Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (24 page)

'What else did
they do?'

'They told us
to get out?'

'You mean
Robin and the Welsh boy?'

'No. William.
The boy's out of his mind … charged about with a firebrand saying
he'd burn the place down and us with it.'

'Where's your
family?'

'In the woods
… I left them and came straight here.'

Roger went to
the gate and looked towards the valley. A thin column of smoke rose
above the trees. At first it was no different from the early
morning fires lit to burn fallen leaves. Then the smoke thickened
and turned black.'

'You little
sod, William.' He drew in a deep breath. 'You may be my sister's
child but that won't stop me killing you.'

***

The farm was
where Roger had been humiliated a year earlier by Harald Gascoigne
and his servant, Robin. He'd been humiliated again at the
Dorchester assizes when Hugh Orpington turned up with a force of
thirty armed men. This time he was prepared. He'd recruited a force
of fifty. They were in the service of the Earl of Salisbury and
waiting to cross to France to join the Duke of Suffolk.

He arrived at
the head of the valley and eyed the scene below. The farmhouse was
ablaze and a band of adolescents was charging about wildly,
rounding up cattle. They seemed unaware of the powerful force
descending upon them. Roger wondered how close he could get before
the silly brats saw him.

He signalled
to his men to move forward and came within bowshot of the boys
before one of them let out a terrified scream and dashed for the
cover of the barn, followed by his juvenile companions.

It was the
sort of behaviour Roger expected. Full of bravado one minute and
terrified the next, the silly kids had little understanding of the
real world. They could have gone into the woods and found safety
amongst the briars and thornbushes. Instead, they'd sought refuge
in a building. He raised his baton and his men halted.

His legal
adviser had warned him about the use of excessive force. An attempt
must first be made to resolve the issue peacefully. The door of the
barn was open. He approached within hailing distance, keen to sound
like a concerned relative, eager to sort out an unfortunate
misunderstanding.

'Come out,
Nephew. There's no need to be frightened.'

William
appeared at the door.

'What do you
want?'

'We need to
talk.'

'Very well.
Get on with it.'

The boy seemed
anything but frightened. Roger had never heard such insolence from
a thirteen-year-old. 'I'm ordering you and your young companions to
leave that barn.'

'Why should I?
It's my property.'

'Do as you are
told, William.' He spurred his horse forward. 'I'm taking you into
custody. You will be released when your father has paid for all the
damage you've done.'

The boy
stepped outside.

'Get off my
land. You're trespassing.'

Roger's
patience snapped. 'William. I have fifty armed men with me and
they're itching for a day's sport.'

'I have three
hundred, Uncle.'

'Don't try to
frighten me with your silly nonsense.' Roger stood high on his
horse and eyed the boy coldly. 'You're not back at the manor now
playing games with your little friends. You're not King Arthur with
his knights.'

'I do not play
games, Uncle.'

There was an
icy chill to William's voice. He raised a hand and Robin and Gareth
appeared from the shadows. They had two arrows in the air before
Roger knew what was happening. The shafts struck the turf on either
side of his horse and the frightened animal bolted. It would have
fled the field if his sergeant hadn't come to the rescue. He eyed
Roger reproachfully.

'You could
have been killed back there.'

'I was trying
to talk sense into them.'

'Well, you
didn't. Those boys got the better of you.'

The sergeant
pointed to the barn.

'Do you want
them out?'

'Yes,' Roger
nodded.

'Then we'll
have to use fire.'

'Is there no
other way?'

'Not unless
you want to get killed.'

Roger was
speechless. He'd paid good money for his force of mercenaries and
he was being treated with disrespect. Worst of all, there was
nothing he could do about it. He followed the sergeant up the
slope, trying to appear as if he was still in command.

Some archers
were lolling around on the grass.

'Right lads,'
the sergeant went up to them. 'They won't parley so we're going to
have to smoke 'em out. They're only kids so there's to be a minimum
of aggravation. None is to get hurt. Do you understand?'

'Aye,
Sarge.'

'We'll stay
well out of range.'

'Aye,
Sarge.'

Roger watched
as a gigantic bow was produced and handed to a burly archer. The
man sank onto the soft turf, raised his knees to his chest and
grasped the bow with his toes. Everything was done in a casual
manner as if there was no hurry. A huge fire arrow was produced.
The archer continued to chat with his companions as the arrow was
fitted. He waited for it to be lit then thrust out his legs and
bent the bow with the full strength of his body.

Only one shot
was needed. It rose in a shallow arc before dropping towards the
barn. Roger estimated the distance at over three hundred yards. The
accuracy was astounding. The shaft struck the roof and the
incendiary charge lodged in the thatch. All they had to do now was
wait. The flames spread slowly but the outcome was never in doubt.
Smoke billowed from the building. Roger imagined the boys inside,
too terrified to leave.

Eventually,
the door flew open and they came tumbling out. He watched as they
squirmed around on the ground, gasping for breath. Then, on a
signal from William, they jumped to their feet.

'Guy! Guy!
Guy!'

They set up a
chant and William blew his horn. A trumpet sounded in reply and a
glint of steel appeared amongst the trees.

'You stupid
arsehole!'

The sergeant
grabbed Roger's arm.

'Those are Guy
Gascoigne's men.'

He pointed to
where a line of horsemen had appeared.

'You said they
were in France.'

Roger gasped
as armoured horsemen streamed from the woods. Archers ran beside
them, hanging onto stirrup straps. Others rode pillion. The speed
of the manoeuvre was frightening.

The sergeant
mounted his horse.

'You can stay
if you want. We're leaving.'

Roger watched
in horror as his escort left the field then ran to his horse and
sped after them.

The manor was
in uproar when he got there. Servants were fleeing and taking his
best horses. He retreated into the manor barn with his wife and
child and the few people who had remained loyal. The building was
equipped with arrow slits and designed to withstand attacks by
robbers. It was totally inadequate against the force of heavily
armed men heading his way. He could see them coming down the road,
marching to the sound of pipe and drum.

His nephew,
William, rode in front on a warhorse. The boy had a banner in one
hand and a sword in the other. Roger glanced at his small son who
was cowering in his mother's arms. If anything happened to the
child, William would be the natural heir to the Knowles' estate.
The threat posed by the malevolent thirteen-year-old was
terrifying.

He returned
his attention to the advancing troops. The column had reached the
main gate. As he watched, a cavalry unit detached and proceeded
towards the manor house. The rest of the force came to a halt
before the barn. Roger's chaplain tapped his arm.

'If you agree,
I'll go out under a flag of truce.'

'Yes … do
that.'

Sweat poured
down Roger's face.

'I'll renounce
all claims to Judith's dower.'

The chaplain
tied a white surplice to a hayfork and left by a side door. Roger
pressed his face to an arrow slit and saw William ride forward. The
encounter was brief. The boy listened for a few moments then
pointed to a group of men coming up at the rear.

The chaplain
hurried back.

'They've got
cannon.' He dashed inside. 'They'll blast us to pieces if we don't
do as they say.'

'What do they
want?'

'We must go
back to the house. Guy is waiting there.'

Roger climbed
the stairs of the family home. His worst fears were realised. His
father's alliance with the Gascoignes had been a terrible mistake.
It was like embracing a serpent. You never knew when the creature
would turn and bite you. He had struggled to match their vicious
nature and failed.

The familiar
objects of his childhood decorated the walls. There were pictures
of his parents, painted by roving Flemish artists. An old suit of
armour stood on the landing. It had been made for his grandfather
when he was a boy. Roger had fought mock battles in it with his
young friends. Now, it was hopelessly outdated ... a sentimental
relic from the past.

Guy was
waiting for him in the hall. The younger of the Gascoigne brothers
sat at the high table as if he was lord of the manor. Sir Hugh
Orpington stood on one side and a tall man, in French armour, stood
on the other.

Sir Hugh
indicated a bench.

'Roger
Knowles,' he spoke in his lawyer's voice. 'My client intends to lay
charges against you for the invasion of his land and the attempted
murder of members of his household, going about their lawful
business. What say you to that?'

'They were
destroying valuable property.'

'But the
property belongs to them.'

'The property
is in dispute.'

'And you tried
to stop them?'

'That was my
avowed intention.'

'No, Sir
Roger. They sought refuge in the only building that was left
standing and you set it afire. You tried to murder them. We can
bring a hundred witnesses to vouch for that.'

'I shall
contest any charges before the King's Bench.'

'That will be
very costly and unlikely to succeed.'

Sir Hugh
dropped his voice and adopted a conciliatory tone.

'My advice is
to accept the generous offer my client intends to make. We were on
our way to put it to you when we stumbled upon your brazen
assault.'

Sir Hugh
produced a rolled parchment.

'My client
offers you the handsome sum of four hundred and fifty marks, in
coin or equivalent, for your entire estate. His only stipulation is
that you renounce all claims to any property held by him and remove
yourself and your family from the county of Dorset.'

'That is
preposterous.'

'On the
contrary, Sir Roger, it is a most generous offer.'

'The land
alone is worth twice that amount.'

'Land is worth
very little these days, Sir Roger.'

Guy did a
rapid translation for Philip de Maupassant and the Frenchman
replied in a tone that Roger found intimidating.

Guy grinned.
'My friend asks about the little boy at the bottom of the stairs.
He wonders who he is.'

Roger's heart
missed a beat. 'He is the son of my ploughman.'

Guy translated
and Philip roared with laughter. An explosion of guttural noises
escaped the Frenchman's lips and Guy turned to Roger. 'My friend
says the lad is very well dressed for a ploughman's son. He wonders
if the ploughman would accept a payment for him. We have a boat
sailing for Tangier. The Moors value pretty boys with fair
hair.'

Suddenly,
Roger Knowles knew what it was like to be a country squire in
France and receive a visit from the Gascoignes. He gulped back the
vomit forming in his throat.

'Five hundred
marks … no less.'

'Accepted.'

Sir Hugh
rolled up the parchment.

'We'll go at
once to Dorchester. His Majesty's Commissioners are there. We'll
finalise the agreement and make payment.'

While Roger
Knowles was on his way to Dorchester, Richard Rochell was on his
way to All Hallows with John Duffield and John Sprotert. The three
men were on routine church business. The collection boxes had to be
emptied and strict procedures had to be followed. Richard was there
as parish accountant, John Duffield as vicar and John Sprotert as a
witness.

Richard
produced a key and inserted it in one of the two locks that secured
the lid of the box. John Duffield produced a second key and
inserted it in the other lock. They turned the keys together and
the lid popped open. Coins of every denomination appeared, many of
them French. John Duffield was unable to contain his surprise.

'Wherever has
all this come from?'

Richard
Rochell gazed at the glint of silver.

'I can think
of only one explanation. Harald Gascoigne told us to expect a
handsome donation from his brother. It would be Guy's way of
repaying us for all the trouble he's caused.'

'I heard
that.'

A voice boomed
from the porch and Walter Gallor appeared. He was accompanied by a
man dressed as a stonemason and wearing an armband that identified
him as one of the special constables appointed by Abbot Bradford.
He wore an ivory crucifix and carried a sledgehammer.

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.'