“Aycliffe stared at me for a long while as if in search of something. All he said, however, was ‘With your mother gone you’re required to deliver your ox to the manor house tomorrow. It will serve as the death tax.’
‘But… sir,’ I said—for my speech was slow and ill formed—‘if I do… I… I won’t be able to work the fields.’
‘Then starve,’ he said and rode away without a backward glance.”