Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (6 page)

Richard
started to count. It was something he'd done in France. After his
second injury, he'd surrendered his bow and turned his mind to
cannons. The advantage of gunpowder over muscle power was that a
gunnery sergeant didn't have to be as agile as an archer. Good
training and an ability to command counted more than fleet of foot.
And so did cunning. Firing cannons wasn't only about knocking down
walls. It was about demoralising the enemy. You didn't just shoot
off your balls when the mood took you. You timed your bombardment
for when the other side was most vulnerable ... just like you timed
your bells.

After a
measured time, he rose from his bench and looked around. Most of
the monks would be snoring and the rest counting sheep, or whatever
monks did when they couldn't sleep.

Walter Paskuly
and John Tucker came across.

'Time to get
started?'

'Yeah.'
Richard pulled his cloak about him and watched the two men climb
into the belfry. Then he went into the vestry and collected a pile
of surplices.

'Put these
on.'

He hurled the
white robes at the homeless men.

'We're going
to celebrate matins.'

In the tower
above his head, the bells of All Hallows began to toll. They rang
loudly and went on ringing for a long time.

***

Harald
Gascoigne and Sister Alice entered the monastery by a side entrance
and walked through the cloister to the scriptorium. Brother Mathew
was there to greet them. They entered a room lined with shelves and
boxes. Two young men sat at the far end working at easels
positioned to take advantage of the afternoon light.

Mathew
gestured towards them. 'These are my assistants. Brothers Peter and
Paul, named after two of our most holy saints.'

Alice felt
certain she knew them. They would have been given biblical names
when they entered the monastery. She searched her memory: Roger,
Richard, Ralph ...

'This is
Sister Alice,' Mathew interrupted her thoughts. 'She is here to
inspect the sketches made by John Sifrewas.'

The young men
stared at her in a way Alice found disturbing. There was something
rakish about their appearance. The tops of their heads were shaved
in the regulation manner but their remaining hair hung down in
loose curls that didn't look natural. She suspected they were the
sort of monks who used nude models when preparing sketches of
Eve.

Mathew went to
a shelf and removed a box. He set it down and took off the lid. A
familiar aroma wafted up. Alice recognised lavender, put there to
protect the contents from insects.

'This is one
of his favourite studies.'

Mathew held up
a sheet of parchment. One side bore a text from the psalms. The
other had been scraped clean and reused. Alice expected a sketch in
lead or charcoal. What she saw was a bird in full colour.

'A bullfinch.'
Mathew placed the parchment on the table. 'Sifrewas attached the
local name mwope to it. The one describes the bird. The other
imitates its call.'

Alice was
acquainted with both names.

'Did you know
him?' she asked.

'I worked for
him. We went to Honeycombe Woods and observed God's creatures in
their natural estate. I made notes while he sketched. We recorded
as much as we could ... the varied calls ... nesting habits and
displays when searching for a mate.'

A muted
chuckle interrupted the discourse.

Mathew ignored
it and continued to hunt through the box.

Alice glanced
at the grinning young monk, working at his easel, and memories
flooded back. He belonged to her past ... much younger but just as
rakish.

'Ralph.' She
smiled. 'Show me what you're doing.'

He gave a
sheepish smile and moved to one side.

She had
expected a nude but found a Madonna and Child. The flesh tones of
the infant were executed to perfection and there was nothing
licentious about Mary.

She moderated
her voice. 'It's beautiful.'

'Thank you, my
lady.'

Alice felt
embarrassed. She'd misjudged him. He might look like the shallow,
ignorant successor to the wild adolescent she'd known but his work
told a different story. A sudden impulse took her.

'Ralph, would
you do something for me?'

The sensual
grin returned. 'That would be my pleasure.'

'We need a new
sign for the Julian Inn. Perhaps you could paint one as a gift to
the good people of Sherborne.'

'Your wish is
my command.'

He rose from
his stool. For an awful moment she thought he would try to kiss
her. But he merely bowed.

Back on the
street she could scarcely contain herself. The wind blew her hood
to one side. She pulled it back and turned to Harald who was
escorting her back to the almshouse.

'I recognised
him. He was no more than fifteen when we last met but he already
had that wild look. His name is Ralph Knowles. You might know the
family.'

Harald gave an
ironic laugh.

'Yes, I know
them. My wife was a Knowles. Her brother, Roger, is trying to take
back her dowry.'

Alice felt his
pain. 'On what possible grounds?'

'They ...
they're …'

Alice had
noticed that Harald's voice failed him whenever he was nervous.

'I'm sorry. I
shouldn't pry into your affairs.'

'No.' He
seemed to relax. 'You'll find out before long and I wouldn't like
you to hear it from the lips of others.'

They stopped
near the site for the new almshouse. Harald told her about the
claim that William was illegitimate and the marriage contract
invalid as a consequence. She listened as one distressing detail
followed another. To be called a cuckold was bad enough. To have it
said that you were cuckolded by your fourteen-year-old brother was
devastating.

'Does William
know?'

'Not yet. But
he will when the case goes to court. He's twelve. He's not a little
boy anymore. He'll find out.'

'Whatever will
he think?'

'He'll love
it.' Harald choked back tears. 'He worships Guy. He'll be delighted
to think that Guy is his father and not his uncle.'

'Oh, Harald.'
Alice grasped his hand. 'This is such an ordeal for you. I
shouldn't have pried. I'm sorry.'

'No. I needed
someone to talk to.'

'There must be
others ... members of your family?'

'My family
would have me raise a force and attack the Knowles. That's the way
the Gascoignes settle arguments. The strongest win. Everyone else
has to bow down to them or suffer the consequences.'

'Is there no
one you can turn to?'

'John and
Elizabeth Baret are my only true friends. They have given advice
and been of great comfort to me.'

'I hope I can
be of assistance too …'

Alice let go
his hand. People were looking at them.

'We're
attracting attention,' she whispered. 'I think I should go. The
matron of the almshouse shouldn't hold hands ... not unless they're
very old hands.'

Harald watched
her leave. A black cloud still hung over him but a ray of sunshine
had entered his life.

Manor Court

Robin reined
in his horse and waited for the other members of his party. The
mole said they should come unarmed. That's what he called Sir
Harald. Some people did it as a joke. Robin liked his employer. For
him, the term was almost one of affection. The mole didn't boss you
around and treat you like you were a nobody.

Robin took “
unarmed
” to mean you shouldn't carry
any conspicuous weapons. He had left his sword back at the
Gascoigne manor. It was too difficult to conceal but his dirk
fitted nicely in a shoulder harness under his green cloak. It was a
bit fancy and so was his white shirt. They made him look a bit of a
dill who wasn't capable of looking after himself. Guy Gascoigne
said that was how you should look when you went on a secret
mission.

At eighteen,
Robin was by far the youngest member of the party. The mole was
almost twice his age and the others were ancient. He'd known John
Baret from childhood. The old man had a big house near the Half
Moon Inn and William lived with him when he was at school. The
other two men were strangers but he could tell they were important.
Both wore dark gowns trimmed with white fur and had leather bags
with books.

They were on
their way to a manor court ... but not a regular one. Most courts
were held in halls. This one would be held in a barn. The mole had
told him why they were going. It was because of William's
inheritance. His mother's family was trying to get it off him. She
was dead and they said William couldn't have it anymore. The nasty
sods were trying to rob a little boy of what his mother had given
him.

John Baret
rode up beside him.

'Not far now,
Robin.'

'No,
Master.'

'Do you know
the barn?'

'Aye, Master.
I've been there with William to collect oats for the horses. It's
down in the valley at the end of that long paddock.'

The old man
surveyed the scene.

'What do you
make of it, Robin?'

'It doesn't
look right, Master.'

'Why do you
say that?'

'There's
eleven horses in the paddock, all saddled up like they've just
arrived. You'd expect them to be at the hitching rail but it's
empty ... like it's been left for someone.'

John Baret
moved closer and dropped his voice.

'Who do you
think that someone might be?'

'Could be us,
Master.'

'Aye,' the old
man nodded. 'It could be us.'

He tapped
Robin's shoulder where the dirk was hidden.

'Remain alert.
Don't draw your weapon unless you have to. If you do ... only use
it in defence.'

They reached
the barn and secured their horses to the rail. Roger Knowles was
inside, sitting at a makeshift table. He had six retainers. Two
looked like clerks and the others were in military uniforms. Robin
took comfort from their big bellies and flabby jowls. Roger looked
up in mock surprise.

'Harald
Gascoigne. What are you doing here?'

The mole
glared back at him.

'Roger
Knowles. I am here to inform you that you are trespassing on my
land and attempting to hold an illegal assembly in breach of the
King's Peace. I have with me these three gentlemen who will act as
my witnesses.'

Roger raised
his head disdainfully.

'Master Baret
is known to me. Perhaps you would introduce the others so that I
might make their acquaintance.'

'Henry
Winchcombe is chaplain to John Fauntleroy.' The Mole indicated one
of the men. 'Sir John d'Alton is reeve to Sir Humphrey Stafford,
Lord of Hooke.'

At the mention
of Sir Humphrey's name, the smirk on Roger's face changed to alarm.
Robin formed a new opinion of the mole. Guy's older brother might
look weak with his stooped shoulders and screwed up eyes but he
knew how to take on people like the Knowles.

Robin surveyed
the gathering. Apart from Roger and his men, only five people had
turned up. He recognised them as tenants who had switched their
loyalties from the Gascoignes to the Knowles. The mole peered at
them through his eyeglasses.

'I must warn
you that you are here in breach of the King's Peace and liable to
prosecution and confiscation of property.'

One man left
but the others remained. The mole called out their names and Henry
Winchcombe wrote them in his book. After that it was a shouting
match. Roger Knowles tried to get the court started and the mole
tried to drown him out. The clerk at the table reached for his pen
ready to record the proceedings. That was the signal for Robin to
get started. He sauntered across to the clerk and played the
village idiot.

'Those are
words those are.'

He leant over
and smudged the page with his sleeve.

'Oh. Words
gone.'

The clerk
tried again and his inkpot was overturned. Roger Knowles jumped to
his feet.

'Gascoigne.
Order your man off.'

'Why should I?
He's committing no offence.'

'He is
behaving in a violent manner.'

'I saw no
violence.'

'He upturned
my clerk's ink.'

'I saw your
clerk knock it over himself …'

The two men
continued to argue. Robin glanced round the barn. He was there to
disrupt the proceedings but use no violence. The mole thought you
could do anything by talking. At first it had worked. He'd scared
Roger with his talk about Sir Humphrey and the King's Peace. But
Roger had a short memory. As the mole continued to produce legal
arguments, he looked like he was going to explode.

'There is,
ipso
facto
, no sound basis …'

The mole's
excursion into Latin sparked the bang.

'Get him out
of here!'

Roger pointed
at Robin and two men grabbed him from behind. He decided to go
quietly. The barn was no place for a fight. Bystanders might get
hurt. He shuffled his feet and was dragged outside. As he expected,
the hitching rail was empty.

'What's
happened to our horses?'

'They've been
confiscated.'

'I'm not going
until you give them back.'

Robin sank
down on his haunches. It was a trick he'd learnt from Guy. Let them
think you were a useless, whimpering kid. It wouldn't enter their
stupid heads that you were out to maim them.

'Move!'

They yanked at
his shoulders and Robin hurled himself up. One man was head-butted
and bit his tongue. The other was kneed in the groin. A third
suffered a flesh wound from Robin's dirk. The barn emptied and
people scattered. Their only casualty was the mole whose nose was
bleeding. His main concern was for his eyeglasses that had been
trampled underfoot.