Wolf Wood (Part One): The Gathering Storm (25 page)

'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.

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 were
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.