Fiction, Lochlan McAteer
Podrick was working in the fields when the Virgin Mary came to him. He’d spent his day shoveling mud into a canal in a fruitless attempt to prevent the ongoing rainstorm from flooding his turnip patch and was at this point so thoroughly drenched and exhausted that he almost failed to notice the immaculate figure striding towards him. He had no idea why the Holy Virgin would deign to appear before a peasant such as himself, especially on a miserable day such as this. He was, however, decently sure it was her. With the way a hole in the clouds formed above her and encircled her perfectly with a sunbeam, the way she seemed to walk effortlessly atop the mud which rose well past his ankles, and the way she was wreathed in a golden glow that put him instinctively at ease, her appearance was certainly convincing. Besides, Father Anderson had always said that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and who was he to question that?
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, unsure of how to properly address the Mother of God. “Poor weather for a stroll, aye?” He moved to take off his hat as to be respectful, but quickly replaced it, remembering the rain. It’d be awful troublesome to fall ill so early in the year.
“You need to kill the manor lord,” she stated softly with a serene smile and a loving gaze that reminded Podrick very much of how his own mother used to look at him when he was still a lad. When she spoke, her voice seemed to whisper directly into his ear despite the pole’s length between them.
“Aye, ma’am, understood,” he replied, not understanding in the slightest. Before he could ask for clarification, she turned and strode off, her radiance fading as she disappeared in the downpour.
Father Anderson had often preached that their local lord had a divine right of some sort to rule over them; that it was the peasants’ proper place in the holy order of things to toil under him. Then again, he had taken Podrick’s best-laying hen to be slaughtered for a feast last Spring, and that had made him quite upset, although, of course, he hadn’t done anything about it.
He wasn’t sure how exactly he was supposed to kill the manor lord. Looking up the hill to the lordly estate with its high stone walls and host of well-trained guards, it seemed quite a daunting task for a mere peon such as himself. Even so, it certainly wasn’t his place to refuse a direct request from the Queen of Heaven, so he hoisted his shovel over his shoulder and set off towards the manor.
Upon arriving, Podrick knocked on the heavy gate, and a small hatch swung open, revealing a pair of harshly-lined eyes.
“Who goes there?” asked the eyes.
“Afternoon, sir,” Podrick replied, smiling as politely as he was able. “I’m loath to bother you on such a dreary day, but perhaps could you let me in? I’ve got to kill the manor lord.”
The eyes narrowed somehow to a glare even sharper than before. Podrick reckoned it must be hard for them to see, being as narrow as they were. Peering through a door slit seemed a perfect job for them. “Why, exactly, would I ever do that?” they snapped.
Podrick recoiled slightly. He hated being snapped at. “Well, sir, the Virgin Mary told me to do it, honest. I’ve no choice in the matter, really.”
In response to this, the hatch slammed shut, and Podrick heard the eyes mutter something about “bloody madmen” through the door. It seemed rather rude, he thought, to call him that when he’d only been doing as he was told. After all, it wasn’t his fault the Holy Mother had chosen him to run her errands. That being said, politeness clearly wasn’t going to get him anywhere, so he set off back towards the village to get some help.
The villagers had been much more receptive to the idea that the Virgin Mary wanted them to kill the manor lord. It was too rainy to do any proper work, anyway, so most were free enough to help. Some were even a little chuffed to be getting to have a hand in the Virgin’s holy works.
“Why’ve we got to kill the manor lord?” asked Ralphie, the wheelwright's lad who had a habit of wondering aloud on things he had no good right to wonder aloud on.
“Quiet now, son,” his father swiftly scolded. “Our Lady’s designs are beyond our ken, and rightly so.” Seeing that his son clearly wasn’t satisfied with this answer, he told him to run along home and check on the livestock. “This is a job for adults, we’ve no place for a bothersome lad who don’t know his manners.” Thankfully, Ralphie sulked off without prying any further.
“He’s a smart lad, that one,” Podrick commented. “Just needs to be learned some.”
“Aye, Pod, you needn’t tell me,” his father replied with a knowing chuckle.
Father Anderson had objected, shouting that Podrick was blaspheming or committing some other sort of clerical offense. “He’s a false prophet!” he yelled from the steps of the church, flailing his arms about in vague accusation. He even threatened to refuse communion to anyone who went with him. Though normally he would’ve listened to the Father, Podrick was decently certain that the Mother of God had more authority in these matters than a parish priest did, so he and the others didn’t pay him any mind. It was just the holy order of things, after all. Peasants know their place better than most folk, and following orders from on high is what they do best.
By the time the sixty-odd members of the local common folk had armed themselves with farming implements and made their way up to the lord’s manor, night had already fallen. This was a shame, Podrick thought, as he hated the idea that he was keeping Our Lady waiting. The eyes, which had turned out to belong to a scrawny, choleric-looking gatekeeper, had begun to snap at him again but had stopped when they saw the mob gathered at the gate and let them in without much trouble. The majority of the guards, it seemed, were off fighting the Turks in Jerusalem. It’d been the talk of the town, Podrick remembered, when the Bull had been issued. The crier had read that “any man who wages war on the infidel shall be absolved of all sin,” or something of the sort. He had considered going for a moment, but decided against it, not wanting to miss the harvest. Besides, he had always suspected that the Lord probably didn’t bother with the sins of little men like himself. If He concerned Himself with every last gossipmonger or apple-poacher, how would He ever have time for all the Turks and blasphemers? Podrick wondered if the manor lord could be a Turk. He didn’t know what a Turk looked like, but he’d heard that they had long beards and loved to spit on good Christians. The lord definitely had a long beard.
The remaining dozen guards seemed a little skittish, but they were kind enough to let Podrick and his fellows go about their business. From all the sidelong glares he was getting, he could sense that they didn’t appreciate the intrusion. As farmers like him were meant to farm, he figured guards like them were similarly meant to guard, and he was surely getting in the way of that duty by sallying on into their keep to slay their charge. These things happen, though. When a quarter of the common fields were flattened to make way for a second tournament ground the villagers certainly weren’t happy, but none of them had objected. It simply wasn’t their place.
Entering the great hall, the peasants appeared to have interrupted the lord’s dinner. He was reclined before a luxurious spread of food, draped in a wine-stained silken robe that did little to hide his gut. He had frozen mid-mouthful when he saw them come in, his beard dribbled with meat grease. He didn’t strike Podrick as particularly lordly, but what did a simple farmer like him know?
“Evening, milord,” said Podrick, this time taking off his hat as was only proper when addressing his betters. “Hate to interrupt your meal, but we’ve got to kill you. Virgin Mary said so.”
The lord snapped out of his shock somewhat. “What? You’ve got to kill me? Why?” he stammered, spitting a small hail of crumbs.
Podrick gave him a commiserate shrug. “Honestly, milord, I’ve no clue. Was a direct request from Our Lady, though. Nothing to be done about it. I’m sure you understand.”
“But, I am your liege lord! By whose right are you all bursting in unannounced and saying such things?”
Podrick was growing tired of explaining himself. He knew his turnip patch was surely a marsh by now, and he wanted nothing more than to get this over with and go home to have some supper. The sight of the lord’s meal was making his stomach growl.
“As I said already, milord, the Virgin Mary. Queen of Heaven and all that.”
The lord began shouting that how dare these lowly peasants dare to threaten him and that he’d have them all drawn and quartered or something of the sort, but was interrupted when a mallet came flying from the mob and smacked him squarely in his forehead. His head snapped back in his chair and he was left twitching, moaning softly as phlegm foamed at the corner of his mouth. It seemed that Edith, the blacksmith’s wife, had grown similarly impatient. As if the resounding crack of mallet-on-skull were a dinner bell, the mob descended upon the helpless lord. He was slashed, stabbed, beaten, battered, and done in with every other method the peasants could think of to do a man in. With a start, Podrick realized he’d just been watching from a distance and, not wanting the others to think he wasn’t doing his share, scurried up embarrassedly and stuck the lord a few times with his pocketknife for good measure.
Within a couple of minutes, what remained of the lord’s once-generous mass was spattered about the room. Nasty work, Podrick thought. It reminded him of the famine during his boyhood when he’d come across a healthy boar while scavenging for food in the weald. Evidently, it had wandered out of the lord’s hunting close. No sooner had he told his da than had every able soul in the village come out searching with a rabid look in their eyes. The poor thing barely had a chance to squeal before it was supper. Podrick had felt awfully sorry for the beast and had even cried a little to his mother, thinking of how it had only been rooting for acorns just like he had and was probably just as hungry as them. He was still just a lad and was yet to understand how the world worked. Sometimes one had to do things that they’d rather not do, and the Lord in all His wisdom rarely gave you a choice in the matter. Besides, once his belly was full of roast boar and his head full of praise from all his grateful neighbors, he didn’t feel nearly as bad.
As they finished, there was an oddly festive mood among the peasants. Hating to waste good food, they divvied up the lord’s feast among themselves and went home, joking that it was almost Lent but they were getting to eat like Christmas. Podrick had pocketed a mince pie for his daughter, which he knew she would love. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a mince pie.
Lochlan McAteer is a 23-year-old writer based out of Portland, OR. He mainly writes speculative fiction, with a particular emphasis on taking inspiration from history and using it to write in a more imaginative lens. "Kill the Manor Lord" was inspired by real life peasant revolts, and the strange ways in which people found to justify radical action within the bounds of an extremely limited worldview.
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