by Mike Dixon
'So, you're saying we don't have any rights.'
'No. I'm not.'
'Yes you are. You've just said it's not our church. You said it was a chapel of ease. That's another way of saying it's part of the abbey and you can do what you sodding well like.'
'Master Vowell,' the vicar tugged at his sleeve. 'Pray, watch your language. You are in God's house.'
'That's right.' Richard wagged a menacing finger at the sacrist. 'You heard what the reverend said. This is God's house ... it doesn't belong to you.'
A mason working on the doorway winked and gave Richard the thumbs up sign. The vicar noticed the gesture and took Richard's arm.
'I think it better that we should leave.'
'Not until he's told us what's happened to our font.' Richard pointed through the archway to where the font had once stood. They've taken it away.'
'The font has been taken to a place of safety,' the sacrist said. 'Two nights ago our bailiffs surprised a gang of Welshmen trying to drag it off. Isn't that right, Master Gallor?'
'It is, your reverence. Three Welshmen and a Lollard tinker ... all associates of Master Vowell, here.'
'You made the whole thing up,' Richard glared at the sacrist. 'You told Wat Gallor to say that so you'd have an excuse to take it away.'
'The father abbot has instructed that the font be placed at the end of the nave,' the sacrist insisted. 'There will be no hindrance to its use.'
'So he's still around is he ... the reverend father?'
Richard thrust his face at the sacrist.
'I'm told he's not been seen since Christmas. Are you sure someone didn't slip a green powder into his communion wine? You should go up to his chamber ... see that there's not a mummified corpse in his bed.'
'Master Vowell, this is seditious talk.'
'Don't talk to me about sedition, Master Sacrist. I fought for our young king in France. I'm not plotting to make peace with the rebels ... not like some people we know.'
Richard turned to leave then swung back for a final blast.
'You've not heard the last of this.'
***
The girl pulled up her skirt and Alice examined the dome of exposed flesh. Her patient was about sixteen and this was her second pregnancy. The first had ended in miscarriage.
'I've prayed to the Holy Mother that it shall not happen again,' the young woman sobbed. 'It's because of something I done. I don't know what but Holy Mary will speak for me.'
Alice probed gently. The girl was approaching full-term and her second offspring was showing the same tendency for a feet-first exit. The result would be another fatality. The child's head would be trapped and violent intervention by the midwife would be needed to save the mother.
The midwife was Betty. Alice had known Richard Vowell's woman for only a short time. She was plump and placid and Alice had developed a lot of respect for her. Somehow, solid, dependable Betty had attached herself to the wild man of the town.
The girl tensed. 'I can feel baby, Sister. Do you think it's going to be all right?'
'You have a strong, healthy child.'
'But do you think it's going to happen like it should?'
'Be calm, my child,' Alice stroked her forehead. 'Place yourself in the arms of Mother Mary. Speak to her in your own words.'
The girl started to mutter under her breath. Alice felt her abdominal muscles relax. The baby was more relaxed too ... less agitated and more amenable to manipulation. She coaxed it round and listened to voices coming from outside. An almshouse servant was telling someone that Sister was busy. A man replied and her heart missed a beat.
'It's alright, Sarah. Betty can manage.'
She cried out and hurried to the door.
'Sir Harald. What a surprise.'
He stared back at her and began to stutter.
'I … I came …'
'Is it for William's stitches?' she prompted.
'N … No. Brother Arnold examined them in Dorchester. He said the wound has healed well but the stitches should be left in a little longer.'
An awkward silence followed. Words formed but failed to eventuate. Alice reached for her rosary. She recognised it as an automatic reaction to a stressed situation. When people don't know where to put their hands they cling to something familiar. Harald reached for his eyeglasses.
Alice relaxed a little.
'How is William's arm?'
'He still carries it in a sling.' Harald replied and this time the words flowed easily. 'Brother Arnold says Luke set the bones as well as he could himself. I thought it best that he should not accompany me on my visit to Sherborne. The way is muddy and the risk of the horse slipping seemed too great. However, I would be most grateful if you would allow me to bring him to you in the not too distant future.'
'I hope the weather will soon change, Sir Harald. William's stitches must be removed soon and I will need to inspect them before then.'
Harald plucked up courage for another try.
'The other evening, when you were caring for William, you mentioned the beautiful drawings in the Abbey Missal. Brother Mathew tells me that some of the original sketches are still in the scriptorium. He says he would be happy to show them. I wondered if you might join me when I take up his invitation.'
'That is a kind thought.' Alice smiled. 'I am free from my duties in the almshouse for a few hours each afternoon.
Chapter 9
Matins
Richard Vowell pulled his hood over his ears and tried to stay awake. It was the middle of the night and a brazier of glowing coals was burning in All Hallows. Betty had put it there. She'd found a group of homeless people, camping on the green, and taken pity on them.
As assistant suffragan, it was Richard's job to expel sleepers. But that duty didn't begin until he'd unlocked the church in the morning. Whatever the abbey might think, All Hallows was more than a chapel of ease. In the absence of a community hall, it provided a variety of social services and one was to care for the poor and needy.
'I'm going home now.' Betty gave him a kiss. 'I'll have a hot gruel waiting for you when you get back.'
She left and Thomas Draper emerged from the shadows.
Richard opened an eye. What you got to report, squire?'
'John Tucker and Wat Paskuly are here and the monks have begun the matins service. You can hear the holy sods droning away.'
Richard settled into a more comfortable position and theorised on the different levels of sleep. There was deep sleep and shallow sleep. Awakening from shallow sleep did little to jar the nerves. But, if you were deeply asleep and a sudden noise disturbed your dreams, that could be very bad for your constitution.
Deep sleep happened about half-an-hour after you put your head on the pillow. Richard listened to the distant sound of chanting and followed the service from the rise and fall of the monks' voices. He knew when it was drawing to a close and formed a mental picture of black-robed figures leaving the cold of their chapel for the windswept passage outside. One by one, they would mount the stairs to their dormitory. One by one, they would kick off their sandals, snuff out their candles and slump down onto their cots fully dressed.
Richard started to count. It was something he'd done in France. After his second injury, he'd surrendered his bow and turned his mind to cannons. The advantage of gunpowder over muscle power was that a gunnery sergeant didn't have to be as agile as an archer. Good training and an ability to command counted more than fleet of foot. And so did cunning. Firing cannons wasn't only about knocking down walls. It was about demoralising the enemy. You didn't just shoot off your balls when the mood took you. You timed your bombardment for when the other side was most vulnerable ... just like you timed your bells.
After a measured time, he rose from his bench and looked around. Most of the monks would be snoring and the rest counting sheep, or whatever monks did when they couldn't sleep.
Walter Paskuly and John Tucker came across.
'Time to get started?'
; 'Yeah.' Richard pulled his cloak about him and watched the two men climb into the belfry. Then he went into the vestry and collected a pile of surplices.
'Put these on.'
He hurled the white robes at the homeless men.
'We're going to celebrate matins.'
In the tower above his head, the bells of All Hallows began to toll. They rang loudly and went on ringing for a long time.
***
Harald Gascoigne and Sister Alice entered the monastery by a side entrance and walked through the cloister to the scriptorium. Brother Mathew was there to greet them. They entered a room lined with shelves and boxes. Two young men sat at the far end working at easels positioned to take advantage of the afternoon light.
Mathew gestured towards them. 'These are my assistants. Brothers Peter and Paul, named after two of our most holy saints.'
Alice felt certain she knew them. They would have been given biblical names when they entered the monastery. She searched her memory: Roger, Richard, Ralph ...
'This is Sister Alice,' Mathew interrupted her thoughts. 'She is here to inspect the sketches made by John Sifrewas.'
The young men stared at her in a way Alice found disturbing. There was something rakish about their appearance. The tops of their heads were shaved in the regulation manner but their remaining hair hung down in loose curls that didn't look natural. She suspected they were the sort of monks who used nude models when preparing sketches of Eve.
Mathew went to a shelf and removed a box. He set it down and took off the lid. A familiar aroma wafted up. Alice recognised lavender, put there to protect the contents from insects.
'This is one of his favourite studies.'
Mathew held up a sheet of parchment. One side bore a text from the psalms. The other had been scraped clean and reused. Alice expected a sketch in lead or charcoal. What she saw was a bird in full colour.
'A bullfinch.' Mathew placed the parchment on the table. 'Sifrewas attached the local name mwope to it. The one describes the bird. The other imitates its call.'
Alice was acquainted with both names.
'Did you know him?' she asked.
'I worked for him. We went to Honeycombe Woods and observed God's creatures in their natural estate. I made notes while he sketched. We recorded as much as we could ... the varied calls ... nesting habits and displays when searching for a mate.'
A muted chuckle interrupted the discourse.
Mathew ignored it and continued to hunt through the box.
Alice glanced at the grinning young monk, working at his easel, and memories flooded back. He belonged to her past ... much younger but just as rakish.
'Ralph.' She smiled. 'Show me what you're doing.'
He gave a sheepish smile and moved to one side.
She had expected a nude but found a Madonna and Child. The flesh tones of the infant were executed to perfection and there was nothing licentious about Mary.
She moderated her voice. 'It's beautiful.'
'Thank you, my lady.'
Alice felt embarrassed. She'd misjudged him. He might look like the shallow, ignorant successor to the wild adolescent she'd known but his work told a different story. A sudden impulse took her.
'Ralph, would you do something for me?'
The sensual grin returned. 'That would be my pleasure.'
'We need a new sign for the Julian Inn. Perhaps you could paint one as a gift to the good people of Sherborne.'
'Your wish is my command.'
He rose from his stool. For an awful moment she thought he would try to kiss her. But he merely bowed.
Back on the street she could scarcely contain herself. The wind blew her hood to one side. She pulled it back and turned to Harald who was escorting her back to the almshouse.
'I recognised him. He was no more than fifteen when we last met but he already had that wild look. His name is Ralph Knowles. You might know the family.'
Harald gave an ironic laugh.
'Yes, I know them. My wife was a Knowles. Her brother, Roger, is trying to take back her dowry.'
Alice felt his pain. 'On what possible grounds?'
'They ... they're …'
Alice had noticed that Harald's voice failed him whenever he was nervous.
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry into your affairs.'
'No.' He seemed to relax. 'You'll find out before long and I wouldn't like you to hear it from the lips of others.'
They stopped near the site for the new almshouse. Harald told her about the claim that William was illegitimate and the marriage contract invalid as a consequence. She listened as one distressing detail followed another. To be called a cuckold was bad enough. To have it said that you were cuckolded by your fourteen-year-old brother was devastating.
'Does William know?'
'Not yet. But he will when the case goes to court. He's twelve. He's not a little boy anymore. He'll find out.'
'Whatever will he think?'
'He'll love it.' Harald choked back tears. 'He worships Guy. He'll be delighted to think that Guy is his father and not his uncle.'
'Oh, Harald.' Alice grasped his hand. 'This is such an ordeal for you. I shouldn't have pried. I'm sorry.'
'No. I needed someone to talk to.'
'There must be others ... members of your family?'
'My family would have me raise a force and attack the Knowles. That's the way the Gascoignes settle arguments. The strongest win. Everyone else has to bow down to them or suffer the consequences.'
'Is there no one you can turn to?'
'John and Elizabeth Baret are my only true friends. They have given advice and been of great comfort to me.'
'I hope I can be of assistance too …'
Alice let go his hand. People were looking at them.
'We're attracting attention,' she whispered. 'I think I should go. The matron of the almshouse shouldn't hold hands ... not unless they're very old hands.'
Harald watched her leave. A black cloud still hung over him but a ray of sunshine had entered his life.
Chapter 10
Manor Court
Robin reined in his horse and waited for the other members of his party. The mole said they should come unarmed. That's what he called Sir Harald. Some people did it as a joke. Robin liked his employer. For him, the term was almost one of affection. The mole didn't boss you around and treat you like you were a nobody.
Robin took “unarmed” to mean you shouldn't carry any conspicuous weapons. He had left his sword back at the Gascoigne manor. It was too difficult to conceal but his dirk fitted nicely in a shoulder harness under his green cloak. It was a bit fancy and so was his white shirt. They made him look a bit of a dill who wasn't capable of looking after himself. Guy Gascoigne said that was how you should look when you went on a secret mission.
At eighteen, Robin was by far the youngest member of the party. The mole was almost twice his age and the others were ancient. He'd known John Baret from childhood. The old man had a big house near the Half Moon Inn and William lived with him when he was at school. The other two men were strangers but he could tell they were important. Both wore dark gowns trimmed with white fur and had leather bags with books.
They were on their way to a manor court ... but not a regular one. Most courts were held in halls. This one would be held in a barn. The mole had told him why they were going. It was because of William's inheritance. His mother's family was trying to get it off him. She was dead and they said William couldn't have it anymore. The nasty sods were trying to rob a little boy of what his mother had given him.
John Baret rode up beside him.
'Not far now, Robin.'
'No, Master.'
'Do you know the barn?'
'Aye, Master. I've been there with William to collect oats for the horses. It's down in the valley at the end of that long paddock.'
The old man surveyed the scene.
'What do you make of it, Robin?'
'It doesn't look right, Master.'
<
br /> 'Why do you say that?'
'There's eleven horses in the paddock, all saddled up like they've just arrived. You'd expect them to be at the hitching rail but it's empty ... like it's been left for someone.'
John Baret moved closer and dropped his voice.
'Who do you think that someone might be?'
'Could be us, Master.'
'Aye,' the old man nodded. 'It could be us.'
He tapped Robin's shoulder where the dirk was hidden.
'Remain alert. Don't draw your weapon unless you have to. If you do ... only use it in defence.'
They reached the barn and secured their horses to the rail. Roger Knowles was inside, sitting at a makeshift table. He had six retainers. Two looked like clerks and the others were in military uniforms. Robin took comfort from their big bellies and flabby jowls. Roger looked up in mock surprise.
'Harald Gascoigne. What are you doing here?'
The mole glared back at him.
'Roger Knowles. I am here to inform you that you are trespassing on my land and attempting to hold an illegal assembly in breach of the King's Peace. I have with me these three gentlemen who will act as my witnesses.'
Roger raised his head disdainfully.
'Master Baret is known to me. Perhaps you would introduce the others so that I might make their acquaintance.'
'Henry Winchcombe is chaplain to John Fauntleroy.' The Mole indicated one of the men. 'Sir John d'Alton is reeve to Sir Humphrey Stafford, Lord of Hooke.'
At the mention of Sir Humphrey's name, the smirk on Roger's face changed to alarm. Robin formed a new opinion of the mole. Guy's older brother might look weak with his stooped shoulders and screwed up eyes but he knew how to take on people like the Knowles.
Robin surveyed the gathering. Apart from Roger and his men, only five people had turned up. He recognised them as tenants who had switched their loyalties from the Gascoignes to the Knowles. The mole peered at them through his eyeglasses.
'I must warn you that you are here in breach of the King's Peace and liable to prosecution and confiscation of property.'
One man left but the others remained. The mole called out their names and Henry Winchcombe wrote them in his book. After that it was a shouting match. Roger Knowles tried to get the court started and the mole tried to drown him out. The clerk at the table reached for his pen ready to record the proceedings. That was the signal for Robin to get started. He sauntered across to the clerk and played the village idiot.
