The Serf’s Dinner

Three men banged insistently on the door of the serf’s house. He rose from his chair by the fire and hobbled to the door. Even for someone who struggled to move around, urgency inhabited his every step.

Upon unlatching and pulling it open, he saw three bedraggled men. Even to a serf, he recognised the air of aristocracy. All three held themselves with certain intent and confidence. Their clothes were not threadbare, like his own. Nor were they of a poor weave. Regality dripped from their demeanour.

‘Hello, dear friend’, the three men said in discordant unison. The serf looked puzzled like an uncomfortable silence. The tallest man spoke, breaking the news, ‘We were travelling through the woods.’ He paused to smile, as though to help the serf understand their dreadful predicament.

‘We were ambushed by outlaws. They killed the bodyguards, but we escaped’. The smile broadened, but begging eyes remained. The pause hung like an unwanted guest.

‘We are lost, and have been for three whole days. We are starving. You are the first person we’ve seen. Could we come in for some food and ale?’

‘Who are you?’, the serf said cautiously

‘I’m the Lord of Groomsby. This is Bishop Bone. And this is a merchant. His name is Selwyn of Tidesmarch.’, the Lord’s smile seemed to grow larger and longer than even and his own pleading face.

After the serf cautiously inspected their appearance, he nodded in agreement. He stepped back into the house and made his way to his chair by the roaring fire.

The Lord sat in the other chair. The Bishop rested his rump on an old wooden box and the merchant perched on the table.

Above the fire hung a pot of bubbling stew. The visitors could see the pheasant and vegetables bobbing around the pot as though in a beautiful culinary dance. This was a meal of celebration for the serf. He had managed to ensnare a pheasant and smuggled it back to his home.

The aroma from the pot gently filled the air and the three strangers began to salivate.

‘Can we share the pot of food?’, the Bishop enquired.

Then the serf scratched his chin. ‘There is only enough for one’, the serf said abruptly.

The three strangers looked at each other. It was obvious what they were thinking. The serf pulled out a dagger and held it towards the three men. In a moment, they went from those in desperate need to intruders.

‘We don’t want any trouble’, the Merchant said, holding his hands up. Then reaching for his money bag said, ‘I’ll pay you for your stew. I’ll give you all the money I have on me.’

The merchant was bluffing. All his money had been stolen by the outlaws. The Bishop stared at the merchant, almost in disbelief.

Lord Groomsby had dealt with many of his type over the years and nothing would surprise him. But seeing his opportunity, the Lord offered, ‘I’ll give you land’. The serf’s face was unmoved. He continued, ‘I’ll make you like me, a landed gentry. Rather than being a serf, you can be a landlord’.

His smile gaped like an adder. Through his gritted teeth, he said, ‘A simple serf today, tomorrow a great lord’.

Along with the final word, his hand unfurled into the air, giving an impression of otherness.

The Bishop coughed. Clearly, an attempt to disrupt the Lord’s speech of persuasion. ‘You know it’s your Christian duty?’, the Bishop blustered. ‘I am sure God will look on you kindly, if you gave up your meagre meal to me.’,

His voice lifting as though reading the Sunday collect or a text of Scripture. Impressively, his voice carried around the home like an angel’s song.

The serf, still holding the dagger in his hand, felt the pull of these temptations. His simple meal had transformed into a pearl of great price.

‘What to do?’, the serf thought to himself. The three men felt stranded in the silence, waiting for the serf’s response. Which way would the wind blow? What would others do?

The serf could be rich beyond his wildest dreams, but this would draw unwanted attention. He could be a landlord, but his tenants would despise him as they would know he was truly only one of them. Or he could receive promised riches in Heaven, by letting the Lord and merchant starve to death. A very unchristian thing to do.

The serf sighed deeply and then spoke. ‘I’ve heard your petitions, but all you offer is nothing compared to my pheasant stew.’

The three strangers were nakedly downcast. He continued, “I do not believe you. You are fools to enter this forest. Even with your bodyguards. How can I trust people who are unwise? And Bishop, I am a good Christian man. I know the Proverbs and I deem you a fool. After all, better is the poor man who walks in his integrity than he who is crooked, though he be rich.”

There was another knock at the door. All four men turned to look at the entrance to the ramshackle house. The serf walked over to open the door, his leg seemingly feeling better after resisting temptation.

There standing before him was Rowan the Outlaw with Oak by his side. As soon as the three sitting men saw the sharp figure of Rowan and the hulking manner of Oak, they ran like rats out the back door.

The serf and the bandits, silently nodded to each other. They left the house, while the serf returned to his bubbling stew, sat down and considered all that just happened.