Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (8 page)

William handed
a slip of paper to the scribe.

'Charged with
this onerous duty, they withdrew and weighed carefully the claims
of all candidates. At length, they announced the name of our
brother William Bradford. We humbly petition Our Lord Bishop to
confirm this choice and grant William Bradford the seal of his
Episcopal Benediction.'

William
stopped pacing and turned to the scribe.

'Have the
first draft ready by Evensong. The final must be in the hands of
the Father Prior for his signature by Tierce tomorrow.'

***

The vicar
announced the election of William Bradford as the new Abbot of
Sherborne. The bells of All Hallows tolled and a small crowd
gathered. John Baret was there with Richard Rochell. As trustees of
the almshouse, they had a special interest in the appointment. They
listened in silence then went outside. It was a pleasant day and
they made their way to a stone bench on the abbey green.

'How could
they be so stupid?' John shook his head in disbelief. 'They had a
wealth of talent to choose from. Why in the Lord's name did they
elect William Bradford?'

'They didn't,'
Richard Rochell smiled. 'He was picked by the privileged few. They
take turns to spread the benefices around. Their ancestors put up
the money for the abbey and they think they have a right to
it.'

'What happens
next?'

'They must get
the bishop to agree to the appointment.'

'But they've
just told the world they want Bradford. Shouldn't they wait until
Robert Neville gives his approval? They'd look damned stupid if he
turned them down.'

'They
certainly would,' Richard chuckled. 'It's just possible but I
wouldn't pin any hopes on it.'

'Supposing
Neville agrees ... is Bradford then abbot?'

'He needs
royal accent.'

'Is that
automatically granted?'

'At a price
…'

'How much do
you pay to become an abbot?'

'His Majesty
is currently looking for places of retirement for senior court
officials. Many are in Holy Orders. Saint Thomas on the Green needs
a new rector and would provide a comfortable living for a worthy
gentleman in his declining years.'

They were
distracted by axe blows. John was surprised to see Robin attacking
a yew tree. He jumped up.

'What are you
doing?'

Robin
shouldered his axe and walked across.

'Good Morrow,
Master Baret ... Master Rochell.'

He touched his
forelock respectfully.

'I'm cutting
wood for bows. The tree will come down when the new almshouse is
built. I'm getting in before the wrong people do.'

'What wrong
people?'

'People who
shouldn't have it.'

'What makes
you think you're not one of them?'

Robin put down
his axe. 'Sir Harald Gascoigne has given five oaks for the new
almshouse. I reckon he should have it.'

John's mood
changed. 'You could have asked first.'

'There wasn't
time. Wat Gallor and his men were talking about it in the George.
They said they'd come down and take it.'

John remained
stony faced. 'Master Rochell and I are unaware of what you are
doing and shall remain ignorant so long as you restrict your
attention to that tree.'

'Aye,
Master.'

Robin
shouldered the axe and walked away.

'He's a good
lad,' John said. 'He's staying with me at present. Very level
headed and reliable. I wish the same could be said of William
Bradford. The man has no sense of proportion. I'd hate to work for
him.'

'What do you
think his first move will be?'

'The vicar
thinks Bradford will ask Neville to censure the parish. The illegal
font is our biggest liability. It could weigh heavily against us in
an ecclesiastical court.'

'That means we
must go to Salisbury before Bradford.' Richard said. 'The almshouse
papers will need to be got there. That could be our excuse.'

Are they ready
yet?'

'I could have
them ready by this evening.'

'Get started.'
John looked like a man of action. 'I'll deliver them myself.
They'll offer hospitality if I arrive late. I'll find a sympathetic
ear ... tell our side of the story before Bradford can tell
his.'

'The carters
say the Salisbury road is dangerous.' Richard sounded concerned.
'You'll need an armed escort.'

'I'll put
Robin onto it.' John rose . 'He'll know what to do. You should have
seen how he managed that situation with Roger Knowles.'

Robin cranked
his crossbow into the firing position and secured it beneath his
cloak. They were on their way to Salisbury. Master Baret had come
to him saying he needed an escort. He wanted three men who were
sober, honest and in no way associated with Dick Vowell. That posed
a problem because there were only two places where you could
recruit an escort in a hurry. One was the George and the other was
the Julian.

If you went to
the George you'd get Wat Gallor's mates. If you went to the Julian,
you'd get Dick Vowell's. Neither appealed to the old man and they'd
called on the services of Gareth and David, a couple of Welsh lads
who'd arrived in town to join Guy Gascoigne's archers. Robin knew
them as relatives of Owen Ap-Richard, who worked the country fairs
with wooden heads you could shoot at for prizes.

They had spent
the first night at an inn. It was bucketing down with rain and the
road was impassable. If it had been left to Robin, they would have
turned back. The direct route was flooded and they'd have to pick
their way through the woods to reach their destination on time.
That was no easy matter. Thornbushes and brambles were favoured by
gamekeepers as cover for game and there was the ever-present risk
of outlaws.

Gareth knew
some archers who would act as guides. They were living rough while
waiting to cross to France. Robin decided to leave the old man with
David and set off with Gareth to find them. They went down a narrow
path and were soon surrounded by dense vegetation. Tracks branched
off to left and right. Without the sun, Robin soon lost all sense
of direction.

'Are you sure
we're going the right way?'

'Trust me,
boyo.' Gareth brimmed with confidence. 'They've built a shelter
like we have in Wales.'

'How do you
know they'll be there?'

'They've got
nowhere else to go, boyo. They've got to rough it in the woods
until they can join Sir Guy in France.'

Robin grew
uneasy. He'd left his charge with a sixteen-year-old and gone into
unknown territory with a guide who would never admit to making a
mistake. On top of that, they were being followed. On a ridge,
above their heads, the birds were agitated. Nothing disturbs the
greenwood more than human presence. Someone was keeping pace with
them. If they were travellers they could join them. There was
safety in numbers. But, if they were travellers, what were they
doing up there? The ridge didn't lead anywhere.

'We're being
followed.'

'Aye, boyo,
I've seen them.'

'Who do you
think they are?'

'Dunno,'
Gareth shrugged. 'We'll have to wait and see.'

'They could be
outlaws.'

'Then we'll
give 'em a bit of a surprise.'

Gareth seemed
oddly relaxed. Was it bravado or stupidity? Robin wondered how good
he was. The boy could shoot an arrow and bring down a pigeon at
eighty paces but that didn't mean he could fight. He lowered his
voice.

'Do you
remember what to do if we're attacked?'

'Don't worry,'
Gareth tapped his bow. 'I've not forgotten.'

The path
entered open woodland and began a slow climb. Robin caught glimpses
of the other party through the trees. There were two of them and
they were on foot. He wondered if they were travellers like
themselves. That didn't seem likely. He looked around. For the
moment they were safe. Robbers weren't renowned for heroics. They
preferred to attack out of cover and there wasn't any.

The path
reached the top of the ridge and the woodland gave way to briars
and thornbushes. Muddy footprints told a chilling tale. The men had
got there first and run ahead. Tracks through the wet grass showed
where one had entered the bushes. Wind disturbed the branches and
he saw a figure with a drawn bow.

'They're
laying an ambush.'

'Why do you
say that, boyo?'

'I've seen
them.' Robin slipped the safety catch on his crossbow. 'I'll get in
a quick shot.'

'No!' Gareth
pushed the bow away. 'I know who they are.'

He shouted in
Welsh. The bushes parted and a man appeared. He had the barrel
chest of an archer and walked like one. Gareth jumped down from his
horse and embraced him. A second man came out of the undergrowth.
They spoke for a while in their native language then spoke to Robin
in English.

They said they
feared he and Gareth were robbers: that was why they were hiding.
Robin didn't believe a word of it but didn't argue. They agreed to
act as guides and demanded two shillings a day. That was an
exorbitant price but better than being set upon. Robin made a point
of saying that Master Baret was a friend of Sir Guy Gascoigne and
could put in a good word for them with his recruiting sergeant.

***

They stopped
before Salisbury Cathedral and dismounted. John Baret waited for
his escort to disperse. He didn't want to be seen with them. From
the moment they had arrived at the city gates they'd given trouble.
It was normal practice to wash horses before taking them inside. A
pond was provided for that purpose. Owners could wash their mounts
or pay a boy to do it. Everyone cooperated except the two Welsh
ruffians. They argued with the bailiffs and a queue of indignant
travellers formed. Finally, they were let through, dirty and
without a proper search.

John had not
the slightest doubt that the incident was staged. The men had
venison in their saddlebags. Strictly speaking, he should have
reported them to the bishop's bailiffs because the deer was taken
on the bishop's land. Common sense told him to say nothing and
avoid antagonising the pair. He had paid them off and would return
to Sherborne by the direct route. He went to the cathedral and a
familiar exchange of pleasantries ensued.

'We insist on
providing hospitality, Master Baret.'

'I couldn't
possibly impose on you.'

'But the
weather is so inclement.'

'A little more
rain won't hurt me.'

There was
something ritualistic about it. The exchange followed a familiar
pattern and reached an inevitable conclusion. Servants were
summoned. A stable hand took care of his horse. A porter took him
to his room and a laundress took his wet garments to the drying
chamber.

His room was
on the upper floor of the visitors' lodge. This was separate from
the monks' quarters and occupied an entire wing of the monastic
complex. It catered for the needs of travellers and people, such as
himself, who were visiting the cathedral on business. It also
provided free accommodation for officers of the royal court who
were keen to save money.

John
unstrapped his travel bag and removed a clean set of clothes. They
were crumpled but dry. He laid them out and was selecting suitable
attire when a servant arrived with a bucket of hot water and filled
his washbasin. Another turned and beat the mattress on his bed,
inspecting it for fleas and bedbugs. The latter service was greatly
appreciated. John waged a constant war against these unwanted
intruders. All bedding in his household was regularly beaten and
hung in the sun. The big risk was reinfestation. He suspected that
his guests, including members of the Gascoigne family, were the
chief culprits.

He washed and
dressed for dinner. As always, when visiting Salisbury, he selected
garments of a sombre nature, avoiding anything flamboyant and
anything that might associate him with a merchant guild. The
business classes were regarded as upstarts in aristocratic circles
and there was no shortage of aristocrats in the cathedral.

He left his
room and went downstairs. The behaviour of the Welshmen continued
to worry him. The whole purpose of his visit was to present an
image of sobriety and decorum. A casual onlooker could have
mistaken him for the head of a band of ruffians.

To his
surprise, Canon Peter was waiting to greet him at the entry to the
dining hall. He'd not expected to meet such a senior member of the
bishop's administration so soon. He knew the canon from previous
visits that he had made as a trustee of the almshouse, but their
dealings had always been of a business nature.

'You picked a
most inclement day for your journey.' Canon Peter ushered him into
the hall. 'The carriers say the road to the west is
impassable.'