Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm

by Mike Dixon

  Walter pointed at the collection box.

  'You said the contents was put there by Sir Guy Gascoigne.'

  John Duffield snapped the box shut and returned his key to his gown.

  'Master Gallor, this is an inexcusable intrusion.'

  'I'm here at the lord abbot's command, Vicar.'

  'All Hallows falls within the lord bishop's jurisdiction, Master Gallor.'

  Walter flicked his fingers in John's face.

  'Gimme the keys.'

  'The contents of this box are the property of the parish.' John Duffield stood his ground. 'The abbey has no rights to them.'

  'No, Vicar.' Walter screwed up his face. 'You just said they was put there by Sir Guy Gascoigne for all the damage he done. But it's not you what's suffered … it's the lord abbot what's suffered.'

  John Duffield remained calm. 'I have one key and Master Rochell has the other. I have hidden mine about my person. You can take it by force but you will answer to our lord bishop if you lay rude hands on me. I urge you to think before you act.'

  'I am thinking, Vicar. I'm thinking about those archers what stole the lord abbot's box. They hit it off the wall like what I'm going to do to yours.'

  Walter grabbed the sledgehammer from the mason and advanced on the box. John Duffield spread his arms to stop him and was knocked to the floor. Blows rained down. Chips of rock flew and the box fell to the ground.

  'The lord bishop will be informed of this.'

  'He'll be informed all right, Vicar.' Walter picked up the box. 'Bishop Neville will hear how we carried out his orders.'

  'You're surely not suggesting he told you to take our box.'

  'No. But he told you to get rid of that font what you put up in contravention of official orders. You was told to destroy it and you haven't. So I'm going to do it for you.'

  'On whose instructions?'

  'The lord abbot's. So get out the way or you could get hurt.'

  Richard Rochell grabbed the vicar's arm and hurried him out of the chapel. They ran across the abbey green to the sound of hammer blows and the shouts of Walter and the mason.

  ***

  Thomas Draper waited in the porch of All Hallows. His only companion was a stonemason, grieving over a smashed font. Dick Vowell was late. The Welsh boys had gone to fetch him but Dick had not appeared. Thomas listened as the abbey bells tolled for Evensong then went outside. An unpleasant mist rose from the cesspools to the south of the town. The mason let out a sigh.

  'I made that font and they smashed it.'

  Thomas felt his indignation.

  'I didn't just bash it out,' the man moaned. 'I took time over it. I wanted it to be the font of the people of Sherborne. I wanted to think that generations of our children would be baptised in it long after I had gone.'

  'Would you make another?'

  'Not if it was going to be broke up again.'

  As he spoke, a shape appeared out of the mist and came towards them like a phantom from another world. Thomas recognised Richard Vowell. The old archer rode a warhorse. The huge beast halted a few paces away, snorting furiously.

  Richard leapt from the saddle. 'They've declared war on us.'

  'Aye, Dick. And we've declared war on them. The lads are out telling people what Bradford done. It's all arranged. We'll be starting out from the Half Moon tomorrow. Bradford can't get away with it. He smashed our font. We're going to get the old one back.'

  'That's right,' the mason shouted. 'It doesn't belong in the abbey. Its place is here in All Hallows.' He picked up a lantern.' Come and see what they done … Wat Gallor and that special constable of his.'

  Richard followed the mason inside the chapel to a pile of rubble where the font once stood. He turned over a piece with his foot and read the inscription.

  'Suffer the little children to come unto me.'

  'That's what you wrote for me, Dick.'

  'Aye.' Richard stared down at the neatly chiselled words. 'It's a translation from Greek by the learned Wycliffe.'

  'You mean the one the Lollards talk about?'

  'The very same. The saintly Wycliffe rendered the words of our Lord Jesus in our tongue so we would not have to take our teaching from lying monks and thieving friars.'

  Richard picked up the lantern and went over to the door that led through into the abbey church. Thomas and the mason watched as he measured the opening with his feet.

  'What you doing?' Thomas asked.

  'Billie Bradford reckons he narrowed the door to stop us taking the old font through. I reckon he got it wrong and it will be easy to find out.'

  He pushed at the door and it remained shut.'

  'What's going on?'

  'They barred it,' Thomas said.

  'Sod 'em. If I can't get in that way, I'll go in another.'

  Richard strode outside. Thomas followed him to the south door of the abbey. A chink of light from a covered lantern told him that someone was there. Walter Gallor emerged from the porch with two special constables.

  'What do you think you're doing, Master Vowell?'

  'I'm going to get a replacement for our font.'

  'Not in there … you're not.'

  'That's what you think, Wat Gallor.'

  'Yes, Master Vowell. That's what I think. That door is barred and I've fifteen armed men to keep it so.'

  The constables grabbed Richard and hurled him to the ground. Walter stared down at him.

  'Your archer mates have gone off to France, Dickie. They're not here to look after you anymore ...'

  Hooves clattered over the cobblestones and Richard's war horse appeared, snorting and lashing out with its hooves. Walter was bitten on the arm and one of the constables was kicked in the chest. Richard climbed onto the ferocious beast and disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 29

  Inferno

  The hayloft above the stables, John and Elizabeth Baret's house, early morning, twenty-eighth day of October 1437: John Baret pulled a sack of grain over the rough floorboards and climbed on top. Elizabeth waited anxiously as he removed a louver from a roof turret and peered down into the yard of the Half Moon Inn.

  'What can you see, John?'

  'There's fifty or more of them.'

  'Do you recognise anyone?'

  'Tom Draper and John Tucker are there … they're handing out red ribbons.'

  'What do you think they're for?'

  'Some sort of badge.' John stood on tiptoe. 'Oh, my God!'

  'Now what's happened?'

  'They're making the Cross of Saint George.'

  'You mean … like on the almshouse uniforms?'

  'Yes … just like that. They're stitching them on their chests. Think what Bradford will make of that.'

  'But the cross was popular when the old folk were young.'

  'That doesn't matter.' John rocked on his perch. 'It's what Abbot Bradford tells Bishop Neville that matters. He'll say we're behind all this.' He drew in a deep breath. 'Good Lord.'

  'What now?'

  'There are people I'd not expect to see at such a gathering … solid townsfolk … family men with property. They're standing cheek to jowl with the most awful rabble. I can't imagine what's got into their heads.'

  'They're angry about the font.'

  'Aye. Billy Bradford went a step too far when he ordered Gallor to destroy it. The parish has put up with a lot from that man … but it's his arrogance that offends most.'

  John got down from his perch.

  'The man lords himself over us in a way that is intolerable. As abbot, he has legitimate concerns but he turns his mind to things that are not within his purview. If he wasn't so stupid, I'd say he was trying to cause a riot.'

  'What do you think will happen?'

  'I fear the worse. There are people down there spoiling for a fight. For the moment they're quiet. They're waiting for a signal. When it happens, they'll go on the rampage.'

  ***

  The archers crossed the river and marched through the water meadow. They w
ere dressed in the colours of the Earl of Huntingdon and carried a variety of weapons. Richard Vowell was in front on a white horse. He wore priests' robes and carried a bible. Nearing the cesspools, to the south of the abbey, the column was joined by men wearing badges of the free masons' guild. They had a battering ram, made from a tree trunk set on the base of a sturdy cart. Richard raised his bible in salute.

  'You managed to get a cart then, lads.'

  'Came out of Bobby Hulle's yard,' one of the masons shouted.

  Richard cast an eye over the contrivance.

  'Won't be much use to Bobby now.'

  'Nah. We cut off the sides and lashed on one of his oaks.'

  'Master Hulle won't be too pleased with that.'

  'Nah. Serve the sod right for being such a bastard.'

  'It looks big enough for the job.'

  'Yeah. Like I said, Abbot Bradford wasn't prepared to pay a proper price to have bars put on that door so we weren't prepared to do a proper job. One good hit and it will be down.'

  The procession continued on its way, marching to the wail of pipes and beat of drums. They cleared the cesspools and entered Half Moon Street. Small boys dashed ahead and the barmaids ran out of the inn. John Tucker took the bridle of Richard's horse and led him through a cheering crowd to the rear of the inn where the landlord was waiting with a tankard of ale.

  He downed it in one draught and peered at the cheering crowd over the pewter rim. In the past he would have told them to shut up and give him a chance to speak. Now he knew better. Shouting worked with the troops in France but not with the folks back home. You had to treat them like spectators at a mummers' play. Timing mattered. They were looking forward to a good performance and didn't expect it to be rushed.

  He accepted a second tankard from the landlord. Downed it with measured gulps, handed it back and clasped his hands together in an attitude of piety. The chatter died down. He waited for complete silence then raised his arms in the gesture of love and compassion that he'd learnt from Friar Ashley.

  'We are gathered here to uphold the king's law.'

  An excited murmur swept through the crowd.

  'Abbot William Bradford, contrary to the interests of our young sovereign, has seized the persons of loyal archers and extracted heriot from the families of men going to protect his rights in France. The selfsame abbot has likewise trampled on ancient custom by placing the ancestral font of the good people of Sherborne in a place unfitting for its usage. He has furthermore narrowed the door through which they are wont to pass in their baptismal ceremonies. Abbot Bradford did this at his own bidding and in flagrant disregard for the injunction of our lord bishop.'

  He turned to the archers.

  'The Noble Company is here to support us in our holy cause. These worthy lads will proceed to the foul abbot's gaol where our good friend and companion, Owen Ap-Richard, is unjustly held. Having released the said Owen from bondage they will proceed to the tithe barn where goods unlawfully seized by the said abbot will be returned to their rightful owners. Master Tucker has a list. All are reminded that there will be no unnecessary violence to persons or property.'

  Richard turned to the men beside the battering ram.

  'Our good friends, the free masons, are likewise here. When these stout-hearted fellows heard that the door of the abbey was barred against us, they did not despair. Like our brave boys in France, they mustered their resources and produced this magnificent machine. We shall stand shoulder-to-shoulder with them when they mount their attack.'

  A trumpet sounded and the baptismal band stormed out of the yard followed by the Agincourt veterans and the townsmen. Smartly dressed men jostled fresh-faced apprentices for the privilege of pushing the ram. The huge contrivance rumbled over the cobblestones and reached the abbey grounds where it halted before the avenue of yews leading up to the south door.

  Richard dismounted to check the alignment of the wheels. The masons were a useless bunch and couldn't be trusted. They had lost their jobs when William Hulle refused to renew their contracts at Pact Monday Fair and had been drinking all night. He squinted along the line of the oak and didn't like what he saw.

  'Right! Roll it back a mite and we'll start again.'

  The mason's didn't take kindly to orders and an argument ensued. They refused to cooperate and the apprentices came to his aid. Finally, when everything was to Richard's satisfaction, he raised his bible and shouted the Agincourt battle cry.

  'For Harry and Saint George!'

  The apprentices threw their weight behind the cart and the townsmen joined in. The big wheels sped over the rough ground, gathering speed. By the time the ram reached the abbey, the huge oak had acquired a formidable momentum. The tip passed beneath the stone arch of the porch. There was a mighty whack as it made contact with the door. Iron was torn from stone and wood splintered.

  The ram came to an abrupt halt.

  Dust billowed from the porch. Richard jumped from his horse and went to survey the damage. The apprentices were already there. He peered over their shoulders and could scarcely believe his eyes.

  'Holy Shit!'

  'The door's still there ... isn't it, Dick?'

  'Too sodding right, it is.'

  'They said they'd have it down in one hit.'

  'Useless bastards!'

  'That why Billy Hulle sacked 'em, Dick.'

  'The sod's can't be trusted.'

  'You tell 'em, Dick.'

  Richard rounded on the masons.

  'You arseholes told me you'd have it down in one hit.'

  'What was that?'

  'You said the iron wasn't bedded in properly.'

  'So it wasn't, neither.'

  One of the masons strode into the porch and thrust a hand into the gap between the door and the stonework. He pulled it out and blew dust in Richard's face.

  'We got it off its hinges just like we said.'

  'But it's not open.'

  'That's because they packed rubble behind it.'

  'Why didn't you tell me?'

  'I didn't know.'

  'It was your duty to know.' Richard grabbed the man by the neck. 'If this was the army, you'd be hanged.'

  'Well. It's not the sodding army.'

  The mason broke loose and went to the front of the porch.

  'Everyone out. Big mouth didn't check what was behind that door. There's no way we can get it open ... and the sod's blaming us.'

  'Deserters!'

  The veterans drew their daggers and the better-dressed townsmen took to their heels. Richard left the porch and clambered onto the ram to get a better view. On one side, the veterans were intimidating the masons, threatening to kill them if they didn't cooperate. On the other side, the apprentices who were removing tools from the masons' cart.

  Richard shouted down to the boys.

  'What you lads doing?'

  'We're going to get the font, Dick.'

  'You can't get into the abbey.'

  ' We're going in through the Saxon door, Dick.'

  'What door?'

  'The one behind the old picture in All Hallows.'

  Richard felt stupid. A bunch of kids was getting the better of him. No one had told him there was a second way into the abbey. He jumped down from the ram and felt a searing pain. His old injury had come back. He tried to stand and his leg would scarcely bear his weight.

  'Come on, Dick.'

  The boys found a spade and he used it as a crutch.

  'We've got it off, Dick.'

  They yelled excitedly and led him into All Hallows. A painted panel lay in tatters on the floor. Boys with sledgehammers were assaulting a door. The ancient timbers crumpled and they burst through into the abbey nave.

  'Come on, Dick.'

  He followed them inside. The font stood at the far end of the nave, bathed in sunlight. The Holy Grail could not have aroused greater passions. Richard hobbled towards it and heard Walter Gallor's booming voice.

  'You've gone too far this time, Master Vowell.'
/>
  Richard guessed that Walter was on the scaffolding, at the end of the nave, with his special constables. They would be watching him from behind the huge canvas that Ralph Knowles had painted with scenes from the Bible.

  'You come down here and speak to me, Wat Gallor.'

  'No, Master Vowell. I shall remain here and await the arrival of the Earl of Salisbury. The abbot's pigeons have flown and none of your archers managed to shoot them down. They'll be in Salisbury by now. The earl will send his men to enforce the king's law.'

  'We're defending the king's law.'

  'No, Master Vowell. You're leading an insurrection.'

  'We're here to claim what is rightly ours.'

  'You've come to steal the font.'

  'It is our birthright.'

  'The lord abbot protects the birthright of the good people of Sherborne ... not you, Master Vowell.'

  Richard heard Walter Gallor's voice but the words could have come from Friar Ashley. He guessed the friar was up there on the scaffolding, behind Ralph Knowles' painting, whispering in the bailiff's ear. Wat was an ignorant oaf. A few well-chosen words would always shut him up. Now the sod was answering back.

  His next utterance sounded more like him.

  'I have a dozen archers with me. I'll give the order to shoot if you act in viobration of the law.'

  Richard stared back defiantly. 'I know who's up there with you, Wat Gallor. You've got a farting friar and a bunch of eunuchs pretending to be archers. I wouldn't give an ant's fart for the whole sodding lot of them …'

  A flight of arrows cut him short. Richard stumbled back as steal-tipped shafts peppered the wooden lid of the font in an impressive display of archery. The boys fled and he was suddenly alone.

  'Best you go too, Dickie.'

  'I'm not going anywhere.'

  An arrow passed within inches of his head.

  'Get your arse out of here, Dickie.'

  'Don't tell me what to do.' Richard gave the archers' two-finger salute. 'I fought at Agincourt. I've served two kings.'

  'Don't you give us that.' Walter thrust his head through a hole in the painting. 'We've had more than a belly full of you and your Agincourt crap. My boys don't believe a word of it. They reckon you couldn't shoot straight to save your fuckin life.'