Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (3 page)

'Sir Harald,
thank you for coming.'

He couldn't
imagine doing otherwise.

'Your son has
had a bad fall and is suffering from concussion.'

Her voice was
that of a well-educated woman.

'I have
examined his pupils and there is no sign of dilation. Nor is there
any discharge from the ears. There appears to be no fracture of the
skull but we must remain vigilant.'

She started to
roll back the bandages.

'His scalp is
badly cut and will need immediate stitching.'

Harald saw
bare bone and thanked God for people like Sister Alice. In an
emergency like this he was totally useless. His father and brother
wallowed in blood and gore. They'd made him physically sick with
stories about eyes protruding from heads and blood squirting from
severed limbs. The thought of William taking up arms and joining
them in France was horrifying. His ambition was for his son to
attend university and become a priest or lawyer.

'I am using a
suture of my own preparation.'

She took a
pair of tweezers and removed a needle and thread from a pot of
steaming liquid. Harald looked the other way. His son was
unconscious so he wasn't in pain. That was a consolation. But what
if he remained in a coma? Such things happened following a blow to
the head. Sister Alice said there was no sign of a fractured skull.
That didn't mean there wasn't one. Liquids could be building up
inside. What would they do then? Harald doubted if there was anyone
in all of Dorset who had the skill to pierce the skull and release
the pressure.

She returned
her scissors to their case.

'I have
sutured the wound and applied clean bandages. It should heal within
about three weeks. The stitches must then be removed. I shall do so
if you wish. In the meantime, I advise you to take William to see
Brother Arnold in Dorchester. He is better qualified than I and his
opinion should be sought, both on the injury to the head and the
broken arm.'

Harald noted
that William's right arm was broken. His son referred to it as his
sword arm.

'Brother Luke
has set the bones and is concerned that this type of break can
cause deformities in later life.'

A deformed
sword arm didn't seem such a bad thing to Harald. His poor eyesight
had saved him from the Gascoigne obsession with fighting. Pen and
paper were more to his liking than sword and shield. He felt more
at home with farmers and business people than with his own family.
He often wished he could break loose from them.

The
Julian

A sign above
the entrance of the Julian Inn depicted a buxom woman with rouged
cheeks, claimed to be a likeness of Saint Juliana. Richard Vowell
blew her a kiss as he went inside.

'Look who's
here?'

He was greeted
with shouts of applause. Men with ruddy complexions and women with
children reached out as he squeezed past.

'You taught
'em a lesson, Dick.'

'That's
right,' a woman shouted. 'Dick farted and the monks came tumbling
down. They'll be nursing their bums for weeks.'

The peasants
sang a song about a monk and a milkmaid. Richard waited until they
reached the verse where the monk climbed into a barrel then made
his way to a table crammed with pewter mugs. Owen Ap-Richard was
there with his boys and a dozen others, including the tinker. Owen
picked up a bladder of wine.

'We've been
saving this for you, Dickie.'

Richard
fingered the limp offering. 'You've not been saving it. You've been
drinking it.' He looked around the table.

'What's this
then ... an Agincourt reunion?'

'There's only
seven of us,' Owen said.

'Yeah ... but
you would have cut a hundred French throats between you.'

'Noble
throats,' the tinker interjected. 'We wouldn't have done it if
they'd been commons.'

'You speak for
yourself, boyo.'

Owen groped
under the table and produced another wineskin.

'The Frogs
were preparing to counterattack. If I thought my prisoners would
stab me in the back, I'd slit their bloody throats whoever they
were.'

'That's not
what your nobles did,' the tinker reached for the wineskin. 'When
King Harry gave the order they refused.'

'I know, boyo.
They wanted to ransom them.'

'That's not
the reason,' the tinker squirted wine into his mug. 'They refused
because they recognised them nobles as their foul brothers ...
oppressors of the common folk.'

Owen
considered the point. 'I'll grant you they were a bit upset when we
did it for them.'

'They weren't
just upset ... they was scared.'

The tinker
looked from face to face.

'They saw us
commoners ... seventeen-year-old lads like what we were then ...
slitting the throats of great lords. That frightened them because
they knew if we could do it in France, we could do it back
here.'

'Like with Wat
Tyler,' someone said.

'Aye, Brother,
like with Wat Tyler. Our grandfathers showed us the way. They
could've taken London and freed their young king from the evil
influence of the earls and barons but they was betrayed. They was
told their just demands was agreed to and they could return home
but that was just a wicked lie …'

Heads turned
towards the tinker as he ranted on. Richard glanced outside and saw
the glint of steel. Men-at-arms were gathering in front of the inn.
He recognised their uniforms.

'Shut up!'

He glared at
the tinker.

'Sir Humphrey
Stafford, Lady Margaret Gough and half the sodding shire are here
for the ceremonial handover of the Julian to the almshouse. Anymore
of your chatter and we'll have ourselves arrested for
sedition.'

***

The tinker
held the lantern and Owen struggled with the key. They had come
down to All Hallows with the intention of sleeping there. It was
the middle of the night and the monks had just returned to their
beds following the matins service.

'Boyo. Come
and see if you can get this thing to open.' Owen shouted to Gareth
who was relieving himself against the abbey wall. 'It's the key
Dickie Vowell gave us. I can't get it to turn.'

Gareth
adjusted his clothing and walked across.

'Are you sure
you've got the right key?'

'Like I said,
it's the one we got from Dickie.'

Gareth tried
the key and it worked first time.

'You're pissed
... that's your problem.'

He pushed at
the door and it swung open. Candles burnt on the Easter Sepulchre
and on the altar. Owen squeezed past and fell on his knees.

'It's here
somewhere.'

He groped
beneath the alter and retrieved a flask.

'Here you are.
This is what the gentility is served at Mass. The best Bordeaux ...
not the rabbits' piss we poor sods get given.'

He handed the
flask to the tinker.

'Wrap yourself
around that, Tink. Blood of Christ. A present from our good friend
Dickie Vowell.'

The remark
brought an immediate response from the tinker. 'Doest thou truly
believe that the wine has become the blood of our dear Lord
Jesus?'

'That's what
they say,' Owen grinned mischievously. 'The priest blesses the wine
and bread and they become the blood and flesh of Jesus.'

'Foul
Blasphemy.' The tinker raised his hands to heaven, spilling wine on
his tunic. 'Wouldst thou have us believe that our Lord's father was
a vintner and his mother a baker?'

Owen grabbed
the flask before more was lost.

'The wine
remains wine and the bread remains bread. No words of a priest will
change that. Hast thou not heard the teachings of the wise John
Wycliffe who repudiated the foul doctrine of transubstantiation?
Hast thou not read his learned denunciation of papal authority? It
was the brave Wycliffe who dared translate the Holy Scriptures into
the common tongue. It was he who sent out preachers to tell the
people of the tyranny that oppresses them …'

The tinker
ranted on and Gareth wandered off. Tink's English was difficult to
understand at the best of times and hadn't improved with the drink.
He took a candle from the altar and went to the porch where his
cousin, David, was examining a niche in the wall.

'Take a look
at that.'

David splashed
something wet at him.

'Have you
found more wine?'

'No. I've
found Holy Water. You can get good money for that. There was a
woman at the fair. She was selling it at a penny for just a little
bottle. It'll cure warts and it's good for the flux. See if you can
find something to put it in.'

Owen appeared
by the boy's side.'

'What are you
crapping on about?'

'Holy Water,
Uncle. We can put it in bottles and sell it.'

'Don't be
daft.' Owen pulled a face. 'It has to be in special bottles and you
have to get a priest to write on it.'

'We could get
Dickie Vowell to do that.'

'Don't waste
your time, boyo. There's much better to be had. They've been
working on the roof. There'll be lead all over the place. We'll
have no trouble selling that.'

Owen opened
the processional door and staggered into the abbey nave. The tinker
followed, lost his footing on the steps, lurched forward and
crashed against the baptismal font at the bottom. David raised his
candle.

'Have a look
at that.'

'What,
boyo?'

'The font. It
rocked when the tinker hit it. We could take it away. Find a church
that doesn't have one and sell it to them.'

'Where we
going to find a church like that?'

'All Hallows
doesn't have a font.'

'Don't be
daft, boyo. It already belongs to them.'

'So what's it
doing in here?'

'The monks
took it.'

'Verily.' The
tinker staggered to his feet. 'The foul brethren of this accursed
Benedictine abbey stole the ancestral font of the good people of
Sherborne. The Lord God has brought us here to right a great
wrong.'

Owen grabbed
the little man by his tunic.

'What you
going on about?'

'We can return
what was wrongly taken.'

'You mean take
the font back into All Hallows?'

'Aye,
Brother.'

Owen
considered the proposal. It had merit but there were serious
logistical problems. As a young man, in the service of King Henry,
he would have shrugged them off. In late middle age, he wasn't so
confident of his ability to transport large pieces of masonry.

'We'd never
get it up those steps.'

'Remember
Caen?'

'What's that
got to do with it?'

'They said
we'd never get the cannons up the hill but Dickie Vowell wouldn't
listen. He found some block and tackle and we gave the Frogs the
surprise of their lives.'

'You're
right,' Owen's face brightened. 'There's bound to be some lying
around.' He turned to the boys. 'See if you can find some of that
lifting gear. The masons will be using it on the tower.'

Gareth ran off
and David followed. Shafts of moonlight streamed through holes in
the roof of the tower, illuminating the belfry and the scaffolding
below.

'Take a look
at that,' Gareth pointed upwards.

David craned
his neck. 'I can't see nothing. There's all those poles and things
in the way.'

'That's what
I'm talking about, boyo. That's what it looks like ... poles and
wheels and things.'

He ran to a
ladder and David followed. They climbed like drunken monkeys, going
from one ladder to another until they reached a wooden
platform.

David looked
around. 'I can't see none of those wheel things.'

'What wheel
things?'

'Those block
and tackle wheel things.'

Gareth
couldn't either but he could see some ropes. He jumped up and
grabbed one. David grabbed another. The ropes sank and rose again.
They pulled a second time and the result was deafening. The
scaffolding shook with the din and the boys collapsed in a heap
laughing.

***

In the
monastic dormitory, Brother Mathew jerked into life. He'd just
fallen asleep, following a tiresome matins service. The sudden
noise came as a severe shock to his system. He struggled from his
bed and went to where Brother John was lying.'

'Did you hear
that?'

'What?' John
pretended to be asleep.

'The abbey
bells ... someone's ringing the bells.'

'Are you
sure?'

'I heard them
distinctly.'

'There's
nothing now.'

'That's
because they've stopped.'

'So there's
nothing to worry about.' John buried his head in the hood of his
gown and tried to return to his slumbers. Mathew shook him.

'We've got to
do something.'

'There's
nothing to be done.'

'Yes, there
is. We're responsible for security.'

'That's
something for the bailiffs.'

'They're abed
and asleep.' Mathew reached for a lantern. 'We must go and see what
is happening.'

'Shouldn't we
call the bailiffs?'

'We can't do
that until we know there is a problem. They're not like us. They
don't work for nothing. They get paid every time they're called
out.'

He raised the
lantern and John followed him downstairs, past the ablution block
and into the cloister. It was a cold night and their sandals
crunched on the gravel. John hung back and glanced over his
shoulder as Mathew unlocked the door leading into the abbey.

'Can you see
anything?'

'Villains!' He
closed the door. 'They're trying to steal the font.'

John crossed
himself.

'We must call
the bailiffs.'

'You are
right, Brother.' Mathew began to shake. 'Walter Gallor is the
nearest. He has his lodging above his slaughterhouse. We must go to
him at once.'