Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (22 page)

'When I open
the sluice, the water leaves the millpond and enters the conduit
through there.'

'How big is
the conduit?'

'Same as the
grill: four foot wide and two foot deep. A small boy can go down.
We use them to clean it out.'

'And the
conduit links up with the monastery drains?'

'That's right.
Usually it goes straight through. This time it mounted up … even
got into the kitchens.'

'What do you
think happened?'

The miller
considered the question before replying.

'When Canon
Simon called me I didn't know what to think. There was water
everywhere. Now it's gone you can see what happened.' He pointed to
the grill. 'It's been lifted. You can see that because it's not
been put back like it should. I'd say someone put something down it
and that's what's caused the blockage.'

'Where do you
think it is?'

'There's no
trouble in the infirmary so it will be somewhere between there and
the ablutions.'

Is there any
means of access?'

'No, we'll
have to dig down and lift the slabs until we find it.'

'Are you
prepared to do that?'

The miller
considered the proposal. 'I am, if the abbey does the right thing
by me.' He turned to Canon Simon. 'I want three shillings to sort
this out and a written assurance that you'll make no further
demands on me except I pay the agreed rent.'

***

Elizabeth
Baret stood anxiously at the door and waited for their guests to
arrive. John had proposed that senior officers in Guy Gascoigne's
entourage lodge with them. In the event, they'd got Guy and one of
his companions in arms, a certain Philip de Maupassant. Tomorrow
they would be recruiting men for the War in France.

A tent camp
had been erected in the abbey grounds, across the street from their
house. Some of the tents were well made. Most were little more than
canvas sheets slung between poles. The once green grass was muddy
and trodden underfoot. The ancient yew trees were reduced to
pathetic stumps. Branches that had taken decades to grow had been
cut off to make bows. Elizabeth was reminded of verses in the bible
that recorded the passage of a plague of locusts through the land
of Egypt.

'Guy! Guy!
Guy!'

Shouts told
her their guests had emerged from All Hallows and were coming
through the camp towards them. Harald Gascoigne was with them. He'd
left Alice at the manor, not wishing to burden her with Guy's
company anymore than necessary. Elizabeth had never met Guy. She
knew him by reputation and wondered what he would be like. Two men
approached and both fitted her expectations. Each was over six-foot
and heavily muscled. One had dark hair and the other was fair.

But which was
Guy?

Then she saw
William. He walked beside the fair-haired man and Elizabeth had no
doubt she was looking at father and son. They were separated by
only fifteen years and the resemblance was striking.

Harald hurried
forward to make introductions.

Elizabeth
feared he would stammer but he didn't.

'Mistress
Baret,' he spoke in a clear voice. 'I am honoured to introduce my
cousin by marriage, Philip de Maupassant.'

He nodded to
Philip who rushed forward and kissed Elizabeth's hand, in the
French manner.

'I believe my
brother Guy is not yet known to you.'

Guy stepped
forward and kissed Elizabeth on the lips, in the English
manner.

His appearance
surprised Elizabeth. Harald had described his brother as an
ill-mannered ruffian. The man before her seemed anything but that.
He was dressed in a handsome gown and wore boots of the finest
leather. His hair was neatly trimmed and his fingernails manicured.
Only his huge hands and the bulge, where his sword hung, suggested
that he was a seasoned warrior.

Her husband
was waiting for them in the hall. He gestured towards a table
furnished with his finest linen and silverware. 'We would be
honoured if you would partake of our modest fare.'

Guy inclined
his head graciously.

'I assure you,
Sir, the honour is mine.'

He slipped his
hand inside his gown and produced a silver goblet.

'May I have
the pleasure of presenting you with this modest expression of our
esteem?'

They took
their places beside the table. Philip had no English and Guy
translated for him. They spoke a form of French that was very
different from the refined speech Elizabeth had been taught as a
child and she understood little of what passed between them. One of
the few words she recognised was mutton. Philip used it a lot. At
first she thought he was talking about the side of lamb that had
been served as the main dish. Then she realised he was talking
about sheep and wool. He handed a small package to Guy who
unwrapped it and deposited the contents in front of John.

'We have come
into possession of a shipment of English wool. I wonder if you
would be so kind as to express an opinion on it. This was taken
from one of the bales.'

Elizabeth
recognised the fine, high-quality wool, produced in the borderlands
between England and Wales.

John ran a
piece through his fingers and passed it to Harald.

'Shropshire …
I'd say.'

Harald reached
for his eyeglass. 'Shropshire or perhaps Hereford …'

Guy looked
disappointed. 'We were hoping for Lincolnshire or the
Cotswolds.'

'Why?'

'They're the
best … aren't they?'

'They're
famous because they are big suppliers but their wool is not the
best. The best is produced in the lush, hilly pastures of Hereford
and Shropshire. The Italians pay top prices for it.'

'The
Italians?' Guy looked surprised. 'I thought wool had to be sold
through the Merchants of the Staple in Calais.'

'Not all
wool,' John replied. 'The Crown has sold licences to the Italians.
They can export wool from certain ports in England on condition
that it be shipped direct to the Mediterranean.'

Guy took an
ivory toothpick from a silver case.

'A farmer
sells wool at a pound …' he probed his mouth. 'What will it fetch
when it gets to the buyer in Flanders?'

'Twenty times
that amount.'

Guy replaced
the toothpick. 'Why the difference?'

'The Crown
takes its due and so does the Staple. Then there is the cost of
packing and cartage. It takes over a year for Lincolnshire wool to
reach the warehouses of the Staple in Antwerp and Calais, so
there's a lot of wastage and repacking to be done.'

Guy did a
rapid translation and Philip replied with a flood of guttural
noises. Guy smiled.

'My friend
says that if we were to wage war in such a manner, we'd be dead
within the year.' He stroked his chin and eyed John. 'If we were to
buy wool direct from the farmer and put it on our ships, we could
have it in Tangier or Algiers within a couple of months. We'd make
a handsome profit. What do you say to that?'

'I'd say you
would be at variance with the laws of the realm and the
well-established practices of orderly commerce.'

Guy translated
and Philip was unable to contain himself. Elizabeth watched as the
two men joked in their rough French and her feelings underwent a
rapid transformation. They might be handsome and wear fine clothes
but there was something appallingly sinister about the pair.

She looked
around the table. John was nursing his goblet and Harald was
polishing his eyeglasses. A servant entered with a basket of
sweetmeats and the news that the public fountain had overflowed.
She said water was running down Cheap Street.

Guy turned to
William and grinned.

'The father
abbot seems to have a problem with his conduit.'

'Yeah.'
William reached for a sweetmeat. 'Serves the fat old sod right.
Just like it will serve Roger Knowles right when he gets what's
coming to him.'

***

Abbot Bradford
stood at the infirmary window and looked down onto the lawn. A gang
of men was digging a ditch to expose the conduit. His face reddened
when he saw who was directing them.

'How could you
have agreed to such terms?' He tugged at Simon's sleeve. 'That
miller will rob us of our last shilling.'

'I had no
alternative.' Simon peered over the abbot's shoulder. 'They had to
divert both streams. The entire flow of the New Well is now being
discharged into the public fountain. We'll have to get our water
from there. I've sent servants with buckets and told them to fill
every available container.'

'Couldn't we
have waited until tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow is
Pact Monday Fair. The plumbers will be there. They won't be back at
work until Tuesday at the earliest. It was best to pay the miller
and get the job done.'

William
pointed to the men with spades. 'Where did they come from?'

'They're in
town, hoping to sign up with a new employer at the fair. The miller
said he'd try to pick labourers in the building trade.'

'I hope he
didn't bring in any of those archers,' William grunted. 'Master
Hulle has told me about them. They've been stealing timber and
canvas from him to make tents. They're camping out in front of the
abbey. The New Moon is doing a brisk trade. I wish the same could
be said for the George.'

As they
watched, two of the slabs that spanned the conduit were lifted. The
miller peered into the murky waters. Rags, used for toilet
purposes, floated on the surface. Their slow progress indicated
that the obstruction had not yet been reached. Poles were produced
and fitted together. Foot by foot they made their way along the
conduit towards the infirmary wall. Simon let out a sigh.

'They're
getting awfully close. I hope the obstruction is not under the
building. That could take a long time to fix.'

The point was
lost on William. 'That agreement you made with the miller … it
stipulated that he had to complete the job at the agreed
price?'

'Absolutely.'

'There was no
silly clause that would enable him to wriggle out if the job got
too difficult?'

'None at
all.'

'Then there's
nothing to worry about. If the task is too difficult, he won't get
paid. If he loses money, that's his problem.'

Simon watched
as the poles were removed and laid out along the line of the
conduit. To his relief, they stopped just below the window. The
obstruction appeared to be at the point where the conduit met the
infirmary wall. He breathed a sigh of relief.

'The problem
will soon be solved.'

'You agreed to
pay the miller three shillings and what's he done?' William
frowned. 'He's hired three men to dig a little hole. Between None
and Evensong he'll have earned more money than most receive in a
month.'

'There has
been a return of the plague,' Simon countered.

'That doesn't
mean you had to pay a worthless miller so much to fix a trivial
problem.'

'My concern
was to solve the problem before it got out of hand.' Simon stood
his ground. 'With so many disruptive elements in town there is the
danger of lawlessness. The addition of a health risk could be
catastrophic.'

'I find your
explanation unconvincing.' William looked down onto the lawn. 'You
have not learnt the lessons I've been trying to impress on you. We
are at a difficult point in history. The rule of Holy Mother Church
and the stability of the realm are under threat …'

Simon's mind
shut off. He'd heard it all before. It was yet another recitation
of the strident political views William had learnt, imperfectly,
from his relatives. The abbot reached the point where the lower
classes had to be held in perpetual subjugation when a cry from
below interrupted his diatribe.

'We're nearly
there.'

Simon craned
his neck. The conduit was no more than a foot below the surface.
Monks crowded around as the stone slabs were levered up and dragged
to one side. A mound of faeces welled up. The miller prodded it
with a spade.

'Holy
Mother!'

The monks let
out a collective gasp.

'What's going
on?'

'They appear
to have found a body.'

'Probably one
of those archers,' William chuckled. 'They're always fighting. One
less won't matter.'

The labourers
pulled out the corpse and set it down on the grass. The miller
called for a bucket of water to be thrown over the face. The slime
was washed off and the monks crossed themselves.

'It's the
summoner.'

They pointed
to the face and the cord that protruded from its swollen lips. The
miller pulled on the cord and a small leather bag emerged. He undid
the tie string and coins fell out.

Simon turned
to William.

'You sent the
summoner on a mission and he has been returned to you. He was not
killed by robbers. His murderers made that very clear. They placed
his ill-gotten gains in his mouth and dumped his body in the
conduit knowing we would find it. I beg you to heed their
message.'

Pact
Monday

The archery
ground occupied a narrow a strip of land between the abbey and the
Combe Stream. A trestle table had been erected there beneath a
canopy emblazoned with the arms of the Earl of Huntingdon. Richard
Vowell sat at it in his faded Agincourt uniform. He made an entry
in his ledger and looked up.

'Next.'

A young man
stepped forward from a group of archers.

Richard cast a
critical eye over him.

'Aim at the
furthest butt. You will be judged on accuracy and speed. Proceed in
your own time.'

Instinct told
him the boy was good. He had the physique of an archer ... broad
shoulders and barrel chest. And his bow looked right. It was an
ugly piece of work, full of knots and unpainted. Some archers had
painted bows with a smooth finish. That told you a lot about them.
Paint did nothing for a bow's performance and a smooth finish was a
bad sign. Yew was full of knots and they had to be left and worked
around.