The Wounded Hawk

Aye, the goodness and grace of God had indeed embraced Halstow Hall and all who lived within its estates.

Tusser turned a corner in the lane and Halstow Hall rose before him. It was a good building, built of stone and brick, and some two or three generations old. Originally, it had consisted only of the great hammer-beamed hall and minstrel gallery, kitchens, pantries and larders, and a vaulted storage chamber that ran under the entire length of the hall, but over the years Lancaster had caused numerous additions to be made, even though he had never lived here. Now a suite of private chambers ran off the back of the hall, allowing a resident lord and his family some seclusion from the public life of the hall, and new stables and barns graced the courtyards.

The sound of horses behind him startled Tusser from this reverie, and he whipped about.

A party of four horsemen approached. Tusser squinted, trying to make them out through the cursed sun … then he started, and frowned as he realised three of the four riders were clothed in clerical robes.

Priests! Cursed priests! Doubtless come to eat Halstow Hall bare in the name of charity before moving on again.

Priests they might be, but Tusser had to admit to himself that their habits were poor, and they showed no glint of jewels or gold about their person. The lead priest was an old man, so thin he was almost skeletal, with long and scraggly hair and beard.

His expression was fierce, almost fanatical, and he glared at Tusser as if trying to scry out the man’s secret sins.

Evening prayers will be no cause for lightness and joy this night, Tusser thought, then shifted his eyes to the fourth rider, whose appearance gave him cause for thought.

This rider was a soldier. Sandy hair fell over a lined, tanned and knife-scarred face, and over his chain mail he wore a tunic emblazoned with the livery of the Duke of Lancaster. As the group rode closer to Tusser, still standing in the centre of the laneway, the soldier pushed his horse to the fore of his group, pulled it to a halt a few paces distant from the steward, and grinned amiably at him.

“Good man,” said the soldier to the still-frowning Tusser. “Would you be the oft-praised Master Tusser, of whom the entire court whispers admiration?”

Tusser’s frown disappeared instantly and his face lit up with pride.

“I am,” he said, “and I see that you, at least, are of the Duke of Lancaster’s household. Who may I welcome on Lord Neville’s behalf to Halstow Hall?”

“My name is Wat Tyler,” said the rider, “and, as you can see, I am a sergeant-at-arms within good Lancaster’s household. I ride as escort to my revered companions,” Tyler turned and indicated the three priests, “who know your master well, and have decided to pass the night in his house.” Tyler grinned even more as he said the last few sentences. “Perhaps you have heard of Master John Wycliffe,” he nodded at the fierce-faced old priest, “while his two godly companions,” now Tyler could scarcely contain his amusement, “are named John Ball and Jack Trueman.”

Tusser bowed slightly to the priests, narrowing his eyes a little. He was well aware of John Wycliffe’s reputation, and of the renegade priest’s teachings that the entire hierarchy of the Church was a sinful abomination whose worldly goods and properties ought to be seized and distributed among the poor. Many of Wycliffe’s disciples, popularly called Lollards for their habit of mumbling, now spread Wycliffe’s message far and wide, and Tusser occasionally saw one or two of them at the larger market fairs of Kent.

The steward stared a moment longer, then he smiled warmly. “Master Wycliffe. You are indeed most welcome here to Halstow Hall, as are your companions. I am sure that my master and mistress will be pleased to greet you.”

“The mistress, at least,” said a voice behind Tusser, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Margaret walking down the laneway to join him. He bowed, and stepped aside.

Margaret halted, and looked carefully at each of the four men. “I do greet you well,” she said, “and am most happy to see you. My husband I cannot speak for.”

Wycliffe and Tyler smiled a little at that.

Margaret hesitated, then indicated with her hand that they should ride forward. “Welcome to my happy home,” she said.

Thomas Neville was anything but happy to welcome John Wycliffe and his two companion priests into his home. He had just finished at his weapons practice with Courtenay, when he heard the sound of hoof fall entering the courtyard.

Turning, Neville had been appalled to see the black figure of John Wycliffe walking beside Margaret, two other priests (Lollards, no doubt) close behind him, and Wat Tyler leading the four horses. As he watched, Tusser, who’d been walking at the rear of the group, took the horses from Tyler and led them towards some stable boys.

Margaret said nothing, only halting as Neville strode forward.

“What do you here?” Neville snapped at Wycliffe.

Wycliffe inclined his head. “I and my companions are riding from London to Canterbury, my lord,” he said, “and thought to spend the night nestled within your hospitality.”

“My ‘hospitality’ does not lie on the direct road to Canterbury,” Neville said. “I say again, what do you here?”

“Come to enjoy your charity,” Wycliffe said, his voice now low and almost as menacing as his eyes, “as my Lord of Lancaster suggested I do. I bear greetings and messages from John of Gaunt, Neville. It is your choice whether you decide to accept Lancaster’s goodwill or not.” Wycliffe paused. “It is for a night only, Neville. I and mine will be gone by the morning.”

Furious at being trapped—he could not refuse Lancaster’s request to give Wycliffe lodging and entertainment—Neville nodded tightly, and indicated the door into the main building. Then, as Margaret led Wycliffe and the two other priests inside, Neville directed a hard glare towards Tyler.

“And you?” he said.

Tyler shrugged. “I am escort at Lancaster’s request, Tom. There’s no need to glower at me so.”

Neville’s face did not relax, but neither did he say any more as they walked inside. Wat Tyler and he had a long, if sometimes uncomfortable, history together. Tyler had taught Neville his war craft, and had protected his back in battle more times than Neville cared to remember. But Tyler also kept the most extraordinary company—his escort of the demon Wycliffe was but one example, and Neville felt sure he knew one of the other priests from somewhere—and Neville simply did not know if he trusted Tyler any longer.

In this age of demons incarnate, who could he trust?

Margaret very carefully washed her fingers in the bowl the servant held out for her, then dried them on her napkin. Finally, she folded her hands in her lap, cast down her eyes, and prayed to sweet Jesu for patience to get through this dreadful meal.

Thomas was not the sweetest companion at the best of times, but when goaded by John Wycliffe, as well as two of his disciples … Margaret shuddered and looked up.

Normally, she ate only with Thomas, Robert Courtenay, and Thomas Tusser in the hall of Halstow. Meals were always tolerable, and often cheerful, especially when Courtenay gently teased Tusser, who always good-humouredly responded with a versified homily or two. Tonight their visitors had doubled the table, if not its joy.

They had eaten before the unlit hearth in the hall, and now that the platters had been cleared, and the crumbs brushed aside, the men were free to lean their elbows on the snowy linen tablecloth and indulge the more fiercely in both wine and conversation.

Margaret sighed. Under current circumstances, and with current company, religion was most assuredly not going to make the best of conversational topics.

Neville toyed with his wine goblet, not looking at Wycliffe, who ignored his own wine to sit stiff and straight-backed as he stared at his host.

Margaret knew that Wycliffe, as well as his companions, John Ball and Jack Trueman, were enjoying themselves immensely.

“So,” Wycliffe was saying in a clipped voice, “you do not disagree that those who exist in a state of sin should not be allowed to hold riches or excessive property?”

“The idea has merit,” Neville replied, still looking at his goblet rather than his antagonist, “but who should determine if someone was existing in a state of—”

“And you do not disagree that many of the higher clerics within the Church are the worst sinners of all?”

Neville thought of the corruption he’d witnessed when he was in Rome, and the sordid behaviour of cardinals and popes. He did not reply, taking the time instead to refill his goblet.

Further down the table, Courtenay exchanged glances with Tusser.

“Over the years many men have spoken out about the corruption among the higher clergy,” Margaret said. “Why, even some of the saintlier popes have tried to reform the worst abuses of—”

“When did you become so learned so suddenly?” Neville said.

“It does not require learning to perceive the depravity rife among so many bishops and abbots,” Tusser said, his eyes bright, and all three priests present nodded their heads vigorously.

Neville sent Tusser a sharp look, but the steward preferred instead to see his lady’s smile of gratitude. He nodded, satisfied that he’d made his stand known, and resolved to say no more.

“You can be no defender of the Church, Lord Neville,” said one of the priests, John Ball, “when you have so clearly abandoned your own clerical vows to enjoy a secular lordship.”

Neville transferred his hostile glare to Ball. He had remembered where he had met the man previously—at Chauvigny, in France, where the priest had openly mouthed treasonous policies. The man was in the company of Wat Tyler then, too.

“Perhaps,” Ball continued, before Neville could respond, “you found your vows of poverty too difficult? Your vows of obedience too chafing? You certainly live a far more luxurious life now than you did as a Dominican friar, do you not?”