Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (2 page)

'That's right,
Tom,' the priest laughed. 'It will be music to our ears, even if
some folks find it offensive.'

He glanced
back along the nave to All Hallows.

'I'd better
get back. Our betters have arrived. Lady Margaret Gough, Sir
Humphrey bleeding Stafford and half the sodding shire are here.
They're going to celebrate Easter Mass in our humble presence. Then
they're off to Jonnie Baret's house for a meeting.'

William found
a wall at the end of the abbey nave and decided it was a good place
to watch the proceedings. Geoffrey called it a pulpitum. William
didn't care what it was called. He felt safe there. The wall was
over four foot thick. There wasn't much risk of falling off.

Mass in All
Hallows ended and the country folk came into the nave from the
abbey green. William sensed an air of tension. The men had taken up
positions along the central aisle and were exchanging glances. The
women were gathered about the font chattering excitedly. It was
like being at a tournament before the jousting got started.

The monks were
already there. Two overweight men in black gowns stood on the
platform and stared directly ahead, trying to ignore the hostile
stares of the congregation. One carried a large book and the other
had a steel-bound collecting box, fastened to his wrist by a chain.
The baldheaded man was crouched behind a pillar, munching on a loaf
of bread.

A trumpet
sounded and the processional door swung open. Men with pipes
stormed out, followed by men with drums and cymbals. They marched
down the nave, four abreast, to the applause of the crowd. William
was reminded of his grandfather's men, drilling in the manor yard
before leaving to fight in France.

Richard Vowell
was amongst them. He had fought with his grandfather and William
knew him well. The old campaigner strode in front. He was wearing
his priest's surplice but looked more like a soldier than a priest.
He held a bible in one hand and a trumpet in the other. Reaching
the end of the nave, he hurled the trumpet in the air like it was a
marshal's baton.

The band
turned and made for the monks. Building materials blocked their
way. They clambered over them and started to circle the platform.
Richard opened his bible and set up a chant. It was about the army
of the Israelites and how they marched round the walls of Jericho
blowing trumpets.

William had
heard it before. It was one of the few bible stories he liked. It
was about warriors; not about wimps who fed the poor and did stupid
things like that. He looked down at the baldhead below. The man had
stopped munching and had the rope in his hands.

Six times the
band circled the platform. The crowd counted and the monks looked
apprehensive. William wasn't surprised. The fat sods knew what the
number seven would bring.

When it came,
it was almost an anticlimax. Richard Vowell blew a long fart on his
trumpet and the baldheaded man yanked on his rope. The peasants
cheered. The platform tilted and the monks collapsed onto their big
bums. William couldn't stop laughing.

'That'll teach
'em.'

He gave
Geoffrey a jab in the ribs and stepped back. A moment later, he was
falling into space. Hurdles broke around him and he landed on a
pile of canvas. Blood poured from his head and his arm lay twisted
below his body.

Easter Fair

Richard Vowell
strode up Cheap Street towards the noise and bustle of the Easter
Fair. A man of many colours, he had served with the English forces
in France before returning to his native Sherborne where his quick
wit enabled him to earn a respectable living.

His
involvement with All Hallows was one of his many ventures. It
yielded a small income but that didn't concern him. Anything he
earned as a priest was returned to the parish in the form of
donations to the poor and incentives to those who could further the
cause.

The cause
fired Richard with passion. He'd heard endless sermons about
Christ's suffering on the cross. Nothing stirred him more than the
suffering and indignity inflicted on ordinary people who were
condemned to a lowly station because of their humble birth.

When Adam
delved and Eve span who was then the gentleman?

He had
repeated the words a million times. They were the rallying call of
all true believers. Radical preachers had gone to the stake for
saying them out loud. Women had been burnt as witches. Richard said
them under his breath. He had no time for people who made martyrs
of themselves. His hero was the death-watch beetle that invaded
huge structures and gnawed away in silence.

He had
invented a family coat of arms. It consisted of a shield with bar
sinister in blood red. Beetles occupied two quadrants and the heads
of monks, barons and bishops made up the rest of the
composition.

On that
pleasant Easter afternoon, Richard Vowell, the priest, was
transformed into Dick Vowell, the old soldier. He'd discarded his
surplice and was attired in a way fitting for a former archer:
flared boots of soft leather, green stockings, padded jerkin and
red tunic. The shaved, bald pate, on the top of his head was the
only sign of his clerical commitments.

Cheap Street
was the market street. It was where the shopkeepers had their
businesses. Narrow at the bottom, it widened towards the town green
where there was ample space for stalls and entertainers. A troop of
mummers was performing a passion play outside the Julian Inn when
Richard got there and a band of pipers was playing outside the
George Inn.

The English
marched to the wail of pipes and the familiar sound stirred
memories in Richard's soul. For a moment he was transported back to
a muddy battlefield in northern France. Then the sound of tapping
shook him from his reverie. A tinker was sitting beside a brazier,
surrounded by pots and pans. Richard sneaked up behind him.

'Lollard
Heretic!'

He grabbed the
man by the neck.

'I summon you
to appear before the halimote to answer charges of treason and
sedition brought against you by our lord bishop.'

The tinker
swung round ... then his features relaxed.

'Holy Mother.
You had me thinking you was for real.'

Richard
released his hold.

'Have you got
'em, Tink?'

'What?'

'The
papers.'

'They're in
here,' the tinker tapped a wooden box.

'Any
trouble?'

'Nah. I found
a monk who was down on his luck.'

'Where was
that?'

'In York ...
so the English is a bit odd. But it's not as odd as what we got
from Durham.'

'That wasn't
just odd.' Richard pulled a face. 'It was like a foreign language.
The holy sod should have left it in Latin. Then I could've borrowed
the vicar's lexicon and worked it out for myself.'

'You might
need a lexicon for some of this.' The tinker opened the box and
removed a sheaf of papers. 'Whenever the reverend brother couldn't
understand something he left it in the original.'

Richard took
the papers and examined them one by one.

'What did you
pay?'

'That's my
secret, Master Vowell. What I paid is of no importance. What
matters is what you're going to give me for them.'

Richard
puckered his lips.

'Nine pence
for the lot.'

'Master
Vowell.' A pained expression appeared on the tinker's face. 'I
cannot accept such a paltry sum.'

Richard
continued to shuffle the papers.

'The
handwriting's none too good.'

'Master
Vowell. You have in your hands the gospels according to the saintly
Paul. They are in the English tongue. You can discourse on them
with learned friars ... cause the reverend gentlemen think you
understand Latin.'

Richard nodded
thoughtfully.

'Ten pence.
Not a penny more.'

'Master
Vowell. Think of the poor brother whose noble hand graces these
fine pages. Imagine his anguish as he works by candlelight in his
monastic cell, fearful of the terrible penalties that await those
who translate the Holy Scriptures into the common tongue.'

'Eleven pence
... that's my final offer.'

'Master
Vowell. Consider the risk I and my associates ran to bring these
priceless treasures to you.'

'I said that
was my final offer.'

Richard
returned the papers to the box and walked away.

'A shilling.'
The tinker ran after him. 'You can have 'em for a shilling.'

'Done.'

Richard
pressed a silver coin into the tinker's hand.

'There you
are, Tink ... a deal between gentlemen.'

The tinker
placed the coin on his tongue and examined the edges. Satisfied
that it had not been trimmed and tasted right, he put the coin in
his pouch.

'You're an
honest man, Master Vowell.'

Richard
slipped the papers inside his jerkin.

'What do you
think they do to a monk who's caught translating holy writ into the
vulgar tongue?'

'Dunno,' the
tinker held up his left hand. 'Perhaps they cut off his writing
fingers, like what the Frogs did to mine.'

Richard
examined the gap where two fingers were missing. As a young man,
the tinker had used them to draw a bowstring at Agincourt and other
battles against the French.

'Why did you
say you were left-handed?'

'I didn't.
When you're captured, they make you draw a bow. If they think
you're faking, they take 'em off both hands so there's no
mistake.'

'At least they
let you go. If you'd been a lord you could be rotting in a dungeon
while your relatives raised a ransom.'

'Yeah,' the
tinker nodded. 'They're not all bad ... the Frogs. They just made
it so I couldn't draw a bow no more. They could've killed me.'

'Most of them
are alright,' Richard agreed. 'It's the nobles I can't stand ...
just like those arseholes we've got here.'

He tapped the
tinker's arm.

'Watch out.
The bailiffs are here. Walter Gallor and some little runt I've not
seen before. I'm going up to the green before they see me ...
Owen's here for the fair.'

***

Owen
Ap-Richard leant on his longbow and addressed the crowd in his
strong Welsh voice. He wore a stylish costume from Bordeaux, where
he had served with a company of archers. Like Richard, he was
showing signs of age and had decided to leave fighting to younger
men.

'Four shots
for a farthing.'

He pointed to
four wooden heads.

'One hit wins
you a fine ribbon for your lady's hair. Hit all four and she'll be
taking home a kerchief fit for a queen.'

The heads were
on a stand beside the chapel of Saint Thomas on the green. Owen
gestured towards them.

'There you
are, my fine sirs, four of the most treacherous and deceitful
rogues in all of Christendom.'

An arrow hit
one head but failed to knock it over.

Owen turned to
the crowd.

'Our good
friend is out to avenge the treachery of the vile Duke of Burgundy
who has allied himself with our young king's enemies.'

The next shot
hit the duke's helm and the head fell onto the ground. A boy of
about sixteen put it back and another handed a ribbon to the
triumphant archer.

Richard
stepped forward and gave the archers' salute.

'You're
looking fit, Owen.'

'I can't
complain, Dickie.' Owen returned the salute. 'I've got my health
and I'm making a good living from the fairs.'

'Who are the
boys?'

'The big lad
is my son Gareth and the other is my sister's. I'm hoping to place
them with Guy Gascoigne when he comes recruiting next.'

Richard
pointed at the head that had just been knocked over. 'You said he
was the Duke of Burgundy?'

'That's right,
boyo.'

'He looks more
like the Duke of Surrey to me.'

'There is a
resemblance,' Owen agreed.

'And the
bishop?'

'He's the
Bishop of Reims.'

'I'd say he
looks more like Cardinal Beaufort.'

'You mean the
Henry Beaufort who is uncle to our young king and a prominent
member of the Royal Council?' Owen surveyed the head. 'Yes. I must
agree. There is a slight resemblance.'

'Here.'
Richard produced a penny. 'I'll give you this for four shots.'

'No you won't,
boyo.' Owen pushed his hand away. 'I'll not have you take that
kerchief off me. It's the only one I've got.'

'I don't want
your kerchief.' Richard surveyed the heads. 'I'll make a bargain.
If I don't bring 'em all down, I'll pay for drinks in the Julian
... otherwise, you pay.'

Harald

The infirmary
was to the east of the abbey and separated from the other monastic
buildings by a lawn. Harald Gascoigne followed the black-robed monk
up a flight of stairs into a room lined with beds. Injury and
sickness always depressed him, particularly when a member of his
family was involved.

'Your son has
been taken to the dispensary,' the monk said. 'Brother Arnold is in
Dorchester and Sister Alice has been called. She is a most loving
and caring lady, skilled in the art of healing.'

Harald smelt
the tang of medicinal herbs and saw vapours issuing from behind a
door.

'Sister Alice
is the new matron of the almshouse,' the monk continued. 'She came
as soon as she heard about the nature of the injuries.'

Nature of the
injuries!

Harald
shuddered. He'd hoped it wasn't serious but they'd called in
someone special. He entered a room and saw William lying on a
padded table. The boy's head was swathed in bandages and his arm
strapped to a wooden splint. A woman in a nun's habit bent over
him. He expected someone in middle age. When she looked up he saw
she was younger than himself.