by Mike Dixon
'Ten pence. Not a penny more.'
'Master Vowell. Think of the poor brother whose noble hand graces these fine pages. Imagine his anguish as he works by candlelight in his monastic cell, fearful of the terrible penalties that await those who translate the Holy Scriptures into the common tongue.'
'Eleven pence ... that's my final offer.'
'Master Vowell. Consider the risk I and my associates ran to bring these priceless treasures to you.'
'I said that was my final offer.'
Richard returned the papers to the box and walked away.
'A shilling.' The tinker ran after him. 'You can have 'em for a shilling.'
'Done.'
Richard pressed a silver coin into the tinker's hand.
'There you are, Tink ... a deal between gentlemen.'
The tinker placed the coin on his tongue and examined the edges. Satisfied that it had not been trimmed and tasted right, he put the coin in his pouch.
'You're an honest man, Master Vowell.'
Richard slipped the papers inside his jerkin.
'What do you think they do to a monk who's caught translating holy writ into the vulgar tongue?'
'Dunno,' the tinker held up his left hand. 'Perhaps they cut off his writing fingers, like what the Frogs did to mine.'
Richard examined the gap where two fingers were missing. As a young man, the tinker had used them to draw a bowstring at Agincourt and other battles against the French.
'Why did you say you were left-handed?'
'I didn't. When you're captured, they make you draw a bow. If they think you're faking, they take 'em off both hands so there's no mistake.'
'At least they let you go. If you'd been a lord you could be rotting in a dungeon while your relatives raised a ransom.'
'Yeah,' the tinker nodded. 'They're not all bad ... the Frogs. They just made it so I couldn't draw a bow no more. They could've killed me.'
'Most of them are alright,' Richard agreed. 'It's the nobles I can't stand ... just like those arseholes we've got here.'
He tapped the tinker's arm.
'Watch out. The bailiffs are here. Walter Gallor and some little runt I've not seen before. I'm going up to the green before they see me ... Owen's here for the fair.'
***
Owen Ap-Richard leant on his longbow and addressed the crowd in his strong Welsh voice. He wore a stylish costume from Bordeaux, where he had served with a company of archers. Like Richard, he was showing signs of age and had decided to leave fighting to younger men.
'Four shots for a farthing.'
He pointed to four wooden heads.
'One hit wins you a fine ribbon for your lady's hair. Hit all four and she'll be taking home a kerchief fit for a queen.'
The heads were on a stand beside the chapel of Saint Thomas on the green. Owen gestured towards them.
'There you are, my fine sirs, four of the most treacherous and deceitful rogues in all of Christendom.'
An arrow hit one head but failed to knock it over.
Owen turned to the crowd.
'Our good friend is out to avenge the treachery of the vile Duke of Burgundy who has allied himself with our young king's enemies.'
The next shot hit the duke's helm and the head fell onto the ground. A boy of about sixteen put it back and another handed a ribbon to the triumphant archer.
Richard stepped forward and gave the archers' salute.
'You're looking fit, Owen.'
'I can't complain, Dickie.' Owen returned the salute. 'I've got my health and I'm making a good living from the fairs.'
'Who are the boys?'
'The big lad is my son Gareth and the other is my sister's. I'm hoping to place them with Guy Gascoigne when he comes recruiting next.'
Richard pointed at the head that had just been knocked over. 'You said he was the Duke of Burgundy?'
'That's right, boyo.'
'He looks more like the Duke of Surrey to me.'
'There is a resemblance,' Owen agreed.
'And the bishop?'
'He's the Bishop of Reims.'
'I'd say he looks more like Cardinal Beaufort.'
'You mean the Henry Beaufort who is uncle to our young king and a prominent member of the Royal Council?' Owen surveyed the head. 'Yes. I must agree. There is a slight resemblance.'
'Here.' Richard produced a penny. 'I'll give you this for four shots.'
'No you won't, boyo.' Owen pushed his hand away. 'I'll not have you take that kerchief off me. It's the only one I've got.'
'I don't want your kerchief.' Richard surveyed the heads. 'I'll make a bargain. If I don't bring 'em all down, I'll pay for drinks in the Julian ... otherwise, you pay.'
Chapter 4
Harald
The infirmary was to the east of the abbey and separated from the other monastic buildings by a lawn. Harald Gascoigne followed the black-robed monk up a flight of stairs into a room lined with beds. Injury and sickness always depressed him, particularly when a member of his family was involved.
'Your son has been taken to the dispensary,' the monk said. 'Brother Arnold is in Dorchester and Sister Alice has been called. She is a most loving and caring lady, skilled in the art of healing.'
Harald smelt the tang of medicinal herbs and saw vapours issuing from behind a door.
'Sister Alice is the new matron of the almshouse,' the monk continued. 'She came as soon as she heard about the nature of the injuries.'
Nature of the injuries!
Harald shuddered. He'd hoped it wasn't serious but they'd called in someone special. He entered a room and saw William lying on a padded table. The boy's head was swathed in bandages and his arm strapped to a wooden splint. A woman in a nun's habit bent over him. He expected someone in middle age. When she looked up he saw she was younger than himself.
'Sir Harald, thank you for coming.'
He couldn't imagine doing otherwise.
'Your son has had a bad fall and is suffering from concussion.'
Her voice was that of a well-educated woman.
'I have examined his pupils and there is no sign of dilation. Nor is there any discharge from the ears. There appears to be no fracture of the skull but we must remain vigilant.'
She started to roll back the bandages.
'His scalp is badly cut and will need immediate stitching.'
Harald saw bare bone and thanked God for people like Sister Alice. In an emergency like this he was totally useless. His father and brother wallowed in blood and gore. They'd made him physically sick with stories about eyes protruding from heads and blood squirting from severed limbs. The thought of William taking up arms and joining them in France was horrifying. His ambition was for his son to attend university and become a priest or lawyer.
'I am using a suture of my own preparation.'
She took a pair of tweezers and removed a needle and thread from a pot of steaming liquid. Harald looked the other way. His son was unconscious so he wasn't in pain. That was a consolation. But what if he remained in a coma? Such things happened following a blow to the head. Sister Alice said there was no sign of a fractured skull. That didn't mean there wasn't one. Liquids could be building up inside. What would they do then? Harald doubted if there was anyone in all of Dorset who had the skill to pierce the skull and release the pressure.
She returned her scissors to their case.
'I have sutured the wound and applied clean bandages. It should heal within about three weeks. The stitches must then be removed. I shall do so if you wish. In the meantime, I advise you to take William to see Brother Arnold in Dorchester. He is better qualified than I and his opinion should be sought, both on the injury to the head and the broken arm.'
Harald noted that William's right arm was broken. His son referred to it as his sword arm.
'Brother Luke has set the bones and is concerned that this type of break can cause deformities in later life.'
A deformed sword arm didn't seem such a bad thing to Harald. Hi
s poor eyesight had saved him from the Gascoigne obsession with fighting. Pen and paper were more to his liking than sword and shield. He felt more at home with farmers and business people than with his own family. He often wished he could break loose from them.
Chapter 5
The Julian
A sign above the entrance of the Julian Inn depicted a buxom woman with rouged cheeks, claimed to be a likeness of Saint Juliana. Richard Vowell blew her a kiss as he went inside.
'Look who's here?'
He was greeted with shouts of applause. Men with ruddy complexions and women with children reached out as he squeezed past.
'You taught 'em a lesson, Dick.'
'That's right,' a woman shouted. 'Dick farted and the monks came tumbling down. They'll be nursing their bums for weeks.'
The peasants sang a song about a monk and a milkmaid. Richard waited until they reached the verse where the monk climbed into a barrel then made his way to a table crammed with pewter mugs. Owen Ap-Richard was there with his boys and a dozen others, including the tinker. Owen picked up a bladder of wine.
'We've been saving this for you, Dickie.'
Richard fingered the limp offering. 'You've not been saving it. You've been drinking it.' He looked around the table.
'What's this then ... an Agincourt reunion?'
'There's only seven of us,' Owen said.
'Yeah ... but you would have cut a hundred French throats between you.'
'Noble throats,' the tinker interjected. 'We wouldn't have done it if they'd been commons.'
'You speak for yourself, boyo.'
Owen groped under the table and produced another wineskin.
'The Frogs were preparing to counterattack. If I thought my prisoners would stab me in the back, I'd slit their bloody throats whoever they were.'
'That's not what your nobles did,' the tinker reached for the wineskin. 'When King Harry gave the order they refused.'
'I know, boyo. They wanted to ransom them.'
'That's not the reason,' the tinker squirted wine into his mug. 'They refused because they recognised them nobles as their foul brothers ... oppressors of the common folk.'
Owen considered the point. 'I'll grant you they were a bit upset when we did it for them.'
'They weren't just upset ... they was scared.'
The tinker looked from face to face.
'They saw us commoners ... seventeen-year-old lads like what we were then ... slitting the throats of great lords. That frightened them because they knew if we could do it in France, we could do it back here.'
'Like with Wat Tyler,' someone said.
'Aye, Brother, like with Wat Tyler. Our grandfathers showed us the way. They could've taken London and freed their young king from the evil influence of the earls and barons but they was betrayed. They was told their just demands was agreed to and they could return home but that was just a wicked lie …'
Heads turned towards the tinker as he ranted on. Richard glanced outside and saw the glint of steel. Men-at-arms were gathering in front of the inn. He recognised their uniforms.
'Shut up!'
He glared at the tinker.
'Sir Humphrey Stafford, Lady Margaret Gough and half the sodding shire are here for the ceremonial handover of the Julian to the almshouse. Anymore of your chatter and we'll have ourselves arrested for sedition.'
***
The tinker held the lantern and Owen struggled with the key. They had come down to All Hallows with the intention of sleeping there. It was the middle of the night and the monks had just returned to their beds following the matins service.
'Boyo. Come and see if you can get this thing to open.' Owen shouted to Gareth who was relieving himself against the abbey wall. 'It's the key Dickie Vowell gave us. I can't get it to turn.'
Gareth adjusted his clothing and walked across.
'Are you sure you've got the right key?'
'Like I said, it's the one we got from Dickie.'
Gareth tried the key and it worked first time.
'You're pissed ... that's your problem.'
He pushed at the door and it swung open. Candles burnt on the Easter Sepulchre and on the altar. Owen squeezed past and fell on his knees.
'It's here somewhere.'
He groped beneath the alter and retrieved a flask.
'Here you are. This is what the gentility is served at Mass. The best Bordeaux ... not the rabbits' piss we poor sods get given.'
He handed the flask to the tinker.
'Wrap yourself around that, Tink. Blood of Christ. A present from our good friend Dickie Vowell.'
The remark brought an immediate response from the tinker. 'Doest thou truly believe that the wine has become the blood of our dear Lord Jesus?'
'That's what they say,' Owen grinned mischievously. 'The priest blesses the wine and bread and they become the blood and flesh of Jesus.'
'Foul Blasphemy.' The tinker raised his hands to heaven, spilling wine on his tunic. 'Wouldst thou have us believe that our Lord's father was a vintner and his mother a baker?'
Owen grabbed the flask before more was lost.
'The wine remains wine and the bread remains bread. No words of a priest will change that. Hast thou not heard the teachings of the wise John Wycliffe who repudiated the foul doctrine of transubstantiation? Hast thou not read his learned denunciation of papal authority? It was the brave Wycliffe who dared translate the Holy Scriptures into the common tongue. It was he who sent out preachers to tell the people of the tyranny that oppresses them …'
The tinker ranted on and Gareth wandered off. Tink's English was difficult to understand at the best of times and hadn't improved with the drink. He took a candle from the altar and went to the porch where his cousin, David, was examining a niche in the wall.
'Take a look at that.'
David splashed something wet at him.
'Have you found more wine?'
'No. I've found Holy Water. You can get good money for that. There was a woman at the fair. She was selling it at a penny for just a little bottle. It'll cure warts and it's good for the flux. See if you can find something to put it in.'
Owen appeared by the boy's side.'
'What are you crapping on about?'
'Holy Water, Uncle. We can put it in bottles and sell it.'
'Don't be daft.' Owen pulled a face. 'It has to be in special bottles and you have to get a priest to write on it.'
'We could get Dickie Vowell to do that.'
'Don't waste your time, boyo. There's much better to be had. They've been working on the roof. There'll be lead all over the place. We'll have no trouble selling that.'
Owen opened the processional door and staggered into the abbey nave. The tinker followed, lost his footing on the steps, lurched forward and crashed against the baptismal font at the bottom. David raised his candle.
'Have a look at that.'
'What, boyo?'
'The font. It rocked when the tinker hit it. We could take it away. Find a church that doesn't have one and sell it to them.'
'Where we going to find a church like that?'
'All Hallows doesn't have a font.'
'Don't be daft, boyo. It already belongs to them.'
'So what's it doing in here?'
'The monks took it.'
'Verily.' The tinker staggered to his feet. 'The foul brethren of this accursed Benedictine abbey stole the ancestral font of the good people of Sherborne. The Lord God has brought us here to right a great wrong.'
Owen grabbed the little man by his tunic.
'What you going on about?'
'We can return what was wrongly taken.'
'You mean take the font back into All Hallows?'
'Aye, Brother.'
Owen considered the proposal. It had merit but there were serious logistical problems. As a young man, in the service of King Henry, he would have shrugged them off. In late middle age, he wasn't so confident of his ability to transport large pieces of masonry.
'Remember Caen?'
'What's that got to do with it?'
'They said we'd never get the cannons up the hill but Dickie Vowell wouldn't listen. He found some block and tackle and we gave the Frogs the surprise of their lives.'
'You're right,' Owen's face brightened. 'There's bound to be some lying around.' He turned to the boys. 'See if you can find some of that lifting gear. The masons will be using it on the tower.'
Gareth ran off and David followed. Shafts of moonlight streamed through holes in the roof of the tower, illuminating the belfry and the scaffolding below.
'Take a look at that,' Gareth pointed upwards.
David craned his neck. 'I can't see nothing. There's all those poles and things in the way.'
'That's what I'm talking about, boyo. That's what it looks like ... poles and wheels and things.'
He ran to a ladder and David followed. They climbed like drunken monkeys, going from one ladder to another until they reached a wooden platform.
David looked around. 'I can't see none of those wheel things.'
'What wheel things?'
'Those block and tackle wheel things.'
Gareth couldn't either but he could see some ropes. He jumped up and grabbed one. David grabbed another. The ropes sank and rose again. They pulled a second time and the result was deafening. The scaffolding shook with the din and the boys collapsed in a heap laughing.
***
In the monastic dormitory, Brother Mathew jerked into life. He'd just fallen asleep, following a tiresome matins service. The sudden noise came as a severe shock to his system. He struggled from his bed and went to where Brother John was lying.'
'Did you hear that?'
'What?' John pretended to be asleep.
'The abbey bells ... someone's ringing the bells.'
'Are you sure?'
'I heard them distinctly.'
'There's nothing now.'
'That's because they've stopped.'
'So there's nothing to worry about.' John buried his head in the hood of his gown and tried to return to his slumbers. Mathew shook him.
'We've got to do something.'
'There's nothing to be done.'
'Yes, there is. We're responsible for security.'