Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (5 page)

He hated the
war. His own ancestors came to England from Gascony in the reign of
Edward I. In those far off days, the people of that region didn't
think of themselves as French any more than the Welsh and Cornish
thought of themselves as English. Their allegiance was to their
province and their lord. They were proud that their lord was King
of England. That didn't make them feel subservient to the English
... quite the contrary.

Now things
were different. The people of England had adopted a haughty
attitude towards the people of France. And the people of France had
started to think of themselves as French. Joan of Arc had shown the
way. The French king couldn't unite them but the peasant girl did.
Men flocked to her banner. Seven years ago, they inflicted a
crushing defeat on the English at Orleans.

His mother
disturbed his thoughts.

'Why did you
tell that girl to go away?'

'What
girl?'

'The one you
told to leave.'

'I don't
approve of debauchery, Mother.'

'Harald, I've
just hired that wench.' She gave him the disapproving look that had
never failed to intimidate him as a child. 'I told her to go into
the hall and collect the clothes for washing. The next thing I know
is you've dismissed her.'

'I'm sorry.'
Harald's face flushed. 'I didn't realise …'

'You had the
poor girl in tears.'

'I shall
explain to her …'

'No. Harald.
You stay away from my servants. I'm in charge of this house. You're
responsible for the estate.'

She reached
inside a small bag that hung from her girdle and removed a folded
sheet of paper. 'This came from your father while you were away. He
wants to know what you're doing about William's inheritance.'

'The matter is
before the courts, Mother.'

'The courts!'
Margery Gascoigne looked as if she was about to explode. 'You're
playing into their hands. Your father wouldn't tolerate such
nonsense ... nor would your brother.'

'It is a
matter of law, Mother. Everything depends on the marriage
contract.'

'The contract
was drawn up on very good advice.'

'Yes, Mother.
You were told to insert a clause about the male heir being a true
and legitimate progeny.'

'We had good
reason. Everyone knows about the Knowles. They have the breeding
habits of field mice. We had to make sure the inheritance went to a
true Gascoigne ... not to the offspring of some casual
dalliance.'

'They're
bringing up the clause against us.'

'I am aware of
that, Harald. They're saying Guy is William's father. I can't see
the problem ... Guy is a Gascoigne.'

'The problem is in the meaning of the words
true
and
legitimate
.' Harald
laboured to get the point across. 'We have to show that there can
be no reasonable doubt that William is my son. Otherwise the terms
of the contract are breached and Judith's dowry must be returned to
her family.'

'How are you
going to do that?' Margery bore down on him. 'You'll spend a
fortune in lawyers' fees. I just wish your brother were here. Guy
would teach those Knowles a thing or two.'

A strong wind
gusted across the abbey green and blew in the faces of the archers.
Richard Vowell watched them bend their bows. They had to take
account of the difficult conditions and were doing well. Richard
felt pleased. As a recruiting agent, he could expect a substantial
fee if he managed to place them with the Earl of Huntingdon for the
war in France.

This was a
full training session. He and the men were attired in the sort of
gear they would wear in combat. He reached for his whistle and was
about to blow it when a familiar figure raced towards him.

'Dickie.
They're stealing our door.'

Thomas Draper
reached his side, red-faced and out of breath. Richard peered at
him quizzically.

'What you
going on about, Tom?'

'They've
barred the south door to keep people out. You'd better come and
see.'

They entered
All Hallows through a side door. Richard usually found it crowded.
The chapel wasn't just a place for worship. It was the centre of
community life. Men met to discuss business. Women gathered for
mutual support. It was impossible to separate religion from
everyday life.

'Christ
Almighty!'

In the space
of a few hours, workmen had totally remade the processional
doorway. A new arch had been inserted inside the old arch and a new
door was already in place. The vicar and the sacrist were there
with Bailiff Walter Gallor.

'Sod you!'

Richard strode
towards them, looking more like a soldier on the rampage than a
priest of All Hallows. A steel helmet covered his bald pate and a
sword hung from his belt.

'That's our
door. You leave it alone.'

'You are
mistaken, Master Vowell.' The sacrist peered timidly from behind
Walter. 'The processional door is an integral part of the abbey
nave.'

'You're
telling me they built a church that was open at one end.' Richard's
face reddened.

'The east end
of All Hallows abuts the west end of the abbey nave,' the sacrist
tried to explain. 'It was built as a chapel of ease.'

'So, you're
saying we don't have any rights.'

'No. I'm
not.'

'Yes you are.
You've just said it's not our church. You said it was a chapel of
ease. That's another way of saying it's part of the abbey and you
can do what you sodding well like.'

'Master
Vowell,' the vicar tugged at his sleeve. 'Pray, watch your
language. You are in God's house.'

'That's
right.' Richard wagged a menacing finger at the sacrist. 'You heard
what the reverend said. This is God's house ... it doesn't belong
to you.'

A mason
working on the doorway winked and gave Richard the thumbs up sign.
The vicar noticed the gesture and took Richard's arm.

'I think it
better that we should leave.'

'Not until
he's told us what's happened to our font.' Richard pointed through
the archway to where the font had once stood. They've taken it
away.'

'The font has
been taken to a place of safety,' the sacrist said. 'Two nights ago
our bailiffs surprised a gang of Welshmen trying to drag it off.
Isn't that right, Master Gallor?'

'It is, your
reverence. Three Welshmen and a Lollard tinker ... all associates
of Master Vowell, here.'

'You made the
whole thing up,' Richard glared at the sacrist. 'You told Wat
Gallor to say that so you'd have an excuse to take it away.'

'The father
abbot has instructed that the font be placed at the end of the
nave,' the sacrist insisted. 'There will be no hindrance to its
use.'

'So he's still
around is he ... the reverend father?'

Richard thrust
his face at the sacrist.

'I'm told he's
not been seen since Christmas. Are you sure someone didn't slip a
green powder into his communion wine? You should go up to his
chamber ... see that there's not a mummified corpse in his
bed.'

'Master
Vowell, this is seditious talk.'

'Don't talk to
me about sedition, Master Sacrist. I fought for our young king in
France. I'm not plotting to make peace with the rebels ... not like
some people we know.'

Richard turned
to leave then swung back for a final blast.

'You've not
heard the last of this.'

***

The girl
pulled up her skirt and Alice examined the dome of exposed flesh.
Her patient was about sixteen and this was her second pregnancy.
The first had ended in miscarriage.

'I've prayed
to the Holy Mother that it shall not happen again,' the young woman
sobbed. 'It's because of something I done. I don't know what but
Holy Mary will speak for me.'

Alice probed
gently. The girl was approaching full-term and her second offspring
was showing the same tendency for a feet-first exit. The result
would be another fatality. The child's head would be trapped and
violent intervention by the midwife would be needed to save the
mother.

The midwife
was Betty. Alice had known Richard Vowell's woman for only a short
time. She was plump and placid and Alice had developed a lot of
respect for her. Somehow, solid, dependable Betty had attached
herself to the wild man of the town.

The girl
tensed. 'I can feel baby, Sister. Do you think it's going to be all
right?'

'You have a
strong, healthy child.'

'But do you
think it's going to happen like it should?'

'Be calm, my
child,' Alice stroked her forehead. 'Place yourself in the arms of
Mother Mary. Speak to her in your own words.'

The girl started to mutter under her breath. Alice felt her
abdominal muscles relax. The baby was more relaxed too ... less
agitated and more amenable to manipulation. She coaxed it round and
listened to voices coming from outside. An almshouse servant was
telling someone that
Sister
was busy. A man replied and her heart missed a
beat.

'It's alright,
Sarah. Betty can manage.'

She cried out
and hurried to the door.

'Sir Harald.
What a surprise.'

He stared back
at her and began to stutter.

'I … I came
…'

'Is it for
William's stitches?' she prompted.

'N … No.
Brother Arnold examined them in Dorchester. He said the wound has
healed well but the stitches should be left in a little
longer.'

An awkward
silence followed. Words formed but failed to eventuate. Alice
reached for her rosary. She recognised it as an automatic reaction
to a stressed situation. When people don't know where to put their
hands they cling to something familiar. Harald reached for his
eyeglasses.

Alice relaxed
a little.

'How is
William's arm?'

'He still
carries it in a sling.' Harald replied and this time the words
flowed easily. 'Brother Arnold says Luke set the bones as well as
he could himself. I thought it best that he should not accompany me
on my visit to Sherborne. The way is muddy and the risk of the
horse slipping seemed too great. However, I would be most grateful
if you would allow me to bring him to you in the not too distant
future.'

'I hope the
weather will soon change, Sir Harald. William's stitches must be
removed soon and I will need to inspect them before then.'

Harald plucked
up courage for another try.

'The other
evening, when you were caring for William, you mentioned the
beautiful drawings in the Abbey Missal. Brother Mathew tells me
that some of the original sketches are still in the scriptorium. He
says he would be happy to show them. I wondered if you might join
me when I take up his invitation.'

'That is a
kind thought.' Alice smiled. 'I am free from my duties in the
almshouse for a few hours each afternoon.

Matins

Richard Vowell
pulled his hood over his ears and tried to stay awake. It was the
middle of the night and a brazier of glowing coals was burning in
All Hallows. Betty had put it there. She'd found a group of
homeless people, camping on the green, and taken pity on them.

As assistant
suffragan, it was Richard's job to expel sleepers. But that duty
didn't begin until he'd unlocked the church in the morning.
Whatever the abbey might think, All Hallows was more than a chapel
of ease. In the absence of a community hall, it provided a variety
of social services and one was to care for the poor and needy.

'I'm going
home now.' Betty gave him a kiss. 'I'll have a hot gruel waiting
for you when you get back.'

She left and
Thomas Draper emerged from the shadows.

Richard opened
an eye. What you got to report, squire?'

'John Tucker
and Wat Paskuly are here and the monks have begun the matins
service. You can hear the holy sods droning away.'

Richard
settled into a more comfortable position and theorised on the
different levels of sleep. There was deep sleep and shallow sleep.
Awakening from shallow sleep did little to jar the nerves. But, if
you were deeply asleep and a sudden noise disturbed your dreams,
that could be very bad for your constitution.

Deep sleep
happened about half-an-hour after you put your head on the pillow.
Richard listened to the distant sound of chanting and followed the
service from the rise and fall of the monks' voices. He knew when
it was drawing to a close and formed a mental picture of
black-robed figures leaving the cold of their chapel for the
windswept passage outside. One by one, they would mount the stairs
to their dormitory. One by one, they would kick off their sandals,
snuff out their candles and slump down onto their cots fully
dressed.