It's been fourteen years. This is absolutely not what I was promised. Before the sun rises I'm already outside working. Drawing water from the well, tending to the livestock, and finishing my chores before the sky starts to lighten. By sunrise I've already done more labor -child labor by the war- than I ever did in my previous life.
The table is loud at night. My sister, already eight years old, talks without stopping. My baby brother cries through most of it. He cried all night too. I don't remember the last time the house was quiet.
In the mornings, my sister follows me into the fields. She watches as I sow the baroness's land with a sickle that isn't mine, copying my movements as if she'll be expected to do the same soon. This is the real work. The work we are expected to do. Tied to the land and barones because we where born here.
Hours of it, broken only by the reeve passing along the road, counting rows, reminding us we're being watched.
Sometimes I speak with the others working the field. They mostly complain about their backs. Sometimes about the weather. Never about leaving.
I understand, at fourteen I already know in what kind of world we life.
By midday, I eat a small piece of bread and sit with my sister in the shade of a tree. She asks me questions about monsters, about magic, about why we do this every day. I answer vaguely. She'll ask again tomorrow. She always does.
I myself don't have all the answers. In my previous life I was suspicious of religion. But now I understand where it came from. Stories come through our village: a brewing war, a death of a noble. Mix that with fantastical ones like someone spotting a ghost, or a witch being persecuted.
It's not like I can turn on the news or search an article about it. I'm forced to believe in the god of this nation, pray for a good harvest. My sister bounces from one family member to another. Helping my mother with cooking, watching dad with his work, or she'll be back with me.
We go to our church and pray and then it's back to work.
Carrying bundled grain from one place to another until my legs ache and my hands burn. By the end of the day I'm exhausted.
I've lived like this since I turned twelve.
That was the year my body stopped being mine. Damn it, I'm a slave to this existence.
I sit down for a brief moment of rest, soon we'll be home for dinner. My clothes are dirty, and flies buzz around me. My sister watches me, she smiles, "Another day of hard work done." I smile too, it's what dad always says at the end of a working day.
I wipe my brow, we'll do this tomorrow, and the day after that and again until the season changes.
——
I hear the stomping of hooves come closer, that can only mean one thing. I ran to the front of my house to see my parents already at the door. Other families were already waiting too.
Sacks of grain already at the feet of my father.
At the start of the road sat the bailiff on his horse, four men-at-arms at his side. Behind them were two carts, already half filled, their wooden boards scarred from years of use.
The bailif didn't call us or anything, it was more instinctive. You hear the horses and you can sense their authority. Before you know it your already at your door.
The bailiff didn't dismount from his horse, instead sitting there judging us all high and mighty.
Then he unfolded a roll of paper and cleared his throat.
"By order of her ladyship," he said, "the customary dues are to be collected today."
A pause.
"In addition, a war levy has been imposed."
No one spoke. My mother's hand tightened around mine. She knew that in times like these they come for boys like me. Like her brother was, like father was once.
Names were called. One household at a time, they stepped forward.
Grain was poured into the baskets, then onto the carts. The measurements seemed half of what we'd harvested. When a basket came up light, the bailiff frowned and motioned for another scoop.
My neighbor, John, tried to explain that he couldn't give that much. Poor harvest, sick cow. He told me about it earlier today.
The bailiff listened without changing his expression. He motioned and one of the men-at-arms stepped forward, and the explanation ended there. John would have to rely on the village if he and his family were to survive.
When our name was called, my father stepped out first. I followed, carrying the sacks we could spare. The taxes were heavy this time. I watched it disappear into the cart and wondered how much winter food we'd just lost.
The bailifs presence was overpowering, it seems he was satisfied with the amount we'd given and we walked back home.
He'd go over the other families one by one. The ones that couldn't give the amount he'd expected would get beat up by the men at arms, followed by a ruthless speech about failure to serve meant failure to the king, failure to serve the king meant failure to serve god.
And all you could do was watch and accept. These were the people that worked with me on those fields, who supported my family when we failed our taxes. But this is the way things worked when you were a peasant.
When all was gathered the bailiff pulled out another list and started calling names. "…, Lenard son of Luke, James son of Deshawn,…"
That's me, my father puts a hand on my shoulder, my mother embraces me from the side while my sister just watches in confusion.
"If any of these men fail to report at the baronnesses manor by tomorrow morning the punishment for them and their families shall be severe."
War, now I'm going of to some war I barerly understand. The bailiff leaves.
My father sits me down at the dinner table. My brother starts crying and mom goes to his crib to pick him up.
"What's a levy?" Sam, my sister looks at me. "It's when her ladyship needs young men for battle." Father answers.
"A honorable duty."
Dad seems spooked, his eyes wide as he watches me, like he's seen a ghost, "A difficult one too."
Mom takes a seat at the table while breastfeeding my brother. Her eyes are moist, "I've already told you that your uncle and father have also been called to arms."
That same uncle who died in that war, and father who is blind in one eye and is missing a finger.
"What's it like?" I ask my father. He looks to the side thoughtfully, his blind eye white. "Don't rush, stay in formation. Don't even think about challenging a knight."
It's all he has to say too my question. I see that he doesn't want to talk about his time in conflict, "I don't understand why we do this, it seems like they are sending us out to die or become a cripple."
"Don't say that!" My father slams the table, "We serve our lord like they serve us."
I rarely see him like this, most of the time father seems laid back. My sister starts sobbing, she hears about death and that I'll be in ok and she's terrified for me. I hug her and she calms down.
I look at dad, "While we work the fields every day, they sleep in mansions and have their every needs met at a whim."
"You shut your mouth." He hisses, "You don't speak about her ladyship like this. They can have you whipped for speaking like that." He sits back, "These people are chosen by god to rule over us. She works as hard as she can to provide us a life of peace."
That word triggers me, I see that dumb angel on his knees again, then I see myself alone in elderly care too. "Peace, is this peace! They are sending me and fifty others to death. For what, some squabble between dukes. To them this is a game."
"You don't know what your talking about. We serve they rule. Because they are just. Because they are good. And now we are called to protect the land that has been feeding our family for centuries and you don't want to do this. I love you son but you need to know your place."
There is nothing I can say to convince him that the nobles are selfish. I forgot that I was born to a peasant family in some medieval village. Even if I convince my father of this what would it matter. We can't leave this land anyways.
Tensions decline as the night goes on. I apologize and say goodbye to my family. Soon it is morning and me and the other men make their way to the mansion