Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (9 page)

'I was obliged
to make a detour through the woods,' John said. 'It proved more
hazardous than I anticipated. If it had not been for the quick
thinking of one of my men, we might not be here now.'

'Whatever
happened?'

'We
encountered some Welsh archers. I'm sure they intended to rob us.
My man convinced them that I knew Sir Guy Gascoigne and could put
in a good word for them when his recruiting sergeant made his
rounds.'

'Did they
leave you alone?'

'They
volunteered their services as guides. At a price, I might add.'

'And you
accepted?'

'It seemed
unwise to refuse.'

'I can fully
understand that,' Canon Peter nodded gravely. 'It doesn't do to
argue with these fellows. They'll slit your throat at the slightest
provocation.'

They stopped
at one of the tables. John had a feeling the monk was going to
raise the delicate matter of the poached venison. To his relief,
another matter was on his mind.

'Before you
left Sherborne you would have heard the result of the
election?'

'The vicar
announced it in All Hallows,' John said.

Canon Peter
nodded gravely. 'We received a brief report when the pigeons
arrived. We are yet to receive formal advice from the prior.'

'I understand
that Canon Bradford dictated a letter for the prior's signature,'
John said. 'I assume it has been delayed by the weather.'

'You say
Bradford dictated the letter ... not the Father Prior?'

'That is my
understanding.'

The canon's
head continued to nod.

'Do you know
what form the election took?'

'A group of
seven was chosen to nominate the next abbot.'

'And how were
they chosen?'

'I am told
they were nominated by the prior.'

'And do you
know who proposed those names to the Father Prior?'

'No.' John
shook his head.

Canon Peter
paused as if to consider the point.

'You seem very
well informed, Master Baret. Is there anything else you think I
should know?'

John took the
cue and launched into his prepared speech on the tensions between
the parish and the abbey. Canon Peter bought the monologue to a
swift halt.

'Thank you,
Master Baret. I look forward to your views on this unfortunate
matter. I suggest we discuss your concerns tomorrow. We should now
take our places at table. There are those amongst my colleagues who
wish to meet you.'

***

Gareth left
Robin in the stables with the horses. Master Baret had found them a
hospice used by the servants of priests and people like that. It
wasn't a bit like the place where he stayed when he was in
Salisbury with his father. They went to the Red Boar, which was the
inn the archers used.

His Welsh
friends had gone there. They were having problems with a gamekeeper
and some bailiffs who were trying to arrest them. Bailiffs weren't
welcome at the Red Boar. They either stayed outside or went in
accompanied by soldiers. Gareth figured that by the time they'd
organised a military escort, the venison would have been eaten and
all evidence destroyed. He made his way towards the inn, sheltering
from the rain beneath the overhanging floors of the timber
houses.

The Red Boar
occupied a narrow gap between two streets. David and the two
archers were in the front parlour, surrounded by a band of
admirers. They were handing out roast meat and wine like lords at a
banquet. Gareth knew where the meat came from. He guessed the wine
had been bought with the money Master Baret paid to get rid of
them.

Harry and
Edward were the names they used. They were much older than Gareth
and spoke good English. The other members of their group were
dressed in the uniforms of the Earl of Huntingdon, whose powerbase
was in Devon. Gareth recognised the men's distinctive West Country
accents and heard an occasional word in the Cornish tongue. Harry
proposed a toast.

'To Good Duke
Humphrey.'

Gareth
recalled that Humphrey was the young king's uncle and a fierce
supporter of the war in France.

'Duke
Humphrey!'

They bellowed
his name and emptied their mugs. The wineskin was passed round and
the mugs recharged. Someone proposed a toast to John Holland.

'To John
Holland ... Earl of Huntingdon!'

John Holland
was a leading commander of the English forces in France. Gareth
wasn't interested in him. He was out to sample the fleshpots of
Salisbury. It was the first time he'd been out of his father's
clutches and he was determined to make the most of it. The serving
wenches at the Red Boar were known to trade favours for money. Some
did it for nothing if they fancied you.

Gareth wanted
one who fancied him but was prepared to pay if he had to. The coins
from Master Baret were burning a hole in his purse. Tonight was the
night. All the boys he knew (except David) had done it. He was
determined not to be left out.

A girl
approached his table. He'd seen her before. She had olive skin and
dark eyes. He reckoned he fancied her. She brushed against him as
she cleared away the platters.'

'Where's your
old man then?'

'You mean my
dad?'

'The one who
won't let you out of his sight.'

'He's a long
way away.'

'So he can't
stop you having a bit of fun?'

She tweaked
his ear and Gareth felt his blood rise.

'I can do what
I like tonight. There's no one to stop me.'

She bent down.
'What you got here then?'

He felt her
hands on the money pouch ... then further down.'

'Ooh. You are
a lusty lad.'

Gareth felt as
if he would explode.

'You can have
it if you like.'

Her hand
switched from his groin to his pouch.

'I'll see you
later, Big Boy.'

Harry waited
for the girl to leave.

'How much you
going to pay her, boyo?'

'I don't
know,' Gareth blushed. 'Perhaps she'll do it for nothing.'

'Don't be
daft. They don't get paid for working here. They use the rooms
upstairs. That's how they get their money.'

'What do you
think I should pay?'

'For one like
that …' Harry considered the point. 'Not more than a penny ... a
penny farthing at the very most.'

'I've got
more.'

'If you've got
more, give it to David for safekeeping or you'll lose it. While
you're on the job another girl will come in and go through your
clothes.'

'I could keep
them on.'

'If you do
that, she'll go through 'em while you're screwing her.'

Gareth sorted
through the money in his pouch. Master Baret was paying him four
pence a day and had given him an advance of sixpence.'

'How long will
I get for a penny?'

'As long as it
takes, boyo.'

'Say I want to
do it more than once?'

'Then you'll
have to pay for it. They're not running a charity here. You've not
come to the Little Sisters of Mercy for a bowl of soup and a free
haircut.'

Gareth left
three pence in his pouch and handed the rest to David. He was
wondering if he should have kept more when a group of men entered.
They were dressed in the uniforms of the Earl of Salisbury. Harry
gave them a hostile stare.

'What those
sods doing here?'

'Trying to
take the place over,' someone said.

'What's the
matter ... don't they like the tarts at the Crown?'

'They're
trying to force us out. They know we're on Duke Humphrey's side.
The Earl of Salisbury is a Beaufort.'

'You don't
have to bloody tell me that, boyo.' Harry stood up. 'Hey. You lads.
Why don't you find yourselves a proper lord? Duke Humphrey needs
more men.'

One of the
newcomers rose to confront him.

'We're with
the Earl of Salisbury.'

'He's not a
proper lord.' Harry strode forwards. 'Salisbury is a Beaufort. His
uncle is Henry Beaufort and he's cuddling up to the Frogs. He wants
to hand the whole fucking country over to them ... like they
fucking own it.'

'Bishop
Beaufort is working for a just peace,' the other countered.

'Fucking
traitor!' Harry hurled a beer mug at him.

Gareth rose to
join in but didn't get far.

'Where are you
going, Big Boy?'

He found the
dark-eyed girl beside him. She took his arm and rushed him to the
stairs. They got there as a door was barred behind them. On the
other side, the landlord was shouting at the warring factions,
telling them that the earl's men were coming. The girl stopped at
the first floor and looked out of the window. In the street below,
burly men with truncheons were descending on the inn. They were led
by a sergeant in full armour and looked more than a match for the
rioters.

'We won't be
disturbed,' the girl said. 'They won't come up here.'

She licked
Gareth's ear and pulled him into a room.

'I think I
fancy you.'

Accusations

John Baret
mounted the stairs to Richard Rochell's chambers. His friend of
many years had a suite of rooms above a draper's shop. It was where
he kept his records and worked as an accountant and financial
adviser. Most of his clients had modest businesses. A few belonged
to the moneyed classes. John peered through the door.

'Good Morrow,
Richard.'

'Good Morrow,
John.' Richard looked up from his papers. 'What brings you here on
this fine summer's morning.'

'I need
witnesses.'

'For signing a
document?'

'No.' John sat
down. 'I have been summoned, in a most insolent manner, to appear
before a fellow who describes himself as our lord abbot. I am
required to give an explanation of myself, whatever that
means.'

'When did this
happen?'

'About an hour
ago. Bailiff Gallor arrived with a beadle and the sacrist. They
demanded to conduct a search of my premises.'

'On what
possible grounds?'

'The
harbouring of felons.'

Richard put
down his pen and replaced the lid on his inkwell.

'Did they find
any?'

'Of course
not. They searched high and low and all they found was a stray dog
and a dead pigeon. The sacrist then summoned me to appear before
Bradford.'

'Are you
going?'

'I can hardly
refuse. Before I left Salisbury I promised to do everything in my
power to smooth relations between the parish and the abbey. It
won't look good if I refuse to speak to the abbot-elect.'

'Is there
anything I can do?'

'I want you to
come with me. Bradford will have his advisers. I don't want to turn
up without some support of my own.'

'Who else have
you asked?'

'Harald
Gascoigne and John Sprotert. Harald studied law at Oxford and John
is well regarded in Salisbury.'

***

William
Bradford glared at the four men who stood before him. He sat in the
abbot's chair, in his richly decorated chamber, flanked by two
monks. Canon Simon stood on his right and a young man with a
writing block knelt on his left. William's heavy jowls sagged and
his gaze passed back and forth with the gravity of a judge about to
pass sentence. After a lengthy silence, he spoke.

'Master Baret.
I summoned you ... and you alone.'

John Baret
inclined his head respectfully. 'I took the liberty to ask these
gentlemen to accompany me.'

'I did not
grant that liberty, Master Baret.'

John produced
a sheet of paper and began to read in his usual cumbersome
style.

'My colleagues
and I wish to congratulate you, Canon Bradford, on your most
praiseworthy election as abbot of this esteemed and ancient
Benedictine foundation in our beloved town of Sherborne. We
recognise that, as lord abbot and rector of All Hallows, you will
be responsible for the pastoral care and good guidance of our
community …' John droned on and ended with some words about the
rule of law and God's Holy Writ.'

The speech met
with stony silence. Richard Rochell looked down at his writing pad.
Harald Gascoigne polished his eyeglasses. William Bradford gestured
towards the scribe and eventually spoke.

'Do you take
me for an idiot? You went to Salisbury to vilify my name. Now you
are congratulating me on my election.'

'There has
been an unfortunate misunderstanding.'

'No. There has
not.' William thrust a jewelled finger at John Baret.' We
understand you only too well. No sooner was my election announced
than you set out on a mission of lies and deception. You told the
dean I was paying for information.'

'I went to
Salisbury on parish business.'

'You went to
sow discord.'

'Please.' John
raised a calming hand. 'We came here in a spirit of peace and
reconciliation. We are as opposed to the subversive elements as you
are.'

'You are not.
It is you who is behind these outrages. You travelled to Salisbury
with the Welshmen who tried to steal the font. My bailiff
recognised them. And, I do not doubt you are behind that font which
has so illegally and outrageously appeared in All Hallows.' The
jewelled finger shook with rage. 'What is more, Bailiff Gallor
identified one of those Welshmen as the villain who has been
shooting my pigeons.'

It was the
first John had heard of the pigeons.

'They've been
found with arrows through them and I hold you responsible. It is a
most serious offence. You have been interfering with correspondence
between your lord abbot and the highest authorities in the
land.'

For a moment
John was stunned. There was something appallingly plausible about
the accusation. Gareth was famed for his ability to shoot birds
from the sky. It didn't take much imagination the guess where the
birds came from.