This was purpose designed as a narrative; an instructional day-in-the-life story. Perhaps not exciting, but useful.
It’s a cold October
afternoon. The fields are being tended by serfs. The fallout has left this part
of England fairly intact, but some vegetables are still unearthed bloated and
tasteless, fit only for animal feed. Generally the crop yield is more than sufficient
for the Brethren and serfs of this manor, enabling them to make the export
tithe demanded by the Brethren Council for sale in London. The fields are
regularly reseeded and rotated with the seasons, which requires the
backbreaking labour of the serfs.
The serfs wear either
pre-war overalls or rough smocks from the London looms in Shepherd’s Bush. The
coarse clothes are about adequate to keep them sheltered from the piercing
wind, but they still feel the chill.
By contrast, the
Castellan’s men watching them are well dressed. They have heavy padded jackets
and flat caps. Over this they wear stiff armoured vests, often bearing the mark
of a rearing white horse, and belts, with clubs and side-arms hanging from
them. The automatic rifles and shotguns in the holsters on the quad-bikes
behind them are not needed at the moment, but the raiders may come at any time.
If no more, the long guns are a potent reminder of the Brethren’s power over
the serfs. The Brethren take different tones of command with the serfs, either
speaking with all the choler, spleen and dreadful sarcasm of a Drill Sergeant
or the sardonic, amused tolerance of the aristocrat. The civilian-garbed
Brother Ploughman monitors the work with wrath in his voice for the slothful.
Those of the Castellan’s
men not overseeing the fields are up in the outposts of the manor, monitoring
the perimeter. Two figures can barely be seen at the top of a tower, one with a
rifle with a powerful sight; the other with a field scope and a flare gun. The
edge of the manor is protected by tall earth banks and palisades; adequate to
slow raiders at the least. The few gates in this are bulky things perhaps
eleven feet high made stronger with ruined cars filled with earth. These were
recently refreshed last month by Sister Sapper and a band of serfs. The next
project the Sister hopes to complete is a set of telephone lines out to the
towers to assists with early warning signals.
Inside the main
building complex of the estate, the Seneschal and the men and women under her
work through the cold afternoon. It is easier to tell their profession from
their garments; Brother Lawspeaker and the teachers wear formal brown Brethren
robes. Brother Apothecary and Sister Surgeon wear long white aprons over tunics
and britches. Brother Baker, being the hands-on sort, wears something similar
as he pitches in alongside the kitchen serfs. Brother Smith, by contrast, is
happy to oversee and review the work of the younger Brethren under him and the
forge serfs.
Across from the forge
are the stables and the powerful destriers ridden by the Brethren. Post-war
equines, they have all the bulk of a pre-war plough horse with the proportions
of a racer. Sister Farrier looks after them, though they are hardy animals not
much in need of care, having developed a larger, stronger hoof that rarely
needs to be shod.
In a squat building off
the serf barracks, the laundry is being done. The serfs give up their clothes
for fresh ones, yet to be stained by the weeks work. The washing is done in
great cauldrons, made foamy with pre-war washing powder – an increasingly rare
commodity, though enterprising individuals in London have started to try and
produce their own soap, even if it has so far proven to be frequently low
quality.
Freshly dressed, the serfs
collect mess tins and cutlery, and then tramp towards the food hall. The dining room in the main manor is set for
dinner, with a varied collection of pre-war enamelware and porcelain. Any
complete dinner services are carefully hoarded and a complete tea set can fetch
a hefty price in the London markets, as can the tea itself.
The serfs and Brethren
from the fields come in for dinner in the gathering dusk. The guards on the
outposts have been relived by freshly-fed men and women. Both groups eat
similar meals; vegetable stews and bread, both from the fields of the
estate. The difference between to two
meals lies in quality. Serfs have coarse bread and somewhat oily stews. The
manor is lucky enough to have an old Nutrient Preparation machine which, when supplied
with organic material, spits out squares of tasteless beige foam apparently
offering half the necessary minerals, proteins, vitamins and suchlike needed
for a human adult. The Brethren have
bread made of fine, export grade flour with fresh butter. The stew might,
perhaps once or so a week, have a little meat in it.
Both butter and beef
come from the animals of the estate, of which there are a few, for the crops
are the priority of the Brethren. The
cattle are divided into Milchers for dairy produce and the Oxoes which are
raised for meat. As with the Destriers, the two breeds have had their bred-for
traits exaggerated by the effects of the Atomic Wars. Pigs either come in the
docile and placid Field-Pig or Snuffler and the Hedge-Pig or Tusker. The
Hedge-Pig is a spiny, hostile, heavily tusked beast, and is hunted by the
Brethren in the game of ‘Pigsticking’. Such
game must be carefully checked for taint before consumption. Chickens, however,
are still chickens.
Midway through the
meal, the Warden and his riders return from their progress. They’ve been riding
the bounds of lands around the estate, checking in on the extra-mural
communities and free serfs. They were long coats of waxed cotton and wide hats
to keep off the rain. Their destriers are swiftly stabled and the tables set
for them. The Warden takes his meal with the Castellan and the Seneschal in the
Council Chamber; somewhat antisocial, if common enough when business must be
discussed.
After dinner, serfs and
Brethren retire. The serfs often live in the longhouses in the Barracks;
crowded places, which families or individuals will divide up into sections with
curtains and partitions. Some serfs reside in shacks out on such scrubland as
exists in the bounds of the estate, created with materials purchased by an
extended indenture. Some of these have been long occupied by serf families who
have never quite paid off their indentures.
The Brethren occupy
their own chambers in the manor. Families will have perhaps two rooms to
themselves for parents and children. Young men and women will often sleep two
or three to a chamber in gender-segregated rooms. The rooms of the Three
Officers – Seneschal, Warden and Castellan – have attached studies to them and
are perhaps the most luxurious in the house.
On the subject of
plumping, water must be drawn from the well and purified in great boilers in
the kitchens, then taken to the rooms for washing using jugs and washbasins.
Within the manor, chamberpots are the rule. Without, outhouses and the like are
usual. Long tubs are provided for the serfs for washing once or so a week.
Such a washing will
take place in the morning; for tomorrow is to be an occasion. The clean clothes
of the serfs are the best they possess as Sunday best. The Brethren, by
contrast have a number of options. While the long robes they wear will do for
formal ceremonies, this is a party. A number of the young Brothers and Sisters
from a nearby manor are to visit for a dance, and this will allow pleasant
conversation, meetings between young men and women and all the other benefits
of social interaction. The journey between the two manors is not a hard or
dangerous one, but the some of the Warden’s rangers are now monitoring the
route, hard men and women in camouflage ponchos with rifles, knifes and silent,
deadly longbows.
Those Brethren lucky
enough to own pre-war suits or gowns will don them. Those without wear clothes
of good broadcloth from the Shepherds of Shepherds Bush in London. Such new
suits tend to lack lapels or ties. Many layers are general; waistcoats and
jackets, for central heating is by no means guaranteed. They have britches and
boots cut for riding rather than slacks and dress shoes. Such apparel is like
to remind the historian of 18th century costume, but emphasising
athleticism and the equestrian and worn (especially by the young
twenty-something’s) by both sexes. Post-bomb gowns are not unknown, though they
are worn mostly by pregnant women who would find britches uncomfortable or
(presumably once-pregnant) matrons who have not the years or will to ride.
The serfs are allowed
to share in this endeavour. They will prepare a meal for the visitors and make
up the guest rooms in the attic. This done, their own party is put into place:
an Oxo is roasted on the spit. There will likewise be dancing and this manor is
lucky enough to have serfs with handed-down instruments. In imitation of the Brethren and the
hunting-fishing – riding-shooting they enjoy, feats of strength and aggression
such as boxing, wrestling and the quarterstaff will take place. This is
frequently betted on by the serfs, using the stamped tin exchange tokens issued
at the discretion of individual Brothers and Sisters. Such a token may be
exchanged for goods or time of the indenture with the Seneschal. It is quite
worthless otherwise. Such gambling is
frequently monitored by the Brethren. A few talented and abstemious
prizefighters have made enough in their time to pay off the indenture, but this
is difficult and having left the protection of the Brethren they must leave
their friends and families to go into unfamiliar and hostile surroundings.
The Brethren that arrive
will be greeted with that most precious of drinks: tea! This will have come
from the Gardeners of Kew at great cost. Alcoholic beverages will be served
throughout the evening; cider from the orchards, beer from the Fisher Kingdoms
via London and spirits. Wine is uncommon, as is whisky. Pre-war liquor can be
most valuable. Most manors distil some form of rotgut for the serfs – generally
of a sort safe to drink; unapproved distilling could result in stuff of unknown
potency and toxicity. The serfs drink grog that at least won’t send you blind.
A few talented serfs have made themselves important and comparatively wealthy
by brewing concoctions actually derisible for their taste, making a form of gin
from such botanicals as available. The Brethren, naturally, love it.
With such fuel, the
night looks to be good one; the few tapes the Seneschal has of dance music will
be played, the old piano wheeled out and the talented induced to sing. A
splendid time is anticipated. The next
such event will be a Yuletide, in the Festival of Darkness on the Earth. This
has rather more spiritual significance to it; Brother Lawspeaker will draw
marks in soot and ash upon the faces of the Brethren prior to the Rising of the
Sun. The Seneschal is already worrying about parts for the Mystery Play;
Brother Alfred and Sister Gytha will doubtless once again play Brontologion and
Pyrologion, the Spirits of the Bomb, but who is to play the doddering,
short-sighted City Father?
At the end of the
night, couples will have slipped away. Serf must barter or blag their way into
free spaces and alcoves for privacy and perhaps intimacy; some enterprising
individuals rent out their shacks for a fee. Chaperonage, largely unofficial,
is rather better known among the Brethren. Nevertheless, a stroll in the
moonlight is not frowned upon. The use of unoccupied rooms by the young is
common enough. However, to ride out of the manor is foolish at best and
drastically irresponsible and culpable at worst.
Marriages may be
conducted with pomp among the Brethren or perfunctory ceremony by the Castellan
among the serfs. Children among the former will tend to have an established and
recorded surname; among the latter they tend to take patro- or matro-nymics
depending on circumstances and preference. Contraception is largely unknown or
inaccessible.
Thus it continues, this
strange admixture of cultures: a Late Medieval level of resources with
anachronistic 20th and 21st century features with
something like an Early Modern result.
