name had been mentioned to me in the streets of Chatteris. A curious man, he
would go miles to look upon some old wall or a ruined monastery.
His name was Hasling, and sometimes he had bought some ancient thing found by a
workman or farmer. It was said he wrote papers about such things and talked of
them with men from Cambridge.
He had the look of a kindly man with nothing of the sharper about him, and I’d
been told he paid a guinea for a bronze axe dug up in a field. So it was that I
went to Stamford.
It was no great house I came to but a fine, comfortable cottage, early in the
day. A cottage with fine old trees about and a deal of lawn behind. There were
flowers planted and birds who made themselves at home.
When I put knuckles to the door a woman in a white cap opened it, a
pleasant-faced woman with a look of the Irish about her, but no friendly smile
for me, in my rough dress.
When I spoke of business with Coveney Hasling she looked doubtful, but when I
said it was an old thing I had to speak of, the door was wide at once, and the
next thing I knew I was seated with a cup of tea in my hand, although I’d have
preferred it to be ale.
The room had papers and books all about, a skull with a cleft in it giving me
the round eye from black and empty sockets. Close by a bronze axe … the very
one.
It was in my mind to question whether the cleft skull and the bronze axe had
ever met before when he came in, bowing a short bow and peering at me with
tilted head. “Yes, yes, lad, you wished to speak to me?”
“Aye. I have heard you spoken of as one with an interest in old things.”
“You have found something!” He was excited as a child. “What is it? Let me see!”
“I’d have to ask your silence. I’d not be losing the profit of it.”
“Profit? Profit, do you say? It is history you must think of, lad, history!”
“History you may think of, who live in a fine house. Profit is my concern, who
does not.”
“You are a freeman?”
“With a small holding.”
“I see. Come, come! Sit you down! You get about some, I take it. Do you know the
Roman roads?”
“I do, and the dykes and walls as well. Some earthworks, too, and I might even
know a floor of Roman tile.”
“Lad, lad! You could be of service to me and your country as well! These things
you speak of … they must not be lost or destroyed. They are a part of our
heritage!”
“No doubt, but it is my own heritage I be thinking of now. I have your silence
then?”
“You do.”
From my pocket I took the first coin, and he took it reverently to hand, going
off to the window for light. He exclaimed with pleasure, “You would sell this?”
“I would.”
“Is there more? Or is this all?”
When I hesitated, his eyes twinkled. “You asked for silence. I have given my
word.”
“There are six coins in all, but they are not alike.”
“I should be surprised if they were. Roman soldiers were from many lands, and
they marched and fought in many more. They gambled with each other with coins of
many kinds.”
“I brought only one other coin.”
He took the second, examined it at the window light, then returned to the table.
The room was furnished in the fashion of the time, and the furniture was old.
When entering I had seen a great box chair in the entrance way, a cumbersome
thing that would take two strong men to carry. At the table, however, were three
chairs of a more recent style with leather seats and backs.
Obviously he slept in another room, but there was a great chest here of the kind
men had slept upon in my father’s boyhood. Of late they had begun putting
drawers in the chest, and most were used for storage as well as sleeping. The
tapestries on the wall were the work of Sheldon of Warwick, excellently done. In
other homes I had visited they were often painted on cloth or leather.
“What of the other coins?’
“Let us speak first of these.”
Hasling chuckled. “Lad, I like you. You have told no one of these coins?”
“No.”
“It is better so. Gold is not that common amongst us, even with the treasure
from the Spanish ships that Master Drake has been bringing us. I could afford to
buy no more than one of these coins, although I have a friend, also an
antiquarian, who collects coins.”
He looked at me from under heavy brows. “Would you have some more tea, lad?”
When I nodded he called for the woman, and she came bearing the pot. It was a
guilty feeling I had, drinking tea like it was water. For what a pound of tea
cost a man might rent five acres for a year, and the bit of land I had from my
father, the land outside the fens, was scarcely five acres with a cottage and a
stable.
Of course, there were some hidden acres in the fen, but of them I told nobody,
and few indeed knew of them. The fen was a vast marsh land, heavily saturated
with water. Here and there were outcroppings of limestone, and also some islands
used by smugglers occasionally, and known only to we of the fens.
“Do you know aught of the Romans?” he asked me.
“Aye. My father was a soldier and he gathered tales of the Romans, how they
marched and built their camps and drank vinegar when athirst.”
“They conquered the world.” Hasling said.
“Only a piece of it,” I objected, remembering what my father had taught me.
“They knew of Cathay, but never marched against it.”
Hasling chuckled, obviously pleased. “You are right, lad, and not many know of
that, even at Cambridge. You are a uncommon fen-man.”
“There are uncommon men everywhere, so many that the common man has become
uncommon.”
He glanced at me, then turned back to the coins.
“Your father was a soldier? And your name is … ?”
“Barnabas Sackett. There is another family of the name in Ely, but we are not
related. My father was Ivo Sackett.”
“Ivo Sackett! Of course! Your father made a name for himself. He is remembered.”
“I know he went to the wars.”
“Aye, and how he went to them! He was a rare man, your father.” He glanced at me
again. “The other coins? You can bring them to me?”
“I can. When I have the silver for these.”
He left the room and returning, paid me a goodly sum. “Take this,” he said, “and
rest assured I am your friend. Bring me the other coins and I will have a
purchaser for them. Antiquities may have only a small market in England, lad,
but there’s a few of us fancy the old things.”
He held up the coins. “These are a part of our history in the world, and from
such as these we can piece together a forgotten story. Men have lived and died
in England these thousands of years and each of them may have left something
more than his dust. Fitted together, these things may compose forgotten chapters
of our history.”
History is best made by men with hands. Brains are well enough, but count for
nothing without the hands to build, to bring to fulfillment. Willing as I was to
listen to ancient history, at this moment my interest centered upon my own, a
history lived until this moment in more modest circumstances than I would wish.
With the money I now had, I could purchase from William those adjoining acres,
and hold enough land to live as a yeoman should. Yet even as I thought of this,
another thought forced itself into my head, bringing discontent: Was this all?
Was there no more for me?
My father had been a soldier, wandering wide upon the world; yet what had he
said to me? “Own a few acres, lad, and keep it unencumbered and you’ll not want
for some at to eat. You can always grow a few cabbages.”
Aye, if cabbages would suffice. To hold the acres, yes, but to move out from
them … that was what I felt I must do.
William was a steady man, and if I chose to go wide upon the world for a small
bit he would work my acres and hold them for me and perhaps a sum as well.
These were my thoughts as I said goodbye to the Haslings.
Scarcely had I left the Hasling cottage when trouble fell upon me. Walking