Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm

by Mike Dixon

  Wolf Wood

  (Part One)

  By

  Mike Dixon

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Mike Dixon

  Chapter 1

  Sherborne Abbey

  Easter Sunday 1436

  Alice walked up the cobbled path towards the abbey. The old building was undergoing renovation and the scaffolding had recently been removed from the south side of the tower. The work was being undertaken at huge expense to the parish and was a major cause of friction between the abbot and the local people. On that chilly April morning, the new stonework shone brightly in the crisp light of a cloudless day.

  She wore a warm gown with a badge that identified her as the matron of the parish almshouse. She had recently arrived in Sherborne from the convent in nearby Shaftsbury. Her friends, Elizabeth and John Baret, had arranged for her to take up the appointment.

  They had rescued her from a situation that was becoming unbearable. Alice was a free thinker and that was something you kept quiet about if you lived in a convent. She knew Latin and Greek and had taught herself Arabic.

  Arabic was strictly forbidden but she was prepared to take the risk. The language of the Moslem unbelievers had opened up a whole new world. The Arabs were skilled at healing. She had trained as a midwife and was intent on using her new knowledge to save the many poor women who died in childbirth.

  She was on her way to All Hallows, which was a church-like building attached to the west end of the abbey. A crowd was gathered there. From the sprinkling entering the porch, it was evident that today's congregation was handpicked. Apart from the distinguished guests and their attendants, they were solid, respectable townsfolk who could be relied upon to behave.

  The Easter Service always aroused passions. The abbey owned most of the town and the abbot interfered in the daily lives of the people. To their immense annoyance, he even extracted a fee for baptisms. They were not allowed to have a font in All Hallows. Instead, they had to pay to use the font in the abbey nave.

  Easter was the time when the peasants flocked into town from the surrounding countryside. They brought produce for sale at the Easter Fair and got drunk on the proceeds. They also brought their babies for baptism. The ceremony was always a noisy affair. A band heralded the infants into the bosom of Christ and its members took every opportunity to stir up resentment towards the abbey. Last year, its antics resulted in a near riot.

  A crowd of peasants was gathered on the abbey green. It was early in the day and they were relatively sober. Alice saw Elizabeth Baret amongst them. She was with another woman, whom she recognised as Lady Margaret Gough. Dressed in their smart gowns, the two women stood out like brightly coloured birds amongst the dull greys and browns of cottage homespun.

  Alice felt a tinge of alarm. Elizabeth had told her that Lady Margaret wanted to be with the women when they took their babies to the font. It looked as if she was determined to carry out her wish. She turned to the vicar, who was standing nearby.

  'Can't you do something about it, Vicar?'

  'About what, Sister?'

  'The band. It's hardly appropriate for a christening.'

  'The baptismal band is part of a time-honoured tradition.'

  'But the drums and trumpets … they sound like an army on the march. The brothers find it offensive. There have been occasions when they have feared for their safety.'

  'I'm sure there is no reason for that.'

  'We are worried about what Lady Margaret might think.'

  'Lady Margaret?'

  'You are surely aware that she is here to make a donation for the new almshouse. What will you tell your fellow trustees if she changes her mind?'

  Alice turned her attention to a group of men on the abbey green. They had musical instruments but didn't look as if they were about to take part in a religious service. None wore surplices. Some wore military uniforms.

  Sherborne was an important base in the war with France and many of its men had served in the companies that crossed the Channel to fight in the king's name. The men in the band looked capable of anything. Alice wasn't surprised the monks were afraid of them.

  For the moment, they seemed more interested in the abbey tower than the monks. Alice followed their gaze to a pair of boys on a narrow walkway. One was the son of Master Mason Robert Hulle. The other was not known to her. From the way he clung to a guard rail, she guessed he was unaccustomed to heights.

  Chapter 2

  Baptism

  William Gascoigne knew he shouldn't be there and was beginning to understand why. With an awful suddenness the solid stonework of the abbey tower ended in a sea of scaffolding. A maze of ladders stretched before him, filling the void beneath the bells and reaching down into the main body of the church. He looked up and saw patches of sky through holes in the roof. When he looked down he felt dizzy.

  'Come on. You won't fall.'

  He heard Geoffrey Hulle's voice and saw him on a ladder.

  'My dad's checked it out … it's safe.'

  Geoffrey disappeared onto a walkway and William followed. He'd climbed ladders before and got to the top without difficulty. Then his fears flooded back. He expected to see planks but found hurdles. They were woven from hazel and looked like those used for sheep pens on his father's estate. Geoffrey was in the middle, forty feet above the ground.

  'Come on. It's fun.'

  He grabbed the side rails and jumped up and down.

  The hurdles flexed and William shut his eyes.

  'I want to go back.'

  'You're not scared … are you?'

  The jibe struck William to the core. Being scared was something peasants did. Boys of his class were never scared. They rode horses and went to war as soon as they were old enough. He opened his eyes and climbed onto the walkway, determined to stride fearlessly across. Then he remembered something his father said about prudence being the better part of valour and sank to his knees and crawled across.

  Geoffrey was waiting on the other side. It was his idea they should go up the tower and see the work his father was doing. The boy danced around and pointed to a rounded arch with dogtooth carving.

  'This is some of the old stuff. We'll be leaving it because it can't be seen from the ground and it's still in good nick.'

  The boys' clothes were tailor-made and smart: little different from those of a well-dressed adult. Felt hat with a narrow brim that turned up stylishly at the front. Short-sleeved jacket, tight about the chest and worn with a shirt of contrasting colour. Brightly coloured stockings fastened to linen underwear. Snug leather shoes. It was the dress of boys from prosperous families ... not that Geoffrey and William belonged to the same social class.

  Geoffrey's father was a master mason. As such, he combined the roles of architect, engineer and building contractor. Master Mason Hulle was renowned for his work on Winchester Cathedral and Sherborne Abbey. His strength lay in his business competence and membership of the powerful Master Masons' Guild. Geoffrey was a sensitive lad with light brown hair and freckles.

  William belonged to the landholding, military gentry. His family owned property in England and France. The Gascoignes campaigned under the banner of the Earl of Huntingdon and their strength lay in their ability to make a profit out of the war in France. William was a powerfully built lad of twelve with blue eyes, blond hair and a pugnacious nature.

  Geoffrey was keen to show him the changes his father was making to the abbey. William was more interested in climbing the abbey tower.

  'Have you ever been to Salisbury?' Geoffrey asked.

  'My father took me once,' William said.

  'Well. You'd have seen the pointed arches in
the cathedral. They were done in the old style. They're better than the rounded stuff the Normans did but not up to much. We're going for a total remake.'

  William didn't care how buildings were put up. He wanted to know how to knock them down and get to the valuables inside.

  Geoffrey opened a small door.

  'Take a look at that.'

  William leant forward and found himself staring into space. It was as if a slice had been cut from the end of the nave. The roof was missing and so were the beams that had once supported the wooden ceiling.

  'We took it off so we could put up the scaffolding,' Geoffrey explained. 'We'll be putting on a temporary roof when it's finished. There's no point in making it permanent because the nave is in for a total remake. Just look at those ugly pillars the Normans put up.'

  William wasn't interested in what the Normans did hundreds of years ago. He wanted to know what was going on right now. A door at the end of the nave had opened and a man with a baldhead had appeared.

  'That's Thomas Draper,' Geoffrey whispered. 'My dad says he's a troublemaker.'

  William watched the baldhead proceed down the aisle and stop before a wooden platform.

  'We put it up yesterday,' Geoffrey said.

  What's it for?'

  'The baptismal. It's where they take the money. When the babies have been put in the holy water they go up there so their names can be written in a book. They can't go to heaven if that's not done.'

  William wasn't interested in books or babies. His eyes were on the man. He watched carefully. His uncle Guy had taught him to do that. Guy said lawyers and priests buried their heads in books. Soldiers watched and listened. It wasn't what people said that mattered … it was what they did.

  The man knelt beside the platform.

  William's eyes narrowed.

  'He's got a rope.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yeah. He's tying it on.'

  As they watched, a figure emerged from the shadows. He was wearing a surplice and the top of his head was shaved like a priest. A lot of parish priests wore surplices. Usually you saw black stockings and buckled shoes. This one was wearing green stockings and flared boots. He went over to the baldheaded man who was now hiding behind a pillar.

  'Have you tied it properly?'

  William recognised the voice and grinned.

  'Yeah … don't worry about that, Master Vowell. It has been properly secured as you instructed. I shall now sit here where I cannot be seen and await your signal.'

  'And what will that be, Master Draper?'

  'A long and melodious fart …'

  'That's right, Tom,' the priest laughed. 'It will be music to our ears, even if some folks find it offensive.'

  He glanced back along the nave to All Hallows.

  'I'd better get back. Our betters have arrived. Lady Margaret Gough, Sir Humphrey bleeding Stafford and half the sodding shire are here. They're going to celebrate Easter Mass in our humble presence. Then they're off to Jonnie Baret's house for a meeting.'

  William found a wall at the end of the abbey nave and decided it was a good place to watch the proceedings. Geoffrey called it a pulpitum. William didn't care what it was called. He felt safe there. The wall was over four foot thick. There wasn't much risk of falling off.

  Mass in All Hallows ended and the country folk came into the nave from the abbey green. William sensed an air of tension. The men had taken up positions along the central aisle and were exchanging glances. The women were gathered about the font chattering excitedly. It was like being at a tournament before the jousting got started.

  The monks were already there. Two overweight men in black gowns stood on the platform and stared directly ahead, trying to ignore the hostile stares of the congregation. One carried a large book and the other had a steel-bound collecting box, fastened to his wrist by a chain. The baldheaded man was crouched behind a pillar, munching on a loaf of bread.

  A trumpet sounded and the processional door swung open. Men with pipes stormed out, followed by men with drums and cymbals. They marched down the nave, four abreast, to the applause of the crowd. William was reminded of his grandfather's men, drilling in the manor yard before leaving to fight in France.

  Richard Vowell was amongst them. He had fought with his grandfather and William knew him well. The old campaigner strode in front. He was wearing his priest's surplice but looked more like a soldier than a priest. He held a bible in one hand and a trumpet in the other. Reaching the end of the nave, he hurled the trumpet in the air like it was a marshal's baton.

  The band turned and made for the monks. Building materials blocked their way. They clambered over them and started to circle the platform. Richard opened his bible and set up a chant. It was about the army of the Israelites and how they marched round the walls of Jericho blowing trumpets.

  William had heard it before. It was one of the few bible stories he liked. It was about warriors; not about wimps who fed the poor and did stupid things like that. He looked down at the baldhead below. The man had stopped munching and had the rope in his hands.

  Six times the band circled the platform. The crowd counted and the monks looked apprehensive. William wasn't surprised. The fat sods knew what the number seven would bring.

  When it came, it was almost an anticlimax. Richard Vowell blew a long fart on his trumpet and the baldheaded man yanked on his rope. The peasants cheered. The platform tilted and the monks collapsed onto their big bums. William couldn't stop laughing.

  'That'll teach 'em.'

  He gave Geoffrey a jab in the ribs and stepped back. A moment later, he was falling into space. Hurdles broke around him and he landed on a pile of canvas. Blood poured from his head and his arm lay twisted below his body.

  Chapter 3

  Easter Fair

  Richard Vowell strode up Cheap Street towards the noise and bustle of the Easter Fair. A man of many colours, he had served with the English forces in France before returning to his native Sherborne where his quick wit enabled him to earn a respectable living.

  His involvement with All Hallows was one of his many ventures. It yielded a small income but that didn't concern him. Anything he earned as a priest was returned to the parish in the form of donations to the poor and incentives to those who could further the cause.

  The cause fired Richard with passion. He'd heard endless sermons about Christ's suffering on the cross. Nothing stirred him more than the suffering and indignity inflicted on ordinary people who were condemned to a lowly station because of their humble birth.

  When Adam delved and Eve span who was then the gentleman?

  He had repeated the words a million times. They were the rallying call of all true believers. Radical preachers had gone to the stake for saying them out loud. Women had been burnt as witches. Richard said them under his breath. He had no time for people who made martyrs of themselves. His hero was the death-watch beetle that invaded huge structures and gnawed away in silence.

  He had invented a family coat of arms. It consisted of a shield with bar sinister in blood red. Beetles occupied two quadrants and the heads of monks, barons and bishops made up the rest of the composition.

  On that pleasant Easter afternoon, Richard Vowell, the priest, was transformed into Dick Vowell, the old soldier. He'd discarded his surplice and was attired in a way fitting for a former archer: flared boots of soft leather, green stockings, padded jerkin and red tunic. The shaved, bald pate, on the top of his head was the only sign of his clerical commitments.

  Cheap Street was the market street. It was where the shopkeepers had their businesses. Narrow at the bottom, it widened towards the town green where there was ample space for stalls and entertainers. A troop of mummers was performing a passion play outside the Julian Inn when Richard got there and a band of pipers was playing outside the George Inn.

  The English marched to the wail of pipes and the familiar sound stirred memories in Richard's soul. For a moment he was transported back to a muddy battlefiel
d in northern France. Then the sound of tapping shook him from his reverie. A tinker was sitting beside a brazier, surrounded by pots and pans. Richard sneaked up behind him.

  'Lollard Heretic!'

  He grabbed the man by the neck.

  'I summon you to appear before the halimote to answer charges of treason and sedition brought against you by our lord bishop.'

  The tinker swung round ... then his features relaxed.

  'Holy Mother. You had me thinking you was for real.'

  Richard released his hold.

  'Have you got 'em, Tink?'

  'What?'

  'The papers.'

  'They're in here,' the tinker tapped a wooden box.

  'Any trouble?'

  'Nah. I found a monk who was down on his luck.'

  'Where was that?'

  'In York ... so the English is a bit odd. But it's not as odd as what we got from Durham.'

  'That wasn't just odd.' Richard pulled a face. 'It was like a foreign language. The holy sod should have left it in Latin. Then I could've borrowed the vicar's lexicon and worked it out for myself.'

  'You might need a lexicon for some of this.' The tinker opened the box and removed a sheaf of papers. 'Whenever the reverend brother couldn't understand something he left it in the original.'

  Richard took the papers and examined them one by one.

  'What did you pay?'

  'That's my secret, Master Vowell. What I paid is of no importance. What matters is what you're going to give me for them.'

  Richard puckered his lips.

  'Nine pence for the lot.'

  'Master Vowell.' A pained expression appeared on the tinker's face. 'I cannot accept such a paltry sum.'

  Richard continued to shuffle the papers.

  'The handwriting's none too good.'

  'Master Vowell. You have in your hands the gospels according to the saintly Paul. They are in the English tongue. You can discourse on them with learned friars ... cause the reverend gentlemen think you understand Latin.'

  Richard nodded thoughtfully.