be forgot.
The Death returns again and again and our villages lie now like dead cabbages that drowned in flood or were o’rwhelmed by disease. The cows scream for milking. The young suckling pigs die for lack of milk from feed-starved sows. The people cower in dark corners of fear and ignorance. But they WILL rise again, like the Saviour himself and they will spring to newer, richer life, like green shoots after wildfire.
How then will the country recover its strength and its wealth? There will be few hands to tend the fields and build the towns. Those who survive will demand a high price for their craft and we may well see the dawn of a new age, when the tradesman holds sway over the duke. Our age of chivalry and aristocratic privilege may well die by the hand of plague and the demands of the working man. The lord will go cap in hand before the workman and bargain for his services until, bloated with his new-found wealth, the harvester becomes the squire.
Can the Lord God Almighty have envisioned the overturn of the rightful order of society when he launched this creeping death upon the land? Can he have intended it? Does he mean for the children of the peasants who succumbed to this plague to become the rulers of the land? Maybe THAT is the real plague. The humbling of the aristocracy and finally ……. the KING!
Come what may, the land WILL live again, but it will be a different land. Not the land of The Lion-heart or the all-conquering Longshanks. Not the land of The Holy Grail and the sacred relic. Not the England of old. It will be the land of the wool-merchant. The domain of the hops-grower – the country of the carpenter, the banker and the playwright.
We are the last of the old order. This pestilence is not sent from the Turk, but directly from the Lord himself. Like the plagues of old Egypt, he has sent the Death to cleanse the land and change it. To free a people that were imprisoned – to start anew.
All I know is this land is cursed.