“The Unprofitable Severant” by a. allan chibi
Master John Burgess on the morning of Saturday, 25 August 1554
He waved his wife goodbye and held her in his eyes until the very last moment. The morning sun hit her tawny hair, the few strands that strayed out from under her wimple, in such a way that an aura appeared around her head. John smiled, my angel, waving one last time he turned to the business of stirring the horses through town.
Master John Burgess was a proud Gloucestershire man on the verge of real social success, but he was not arrogant or boastful about his good fortune. If anything, he was merely trying to repair what had previously gone wrong. The Burgesses had a destiny, he was sure of it. Personally, John was well-liked in the vicinity of Kingswood town, which certainly helped matters, and he had good connections with a couple of the grander families. Once upon a time, before the dissolution of the abbey, however, his family had aspirations and prospects and, thanks to his work, the Burgesses were on the rise once again. As he mused on this, as he always did early in a journey he heard his name being called out. This broke his reverie and he turned to see and recognize a waving passer-by. It was a former apprentice on one of his tentergrounds; a man who John had aided financially in the setting up of his own small weaving house.
“Ah, good morrow Goodman Edward, how is it with you on this fine morn?” The waving man smiled and nodded back in a most friendly manner. He was pulling a hand cart with what appeared to be a large sack of wool.
“God give you a good day, Master Burgess. For myself, I am most well, I thank thee for your consideration. If fortune smiles upon me I should have a seemly bundle of broadcloth for you on the morrow, but how now?” The goodman nodded his head toward the cart and horses.
“All is well Goodman Edward, all is well. My journey this day takes me toward Wells.” The young man dipped his head in acknowledgement.
“Off to the dyeing houses are thee? Godspeed to thee then good Master John.”
“Indeed, hear me though, see Goodman Thomas on Monday, not on the morrow Goodman Edward.”
The other man knocked his palm against his temple, “the morrow is Sunday, where is my head? But, Goodman Thomas?”
“Aye, Thomas, he now oversees the water mills on my behalf.” Edward waved again, nodded in understanding and carried on his walk in the opposite direction, already greeting another villager.
A good feeling overcame John as he watched this, remembering Edward for his good humour in days gone by. He acknowledged the wave in turn, although Edward did not see it. Thinking about the man’s good fortune, however, allowed John the opportunity to look at his small community as if through new eyes.
From the remains of the abbey lands or chantry or whatever that shell once housed, to the places of Edward the candle maker and Thomas the tanner, and all the waddle and daub houses between, John thought the Kingswood town was beautiful. A good deal of green spaces there was for the pasturing of sheep and cattle, with a good water supply and a forest all around them with little interference from the sheriff and an empty warden’s castle. It was good to be sure, but John
knew in his heart that it was also dying. The younger folk were leaving more than any folk were moving in and there seemed little anyone could do about this decline despite the occasional triumphs, like Edward’s new weaving house. More often nowadays the young men went to seek their livelihoods in Bristol, sending back later for their dolls and dowsabelns to join them there. They rarely if ever returned.
