Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (21 page)

***

Robert Hulle
stood in the nave of the abbey church and looked up at the huge
image of Christ's Passion that Ralph Knowles had painted. The work
was executed in a bold style and harmonised with the rounded arches
and simple lines of the old building. Robert wondered if Ralph had
painted it as a tribute to the ancient structure that would soon be
torn down. He was grieved to see that it had been damaged by water
leaking through holes in the temporary roof which his men had
erected around the tower.

'Master
Mason.'

A voice
interrupted his thoughts.

He turned and
saw Richard Vowell. The priest wore a surplice over his faded
Agincourt uniform. He pointed an accusing finger.

'Brother Ralph
painted an image of Our Lord God and you allowed it to be despoiled
by rain.'

'The storm was
far beyond our expectations.'

'Holy Mother!'
Richard threw out his arms. 'Where have you been all these years?
It blows far worse than that. Don't try to tell me otherwise.'

'I am
distressed as much as anyone. Ralph created a great
masterpiece.'

'Then you
should have put up something better to protect it.' Richard pointed
to the thatched roof. 'That might be all right for a barn but it's
not good enough for a church. It's not like you're short of
lead.'

'The thatching
is temporary, Master Vowell.'

'That's right.
You'll replace it with something better when you get round to it.
And how long is that going to take? It could be ten years before
you're finished on the chancel. Then you've got the transepts to
do. You've not even put the vault in under the bells. I can see
them up there now.

A mischievous
grin appeared on Richard's face.

'We could use
them for archery practice … play a tune on them.'

'I suggest
your express your concerns to Abbot Bradford.' Robert made a move
to leave. 'I am merely the contractor. I do not decide what has to
be done.'

'No. You speak
to Billy.'

Richard
allowed his surplice to hang open, exposing the red cross of
England, emblazoned on his archer's tunic. He looked like a man who
had abandoned all pretence of being a priest. Robert decided not to
say anything that might further antagonise him. Abbot Bradford
needed to be informed that there might be further trouble.

***

Canon Simon
tapped lightly on the abbot's door. There was a grunt from within
which he interpreted as a call to enter. He expected to find
William at his desk. Instead, he found him on his commode.

'Oh. I'm
sorry. I'll come back later when you've …'

'Don't worry,'
William beckoned. 'You can stay since you're here. I have a problem
with my movements and this might take some time. Father Ashley has
given me something for it but it's not working.'

'I
sympathise.' Simon walked into the room. 'It's the change in the
weather. Sister Alice kept an ample supply of dried prunes for the
old people in the almshouse. The vicar obtained some for me and
they proved to be highly efficacious.'

'I'll not
touch anything that witch has laid hands on,' William grunted. 'You
never know what diabolical evil may have been worked on it. It's
disgusting … some of the things I've heard. They use menstrual
fluids in their concoctions. Did you know that?'

'Surely, not
when drying prunes.'

'You can never
be sure. They could have dipped them in it before putting them out
in the sun. I'll stick with Ashley. There won't be anything
diabolical in his preparations … even if they don't work.'

Simon changed
the subject. 'I've been speaking to Master Hulle. He says that
Richard Vowell is becoming increasingly assertive. He blames it on
Pact Monday Fair. Out-of-work soldiers are flooding into the town.
Vowell is a recruiting agent for Sir Guy Gascoigne.'

William
pricked up his ears.

'Gascoigne? Is
he related to that pathetic Harald who was seduced by the Almshouse
Witch?'

'Guy is Sir
Harald's brother.'

'Then we must
show Sir Harald and his brother that their intrusion into our
affairs is unwelcome and subject to our sanctions.'

'I urge
caution, William.'

'You always
do, Simon.' William's bowels discharged noisily. 'You have lectured
me incessantly on the perils of strong action and every time you
have been proved wrong.'

He rang a bell
and a servant appeared with a basin of warm water and a clean
cloth. She took a pot from beneath the commode and left. William
wiped his hands.

'It's time for
the summoner to go to Wolf Wood and visit the Gascoigne manor. The
Almshouse Witch is living there and Sir Harald has taken a young
wife who looks no more than ten years. We should be able to make
something of that.'

***

Harald leant
on the stone wall and surveyed the pathetic scene on the other
side. Most of his sheep were dead but a few had survived the
mauling by Roger Knowles' dogs. The rams had defended themselves
better than the ewes and some would be able to perform their vital
role as sires of his new breed of Dorset upland sheep. Guy thought
you needed only one male with big testicles and a healthy attitude
towards life. Harald knew he was wrong and so did Alice. She stood
beside him taking notes. It was heartbreaking. Most of their
breeding stock had been killed. They'd have to pick up the pieces
as best they could. One thing was certain: Guy's fascination with
size was only part of the story. Too much interbreeding was
another.

The Church
forbade marriage between people who were closely related. Animal
breeders recognised the wisdom of that. Things went wrong when
cousins bred with cousins. You could buy dispensation for it if you
were human and had enough money but the consequences were just the
same. The Valois were a prime example. They were part of
Christendom's inbred royalty. Sixteen-year-old Henry of England was
related to them on his mother's side. He had so many closely
related ancestors that Harald would have rejected him had he been a
ram. Yet the poor fragile boy had been accepted as a suitable
person to wear the crown.

Harald's heart
went out to the young king. Poor little Henry was a pawn in the
political intrigues of the realm. Harald knew what it was like. He
had once been a pawn but that time had passed. John Baret had
convinced him that he had done the right thing in agreeing to the
French marriage. He and Alice would be far better guardians for his
young bride than her family ever was. In time the marriage would be
annulled and they would provide a suitable dowry for the young
woman. All that remained was for him to marry Alice and that would
be done in secret.

Sir Humphrey Stafford's chaplain had agreed to perform the
ceremony and record it as having taken place prior to the French
wedding, which would then be rendered bigamous. It was not an ideal
solution but it was in the best interests of the innocent parties.
Harald had once believed that honesty was all-important in human
affairs and had tried to live by that principle. Now he knew it was
a mistake. In a world of lies and deceit, those who cling to
idealistic notions get trampled underfoot. As his good friend John
Baret had said:
you have to beat them at
their own game.
He placed a hand on
Alice's belly and felt their child move. It fired him with a new
sense of life. This time, there was no doubt the child was his and
he was determined to be a good parent. His sense of wellbeing was
short lived.

'Sir Harald
Gascoigne. I thought I'd find you here.'

Harald turned
and found the summoner a few paces away. The little man eyed
Alice's extended belly and smirked.

'They told me
she had gone away to hide her guilty secret.'

'What do you
want?'

'No more than
I have ever wanted, Sir Harald. Like I have told you, I see myself
as your friend and counsellor. I am here to offer advice and expect
you to show your gratitude in the usual way. Twice over, in view of
the bun that is baking in your lady's oven.'

He was
interrupted by the sound of hooves.

Harald saw his
brother and William jump the manor fence and gallop towards them.
Guy reigned in his horse and the summoner peered insolently at
him.

'Who be you
then?'

Guy nodded
towards William.

'Tell
him.'

'You are
speaking to Sir Guy Gascoigne, churl. He is the son of Sir William
Gascoigne who is lord of this manor. You entered our lands without
permission and will pay dearly for your insolence.'

'I am here at
the command of the lord abbot.'

'Lord Who?'
Guy bellowed.

'Our lord
abbot of Sherborne.'

'He might be
your sodding lord but he's not mine.'

Guy grabbed
the little man by the throat.

'You have
demanded money from my brother and insulted my family.'

He hurled the
summoner to the ground and shouted a command to his horse.

'Tooez!'

At the sound
of his voice, the vicious animal let fly with its hooves. One
landed on the man's chest and air was forced from his lungs.
Another smashed into his head and his skull caved in.

'Arrretez'

A second
command put an end to the murderous onslaught. Brains spilt onto
the ground. Alice tried to stay calm. Harald was ashen. Only
William and the horse seemed to have enjoyed the incident.

Guy looked
down at the bloodied figure.

'We'll take
him back to Sherborne and deliver him to the father abbot. Let the
sod know what happens to people who show disrespect for our
family.'

Blocked Drain

Robert Hulle
left the communion rail and returned to the rear of All Hallows. He
usually went home after Mass. Today he hung around, keeping close
to familiar faces. It was Michaelmas Sunday and the church was full
of soldiers. They'd trooped in like a force of invaders rather than
humble Christians. Most were wearing the colours of the Earl of
Huntingdon. Guy Gascoigne and William were among them. He could
scarcely recognise the robust teenager as the boy who had fallen
from the pulpitum a year earlier. He watched as the pair went
forward to receive the Host.

Guy took the
bread as if it were owed to him, intimidating the priest with his
overbearing manners. William followed with the same dominating
pose. Then the soldiers trooped up, jostling one another to get in
first. It was a good time to leave. Robert slipped out by the south
door of the chapel and was surprised to find Canon Simon there.

'Master Hulle.
Pray excuse this intrusion.'

Simon stepped
forward.

'I would
greatly value your opinion. Under normal circumstances we would
have called in the plumbers but you know what they're like. They
simply refuse to work on the Sabbath.'

Harald
suspected that Abbot Bradford had refused to pay the hefty loading
needed to bring out tradesmen between midday Saturday and eight
o'clock Monday.

'Can't it wait
until tomorrow?'

Simon shook
his head. 'Friar Ashley has warned that there could be a serious
health risk if something is not done. 'It's coming out of the
ablutions.'

'What is?'

'What you'd
expect. There's a blockage. The smell is most appalling. With Pact
Monday upon us, there's no telling when the plumbers will be back
at work.'

'You mean the
drain is blocked.'

'Yes … and it
needs urgent attention.'

Robert's
stomach said he needed a bowl of hot gruel. His professional
instincts told him he couldn't refuse Simon's request for
assistance.'

'I'll take a
look at the problem, Father.'

He followed
Simon into the abbey cloisters. The ablution block was below the
monks' dormitory, having been sited there so that the brethren
could answer calls of nature with minimum inconvenience during the
night. Solid wastes littered the passageway. Simon pointed to a
tidemark.

'It got much
higher before the miller turned it off.'

'Where does
the water come from?'

'The millpond.
It's fed by the Combe stream. The miller leases the mill from the
abbey and is obliged to discharge the contents of the pond into the
abbey conduit between midday on Saturday and midnight on
Sunday.'

'What about
the New Well stream?'

'The New Well
is connected to the monastery by a covered conduit,' Simon
explained. 'The stream provides spring water that is used for
domestic purposes and the cleansing of drains. Some is passed to
the townspeople for their needs.'

'And it
doesn't come for free.'

Robert heard
the miller's voice. He emerged from a doorway and pointed an
accusing finger at Simon. 'They pay for drinking water just like I
pay rent for my mill and you're asking for more. You can't do that
... the rent is fixed.'

'My
understanding is that you are required to pay a surcharge for
maintenance, Master Guppy. The contract stipulates that the
premises are to be kept in good working order.'

'It's in
better order than when I took possession, Father. I've replaced
those two sluices and spent a fortune on that wheel …'

Robert
listened in silence. Abbot Bradford was taking every opportunity to
extract money from his tenants and the miller was one of many who
had a grievance. He coughed loudly.

'Why is the
millpond discharged into the conduit?'

'To flush out
the shit, of course!' The miller turned on him. 'Come with me and
I'll show you what I mean.'

The mill was
beside the monastery. Robert cast a professional eye over the
sluices that fed the waterwheel when it was in operation and
directed the flow to an underground conduit at weekends. The miller
explained that there was not enough flow in the New Well stream and
that was why additional water from the mill was needed to cleanse
the sewers. He pointed to a stone-lined ditch that ended in an iron
grill.