The Tax Collector and the Hop Cones

Medieval Europe’s farming systems were quite chaotic.They ranged from the primitive slash-and-burn agriculture of the Germanic peoples to the two-field system inherited from ancient Rome, and even more advanced three-field, four-field, or five-field systems.

The disarray in medieval agricultural practices stemmed not from a lack of diligence among farmers, nor from their disregard for the legacies of ancient Rome.

Rather, it was a consequence of the limitations imposed by land availability, climate conditions, and population size.

Noren’s village, however, employed the three-field system.

This method involved a rotation of spring and autumn grains, followed by a year of fallow.

Simply put, on a fertile plot of land, barley would be sown in spring, and after its autumn harvest, wheat or rye would be planted.

The following year, after the wheat harvest, the land would lie fallow for a full year.

This cultivation system guaranteed two years of yield within a three-year cycle for a single plot.

However, its success hinged entirely on the farmers’ ability to manage the demanding workload.

By September, the wheat harvest in Noren’s fields was largely complete.

The threshed grains, separated by flails, had all been stored away in the cellar.

Smiles adorned the faces of the village’s free farmers.

This year had brought a bountiful harvest, promising them a winter of warmth and plenty.

Yet, little time was afforded for rest, as they immediately had to prepare the fields for the next round of wheat planting.

During the afternoon lull, an old farmer from the village made his way to the blacksmith’s cottage.

He had come to inquire about this year’s in-kind tax.

At that moment, Noren lay stretched out on the rooftop, basking in the sun.

A straw hat obscured her face, revealing only her crimson lips, which held a wheat stalk between them.

The old farmer tiptoed to the door and gently rapped on the wooden frame.

“Young Master? Young Lady?”

No response came from within for a long moment, and the old farmer, disheartened, began to turn away.

Suddenly, however, something struck him lightly on the head.

He looked down to find a leather sandal at his feet.

As he bent to retrieve it, a sudden summer breeze swept through, lifting the sandal into the sky until it vanished from sight.

Puzzled, the old farmer scratched the small of his back.

Complex matters rarely withstood the scrutiny of his simple mind, so he merely turned and walked away.

On the rooftop, Noren took the leather sandal handed to her by the Bloodstone Qi Membrane, slipped it on, and silently watched the old farmer depart.

“Another one trying to avoid taxes,” she muttered, rolling back onto her stomach and using her straw hat to shield her eyes from the sun.

“Last year, with the poor harvest, I exempted you from taxes. This year, with a great harvest, you still don’t want to pay. The millstones, iron farm tools, livestock, and plows—were they all for free?”

“Never mind,” she sighed, pulling her straw hat tighter.

The young woman adjusted to a more comfortable position, dismissing her worries, and resumed enjoying the warm sunlight.

****

The sky was clear.

A throng of villagers queued before the blacksmith’s cottage.

Some carried baskets brimming with wheat on their backs, others bore baskets of cabbage, kale, and basil, while a few cradled two chickens or a suckling pig.

They were there to pay their taxes.

The village had been granted to Svein by the duke’s predecessor, and as the lord of the manor, Svein naturally held the right to collect tribute.

These payments were predominantly in the form of in-kind taxes, largely consisting of wheat, vegetables, salt, animals, and their by-products.

Noren, being illiterate, could neither write nor use paper to record who had paid their taxes.

She also didn’t recognize every villager.

Consequently, these tasks fell to Frey and Freya, while her sole responsibility was to maintain order.

The tax collection proceeded in an orderly fashion, until the arrival of a flamboyantly dressed man.

The man appeared to be in his thirties, slender, and roughly five feet tall—about the same height as a serf.

He sported a red hat and a tight-fitting green tunic.

No sooner had he appeared than he let out a forceful cough.

“Cough!”

The crowd merely glanced at him before resuming their tax payments, paying him no further heed.

Seeing that he was ignored, he coughed several more times, sounding uncannily like a consumptive.

Noren, having no desire to contract a plague, raised a hand and pointed.

“Whoever can toss this ailing consumptive out of the village will have a basket of wheat deducted from their taxes next year.”

With excited shouts, the villagers swarmed forward, seizing the man’s limbs and hoisting him high.

Their eager manner suggested they intended to skin him, remove his stench, and roast him.

Terrified, the man shrieked.

“I am a tax collector! A tax collector from Opava! Put me down! Put me down!”

“What in the world? A tax collector? What’s that?” she mumbled, yet she waved her hand, signaling the farmers to lower the man.

Once released, the man straightened his attire, squared his shoulders, and lifted his head, speaking in a slow, deliberate manner.

“I am a tax collector from Opava, here to collect the tithe from you. Each of you must surrender twenty bushels of wheat, to be transported to Opava within seven days. Otherwise…”

“Liar!”

Before he could finish, a farmwife hurled a stone at him with considerable force.

“Yes! Liar!”

“Go to hell!”

“Why don’t you just rob us instead?!”

“We only pay taxes to Lord Svein!”

The farmers unleashed a torrent of highly offensive curses, instinctively grabbing stones from their surroundings and pelting them at the man.

Had the area around the blacksmith’s cottage not been so clean, he might well have been pelted with several clumps of foul-smelling dung.

The man had not anticipated such widespread public outrage.

At that moment, collecting taxes was the least of his concerns; saving his own skin became his sole priority.

He fled in a desperate scramble, clutching his head, as the villagers pursued him with blows and shouts all the way to the riverbank.

Finally, he scrambled onto a scraggly, inferior horse and made a humiliating escape.

Noren reclined in her chair, watching the tax collector ride into the distance, pondering his identity.

‘Perhaps he is legitimate, but he must be acting on his own initiative,’ she mused.

‘A manor fief does not permit anyone else to collect taxes, not even a superior liege lord.’

After chasing the tax collector away, the villagers returned, gazing at her with expectant faces.

Adhering to the principle of fairness and to prevent any villagers from harboring resentment that might dampen their work ethic, she waved her hand grandly.

“Next year, the entire village will only have to pay half their taxes!”

“Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Noren quickly doused their enthusiasm with a splash of cold water.

“However… this year’s taxes must still be paid in full.”

Their dancing and singing immediately ceased, as if a pause button had been pressed.

After a few seconds of frozen smiles, the men and women reverted to their usual demeanor.

They picked up their various goods and rejoined the orderly queue in front of the blacksmith’s cottage, resuming their tax payments with renewed discipline.

****

Tax collection concluded.

Noren then asked Freya about her family’s harvest this year.

Freya tilted her head, pondering for a moment.

“We harvested forty baskets of wheat,” she replied.

Noren said, “That certainly won’t be enough to eat. I’ll have a cart of wheat sent to you later, along with a few smoked pork legs.”

Freya softly hummed in acknowledgment, then inquired with a puzzled expression.

“Sister, why did you exempt the villagers from half their taxes next year? That amounts to dozens of baskets of wheat.”

Noren raised an eyebrow, shrugging indifferently.

“My family isn’t short on fertile land, after all. This year’s harvest of over three hundred baskets is enough to feed the dozen or so newcomers, not to mention last year’s stored grain.”

“It’s just that there are too many mouths to feed, requiring dozens of pounds of flour to be milled daily. And furthermore…”

“And furthermore what?” Freya and Frey asked in unison, tilting their heads.

She pointed downwards.

“And furthermore, I’m planning to build a malt liquor brewery right in Ostrava. Once it’s finished, we won’t have to cling to these meager village taxes anymore.”

Frey and Freya blinked, then exchanged a sidelong glance.

Astonishment was clearly reflected in each other’s eyes.

Frey tried to dissuade her.

“Malt liquor only keeps for about two weeks before it spoils and becomes undrinkable. If you build a brewery in Ostrava, you’ll only be able to sell to taverns in Opava and Hradec, but as far as I know, taverns brew their own liquor.”

Freya chimed in, supporting him.

“Exactly! Many people brew their own, and they might prefer to drink fresh malt liquor made by their wives at home!”

She remained unfazed, tossing two large green hop cones their way.

“Freya, Frey, catch!”

“This is…” Freya cupped the large hop cone in both hands, turning it over and examining it closely.

“Isn’t this just a hop cone?”

Noren suddenly snapped her fingers.

“Precisely! It’s a hop cone, though I prefer to call it ‘the flower for brewing malt liquor.’”

Her younger brother, Frey, took the hop cone and, with a solemn expression, stuffed the entire fist-sized fruit into his mouth.

He chewed vigorously, his cheeks puffed out, nodding earnestly as he did so.

“Mmm,” “Hmm?” “Mm-hm!” After emitting three intoned sounds of approval, he spread his hands, shrugging helplessly.

He then swallowed the unchewed hop cone whole, his neck straining, before smacking his lips.

“I don’t taste any malt liquor,” he declared.

Noren slapped her hand against her forehead with a soft thud, then dragged her palm down her face, barely suppressing the urge to retort.

She rolled her eyes at Frey, stating irritably.

“It can be added to malt liquor as a spice. Not only does it impart a bitter, fragrant taste, but it also significantly delays spoilage within the liquor.”

Finally, the keyword registered in both their minds, and they exclaimed loudly in unison.

“A spice!?”

Immediately after their outburst, they clapped their hands over their mouths, fearful that someone else might overhear their secret.

Seeing that they had finally grasped the crux of the matter, Noren smiled and nodded.

“It’s currently the season for harvesting hop cones. I’ve already instructed the dozen or so new farmwives to gather them.”

“Perhaps soon, you’ll be able to taste malt liquor infused with hop cones.”