'The Lord be praised.'
Thomas threw out his arms and Richard continued to thread the primroses. Religion bored him. People spoke such drivel when they got passionate. Thomas was one of them. He didn't understand that religion was about power. Abbot Brunyng and Bishop Neville knew that.
Thomas drivelled on, wandering from one topic to another like a drunken horse on a blind date. Richard grew increasingly irritated. He'd heard it all before ... speaking direct to the Lord ... speaking your own words in your own tongue and not needing a priest. Sometimes he thought they were trying to do him out of a job. He banged on the table.
'They've taken our font. They've narrowed our door. They're trying to smoke us out. We have to decide what to do.'
'What you going on about?' Betty said.
'They've got Wat Gallor lighting fires in the nave. He's boiling up bones ... making glue ... it stinks to high heaven.'
'It's because of the bells,' Thomas said. 'Every time we ring 'em, Walter boils up more glue. He says he'll stop if we do.'
'That's the last sodding thing we'll do!' Richard clenched his fist. 'If your enemies get threatening, you up the stakes. At Caen, when the Frogs catapulted the heads of our supporters into our camp, we sent back two of theirs for every one we got ... then three ... then four.'
Betty looked up from her platter.
'I hope you're not planning anything like that.'
'Not with heads,' Richard agreed.
'So why did you bring it up? You're always telling us not to waste time with things that don't matter.'
'I was looking for ideas.'
John Tucker raised a hand.
'How about we finish the job they started?'
'What job?'
'They narrowed the processional door and put the font where it's nigh impossible to use. So, why don't we fill in the door ... make All Hallows separate from the abbey?'
'Very clever, Master Tucker. Now tell us how we're going to do baptismals if we can't get into the abbey. They've barred the abbey door and you want us to block off the other one.'
'We could get our own font.'
The woman beside John looked alarmed. 'The bishop has forbid it. You'll get us excommunicated.'
'The bish has told us we can't take the old font into All Hallows,' John replied. 'He's not said anything about a new one. I know a mason who would do a good job at the right price.'
***
John Baret sifted through a batch of paper. The sheets bore the watermarks of leading Italian manufacturers and were part of a consignment he had received in settlement of a wool contract with Milanese merchants. Most would be sold to retailers but some would be used as gifts for business associates. He put four piles to one side. They were intended for Sir Humphrey Stafford, John Fauntleroy and the two members of their households who had supported Harald Gascoigne in his confrontation with Roger Knowles.