{"product_id":"2940013740457","title":"The Common Reader","description":"Not so very far off lie more ruins--the ruins of Bromholm Priory,\u003cbr\u003ewhere John Paston was buried, naturally enough, since his house was\u003cbr\u003eonly a mile or so away, lying on low ground by the sea, twenty\u003cbr\u003emiles north of Norwich.  The coast is dangerous, and the land, even\u003cbr\u003ein our time, inaccessible.  Nevertheless, the little bit of wood at\u003cbr\u003eBromholm, the fragment of the true Cross, brought pilgrims\u003cbr\u003eincessantly to the Priory, and sent them away with eyes opened and\u003cbr\u003elimbs straightened.  But some of them with their newly-opened eyes\u003cbr\u003esaw a sight which shocked them--the grave of John Paston in\u003cbr\u003eBromholm Priory without a tombstone.  The news spread over the\u003cbr\u003ecountry-side.  The Pastons had fallen; they that had been so\u003cbr\u003epowerful could no longer afford a stone to put above John Paston's\u003cbr\u003ehead.  Margaret, his widow, could not pay her debts; the eldest\u003cbr\u003eson, Sir John, wasted his property upon women and tournaments,\u003cbr\u003ewhile the younger, John also, though a man of greater parts,\u003cbr\u003ethought more of his hawks than of his harvests.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pilgrims of course were liars, as people whose eyes have just\u003cbr\u003ebeen opened by a piece of the true Cross have every right to be;\u003cbr\u003ebut their news, none the less, was welcome.  The Pastons had risen\u003cbr\u003ein the world.  People said even that they had been bondmen not so\u003cbr\u003every long ago.  At any rate, men still living could remember John's\u003cbr\u003egrandfather Clement tilling his own land, a hard-working peasant;\u003cbr\u003eand William, Clement's son, becoming a judge and buying land; and\u003cbr\u003eJohn, William's son, marrying well and buying more land and quite\u003cbr\u003elately inheriting the vast new castle at Caister, and all Sir\u003cbr\u003eJohn's lands in Norfolk and Suffolk.  People said that he had\u003cbr\u003eforged the old knight's will.  What wonder, then, that he lacked a\u003cbr\u003etombstone?  But, if we consider the character of Sir John Paston,\u003cbr\u003eJohn's eldest son, and his upbringing and his surroundings, and the\u003cbr\u003erelations between himself and his father as the family letters\u003cbr\u003ereveal them, we shall see how difficult it was, and how likely to\u003cbr\u003ebe neglected--this business of making his father's tombstone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor let us imagine, in the most desolate part of England known to\u003cbr\u003eus at the present moment, a raw, new-built house, without\u003cbr\u003etelephone, bathroom or drains, arm-chairs or newspapers, and one\u003cbr\u003eshelf perhaps of books, unwieldy to hold, expensive to come by.\u003cbr\u003eThe windows look out upon a few cultivated fields and a dozen\u003cbr\u003ehovels, and beyond them there is the sea on one side, on the other\u003cbr\u003ea vast fen.  A single road crosses the fen, but there is a hole in\u003cbr\u003eit, which, one of the farm hands reports, is big enough to swallow\u003cbr\u003ea carriage.  And, the man adds, Tom Topcroft, the mad bricklayer,\u003cbr\u003ehas broken loose again and ranges the country half-naked,\u003cbr\u003ethreatening to kill any one who approaches him.  That is what they\u003cbr\u003etalk about at dinner in the desolate house, while the chimney\u003cbr\u003esmokes horribly, and the draught lifts the carpets on the floor.\u003cbr\u003eOrders are given to lock all gates at sunset, and, when the long\u003cbr\u003edismal evening has worn itself away, simply and solemnly, girt\u003cbr\u003eabout with dangers as they are, these isolated men and women fall\u003cbr\u003eupon their knees in prayer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the fifteenth century, however, the wild landscape was broken\u003cbr\u003esuddenly and very strangely by vast piles of brand-new masonry.\u003cbr\u003eThere rose out of the sandhills and heaths of the Norfolk coast a\u003cbr\u003ehuge bulk of stone, like a modern hotel in a watering-place; but\u003cbr\u003ethere was no parade, no lodging-houses, and no pier at Yarmouth\u003cbr\u003ethen, and this gigantic building on the outskirts of the town was\u003cbr\u003ebuilt to house one solitary old gentleman without any children--\u003cbr\u003eSir John Fastolf, who had fought at Agincourt and acquired great\u003cbr\u003ewealth.  He had fought at Agincourt and got but little reward.  No\u003cbr\u003eone took his advice.  Men spoke ill of him behind his back.  He was\u003cbr\u003ewell aware of it; his temper was none the sweeter for that.  He was\u003cbr\u003ea hot-tempered old man, powerful, embittered by a sense of\u003cbr\u003egrievance.  But whether on the battlefield or at court he thought\u003cbr\u003eperpetually of Caister, and how, when his duties allowed, he would\u003cbr\u003esettle down on his father's land and live in a great house of his\u003cbr\u003eown building.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gigantic structure of Caister Castle was in progress not so\u003cbr\u003emany miles away when the little Pastons were children.  John\u003cbr\u003ePaston, the father, had charge of some part of the business, and\u003cbr\u003ethe children listened, as soon as they could listen at all, to talk\u003cbr\u003eof stone and building, of barges gone to London and not yet\u003cbr\u003ereturned, of the twenty-six private chambers, of the hall and\u003cbr\u003echapel; of foundations, measurements, and rascally work-people.","brand":"WDS Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47070258594032,"sku":"2940013740457","price":0.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013740457_p0.jpg?v=1763589602","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013740457","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}