Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm

by Mike Dixon

  'What do you think his first move will be?'

  'The vicar thinks Bradford will ask Neville to censure the parish. The illegal font is our biggest liability. It could weigh heavily against us in an ecclesiastical court.'

  'That means we must go to Salisbury before Bradford.' Richard said. 'The almshouse papers will need to be got there. That could be our excuse.'

  Are they ready yet?'

  'I could have them ready by this evening.'

  'Get started.' John looked like a man of action. 'I'll deliver them myself. They'll offer hospitality if I arrive late. I'll find a sympathetic ear ... tell our side of the story before Bradford can tell his.'

  'The carters say the Salisbury road is dangerous.' Richard sounded concerned. 'You'll need an armed escort.'

  'I'll put Robin onto it.' John rose . 'He'll know what to do. You should have seen how he managed that situation with Roger Knowles.'

  Chapter 12

  Salisbury

  Robin cranked his crossbow into the firing position and secured it beneath his cloak. They were on their way to Salisbury. Master Baret had come to him saying he needed an escort. He wanted three men who were sober, honest and in no way associated with Dick Vowell. That posed a problem because there were only two places where you could recruit an escort in a hurry. One was the George and the other was the Julian.

  If you went to the George you'd get Wat Gallor's mates. If you went to the Julian, you'd get Dick Vowell's. Neither appealed to the old man and they'd called on the services of Gareth and David, a couple of Welsh lads who'd arrived in town to join Guy Gascoigne's archers. Robin knew them as relatives of Owen Ap-Richard, who worked the country fairs with wooden heads you could shoot at for prizes.

  They had spent the first night at an inn. It was bucketing down with rain and the road was impassable. If it had been left to Robin, they would have turned back. The direct route was flooded and they'd have to pick their way through the woods to reach their destination on time. That was no easy matter. Thornbushes and brambles were favoured by gamekeepers as cover for game and there was the ever-present risk of outlaws.

  Gareth knew some archers who would act as guides. They were living rough while waiting to cross to France. Robin decided to leave the old man with David and set off with Gareth to find them. They went down a narrow path and were soon surrounded by dense vegetation. Tracks branched off to left and right. Without the sun, Robin soon lost all sense of direction.

  'Are you sure we're going the right way?'

  'Trust me, boyo.' Gareth brimmed with confidence. 'They've built a shelter like we have in Wales.'

  'How do you know they'll be there?'

  'They've got nowhere else to go, boyo. They've got to rough it in the woods until they can join Sir Guy in France.'

  Robin grew uneasy. He'd left his charge with a sixteen-year-old and gone into unknown territory with a guide who would never admit to making a mistake. On top of that, they were being followed. On a ridge, above their heads, the birds were agitated. Nothing disturbs the greenwood more than human presence. Someone was keeping pace with them. If they were travellers they could join them. There was safety in numbers. But, if they were travellers, what were they doing up there? The ridge didn't lead anywhere.

  'We're being followed.'

  'Aye, boyo, I've seen them.'

  'Who do you think they are?'

  'Dunno,' Gareth shrugged. 'We'll have to wait and see.'

  'They could be outlaws.'

  'Then we'll give 'em a bit of a surprise.'

  Gareth seemed oddly relaxed. Was it bravado or stupidity? Robin wondered how good he was. The boy could shoot an arrow and bring down a pigeon at eighty paces but that didn't mean he could fight. He lowered his voice.

  'Do you remember what to do if we're attacked?'

  'Don't worry,' Gareth tapped his bow. 'I've not forgotten.'

  The path entered open woodland and began a slow climb. Robin caught glimpses of the other party through the trees. There were two of them and they were on foot. He wondered if they were travellers like themselves. That didn't seem likely. He looked around. For the moment they were safe. Robbers weren't renowned for heroics. They preferred to attack out of cover and there wasn't any.

  The path reached the top of the ridge and the woodland gave way to briars and thornbushes. Muddy footprints told a chilling tale. The men had got there first and run ahead. Tracks through the wet grass showed where one had entered the bushes. Wind disturbed the branches and he saw a figure with a drawn bow.

  'They're laying an ambush.'

  'Why do you say that, boyo?'

  'I've seen them.' Robin slipped the safety catch on his crossbow. 'I'll get in a quick shot.'

  'No!' Gareth pushed the bow away. 'I know who they are.'

  He shouted in Welsh. The bushes parted and a man appeared. He had the barrel chest of an archer and walked like one. Gareth jumped down from his horse and embraced him. A second man came out of the undergrowth. They spoke for a while in their native language then spoke to Robin in English.

  They said they feared he and Gareth were robbers: that was why they were hiding. Robin didn't believe a word of it but didn't argue. They agreed to act as guides and demanded two shillings a day. That was an exorbitant price but better than being set upon. Robin made a point of saying that Master Baret was a friend of Sir Guy Gascoigne and could put in a good word for them with his recruiting sergeant.

  ***

  They stopped before Salisbury Cathedral and dismounted. John Baret waited for his escort to disperse. He didn't want to be seen with them. From the moment they had arrived at the city gates they'd given trouble. It was normal practice to wash horses before taking them inside. A pond was provided for that purpose. Owners could wash their mounts or pay a boy to do it. Everyone cooperated except the two Welsh ruffians. They argued with the bailiffs and a queue of indignant travellers formed. Finally, they were let through, dirty and without a proper search.

  John had not the slightest doubt that the incident was staged. The men had venison in their saddlebags. Strictly speaking, he should have reported them to the bishop's bailiffs because the deer was taken on the bishop's land. Common sense told him to say nothing and avoid antagonising the pair. He had paid them off and would return to Sherborne by the direct route. He went to the cathedral and a familiar exchange of pleasantries ensued.

  'We insist on providing hospitality, Master Baret.'

  'I couldn't possibly impose on you.'

  'But the weather is so inclement.'

  'A little more rain won't hurt me.'

  There was something ritualistic about it. The exchange followed a familiar pattern and reached an inevitable conclusion. Servants were summoned. A stable hand took care of his horse. A porter took him to his room and a laundress took his wet garments to the drying chamber.

  His room was on the upper floor of the visitors' lodge. This was separate from the monks' quarters and occupied an entire wing of the monastic complex. It catered for the needs of travellers and people, such as himself, who were visiting the cathedral on business. It also provided free accommodation for officers of the royal court who were keen to save money.

  John unstrapped his travel bag and removed a clean set of clothes. They were crumpled but dry. He laid them out and was selecting suitable attire when a servant arrived with a bucket of hot water and filled his washbasin. Another turned and beat the mattress on his bed, inspecting it for fleas and bedbugs. The latter service was greatly appreciated. John waged a constant war against these unwanted intruders. All bedding in his household was regularly beaten and hung in the sun. The big risk was reinfestation. He suspected that his guests, including members of the Gascoigne family, were the chief culprits.

  He washed and dressed for dinner. As always, when visiting Salisbury, he selected garments of a sombre nature, avoiding anything flamboyant and anything that might associate him with a merchant guild. The business classes were regarded as upstarts in ar
istocratic circles and there was no shortage of aristocrats in the cathedral.

  He left his room and went downstairs. The behaviour of the Welshmen continued to worry him. The whole purpose of his visit was to present an image of sobriety and decorum. A casual onlooker could have mistaken him for the head of a band of ruffians.

  To his surprise, Canon Peter was waiting to greet him at the entry to the dining hall. He'd not expected to meet such a senior member of the bishop's administration so soon. He knew the canon from previous visits that he had made as a trustee of the almshouse, but their dealings had always been of a business nature.

  'You picked a most inclement day for your journey.' Canon Peter ushered him into the hall. 'The carriers say the road to the west is impassable.'

  '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 tart
s 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.'

  Chapter 13

  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.'