by Mike Dixon
'Those are words those are.'
He leant over and smudged the page with his sleeve.
'Oh. Words gone.'
The clerk tried again and his inkpot was overturned. Roger Knowles jumped to his feet.
'Gascoigne. Order your man off.'
'Why should I? He's committing no offence.'
'He is behaving in a violent manner.'
'I saw no violence.'
'He upturned my clerk's ink.'
'I saw your clerk knock it over himself …'
The two men continued to argue. Robin glanced round the barn. He was there to disrupt the proceedings but use no violence. The mole thought you could do anything by talking. At first it had worked. He'd scared Roger with his talk about Sir Humphrey and the King's Peace. But Roger had a short memory. As the mole continued to produce legal arguments, he looked like he was going to explode.
'There is, ipso facto, no sound basis …'
The mole's excursion into Latin sparked the bang.
'Get him out of here!'
Roger pointed at Robin and two men grabbed him from behind. He decided to go quietly. The barn was no place for a fight. Bystanders might get hurt. He shuffled his feet and was dragged outside. As he expected, the hitching rail was empty.
'What's happened to our horses?'
'They've been confiscated.'
'I'm not going until you give them back.'
Robin sank down on his haunches. It was a trick he'd learnt from Guy. Let them think you were a useless, whimpering kid. It wouldn't enter their stupid heads that you were out to maim them.
'Move!'
They yanked at his shoulders and Robin hurled himself up. One man was head-butted and bit his tongue. The other was kneed in the groin. A third suffered a flesh wound from Robin's dirk. The barn emptied and people scattered. Their only casualty was the mole whose nose was bleeding. His main concern was for his eyeglasses that had been trampled underfoot.
***
Robin displayed his new sword proudly. They were in the Julian with the usual crowd. Richard was there with Betty and so were Thomas Draper and John Tucker. The sword had been taken from one of Roger Knowles' men and Robin was giving a blow-by-blow account of his heroism.
'He looked real surprised when I nipped him with my blade. He thought I'd come unarmed.'
Thomas Draper grinned across the table.
'The mole would have been a bit surprised too. He'd never have guessed you had that dirk strapped under your arm.'
'Jonnie Baret wasn't. He saw I had it.'
Thomas nodded. 'He's all right, that Jonnie ... knows a thing or two.'
Betty tapped Richard's arm. 'You listen to what Tom says. I've always said Master Baret is a good sort ... no matter what you might think.'
Richard turned towards the door. An old woman was standing there with a tray of spring flowers. She was poorly dressed and seemed hesitant. He beckoned her to the table.
'Primroses and cowslips for you and your ladies.'
She placed some bunches before them.
'All picked with my own hands from God's own garden.'
Richard produced a silver coin.
She stared in amazement.
'Sorry, Reverence ... I don't have no change.'
Richard squeezed the coin into her hand. 'Keep it and God be with you.'
The old woman made the Sign of the Cross and shuffled backwards, touching her forehead and bowing.
'God bless you ... God bless Your Reverence.'
She reached the door and Richard called after her.
'Remember ... don't give it to any old friar who wants to sell you absolution. He'll only spend it on wine.'
'Yes ... I'll remember.'
She touched her forehead and vanished.
Richard handed round the flowers.
Betty put hers in a basket. 'I'll give them to Sister Alice when I go to the almshouse for our meeting.'
'What meeting?'
'It's for the midwives ... You're not invited.'
'I thought the almshouse was for old people.'
'It's for the poor and needy ... That's what Alice says.'
'Struth! Has she told Richie Rochell that?'
'Master Rochell approves and so does Master Baret.'
'Hmm …' Richard split the ends of the primroses and started to make a flower chain. 'What are you going to talk about at your meeting?'
'Babies and how they get born.'
'I thought a big bird brought them.'
'You're a man ... you would say that.'
Betty adjusted her girdle.
'You don't know anything about the suffering a mother has to go through. There was a young girl this morning. Her poor little child was delivered before time and she knew it wouldn't live. She was distraught. She thought its soul wouldn't be received into the Kingdom of Heaven because there was no priest there to baptise it. Alice said you didn't need a priest. She said anyone could do it if the child looked like it was going to die.'
Thomas Draper leant forward
'What happened then?'
'Alice did it. She didn't even immerse the infant ... just made the Holy Sign and spoke the Holy Words. She said them in English. You don't need Latin because God speaks all languages. He'll understand no matter what one you use ... That's what Alice says.'
'She's one of us,' Thomas was ecstatic. 'The Good Lord sent her to dwell amongst us.'
'The child was dead when she baptised it,' Betty added. 'The brothers say it has to be alive. Alice says you have to think about the mother. You can't just cast her baby aside like it's worth nothing. God wouldn't do that ... and He doesn't need no monk to tell Him what to do.'
'The Lord be praised.'
Thomas threw out his arms and Richard continued to thread the primroses. Religion bored him. People spoke such drivel when they got passionate. Thomas was one of them. He didn't understand that religion was about power. Abbot Brunyng and Bishop Neville knew that.
Thomas drivelled on, wandering from one topic to another like a drunken horse on a blind date. Richard grew increasingly irritated. He'd heard it all before ... speaking direct to the Lord ... speaking your own words in your own tongue and not needing a priest. Sometimes he thought they were trying to do him out of a job. He banged on the table.
'They've taken our font. They've narrowed our door. They're trying to smoke us out. We have to decide what to do.'
'What you going on about?' Betty said.
'They've got Wat Gallor lighting fires in the nave. He's boiling up bones ... making glue ... it stinks to high heaven.'
'It's because of the bells,' Thomas said. 'Every time we ring 'em, Walter boils up more glue. He says he'll stop if we do.'
'That's the last sodding thing we'll do!' Richard clenched his fist. 'If your enemies get threatening, you up the stakes. At Caen, when the Frogs catapulted the heads of our supporters into our camp, we sent back two of theirs for every one we got ... then three ... then four.'
Betty looked up from her platter.
'I hope you're not planning anything like that.'
'Not with heads,' Richard agreed.
'So why did you bring it up? You're always telling us not to waste time with things that don't matter.'
'I was looking for ideas.'
John Tucker raised a hand.
'How about we finish the job they started?'
'What job?'
'They narrowed the processional door and put the font where it's nigh impossible to use. So, why don't we fill in the door ... make All Hallows separate from the abbey?'
'Very clever, Master Tucker. Now tell us how we're going to do baptismals if we can't get into the abbey. They've barred the abbey door and you want us to block off the other one.'
'We could get our own font.'
The woman beside John looked alarmed. 'The bishop has forbid it. You'll get us excommunicated.'
'The bish has told us we can't take the old font into All Hallows,' John replied. 'He
's not said anything about a new one. I know a mason who would do a good job at the right price.'
***
John Baret sifted through a batch of paper. The sheets bore the watermarks of leading Italian manufacturers and were part of a consignment he had received in settlement of a wool contract with Milanese merchants. Most would be sold to retailers but some would be used as gifts for business associates. He put four piles to one side. They were intended for Sir Humphrey Stafford, John Fauntleroy and the two members of their households who had supported Harald Gascoigne in his confrontation with Roger Knowles.
Robin would deliver them with letters of thanks. The young man now divided his time between the Gascoigne manor and John's house where he had a small room above the stables. It was an arrangement that suited both parties. Robin had a comfortable place to rest his head while in town and John had a reliable helper. He was writing a note to Sir Humphrey when the front door opened and his wife, Elizabeth, entered. She looked flustered.
'I've just been round to the almshouse.'
'Is anything wrong?'
'Yes. Mistress Vowell alerted me to it.'
'Who?'
'Richard Vowell's wife.'
'He's not married.'
'John, I'm talking about Betty ... the woman he lives with. She's a good soul and she's worried about Alice.'
Elizabeth went to the fire and sat down.
'We knew about Alice's reputation as a free thinker. It was one of the reasons she had to leave Shaftesbury. I thought I'd convinced her to keep her views to herself. I was evidently wrong. She's been talking to the townswomen.'
'Oh, my God!' John clasped a hand to his forehead.
'They are saying that she's told them they don't need priests and the Scriptures should be written in English ... all the things the Lollards are preaching.'
'Did you manage to speak to her?'
'Yes ... she says it's all a mistake. She was talking about baptising babies that have no chance of life. She told the midwives they didn't have to say the words in Latin ... English was good enough for the Lord.'
John Baret drew in a deep breath.
'She is treading a very thin line. With her reputation she can't afford to take risks. It would be appallingly easy to build a case against her. There are women who have been burnt for making concoctions of plants and muttering spells.'
'You're surely not suggesting that Alice is in league with the devil.'
'No. I'm saying it would be easy to build a case against her. She brews up medicines from the strangest looking things.'
John took a pair of scissors and cut the note to Sir Humphrey from his sheet of paper. The three neatly penned lines came away as a narrow strip which he folded as he continued to talk.
'Abbot Brunyng is confined to his bed and William Bradford is in charge. Bradford believes that Vowell is planning to install a font in All Hallows. If he hears that Alice is baptising babies he'll think she's behind it.'
'Is it true that they're planning to get their own font?'
'I don't know.' John placed the note in the package addressed to Sir Humphrey and stuck in down. 'Bradford is paying for information. The more damning it is the more he pays. I wouldn't give a crooked penny for what it's worth but he's paying in silver.'
'We have to be very careful,' Elizabeth said.
'Aye,' John nodded. 'This could put everything at risk.'
He reached for a candle and deposited a blob of sealing wax on the package. Then, before it had set, he placed his signet ring upon it. The impression looked good and he put the package to one side.
'Bradford is collecting evidence to sabotage the charter for the new almshouse. He doesn't care if it's true or false. All that matters is that Bishop Neville should believe what he says and withdraw his support.'
'Do you think there's any risk of that?'
'Robert Neville is no fool,' John said. 'Nor are the people who advise him. But, they can't ignore accusations of this sort. Alice must learn to curb her tongue.'
Interlude
Spring passed into summer. Primroses gave way to bluebells and swallows returned from the south. Harald and Alice were frequent visitors to Honeycombe Woods where they took notes while Brother Mathew sketched.
The feud between the abbey and the parishioners continued. The baptismal service at Pentecost resulted in a near riot and an illegal font was installed in All Hallows.
John Baret and Richard Rochell worked diligently towards a royal charter for the new almshouse. The illegal font had brought relations between the parish and the abbey to breaking point and the prospect of a serious disturbance was of major concern. They trod a difficult path between the interests of the bishop and the local community.
In France, the fortunes of the English took a severe hammering and their armies were forced to vacate the region about Paris and fall back on Normandy. From Rouen, Harald's father sent an urgent demand for funds to be raised by the sale of land.
In August, Abbot John Brunyng died and preparations were made for the election of his successor.
Chapter 11
New Abbot
William Bradford paced back and forth in the chapter house and prepared to dictate. Strictly speaking, the task should have been left to Prior Henry who was nominally in charge of the abbey following the death of Abbot Brunyng. William preferred to do the job himself. That way there would be no silly disputes over the wording. A scribe sat at a desk with a writing block and waited for him to start.
'It is to be addressed to our lord bishop.'
A single mark on the block sufficed to say that the letter was to be opened in standard form. William started to dictate.
'Abbot John of good memory went the way of all flesh. Soon after we had laid his body to rest, our brothers and fellow monks set out with letters patent to wait upon the king with tidings of our abbot's death and seek the royal licence for the election of his successor.'
William continued to pace and the scribe scribbled furiously, using a form of shorthand developed for dictation and the transmission of messages by carrier pigeon.
'When all had been arranged, I, Prior Henry, sent letters to all the brothers of our dependent cells, informing them of the date fixed and summoning them to Sherborne so they might take part. This morning we gathered and offered prayers for guidance. Having done so, we agreed that the election should be conducted by a small body of delegates whose duty is to nominate the brother considered most apt and suitable as our pastor and father. The names of the seven delegates appear below.'
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. Sho
uldn'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.'