by Mike Dixon
'Mother, I told Robin to feed the horses and rest them. Now I see him leaving with William. What's going on?'
'Roger Knowles has been raiding your flocks.'
'No one told me.' He turned on her angrily. 'When did this happen?'
To his surprise, his mother did not take offence at his uncharacteristic display of bad temper. Then he remembered that Guy was frequently involved in shouting matches with her. It occurred to him that she liked her males to be argumentative and forceful.
'Yesterday. Roger's men set their dogs on the sheep in John Perry's yard and killed thirty or more.'
Harald's heart missed a beat.
'Which ones?'
'I don't know?' Margery looked at him as if his question was both childish and silly. 'Do you want me to give you their names? I know you've got names for them.'
'Only for the rams!' Harald bellowed.
The outburst went over Margery's head.
'John has the best of our stud in his yard, Mother. We are creating a special breed. It is suited to the Dorset uplands. That's why Roger Knowles set his dogs against them. He attacked us where he knew it would hurt most.'
Harald slumped down on a bench. Everything was going wrong. In the past, he'd found refuge in his flocks. Now even they were being taken from him. He wondered what he had done to deserve such a fate. Hadn't he been sufficiently forthcoming at his confessionals? He had sought absolution for his sins but had been shy in saying exactly what they were. He resolved to make amends.
Interlude
On the eleventh day of July 1437, the royal court in Westminster issued articles of incorporation for the establishment of an almshouse in Sherborne as an independent body, responsible only to His Majesty the King and the laws of the realm. The charter bore the young king's seal. Whether the sixteen-year-old monarch had any hand in it was a matter of conjecture.
In early September, Sister Alice de Lambert, matron of the Sherborne almshouse, became aware that she was pregnant ... to her great joy.
On the twentieth day of September, in a private chapel on her father's recently acquired estate in Normandy, twelve-year-old Henriette de Maupassant was married to thirty-four-year-old Harald de Gascoigne in a proxy wedding in which his brother, Guy, played the part of the groom.
In October, a week or so before Michaelmas, Guy Gascoigne and the child bride landed at Pool in Dorset, accompanied by a force of armed men. They avoided Corf Castle and its Beaufort garrison and sped towards Dorchester.
Chapter 23
Guy
Richard Vowell spurred his horse. He was dressed in the uniform he had worn at Agincourt. It was a mite too small for his expanded frame, tattered and full of holes but still recognisable as the costume of the teenage archers who had cut the throats of the French nobility twenty-two years earlier. His mind strayed back to that bloody field. Old Sir William was there, slashing his way towards him. He'd become isolated when the French counter-attacked. His leg was broken and his position looked hopeless. But the old man wasn't going to leave him there. He dragged the seventeen-year old through the mud and together they made it back to the English lines.
Richard felt a bond of kinship with the Gascoignes that surpassed anything he had with his own family. There were now three generations called William: one known as Guy to distinguish him from his father. Two were seasoned warriors and the third a warrior in the making. The thirteen-year-old rode by his side.
Young William looked every inch a Gascoigne. If he'd got his sandy hair and fiery temperament from the mole then it had skipped a generation. More likely, his father was Guy. It amused Richard to think that Guy was only a year older than William when he took the boy's mother into the hayloft back at the manor.
They began the long climb up the slope towards Dorchester. The fields on either side were given over to strip cultivation. Some had been sown with the winter planting of oats and barley. Others were left fallow. That meant the grass would grow back and the sheep and cattle would graze on it and enrich the soil ready for the next planting.
The mole had told William about it but he wasn't interested. Farming was for peasants. There were some out there now. The miserable creatures were so poor they had to hunt for grains of barley missed at harvest time. They didn't even wear underclothes. When they bent over their tunics rode up and you could see their bare bums. William suppressed a desire to ride over and thrash them with his riding whip.
Banners appeared on the ridge ahead. William glimpsed horsemen and heard the rallying call of the Gascoignes. He returned it with his hunting horn and saw one of the horsemen detach from the advancing party. He guessed who it was and galloped to meet him.
'Guy! Guy! Guy!'
He shouted and galloped up the hill towards him. They met and came together in a warrior's embrace. Guy felt the boy's strength. The last time they'd met, William was an immature child. Now he was rushing towards manhood.
'You've grown up.'
He slapped William on the shoulder and gave him a playful punch. 'You'll soon have a beard like mine.'
William returned the smile.
'They say I look like you at the same age.'
'Then I was very handsome.' Guy squeezed his hand. 'That must have been why your mother found me so irresistible.'
'Was she beautiful like people say?'
'Aye. Beautiful and very loving. I pray that she is looking down from heaven and seeing us together.'
Guy glanced back up the hill to the carriages that were making their painful way down the dirt road towards them. When he returned his attention to William he saw tears in the boy's eyes.
'I would give much to have her with us now,' he said quietly. Then changing the subject. 'How is my brother and his lady?'
'You mean Sister Alice?'
'I mean the lady he has taken as his mistress.'
'She is with child.'
'How do you know?'
'I heard them talking together. The masons are in. They're putting up a new wing. Robin and I are sleeping in the loft above them and we can hear everything they say.'
Guy wondered about his next question.
'Do you think the child is his?'
'I don't see why not.'
'Why?'
'We saw them doing it together.'
'You mean up in the loft?'
'Yeah.' William let out a big grin. 'There are holes in the floorboards. We saw them there and at the May Dance.'
Guy would have asked more but his party and its escort was upon them. His brother's spotty-faced bride was in one of the carriages with an aunt. Other ladies followed in a second.
***
Harald stood on the manor steps and waited for the procession to enter the yard. It was led by Guy and a man he'd not seen before. Both rode warhorses and were wearing full body armour as if they expected to be attacked at any moment.
At five-foot eleven-inches, Harald towered over most of his tenants. Guy towered over him. His brother's powerful body was typical of the warrior class. Beside them, peasants looked like inferior beings. Guy regarded peasants as scarcely human. Harald thought about nutrition and the other factors that controlled growth and wondered how many generations would be needed to breed the lower classes up to knightly stature.
The troops accompanying the two knights wore the colours of the Earl of Huntingdon. Chain mail was evident throughout. Many wore it around the throat where it provided good cheap protection. Elsewhere, it looked old fashioned. Harald's eyes strayed to their polearms. The all-purpose weapon consisted of a pole with two vicious spikes and a hook at the business end. He had seen a melee in which mounted men were dragged from their horses with the hook and stabbed to death with the spikes. He averted his eyes and tried to forget the horrible incident.
When he next looked. Guy and his companion had reached the manor steps. Two covered carriages drew up behind them, followed by carts of the sort used by the military. When the whole lot had crammed into the yard, Guy dismounted and came forw
ard.
'My dear brother.'
He bowed and spoke in Norman French.
'It is my honour to present my valiant companion in arms, Philip de Maupassant, uncle of your beloved bride.'
Harald exchanged bows with the dark-haired man who stepped forward, and did his best to reply in French.
'I have the honour of presenting my most worshipful mother.'
Margery Gascoigne extended a jewelled hand and Philip rushed forward to kiss it.
After that he seemed short of ideas. Guy said something and Philip turned awkwardly towards the first of the closed carriages. More prompting followed and he eventually spoke but in such a rough sort of French that Harald could barely understand a word of what he said.
'It is my honour to present my niece, Henriette, beloved daughter of the esteemed Henri, Seigneur de Maupassant.'
Philip forced out the words with a strong Breton accent. The carriage door swung open and a young girl was pushed out. Harald felt pangs of despair. The poor child was even younger than he had imagined and utterly terrified. She looked around like a lamb amongst wolves and he struggled for words to comfort her. His tongue failed him and he spluttered to an agonising halt. Henriette stared at his pulsating Adam's apple and burst into tears.
Alice came to the rescue.
'Sister, you must be tired. It has been a long journey.'
She took the girl's hand and continued to speak in French.
'We have prepared a special place for you and your ladies. It is in the old house. When the new buildings are finished you will have an apartment of your own. You can live there and come and visit us.'
Henriette seemed to regain some of her composure.
'You mean: I won't have to live with him?'
'No. You will be living with your ladies. In a few days we shall introduce you to some young people of your own age. They will help you learn English and you can teach them French. They are from good families and very pleasant. I am sure they will become good friends and companions to you.'
Her words went some way to calming the child but not as far as she would have wished. Alice was reminded of a frightened animal in a trap. At the same age she had felt that way and her heart went out to the young girl. She turned to her aunt.
'Madame, I will escort you to your chamber and make sure that all is prepared. It will not be necessary for you to dine in hall. Your meals will be brought to you. Our chaplain speaks French and can attend to your spiritual needs. Call for me whenever you need assistance for translation or for any other purpose …'
Harald stood to one side and listened. Alice was behaving as if she was the lady of the manor. That was part of her caring nature. She had been matron of the almshouse only a week before. It was natural for her to take control and look after people. He wondered if his mother would take offence and glanced in her direction. Dressed in her most expensive gown of crimson velvet, embroidered with silk and gold thread, Margery Gascoigne was as inscrutable as ever. If Alice had offended her, she wasn't going to show it … some other time, perhaps.
***
Dinner surpassed anything Harald remembered at the manor. Their Chaplain, Peter de Trent, had organised it following instructions from his father. The extravagance was amazing. Finance for the French wars was the dominant issue in English politics. The war party, led by Duke Humphrey wanted to press on. The peace party, led by the Beauforts, wanted an end to hostilities before more money was wasted on a hopeless cause.
Harald had little doubt the country was facing bankruptcy. The same could not be said of his family. The Gascoigne's were doing very well from the war. The amount of gold and silver in the wagons was astounding. Some was in coin, other in plate. The wealth of knightly households had been squashed flat and brought to England. It was beyond reason. Sixteen-year-old Henry was meant to be king of France and England. He was supposed to be a protector of his French subjects. His mother was a Valois. The whole thing made no moral sense.
But morality didn't come into it. Power was what mattered. Those who had it thought they had a divine right to lord themselves over others. His brother was one. Harald felt Guy's dark presence at the table. At nineteen he had watched him fornicate with his young wife. He had hidden in the hayloft to see if the rumours were true and, to his horror, they were. Later, he tried to imitate the fourteen-year-old's performance. The experience was mortifying. He'd wilted when he should have been aroused and Judith was unforgiving. She'd made fun of him, comparing his limp offering with Guy's robust member. Harald was unable to forgive his brother for that and the thousand other insults inflicted on him.
As bridegroom and nominal head of the house in his father's absence, he had pride of place at the high table. Alice was proxy for the bride and sat on one side. His mother sat on the other. William was down in the main body of the hall with Robin and Guy's men. Harald waited for Peter de Trent to say grace then rose to give the loyal toast. A toast to the newlyweds followed and the meal began in earnest.
Silver plate graced the high table. Wooden platters and pewter mugs were de rigour on the lower. Harald watched as William carved off chunks of roast pork with his hunting knife and stuffed them into his mouth. He looked totally at home with the older company, copying their rough speech and gesticulating wildly whenever he wanted to get a point across.
Guy downed a goblet and turned to his brother.
'William wants to come back to France with me.'
'I had guessed that,' Harald said coldly.
'Will you give your consent?'
'I don't see what that's got to do with me.'
'He's your son.'
'You joke.' Harald turned angrily and leant past his mother to speak to Guy. 'He's your son and you know it. Don't think I've not seen you two together. William's one of your bastards. The first of many. You sow your seed wherever you find a willing furrow.'
'Harald.' His mother's sharp tongue brought him to a halt. 'Listen to what your brother is saying. Your ridiculous outbursts will get us into immense trouble.'
Guy left his chair and whispered in Harald's ear.
'You are heir to the Gascoigne manor and to your young wife's huge dowry. 'One day these fine lands will become yours and they'll pass to William, if you're not so stupid as to declare him a bastard.'
'Do you understand what your brother is saying?'
Margery's voice rang in his ear. Harald understood full well. His marriage was part of an elaborate plan to cheat the Maupassants out of their share of the loot. There was no honour amongst thieves. Thieves formed pacts then stabbed one another in the back. Sadly, innocent people suffered in the process and little Henriette was one of them. It was what happened to people who went to live in Wolf Wood.
Chapter 24
War Horse
John Baret inspected the gate that had been erected to replace the one knocked down by Walter Gallor's dog. Elizabeth was far from satisfied with the flimsy structure. John had to agree. The town was full of soldiers. They'd flocked to the southern counties looking for a lord to take them over the Channel. The hostelries were doing a booming trade. Whores had descended on Sherborne. Houses were being robbed and respectable women wouldn't venture onto the streets.
'We've got to bring in carpenters,' Elizabeth said
John wasn't so sure. There was a limit to what men with saws and adzes could do. In these difficult times, men with swords and crossbows were needed. The only one they'd ever had was Robin and he was at the Gascoigne manor, hoping to join Guy when he returned to Normandy.
'I'll speak to Harald,' John said. 'His brother needs lodgings for his men. If some were to board with us, our position would be greatly strengthened.'
'John. You can't be serious.'
'I'm thinking of Guy's officers, not his common soldiery.'
'I would hope so.' Elizabeth clasped her keys as a nun might clasp her rosary. 'My heart goes out to the poor women of France. Harald says our men take reprisals. They rape and kill without mercy.'
She was interrupted by a commotion. Two men in tight jerkins were taunting one another outside the New Moon Inn. Their northern accents were so extreme she couldn't understand a word.
'Harald is distressed,' John said. 'He's worried about Alice. He feels guilty for having got her with child.'
The remark seemed odd to Elizabeth. 'There's no need for Harald to think that. Alice tried hard enough. She won him at the maypole dance.'
'I understand that to be the case,' John replied.
'Don't sound so stuffy.' Elizabeth stroked his arm. 'You were young once. Have you forgotten the time we first made love?'
John changed the subject. 'I have heard disturbing tales about Eleanor Cobham and Alice making a wax image of Harald. It is alleged that they fashioned one with a large male member and used it to cast spells … the purpose being to arouse Harald's masculine passions.'
Elizabeth burst out laughing.
'Don't be ridiculous,' she squeezed his arm. 'That's a story put out by Richard Vowell. He likes to make jokes.'
'There's something very dangerous about such jokes.'
'John, can't you see the good side?'
'I see the dangerous side.'
'Alice is happy,' Elizabeth insisted. 'She is nearing thirty years and has been denied a woman's most ardent desire. Now she has it. You're a man. You wouldn't understand such things.'
John wasn't impressed. 'I understand the appalling consequences that could arise from an accusation of sorcery.' He spoke in the heavy voice he used when addressing public meetings. 'I beg you to consider what Abbot Bradford could make of it?'
'But it's only a joke.'
'Abbot Bradford would not see it like that.'
Elizabeth thought for a moment and saw his concern. Billy Bradford would seize any opportunity to defame them. The abbot found the truth where it suited him. Her demeanour changed.
'I'll talk to Betty ... get her to stop Richard from telling his silly stories.'