Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm

by Mike Dixon

Outside the Half Moon Inn, Dorset voices were urging the northerners to fight to the death. Elizabeth retreated into the yard.

  'Alice is happy to be Harald's mistress. A lot of respectable couples have come to that arrangement. They're often more firmly united than those who have been churched.'

  'Harald doesn't see it like that,' John said. 'He's worried about their children. He doesn't want them to be declared bastards and he's worried about the girl.'

  'What girl?'

  'The French one … the one he's just married.'

  'He surely doesn't intend to consummate the marriage.'

  'Of course not.'

  'Then there's no problem. Betty tells me the girl looks no more than ten. The Holy Father has made it clear that a female child can be wedded at any age but she cannot be taken as wife until she has reached twelve years. Harald can quote that if anyone says he is failing in his duty.'

  Shouts from the inn were sounding more ominous. The northern word dirk was being used. John followed Elizabeth into the house and locked the door behind them. They mounted the stairs and entered their private chamber.

  'Harald's problem is his conscience.' John went to the window. 'He blames himself for not marrying Alice. His father threatened to disinherit him if he didn't wed the French girl. Harald believes he should have defied him.'

  'And how would he have earned a living for Alice and their child?'

  'He's a trained lawyer.'

  'John, be sensible.' Alice tapped his arm. 'Harald is far too honest to be a lawyer. He's a farmer by nature and a good one. I don't doubt his family are well aware of that. They see him running their English estate and making money for them. Otherwise they would have disinherited him years ago. He should play them at their own game. Have you told him that?'

  'I have advised him to go along with his father's wishes. The man is almost sixty and still campaigning. He could be dead within the year. After that, Harald can seek an annulment of the French marriage and wed Alice.'

  'William Gascoigne could live another twenty years.' Elizabeth shook her head. 'He looked hale and hearty last time I saw him. Why didn't you advise Harald to marry Alice and not wait any longer?'

  'He can't. The marriage would be bigamous.'

  'That's something for the courts to decide. The French marriage will never be consummated. I'm sure a little money in the right places would secure a favourable ruling.'

  'There is still the problem of disinheritance.'

  'Only if Sir William finds out.'

  'You're suggesting they marry in secret?'

  'Why not? I'm sure you can find a chaplain who owes Harald a favour.'

  John considered the point.

  'That's something we could give thought to.'

  He leant out of the window and peered up the street. The crowd outside the Half Moon had stopped cheering and were chattering excitedly amongst themselves. A man with a wound to his arm sat in the gutter. Another lay in a pool of blood.

  ***

  Robert Hulle stood in the nave of the abbey church and looked up at the huge image of Christ's Passion that Ralph Knowles had painted. The work was executed in a bold style and harmonised with the rounded arches and simple lines of the old building. Robert wondered if Ralph had painted it as a tribute to the ancient structure that would soon be torn down. He was grieved to see that it had been damaged by water leaking through holes in the temporary roof which his men had erected around the tower.

  'Master Mason.'

  A voice interrupted his thoughts.

  He turned and saw Richard Vowell. The priest wore a surplice over his faded Agincourt uniform. He pointed an accusing finger.

  'Brother Ralph painted an image of Our Lord God and you allowed it to be despoiled by rain.'

  'The storm was far beyond our expectations.'

  'Holy Mother!' Richard threw out his arms. 'Where have you been all these years? It blows far worse than that. Don't try to tell me otherwise.'

  'I am distressed as much as anyone. Ralph created a great masterpiece.'

  'Then you should have put up something better to protect it.' Richard pointed to the thatched roof. 'That might be all right for a barn but it's not good enough for a church. It's not like you're short of lead.'

  'The thatching is temporary, Master Vowell.'

  'That's right. You'll replace it with something better when you get round to it. And how long is that going to take? It could be ten years before you're finished on the chancel. Then you've got the transepts to do. You've not even put the vault in under the bells. I can see them up there now.

  A mischievous grin appeared on Richard's face.

  'We could use them for archery practice … play a tune on them.'

  'I suggest your express your concerns to Abbot Bradford.' Robert made a move to leave. 'I am merely the contractor. I do not decide what has to be done.'

  'No. You speak to Billy.'

  Richard allowed his surplice to hang open, exposing the red cross of England, emblazoned on his archer's tunic. He looked like a man who had abandoned all pretence of being a priest. Robert decided not to say anything that might further antagonise him. Abbot Bradford needed to be informed that there might be further trouble.

  ***

  Canon Simon tapped lightly on the abbot's door. There was a grunt from within which he interpreted as a call to enter. He expected to find William at his desk. Instead, he found him on his commode.

  'Oh. I'm sorry. I'll come back later when you've …'

  'Don't worry,' William beckoned. 'You can stay since you're here. I have a problem with my movements and this might take some time. Father Ashley has given me something for it but it's not working.'

  'I sympathise.' Simon walked into the room. 'It's the change in the weather. Sister Alice kept an ample supply of dried prunes for the old people in the almshouse. The vicar obtained some for me and they proved to be highly efficacious.'

  'I'll not touch anything that witch has laid hands on,' William grunted. 'You never know what diabolical evil may have been worked on it. It's disgusting … some of the things I've heard. They use menstrual fluids in their concoctions. Did you know that?'

  'Surely, not when drying prunes.'

  'You can never be sure. They could have dipped them in it before putting them out in the sun. I'll stick with Ashley. There won't be anything diabolical in his preparations … even if they don't work.'

  Simon changed the subject. 'I've been speaking to Master Hulle. He says that Richard Vowell is becoming increasingly assertive. He blames it on Pact Monday Fair. Out-of-work soldiers are flooding into the town. Vowell is a recruiting agent for Sir Guy Gascoigne.'

  William pricked up his ears.

  'Gascoigne? Is he related to that pathetic Harald who was seduced by the Almshouse Witch?'

  'Guy is Sir Harald's brother.'

  'Then we must show Sir Harald and his brother that their intrusion into our affairs is unwelcome and subject to our sanctions.'

  'I urge caution, William.'

  'You always do, Simon.' William's bowels discharged noisily. 'You have lectured me incessantly on the perils of strong action and every time you have been proved wrong.'

  He rang a bell and a servant appeared with a basin of warm water and a clean cloth. She took a pot from beneath the commode and left. William wiped his hands.

  'It's time for the summoner to go to Wolf Wood and visit the Gascoigne manor. The Almshouse Witch is living there and Sir Harald has taken a young wife who looks no more than ten years. We should be able to make something of that.'

  ***

  Harald leant on the stone wall and surveyed the pathetic scene on the other side. Most of his sheep were dead but a few had survived the mauling by Roger Knowles' dogs. The rams had defended themselves better than the ewes and some would be able to perform their vital role as sires of his new breed of Dorset upland sheep. Guy thought you needed only one male with big testicles and a healthy attitude towards life. Harald knew he was wrong and
so did Alice. She stood beside him taking notes. It was heartbreaking. Most of their breeding stock had been killed. They'd have to pick up the pieces as best they could. One thing was certain: Guy's fascination with size was only part of the story. Too much interbreeding was another.

  The Church forbade marriage between people who were closely related. Animal breeders recognised the wisdom of that. Things went wrong when cousins bred with cousins. You could buy dispensation for it if you were human and had enough money but the consequences were just the same. The Valois were a prime example. They were part of Christendom's inbred royalty. Sixteen-year-old Henry of England was related to them on his mother's side. He had so many closely related ancestors that Harald would have rejected him had he been a ram. Yet the poor fragile boy had been accepted as a suitable person to wear the crown.

  Harald's heart went out to the young king. Poor little Henry was a pawn in the political intrigues of the realm. Harald knew what it was like. He had once been a pawn but that time had passed. John Baret had convinced him that he had done the right thing in agreeing to the French marriage. He and Alice would be far better guardians for his young bride than her family ever was. In time the marriage would be annulled and they would provide a suitable dowry for the young woman. All that remained was for him to marry Alice and that would be done in secret.

  Sir Humphrey Stafford's chaplain had agreed to perform the ceremony and record it as having taken place prior to the French wedding, which would then be rendered bigamous. It was not an ideal solution but it was in the best interests of the innocent parties. Harald had once believed that honesty was all-important in human affairs and had tried to live by that principle. Now he knew it was a mistake. In a world of lies and deceit, those who cling to idealistic notions get trampled underfoot. As his good friend John Baret had said: you have to beat them at their own game. He placed a hand on Alice's belly and felt their child move. It fired him with a new sense of life. This time, there was no doubt the child was his and he was determined to be a good parent. His sense of wellbeing was short lived.

  'Sir Harald Gascoigne. I thought I'd find you here.'

  Harald turned and found the summoner a few paces away. The little man eyed Alice's extended belly and smirked.

  'They told me she had gone away to hide her guilty secret.'

  'What do you want?'

  'No more than I have ever wanted, Sir Harald. Like I have told you, I see myself as your friend and counsellor. I am here to offer advice and expect you to show your gratitude in the usual way. Twice over, in view of the bun that is baking in your lady's oven.'

  He was interrupted by the sound of hooves.

  Harald saw his brother and William jump the manor fence and gallop towards them. Guy reigned in his horse and the summoner peered insolently at him.

  'Who be you then?'

  Guy nodded towards William.

  'Tell him.'

  'You are speaking to Sir Guy Gascoigne, churl. He is the son of Sir William Gascoigne who is lord of this manor. You entered our lands without permission and will pay dearly for your insolence.'

  'I am here at the command of the lord abbot.'

  'Lord Who?' Guy bellowed.

  'Our lord abbot of Sherborne.'

  'He might be your sodding lord but he's not mine.'

  Guy grabbed the little man by the throat.

  'You have demanded money from my brother and insulted my family.'

  He hurled the summoner to the ground and shouted a command to his horse.

  'Tooez!'

  At the sound of his voice, the vicious animal let fly with its hooves. One landed on the man's chest and air was forced from his lungs. Another smashed into his head and his skull caved in.

  'Arrretez'

  A second command put an end to the murderous onslaught. Brains spilt onto the ground. Alice tried to stay calm. Harald was ashen. Only William and the horse seemed to have enjoyed the incident.

  Guy looked down at the bloodied figure.

  'We'll take him back to Sherborne and deliver him to the father abbot. Let the sod know what happens to people who show disrespect for our family.'

  Chapter 25

  Blocked Drain

  Robert Hulle left the communion rail and returned to the rear of All Hallows. He usually went home after Mass. Today he hung around, keeping close to familiar faces. It was Michaelmas Sunday and the church was full of soldiers. They'd trooped in like a force of invaders rather than humble Christians. Most were wearing the colours of the Earl of Huntingdon. Guy Gascoigne and William were among them. He could scarcely recognise the robust teenager as the boy who had fallen from the pulpitum a year earlier. He watched as the pair went forward to receive the Host.

  Guy took the bread as if it were owed to him, intimidating the priest with his overbearing manners. William followed with the same dominating pose. Then the soldiers trooped up, jostling one another to get in first. It was a good time to leave. Robert slipped out by the south door of the chapel and was surprised to find Canon Simon there.

  'Master Hulle. Pray excuse this intrusion.'

  Simon stepped forward.

  'I would greatly value your opinion. Under normal circumstances we would have called in the plumbers but you know what they're like. They simply refuse to work on the Sabbath.'

  Harald suspected that Abbot Bradford had refused to pay the hefty loading needed to bring out tradesmen between midday Saturday and eight o'clock Monday.

  'Can't it wait until tomorrow?'

  Simon shook his head. 'Friar Ashley has warned that there could be a serious health risk if something is not done. 'It's coming out of the ablutions.'

  'What is?'

  'What you'd expect. There's a blockage. The smell is most appalling. With Pact Monday upon us, there's no telling when the plumbers will be back at work.'

  'You mean the drain is blocked.'

  'Yes … and it needs urgent attention.'

  Robert's stomach said he needed a bowl of hot gruel. His professional instincts told him he couldn't refuse Simon's request for assistance.'

  'I'll take a look at the problem, Father.'

  He followed Simon into the abbey cloisters. The ablution block was below the monks' dormitory, having been sited there so that the brethren could answer calls of nature with minimum inconvenience during the night. Solid wastes littered the passageway. Simon pointed to a tidemark.

  'It got much higher before the miller turned it off.'

  'Where does the water come from?'

  'The millpond. It's fed by the Combe stream. The miller leases the mill from the abbey and is obliged to discharge the contents of the pond into the abbey conduit between midday on Saturday and midnight on Sunday.'

  'What about the New Well stream?'

  'The New Well is connected to the monastery by a covered conduit,' Simon explained. 'The stream provides spring water that is used for domestic purposes and the cleansing of drains. Some is passed to the townspeople for their needs.'

  'And it doesn't come for free.'

  Robert heard the miller's voice. He emerged from a doorway and pointed an accusing finger at Simon. 'They pay for drinking water just like I pay rent for my mill and you're asking for more. You can't do that ... the rent is fixed.'

  'My understanding is that you are required to pay a surcharge for maintenance, Master Guppy. The contract stipulates that the premises are to be kept in good working order.'

  'It's in better order than when I took possession, Father. I've replaced those two sluices and spent a fortune on that wheel …'

  Robert listened in silence. Abbot Bradford was taking every opportunity to extract money from his tenants and the miller was one of many who had a grievance. He coughed loudly.

  'Why is the millpond discharged into the conduit?'

  'To flush out the shit, of course!' The miller turned on him. 'Come with me and I'll show you what I mean.'

  The mill was beside the monastery. Robert cast a professional eye over the
sluices that fed the waterwheel when it was in operation and directed the flow to an underground conduit at weekends. The miller explained that there was not enough flow in the New Well stream and that was why additional water from the mill was needed to cleanse the sewers. He pointed to a stone-lined ditch that ended in an iron grill.

  'When I open the sluice, the water leaves the millpond and enters the conduit through there.'

  'How big is the conduit?'

  'Same as the grill: four foot wide and two foot deep. A small boy can go down. We use them to clean it out.'

  'And the conduit links up with the monastery drains?'

  'That's right. Usually it goes straight through. This time it mounted up … even got into the kitchens.'

  'What do you think happened?'

  The miller considered the question before replying.

  'When Canon Simon called me I didn't know what to think. There was water everywhere. Now it's gone you can see what happened.' He pointed to the grill. 'It's been lifted. You can see that because it's not been put back like it should. I'd say someone put something down it and that's what's caused the blockage.'

  'Where do you think it is?'

  'There's no trouble in the infirmary so it will be somewhere between there and the ablutions.'

  Is there any means of access?'

  'No, we'll have to dig down and lift the slabs until we find it.'

  'Are you prepared to do that?'

  The miller considered the proposal. 'I am, if the abbey does the right thing by me.' He turned to Canon Simon. 'I want three shillings to sort this out and a written assurance that you'll make no further demands on me except I pay the agreed rent.'

  ***

  Elizabeth Baret stood anxiously at the door and waited for their guests to arrive. John had proposed that senior officers in Guy Gascoigne's entourage lodge with them. In the event, they'd got Guy and one of his companions in arms, a certain Philip de Maupassant. Tomorrow they would be recruiting men for the War in France.

  A tent camp had been erected in the abbey grounds, across the street from their house. Some of the tents were well made. Most were little more than canvas sheets slung between poles. The once green grass was muddy and trodden underfoot. The ancient yew trees were reduced to pathetic stumps. Branches that had taken decades to grow had been cut off to make bows. Elizabeth was reminded of verses in the bible that recorded the passage of a plague of locusts through the land of Egypt.