![]() The younger Raulin’s blood exploded in rage, sickened at the insult to his father’s honour. Yet the old man straightened his spine defiantly, his breath freezing in the chill of the night. Coldly, he turned to Farmer Raulin: “You did not invite me to your feast, you peasant! Kneel at my feet and plead for mercy”. He wore the chainmail of a French knight, but one who had deserted his own army to serve himself alone. It was brutal and insistent, the sound of approaching death. The dance was broken by a knock on the door. His beloved melted into his arms, and they danced in the night. It was a chanson in pure and melodious Jersey French, a song of love and beauty and hope. After much cajoling and persuasion, the shy bridegroom-to-be burst into voice. The revels were ending now, a ceremony crowned by a song. The betrothal guests shovelled clumps of vraic onto the fire, and it crackled and burned ever brighter. Her eyes glinted green beside him in the firelight, smitten with love. They had been scrupulously hoarded for such a time as this, a final fling before the bleak onset of Winter.įor Old Farmer Raulin’s only son and heir, the younger Raulin, had pledged his troth to Jeanne du Jourdain, fair maiden of the parish. A feast was served in their honour, and fat barrels of cider were split open. A crowd of friends and well-wishers from the parish of the Holy Trinity had gathered there to greet a newly engaged couple. Tonight, the halls of Farmer Raulin’s house were decked with the flowers of the forest: St John’s herb, heather, the last blooms of late summer. In these straitened times, it was rare enough to see any Assise de Veille, any snatched feast of celebration. One night, at the head of Bouley Bay, smoke drifted up into the night, for a betrothal feast was at hand. Yet even in these darkest hours, love and life would not be forsaken. They rustled sheep, gorged on the fat of the land, and filled their boots with whatever they could kill for. Armed gangs of criminals – deserters, irregulars, vagabonds – roamed the countryside on horseback. The administration of justice had ground to a halt, and the Warden of the Isles had fled. Abetted by treachery, the King of France had conquered Jersey, and his fleur-de-lys banner hung over Mont Orgueil. They said the sheep-stealers were riding harder now, emboldened by the darkening nights. The shortening days flickered past like a parade of guttering candles, and the people cowered in their hovels.
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