by Mike Dixon
'That's something for the bailiffs.'
'They're abed and asleep.' Mathew reached for a lantern. 'We must go and see what is happening.'
'Shouldn't we call the bailiffs?'
'We can't do that until we know there is a problem. They're not like us. They don't work for nothing. They get paid every time they're called out.'
He raised the lantern and John followed him downstairs, past the ablution block and into the cloister. It was a cold night and their sandals crunched on the gravel. John hung back and glanced over his shoulder as Mathew unlocked the door leading into the abbey.
'Can you see anything?'
'Villains!' He closed the door. 'They're trying to steal the font.'
John crossed himself.
'We must call the bailiffs.'
'You are right, Brother.' Mathew began to shake. 'Walter Gallor is the nearest. He has his lodging above his slaughterhouse. We must go to him at once.'
Chapter 6
Might is Right
Canon William Bradford waited outside the abbot's chamber. The door was ajar and he could hear the chaplain conducting morning prayers. He couldn't see the abbot but knew he would be propped up in bed, swathed in warm quilts, fumbling his rosary with swollen fingers. A sickly aroma hung in the air. An infusion of fenugreek, stale sweat and other bodily excretions. William knew it from visits to the sick and dying. It was an old man's smell ... the smell of death.
The chaplain reached the end of the service. William heard the bed creak and guessed the abbot was making use of his commode as he always did after prayers. A bell rang and a woman went into the chamber. She left with a pot covered by a linen cloth. William decided that the morning ritual was complete and he could now enter.
'Pray be seated.'
Abbot Brunyng indicated a bench. For twenty years, he had stamped his will on Sherborne. One of his greatest achievements was the rebuilding of the abbey which was falling apart. The cost was staggering but his will prevailed. Now he hardly had the strength to pick up a small bowl. He coughed and black phlegm splattered the silver surface. William guessed there would soon be an election for a new abbot.
'Did you question the bailiff?'
'I saw Walter Gallor in his yard,' William replied.
'Did he confirm what Brother Mathew said?'
'He did, Father. Four ruffians were trying to drag the font into All hallows. Three spoke Welsh. The other was a Lollard tinker.'
'This is serious.'
'Aye, Father. And it didn't happen by accident.'
'How do you know?'
'Master Mason Hulle came to me. His son was climbing on the scaffolding, playing with a friend as boys will. They saw one of the parishioners use a rope to pull the platform down. The priest, Richard Vowell, was involved.'
'Can you vouch for what Master Hulle said?'
'Aye, Father. He told me he'd thrash his son to within an inch of his life if he thought the boy was lying.'
'He's a good man, that mason,' Abbot Brunyng coughed. 'He does good work and knows where his loyalties lie.'
'He does, Father, and so does the butcher. Walter Gallor has informers ... people he can trust. They told him Vowell spent the evening in the Julian with the Lollard tinker and some Welsh archers.'
'Plotting something, no doubt.'
'Aye, to steal the font. And there's more. Earlier in the day, Gallor saw Alice de Lambert speaking to the tinker.'
'Who's she?'
'The new matron of the almshouse. She came here from the convent at Shaftsbury. I have it on good authority that the local people regarded her as a witch. The sisters were glad to see the last of her.'
'Do you think she is one of them ... I mean that tinker and the other Lollards?'
'I do, Father.'
'William,' Abbot Brunyng clutched his rosary. 'This is taxing me beyond my mortal strength. You must take whatever measures you see fit.'
***
Alice placed a hand on William's knee. The boy was astride his horse and holding onto the saddle with both hands. The colour had returned to his cheeks but he looked weak and drowsy.
'Keep your head covered and ride slowly,' she said. 'Your father has the potion I prepared. It is made from the milk of the poppy and will take away the pain. You are allowed two measures a day ... no more.'
'Thank you, Sister.'
'You are a very fortunate boy, William. If there had been nothing to break your fall, you wouldn't be with us now.'
'We must thank God for that.'
She heard Harald Gascoigne's voice.
'He watches over us,' she replied automatically.
'And he sent his guardian angel.'
'Guardian angel? I don't know what you're talking about, Sir Harald.'
'We couldn't have managed without you, Sister.'
'I'm sure you would,' Alice looked embarrassed. 'The brothers would have administered proper care.'
'They sent for you, Sister.'
Her cheeks grew red as he continued.
'I owe you a deep debt of gratitude.'
'Sir Harald ... I don't know what you are talking about.'
'You have been a guardian angel to us, Sister.'
Alice gathered up the skirt of her gown and prepared to leave.
'I must bid you farewell.' She sounded flustered.
'Can't you tarry a while?'
'No ... there are pressing duties at the almshouse.'
Harald tried to find words and stuttered.
'God be with you, Sister.'
She turned and saw the pained expression on his face.
'God be with you, Sir Harald.'
***
They travelled at walking pace. Harald was in no hurry. He wanted to collect his thoughts before plunging into the trials and tribulations that awaited him back at the manor. He'd never wanted to be a country squire. His ambition was to be a priest or lawyer but his parents had other plans. Like most of their class, the Gascoignes ran the family as a business. Marriage alliances were the cornerstones of power and they expected total obedience from their children.
At sixteen, he had been betrothed to eleven-year-old Judith Knowles. The marriage was postponed for two years until the girl was judged to be of suitable age and Harald had finished his studies at Oxford. Another two passed before she became pregnant with William. Some said they had waited so long for a son and heir because twenty-year-old Harald had been slow in taking up his conjugal rights. Others went so far as to claim that his fourteen-year-old brother, Guy, had been called upon to perform the service.
Judith died in childbirth and Harald still felt pangs of guilt over her death. He'd confessed to a feeling of relief when he received news of her passing and had done penance for it. He'd never liked the girl. It wasn't just her silly, childish ways. She was vain and headstrong. He'd tried to teach her to read but Judith had no time for learning. She did, however, have time for Guy. In his darkest moments Harald wondered if William was Guy's son.
His thoughts returned to Alice. She had nothing in common with the female members of his family. His mother and his aunts could scarcely read and their knowledge of the world was confined to the petty jealousies of the shire. Alice was gentle and caring. She spoke Latin and French and was conversant with the writings of the saints and the authors of antiquity. They had talked together for a long time while they were keeping watch over William. Harald said he would call on her services again when William's stiches needed to be removed. He wondered what other excuses he could find.
***
Alice changed into her matron's gown and took her place at the head of the table. She said grace, broke bread and tried to concentrate on what she was doing. Her mind was on other things. At twenty-eight years of age, a man had entered her life. She had blushed when he'd called her an angel and turned away lest he see her confusion.
The Gascoignes lived in a place called Wolf Wood. Sir William and his son, Guy, were fierce campaigners in the war with France and had a reputation for brutality. A
lice had assumed that the entire family was like them. Now she knew she was wrong. It was like picking up a coin and finding a demon on one side and a saint on the other. Harald was a cultured, sensitive man. She thought how different life might have been if their families had been better acquainted.
Her aristocratic parents borrowed large sums of money to buy land. It was an unwise move and her father had to find a way out. His solution was to promise his baby son to the daughter of a rich merchant. The boy was twelve years younger than the girl. Conjugal bliss didn't come into it. One family needed to stave off bankruptcy and the other wanted to join the land-owning aristocracy.
The merchant cancelled her father's debts. Two years later, her parents died and her five-year-old bother was put through a form of marriage ceremony with his seventeen-year-old bride. The merchant was now her guardian and she was an unwanted guest in her former home. Fortunately, her predicament did not go unnoticed. The Abbess of Shaftesbury took Alice under her wing. She went to live with the sisters and received an excellent education.
At the age of nineteen, she contemplated taking holy orders. Again fate intervened. Two requirements had to be met. One was a proven dedication to the life of religious contemplation. The other was a financial contribution to the upkeep of the establishment. Alice was uncertain about the first and knew she lacked the second. With nowhere to go, she remained at the convent but not as a full member.
Like many others living there her role was that of a servant. The lay sisters, as they were called, came from different backgrounds and had different reason for entering a religious house. Often it was the dangers of childbirth. Better to die a virgin than bleed to death in agony. Alice had heard that many times but did not agree. As a younger woman, she'd longed for a child at her breast. Last night that longing was rekindled. She wondered if it was not too late.
Chapter 7
Wolf Wood
Harald Gascoigne grabbed his son's horse. William was standing in his stirrups and looked ready to take on the world. His brother, Guy, said that was a natural reaction to injury. Some force propelled you to take an aggressive stance.
'We're back!'
The boy yelled at the top of his voice and Harald tried to calm him.
'Sister Alice told you to stay quiet.'
At the mention of Alice's name, William sank back.
'Sorry. I forgot.' He turned to Harald. 'She is a beautiful lady. I think my mother was like her.'
'She was indeed.' Harald grasped the boy's hand and lied. 'Your mother was beautiful and caring.'
'William!'
He heard his mother's voice and saw her descending the stairway that ran down the outside of the old house from her private suite of rooms. She rushed to William's side.
'Godfrey said you'd been hurt. He said you fell off a wall.'
'I fell of a pulpitum.'
'A what?'
'A pulpitum, Grandmother. It's part of the abbey. But I'm all right now. Sister Alice stitched me back and I'm going to Dorchester to get my arm checked out. It's my sword arm so it's important it gets done properly or I won't be able to go to France with Grandfather and Uncle Guy …'
William babbled on and Harald led the horses to the stable. The yard squelched under his feet. Piles of hay lay about, wasting in the rain. He took his seeing glasses from their pouch and looked around disapprovingly.
After only three days' absence the signs of neglect were everywhere. When the cat's away the mice do play. He muttered under his breath and headed for the hall. Half-a-dozen young men were lounging about half-dressed ... and they had a girl with them.
'Who are you?'
He strode in and bellowed at her.
'I'm the new serving maid, Sire.'
The young woman dropped a bundle of clothes and shuffled backwards.
'No, you're not. I've never seen you before.' Harald pointed his riding crop at the door. 'Get out. Go back to where you belong.'
He turned on the boys.
'Get to work.'
The girl scuttled off and the boys followed her into the yard. Harald walked around, peering behind partitions and turning over bedding to see if there were anymore girls hiding there. The place smelt as if an army had passed through. Scraps of bread littered the floor. The table was sticky with beer and garments were strewn everywhere. He looked for items of female attire and found none.
The contrast with John Baret's house couldn't be more striking. John had chimneys and his servants kept the place clean. Harald's father believed chimneys were for weaklings. Real men warmed themselves by an open fire. There was one burning at the end of the hall, adding to the grime. The wood was damp and a cloud of smoke billowed above it, blackening the wall before escaping through a louvered turret in the roof.
A fine Arras tapestry hung on the opposite wall. His brother had brought it back from France as loot. It once graced the walls of a guildhall in Rouen and had been seized when the English retook the city. Harald wanted it moved to a place of safety. Guy wouldn't hear of it. For him the tapestry was not a work of art. It was a war trophy and belonged in the family hall. Harald hoped that, one day, he would be able to return it to its rightful owners.
He hated the war. His own ancestors came to England from Gascony in the reign of Edward I. In those far off days, the people of that region didn't think of themselves as French any more than the Welsh and Cornish thought of themselves as English. Their allegiance was to their province and their lord. They were proud that their lord was King of England. That didn't make them feel subservient to the English ... quite the contrary.
Now things were different. The people of England had adopted a haughty attitude towards the people of France. And the people of France had started to think of themselves as French. Joan of Arc had shown the way. The French king couldn't unite them but the peasant girl did. Men flocked to her banner. Seven years ago, they inflicted a crushing defeat on the English at Orleans.
His mother disturbed his thoughts.
'Why did you tell that girl to go away?'
'What girl?'
'The one you told to leave.'
'I don't approve of debauchery, Mother.'
'Harald, I've just hired that wench.' She gave him the disapproving look that had never failed to intimidate him as a child. 'I told her to go into the hall and collect the clothes for washing. The next thing I know is you've dismissed her.'
'I'm sorry.' Harald's face flushed. 'I didn't realise …'
'You had the poor girl in tears.'
'I shall explain to her …'
'No. Harald. You stay away from my servants. I'm in charge of this house. You're responsible for the estate.'
She reached inside a small bag that hung from her girdle and removed a folded sheet of paper. 'This came from your father while you were away. He wants to know what you're doing about William's inheritance.'
'The matter is before the courts, Mother.'
'The courts!' Margery Gascoigne looked as if she was about to explode. 'You're playing into their hands. Your father wouldn't tolerate such nonsense ... nor would your brother.'
'It is a matter of law, Mother. Everything depends on the marriage contract.'
'The contract was drawn up on very good advice.'
'Yes, Mother. You were told to insert a clause about the male heir being a true and legitimate progeny.'
'We had good reason. Everyone knows about the Knowles. They have the breeding habits of field mice. We had to make sure the inheritance went to a true Gascoigne ... not to the offspring of some casual dalliance.'
'They're bringing up the clause against us.'
'I am aware of that, Harald. They're saying Guy is William's father. I can't see the problem ... Guy is a Gascoigne.'
'The problem is in the meaning of the words true and legitimate.' Harald laboured to get the point across. 'We have to show that there can be no reasonable doubt that William is my son. Otherwise the terms of the contract are breached and Judith's dowry must be retu
rned to her family.'
'How are you going to do that?' Margery bore down on him. 'You'll spend a fortune in lawyers' fees. I just wish your brother were here. Guy would teach those Knowles a thing or two.'
Chapter 8
God's House
A strong wind gusted across the abbey green and blew in the faces of the archers. Richard Vowell watched them bend their bows. They had to take account of the difficult conditions and were doing well. Richard felt pleased. As a recruiting agent, he could expect a substantial fee if he managed to place them with the Earl of Huntingdon for the war in France.
This was a full training session. He and the men were attired in the sort of gear they would wear in combat. He reached for his whistle and was about to blow it when a familiar figure raced towards him.
'Dickie. They're stealing our door.'
Thomas Draper reached his side, red-faced and out of breath. Richard peered at him quizzically.
'What you going on about, Tom?'
'They've barred the south door to keep people out. You'd better come and see.'
They entered All Hallows through a side door. Richard usually found it crowded. The chapel wasn't just a place for worship. It was the centre of community life. Men met to discuss business. Women gathered for mutual support. It was impossible to separate religion from everyday life.
'Christ Almighty!'
In the space of a few hours, workmen had totally remade the processional doorway. A new arch had been inserted inside the old arch and a new door was already in place. The vicar and the sacrist were there with Bailiff Walter Gallor.
'Sod you!'
Richard strode towards them, looking more like a soldier on the rampage than a priest of All Hallows. A steel helmet covered his bald pate and a sword hung from his belt.
'That's our door. You leave it alone.'
'You are mistaken, Master Vowell.' The sacrist peered timidly from behind Walter. 'The processional door is an integral part of the abbey nave.'
'You're telling me they built a church that was open at one end.' Richard's face reddened.
'The east end of All Hallows abuts the west end of the abbey nave,' the sacrist tried to explain. 'It was built as a chapel of ease.'