by Mike Dixon
'Guy! Guy! Guy!'
Shouts told her their guests had emerged from All Hallows and were coming through the camp towards them. Harald Gascoigne was with them. He'd left Alice at the manor, not wishing to burden her with Guy's company anymore than necessary. Elizabeth had never met Guy. She knew him by reputation and wondered what he would be like. Two men approached and both fitted her expectations. Each was over six-foot and heavily muscled. One had dark hair and the other was fair.
But which was Guy?
Then she saw William. He walked beside the fair-haired man and Elizabeth had no doubt she was looking at father and son. They were separated by only fifteen years and the resemblance was striking.
Harald hurried forward to make introductions.
Elizabeth feared he would stammer but he didn't.
'Mistress Baret,' he spoke in a clear voice. 'I am honoured to introduce my cousin by marriage, Philip de Maupassant.'
He nodded to Philip who rushed forward and kissed Elizabeth's hand, in the French manner.
'I believe my brother Guy is not yet known to you.'
Guy stepped forward and kissed Elizabeth on the lips, in the English manner.
His appearance surprised Elizabeth. Harald had described his brother as an ill-mannered ruffian. The man before her seemed anything but that. He was dressed in a handsome gown and wore boots of the finest leather. His hair was neatly trimmed and his fingernails manicured. Only his huge hands and the bulge, where his sword hung, suggested that he was a seasoned warrior.
Her husband was waiting for them in the hall. He gestured towards a table furnished with his finest linen and silverware. 'We would be honoured if you would partake of our modest fare.'
Guy inclined his head graciously.
'I assure you, Sir, the honour is mine.'
He slipped his hand inside his gown and produced a silver goblet.
'May I have the pleasure of presenting you with this modest expression of our esteem?'
They took their places beside the table. Philip had no English and Guy translated for him. They spoke a form of French that was very different from the refined speech Elizabeth had been taught as a child and she understood little of what passed between them. One of the few words she recognised was mutton. Philip used it a lot. At first she thought he was talking about the side of lamb that had been served as the main dish. Then she realised he was talking about sheep and wool. He handed a small package to Guy who unwrapped it and deposited the contents in front of John.
'We have come into possession of a shipment of English wool. I wonder if you would be so kind as to express an opinion on it. This was taken from one of the bales.'
Elizabeth recognised the fine, high-quality wool, produced in the borderlands between England and Wales.
John ran a piece through his fingers and passed it to Harald.
'Shropshire … I'd say.'
Harald reached for his eyeglass. 'Shropshire or perhaps Hereford …'
Guy looked disappointed. 'We were hoping for Lincolnshire or the Cotswolds.'
'Why?'
'They're the best … aren't they?'
'They're famous because they are big suppliers but their wool is not the best. The best is produced in the lush, hilly pastures of Hereford and Shropshire. The Italians pay top prices for it.'
'The Italians?' Guy looked surprised. 'I thought wool had to be sold through the Merchants of the Staple in Calais.'
'Not all wool,' John replied. 'The Crown has sold licences to the Italians. They can export wool from certain ports in England on condition that it be shipped direct to the Mediterranean.'
Guy took an ivory toothpick from a silver case.
'A farmer sells wool at a pound …' he probed his mouth. 'What will it fetch when it gets to the buyer in Flanders?'
'Twenty times that amount.'
Guy replaced the toothpick. 'Why the difference?'
'The Crown takes its due and so does the Staple. Then there is the cost of packing and cartage. It takes over a year for Lincolnshire wool to reach the warehouses of the Staple in Antwerp and Calais, so there's a lot of wastage and repacking to be done.'
Guy did a rapid translation and Philip replied with a flood of guttural noises. Guy smiled.
'My friend says that if we were to wage war in such a manner, we'd be dead within the year.' He stroked his chin and eyed John. 'If we were to buy wool direct from the farmer and put it on our ships, we could have it in Tangier or Algiers within a couple of months. We'd make a handsome profit. What do you say to that?'
'I'd say you would be at variance with the laws of the realm and the well-established practices of orderly commerce.'
Guy translated and Philip was unable to contain himself. Elizabeth watched as the two men joked in their rough French and her feelings underwent a rapid transformation. They might be handsome and wear fine clothes but there was something appallingly sinister about the pair.
She looked around the table. John was nursing his goblet and Harald was polishing his eyeglasses. A servant entered with a basket of sweetmeats and the news that the public fountain had overflowed. She said water was running down Cheap Street.
Guy turned to William and grinned.
'The father abbot seems to have a problem with his conduit.'
'Yeah.' William reached for a sweetmeat. 'Serves the fat old sod right. Just like it will serve Roger Knowles right when he gets what's coming to him.'
***
Abbot Bradford stood at the infirmary window and looked down onto the lawn. A gang of men was digging a ditch to expose the conduit. His face reddened when he saw who was directing them.
'How could you have agreed to such terms?' He tugged at Simon's sleeve. 'That miller will rob us of our last shilling.'
'I had no alternative.' Simon peered over the abbot's shoulder. 'They had to divert both streams. The entire flow of the New Well is now being discharged into the public fountain. We'll have to get our water from there. I've sent servants with buckets and told them to fill every available container.'
'Couldn't we have waited until tomorrow?'
'Tomorrow is Pact Monday Fair. The plumbers will be there. They won't be back at work until Tuesday at the earliest. It was best to pay the miller and get the job done.'
William pointed to the men with spades. 'Where did they come from?'
'They're in town, hoping to sign up with a new employer at the fair. The miller said he'd try to pick labourers in the building trade.'
'I hope he didn't bring in any of those archers,' William grunted. 'Master Hulle has told me about them. They've been stealing timber and canvas from him to make tents. They're camping out in front of the abbey. The New Moon is doing a brisk trade. I wish the same could be said for the George.'
As they watched, two of the slabs that spanned the conduit were lifted. The miller peered into the murky waters. Rags, used for toilet purposes, floated on the surface. Their slow progress indicated that the obstruction had not yet been reached. Poles were produced and fitted together. Foot by foot they made their way along the conduit towards the infirmary wall. Simon let out a sigh.
'They're getting awfully close. I hope the obstruction is not under the building. That could take a long time to fix.'
The point was lost on William. 'That agreement you made with the miller … it stipulated that he had to complete the job at the agreed price?'
'Absolutely.'
'There was no silly clause that would enable him to wriggle out if the job got too difficult?'
'None at all.'
'Then there's nothing to worry about. If the task is too difficult, he won't get paid. If he loses money, that's his problem.'
Simon watched as the poles were removed and laid out along the line of the conduit. To his relief, they stopped just below the window. The obstruction appeared to be at the point where the conduit met the infirmary wall. He breathed a sigh of relief.
'The problem will soon be solved.'
'You a
greed to pay the miller three shillings and what's he done?' William frowned. 'He's hired three men to dig a little hole. Between None and Evensong he'll have earned more money than most receive in a month.'
'There has been a return of the plague,' Simon countered.
'That doesn't mean you had to pay a worthless miller so much to fix a trivial problem.'
'My concern was to solve the problem before it got out of hand.' Simon stood his ground. 'With so many disruptive elements in town there is the danger of lawlessness. The addition of a health risk could be catastrophic.'
'I find your explanation unconvincing.' William looked down onto the lawn. 'You have not learnt the lessons I've been trying to impress on you. We are at a difficult point in history. The rule of Holy Mother Church and the stability of the realm are under threat …'
Simon's mind shut off. He'd heard it all before. It was yet another recitation of the strident political views William had learnt, imperfectly, from his relatives. The abbot reached the point where the lower classes had to be held in perpetual subjugation when a cry from below interrupted his diatribe.
'We're nearly there.'
Simon craned his neck. The conduit was no more than a foot below the surface. Monks crowded around as the stone slabs were levered up and dragged to one side. A mound of faeces welled up. The miller prodded it with a spade.
'Holy Mother!'
The monks let out a collective gasp.
'What's going on?'
'They appear to have found a body.'
'Probably one of those archers,' William chuckled. 'They're always fighting. One less won't matter.'
The labourers pulled out the corpse and set it down on the grass. The miller called for a bucket of water to be thrown over the face. The slime was washed off and the monks crossed themselves.
'It's the summoner.'
They pointed to the face and the cord that protruded from its swollen lips. The miller pulled on the cord and a small leather bag emerged. He undid the tie string and coins fell out.
Simon turned to William.
'You sent the summoner on a mission and he has been returned to you. He was not killed by robbers. His murderers made that very clear. They placed his ill-gotten gains in his mouth and dumped his body in the conduit knowing we would find it. I beg you to heed their message.'
Chapter 26
Pact Monday
The archery ground occupied a narrow a strip of land between the abbey and the Combe Stream. A trestle table had been erected there beneath a canopy emblazoned with the arms of the Earl of Huntingdon. Richard Vowell sat at it in his faded Agincourt uniform. He made an entry in his ledger and looked up.
'Next.'
A young man stepped forward from a group of archers.
Richard cast a critical eye over him.
'Aim at the furthest butt. You will be judged on accuracy and speed. Proceed in your own time.'
Instinct told him the boy was good. He had the physique of an archer ... broad shoulders and barrel chest. And his bow looked right. It was an ugly piece of work, full of knots and unpainted. Some archers had painted bows with a smooth finish. That told you a lot about them. Paint did nothing for a bow's performance and a smooth finish was a bad sign. Yew was full of knots and they had to be left and worked around.
The boy stood sideways to his target.
That was another good sign. Archers who faced straight on took up too much room. Richard watched as an arrow was removed from the quiver and fitted to the bow. The boy's left arm straightened and remained rigid. Each complex movement flowed smoothly into the next. His shoulders swept up and the muscles of his whole body came into play as he drew back the bowstring. A slight adjustment of the arm and a small movement of the feet were all that were needed. Three arrows were in the air before the first landed. Richard wasn't surprised to see them find their mark.
He called the boy to the table. 'How old are you?'
'Seventeen at Lent, Sir.' He spoke with a strong Lincolnshire accent and had difficulty understanding what was said to him. That didn't matter. He'd soon learn the speech and swaggering manners that identified archers as a breed of their own.
Richard selected a wooden stamp and wetted it with blue die.
'Hold out your hand.'
The boy extended his arm and received the sign of a wolf on his wrist.
'What's your name?'
'Piers Wood, Sir.'
Richard entered the name in his ledger and placed the stamp beside it.'
'Sign here.'
The boy drew three trees.
'Right, lad. Get up to the Julian in Cheap Street. You'll find Sir Guy Gascoigne there. Show him the back of your hand and you'll soon be a member of the Noble Company.'
The boy left and Richard braced himself for his next encounter. Walter Gallor was waiting patiently. The bailiff had either learnt manners or was intimidated by the presence of so many archers. At any rate, he didn't push his way forward as he usually did.
Richard looked up from his ledger.
'Aim at the nearest butt. Proceed in your own time. You will be judged on speed and accuracy.'
Walter did his best to maintain his dignity. 'Master Vowell. I am here at the father abbot's command.'
Richard put down his quill pen. 'Whose father did you say?'
'The Abbot of Sherborne.'
'I thought Billy's father was dead.' Richard scratched the back of his head. 'Didn't he die of the pox a few years back?'
The archers roared with laughter.
Walter ignored them.
'Master Vowell. It is my duty to draw your attention to the damage that is being occasioned by your use of this archery ground. By the laws laid down by King Edward the first of that name since the Conquest …'
'Third of that name,' Richard cut in.
'By the laws laid down,' Walter struggled on. 'The Tithing of Hound Street in the Abbot's Fee of Sherborne, is required to establish and maintain a ground where the noble art of archery may be practised by royal command on the Sabbath and major feast days to the exclusion of all other diberions.'
'Diversions.' Richard corrected the faulty pronunciation.
Walter glared at him. 'So what you doing about it?'
'About what?'
'All this mess you're making.'
'We'll clear it up.'
'And … you'll put the yew trees back to how they was and return the materials what has been stolen from Master Hulle?'
'I wasn't talking about that.'
'So what was you talking about?'
'The archery ground.'
'And all the rest?' Walter pointed to the archers' camp. 'What are you going to do about that?'
'Nothing,' Richard shook his head.
'But it's your people what has caused the destruction.'
'They're not my people.'
'Yes they are. You're signing them on. You can't deny that.'
'I am a recruiting agent, Master Gallor.' Richard returned the hostile stare. 'If you wish to pursue this matter, you should go up to the Julian and speak to Sir Guy Gascoigne and his legal adviser.'
***
Piers Wood entered Cheap Street and looked around. He had to find the Julian Inn. Back home in Spalding that would have presented no problem. He'd have asked the way. Trouble here was the way people spoke. They rolled their arrs something awful and ran everything together so you couldn't make out one word from the next. Piers concentrated on the signs. They were useful if you couldn't read. More so if you couldn't understand a sodding thing the locals were saying. His archer mates had told him to look out for a sign showing a woman with big tits and rouged cheeks. Piers found one and went inside.
The woman at the door looked like the one on the sign. He showed her the stamp on the back of his hand but she wasn't interested. Instead, she took him to a back room where some bored-looking girls were sitting on a bench. One of them bared her breasts and gave him a toothy smile. Piers decided he'd come to the wrong place and l
eft to the taunts of the girls.
Back outside, he hurried up Cheap Street. Nearing the top, he recognised some archers who had been ahead of him at the butts. They were wearing a light sleeveless jacket over their own clothes and looked very smart. Piers recognised the colours of the Earl of Huntingdon. He showed them his wrist and was pointed to the inn across the street.
Three men sat at a table in the front parlour.
One was Sir Guy Gascoigne. Everyone said the best thing was to join him. Pier's mind fogged over as Guy leant forward and asked his name. He replied and a man wrote it in a book. He signed beside it and Guy clasped his arm.
'Welcome to the Noble Company.'
Piers could scarcely believe his luck.
Chapter 27
Judith's Dowry
Almost nothing remained of the old Norman chancel. The massive structure that once extended from the abbey tower to the Lady Chapel was demolished in Abbot Brunyng's time. Now, under the direction of Robert Hulle, much of the south wall had been rebuilt in the modern style. Scaffolding, protected by tarred canvas, ran along its southern side. Walter Gallor stood there with a man dressed in the heavy leathers of a stonemason. He wore a crucifix of walrus ivory and had an armband identifying him as a special constable. Pact Monday Fair had ended and the archers' camp was abandoned. The mason surveyed the scene of devastation.
'Filthy Sods. They're no better than animals.'
'Far worse,' Walter said. 'My dog knows better. He don't crap in his own yard. He goes outside to do it.'
'Thank God they're gone.'
'Amen to that,' Walter spat onto the ground below. 'Now we're rid of 'em, we can sort out those Lollards what thinks they runs this place. The sods don't have no archers to protect them no more.'
'Master Hulle says they've been pilfering from his site.'
'That's just part of it.' Walter scratched his crotch. 'If you'd been here long enough, you'd know what vile heretics they are. They've no respect for their betters. They think they can defy the lord abbot and argue with the learned brothers. They've even erected an illegal font in All Hallows. The bishop has ordered its removal and they are defying him.'