The Wolves of Savernake

Chapter Nine

Gervase Bret was needed elsewhere, but he was quite unable to leave.

Conversation with Leofgifu was so interesting and so pleasur-able that an hour slipped past with the speed of a minute. She was indeed an unusual young woman with qualities that reminded him of his dear Alys back in Winchester-thus causing him a twinge of guilt-but these were offset by characteristics that were entirely her own. What astounded him was her complete lack of bitterness. Most daughters who had been through her ordeal would have been alien-ated from their fathers, consumed by self-pity and animated by deep resentment at the severity of their fate. Leofgifu, by contrast, was an image of acceptance. She was honest about her unhappiness, but she did not thrust it upon all around her. She had learned how to suffer in silence and to find relief in helping others whose predicament was worse than her own. Gervase was entranced. He felt that he was watching true heroism on display and it moved him.

By the same token, Leofgifu was increasingly attracted to him. His youthful candour was underpinned by a restraint and discretion that were uncommon in someone of his age. Because Gervase was so unthreatening, she was able to relax with him and to talk openly in a way that she had not done for years. Leofgifu had never been short of male attention. As soon as she was widowed, she sensed lecher-ous eyes falling upon her once more and it was not long before lonely and desperate men were whispering in corners with her father about the possibility of a second marriage. The very notion of tying herself to another man appalled her and she treated all approaches with an icy contempt that her father’s entreaties had been unable to melt.

Leofgifu had earned and now cherished her independence. Yet all those emotions which had once made her want to yield totally and uncritically to a man came flooding back as she talked with Gervase.

He was not for her, but she could share briefly in the joy of his life.

“Are you betrothed?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

“What is her name?”

“Alys.”

“She is most fortunate.”

He smiled. “Alys does not always think so.”

“When will you marry?”

“When we may find the time.” He hid his frustration in a sigh. “My work must come first and it keeps me away from Winchester too often and too long. Ralph tells me that a man can understand real love only when he is separated from his beloved, but it makes for much suffering as well.”

“I know.” Wistfulness descended. She studied him for a moment before speaking. “You said earlier that you entered the abbey at Eltham.

Why did you leave?”

“Alys.”

“Was she the sole reason?”

“No.”

“What else drove you out?”

“I was too weak to withstand the monastic discipline.”

“Too weak or too worldly?”

“Both,” he said. “I failed the test. Self-denial was too high a price for me to pay.”

“How do you look at monastic life now?”

“With admiration.”

“And with regrets?”

“No, Leofgifu. With fear. I am in two minds about this assignment of ours in Bedwyn. Part of me is still drawn to the beautiful simplicity of life within the cloister, but another part of me shudders whenever I see the abbey. It is too demanding, too searching, too overwhelming.

I could never envisage taking the cowl again.”

“Supposing that you had never met Alys.”

“I would still have escaped the order.”

“How?”

“By meeting you.”

It was such an innocent and natural expression of affection that she was lit by a glow of uncomplicated delight. Years suddenly fell away as she recaptured, for an instant, another time with another man when this same feeling had infused her. Leofgifu and Gervase stared at each other for a long while before they realised that they were still holding hands. Self-consciousness made them loosen their grasp and sit apart.

It was only then they became aware that they were no longer alone.

Standing in the open doorway was a sorry figure with the rain beating at his back. Cild was drenched. He was panting with his exertions and bent double by his woes. But it was his face that caused real alarm. It had turned to such a ghastly whiteness that he looked positively ill and his mouth was agape with frozen terror. Gervase and Leofgifu rose at once and moved across to him with concern.

The boy collapsed in a heap before them.

Bedwyn was drowned in a sea of hysteria. The first wave had come with the death of Alric Longdon, but this, it now appeared, had merely lapped at the communal fears of the town. When the news of Wulfgeat’s grisly end spread, it was a tidal surge that swept all before it. Every man, woman, and child gibbered helplessly as gushing water claimed them. Bedwyn was doomed. The whole community was at the mercy of some supernatural creature which could take its prey at will and with complete impunity. There was nowhere to hide. The wolf of Savernake would eat its way through the entire town.

A forester had heard the scream from half a mile away and ran to the spot where the faceless Wulfgeat was splattered upon the ground.

Nobody else was in sight, but the shadow of the animal still seemed to lie across its victim. The forester raced madly to the town to summon help and he set off the typhoon which now engulfed them. Only the monks from the abbey had courage enough to venture into the danger area to rescue the fallen man. The brutalised remains of Wulfgeat were borne back to the mortuary chapel with all due haste. Those who were charged to clean the body had never been given a more repellent task. As they tentatively bathed the mutilated torso, they were convinced that they were dealing with the work of the Devil.

The Witch of Crofton came quickly back into fashion as the most likely suspect. It was Wulfgeat who had first pointed to her as the author of the first outrage. This was plainly Emma’s revenge. She had killed Alric because he had beaten her and she had murdered Wulfgeat because he had instigated the raid upon her. Nothing could be clearer. Her dog was the agent of her heinous crimes. Transformed by a spell into a giant wolf, it patrolled the forest and lured its victims to an isolated spot so that it could savage them to death. It then resumed its form as the black dog which kept the witch company as her familiar. Hatred of Emma reached new heights, but it was moder-ated by naked fear of repercussions. Those who wished to ride off again to slay her and her hound now thought about possible consequences. Alric and Wulfgeat had both offended her and both had died as a result. Even from beyond the grave, her potent charms could mean damnation. Her destruction had to be plotted with great care.

Ralph Delchard did not even consider the name of Emma. Witchcraft did not intrude upon his common sense and he was still grateful for the basket of wild fruit which Emma had picked for him. Such a gesture could not have come from the cold-blooded monster created by common report. When the news of Wulfgeat’s death was brought to him at the hunting lodge, he called for his horse to be saddled and galloped to the abbey, arriving in time to see the body while it was being washed and to scrutinise its wounds without revulsion. He then spoke with the forester who had discovered the corpse. The man had just given a full account to Abbot Serlo of what he had seen and hazy impressions had already hardened into solid fact. A sturdy fellow of middle years, he trembled as he went through the details again.

“Wulfgeat was mauled by a huge wolf,” he said.

Ralph was unpersuaded. “Did you see the animal?”

“No, my lord, but I heard it.”

“That distinctive howl?”

“It was more like a scream of triumph.”

“Wolves do not scream.”

“This one did, my lord.”

“Then it was no wolf. A fox might make such a noise. Or at least, a vixen might during mating. But foxes would never attack a man in that way. Was that the sound you thought you heard? A high-pitched cry?”

“I did hear it, my lord. Clear as a bell.”

“Shriek or howl?”

“A scream.”

“Animal or human?”

“I took it to be animal.”

“You are a forester, man. You should know.”

“It frighted me out of my wits,” said the forester as he rubbed his rough beard. “I thought it was the beast, but it might have been Wulfgeat himself, calling out for help.”

“How would he do that with his throat bitten away?” said Ralph irritably. “If Wulfgeat had time enough to yell out, then he had time to draw his weapon; yet his sword was still in its scabbard when you found him.”

“That is so, my lord.”

“You saw nobody else?”

“Nobody.”

“And no sign of a sudden departure?”

“Some fur caught on the brambles, that is all.”

“How was he lying?”

“Upon the bare earth.”

“But at what angle? Facing what direction? How close to those brambles? How near to that yew tree?” Ralph put a hand on his shoulder. “Steady your nerves and tell me the truth. Much may depend on it. Give me no more talk of huge wolves and wicked witches.

Speak only of what you saw. Now, you came rushing upon him by that stream. Describe how he lay.”

Ralph Delchard slowly dragged the details out of him and gained an approximate knowledge of what had taken place. The man was still far too scared to give an objective report, but he no longer slid into assumptions about a phantom wolf which had been conjured up by the black arts of the Witch of Crofton. Something had killed Wulfgeat and the forester was the first on the scene. His garbled account yielded a number of valuable facts.

Their discussion took place near the abbey gatehouse and so they were on hand to hear the mild commotion that ensued as eager visitors arrived. A distraught Leofgifu was demanding to be admitted to the mortuary chapel to view the body of her father and to confirm the terrible news which had just reached her. Hilda was trying to hold her friend back and Gervase Bret was doing all he could to persuade the stricken daughter against such a course of action. The porter attempted to calm them down, but Leofgifu insisted on her rights as next of kin. Ralph Delchard stepped in to introduce himself and to add his voice to that of the others.

“Lady, you have my deepest sympathy,” he said quietly.

“Where is my father?”

“Beyond recall. Let him rest in peace.”

“I must see him.”

“It is not a sight fit for your young eyes.”

“I am his only child.”

“Then remember him for his goodness and do not vex his poor body now. There is nothing you may do to bring him back and the manner of his death will haunt you forever if you persist in looking upon him once more. Spare yourself that agony.”

“Come away, Leofgifu,” said Gervase gently. “This is no place for you.”

She was adamant. “I wish to see my father.”

“Let Gervase take you home,” advised Ralph. “You will live to thank me for this wise counsel. I have seen the body and it is no longer that of the man you once knew. Your father’s soul is in heaven. Pray for him.”

But even the concerted efforts of four people could not dissuade her from her intent. Fired by a duty that grew out of a sense of guilt, Leofgifu stood her ground. They had no power to prevent her from seeing the body. Her voice became shrill as she reaffirmed her demands.

Monastic authority interceded in the dispute.

“What means this unseemly noise?” asked Prior Baldwin as he swooped down on them. “Peace, peace, good lady!”

Leofgifu was finally subdued. The sight of the prior and the sacristan had a calming effect on her and their words added further balm.

Ralph had no respect for monks, but he had to admire the practised way in which both Baldwin and Peter offered their condolences to the bereaved daughter. They were professionals in the service of death.

They knew exactly what to say and exactly how to say it. All of Leofgifu’s truculence disappeared and they talked her out of her purpose before she even had chance to state what it was.

Prior Baldwin’s tone had a distant condescension in it, but Brother Peter’s voice was soft and sincere. When he looked at Leofgifu, there was a world of sadness in his expression. He spoke as a monk, but she heard him as a friend. She could only respect Baldwin. It was Peter who inspired trust and who offered her real support. He told her that she was to call on him at any time if she needed spiritual sustenance or practical help of any kind, and she knew that it was no idle invitation. During her brief stay at the abbey, Hilda had been greatly buoyed up by the gentle assistance of the sacristan. Now it was Leofgifu who felt his natural generosity reaching out to her.

Something in his manner both rallied her and confused her, lifting her up from total despair and yet adding a new bewilderment to her situation. Leofgifu wanted his help but was somehow unable to grasp at it. Prior Baldwin tried to ease her on her way, but Peter detained her with further promises and advice. It was to the latter that she addressed her final question.

“Was he killed by a wolf?”

“We believe so.”

“May I see him?”

A kind pause. “We think not, Leofgifu.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, as if she was in great pain for a second, then she nodded her agreement. Prior Baldwin offered her accommodation at the abbey, but Leofgifu had no reason to be there any longer. Her mind had been slightly eased. Her father was forever beyond her now. Supported by Hilda, she turned towards the gate and went through it. Ralph Delchard collected his horse, then followed with Gervase Bret in order to lend assistance if needed, but Hilda was in control now. Having been helped through her own ordeal by Leofgifu, she could now return that loving kindness.

The men dropped back a little so that they could converse without being overheard by the two women ahead of them.

“What did you learn?” asked Gervase.

“He was killed on the same spot as Alric.”

“By a wolf?”

“By an animal of some kind.”

“What was Wulfgeat doing in such a place?”

“There is only one explanation,” decided Ralph. “He knew about the hiding place in the yew tree. Wulfgeat was Alric’s accomplice.”

“But they hated each other.”

“A mask to their true relationship.”

“No, Ralph,” said the other. “I talked with the miller’s widow and I could see that the hatred was genuine on both sides. Those men would not have worked together no matter what rewards were offered.

Look for some other reason that puts them both in the same part of Savernake when they died.”

“There is no other reason.”

“There must be.”

They walked in silence for a while and saw Hilda’s arm tighten around Leofgifu’s shoulders as the first tears of remorse began to flow. Ralph still felt that there was some collusion between miller and burgess, but Gervase pursued a different line of thought.

“Why did Wulfgeat visit that spot?” he resumed.

“To search for the chest.”

“If he had been Alric’s accomplice, he would have known that the chest was not there. All that the yew tree holds is a block of wood in a sack. Why go after that?”

“Why indeed?” conceded Ralph.

“Someone took him there.”

“Wulfgeat?”

“Someone showed him the way and led him to his death. He would not have gone to such a place unless he had expected to find something to his advantage-the money or the charter. That was the lure to get him there.”

“But who set it, Gervase?”

“I do not know as yet. Let us remember the moneyer.”

“Eadmer, the dwarf?”

“You thought you had spied a way into his mint.”

“Yes,” said Ralph sadly. “Until we rowed beneath his building and looked up into the throne where Eadmer sits. I guessed at a weak link in the chain of his defences, but I was wrong. The moneyer has too small a bottom for my device. No man would ever be able to crawl through that hole and up into the mint. His shoulders would be too wide.”

“No man, you say?”

“It is quite impossible.”

Gervase turned to face him with a quizzical smile.

“What about a boy?”

Cild lay curled up on the mattress in the tiny room he shared with his mother. He was still in a state of shock and his young mind was trying to make sense of what he had seen and what it all meant. His had been a harsh life so far and it had lacked all the pleasures of childhood, but there had been compensatory joys. In spite of a strict and punitive upbringing, he had loved his father deeply and relished those moments when he was taken into the latter’s confidence so that he could help to outwit rivals and enemies. Alric sowed corruption in his son at an early age to ensure that he had an ally in the ceaseless battle against an uncaring world. Women never understood the nature of such conflicts. Cild’s mother and his stepmother had, therefore, been kept ignorant of what their menfolk did outside the mill. It had bonded father and son together and it was that bond which now came to the boy’s aid. He reconstructed the progress of events once more in his fevered brain.

Wulfgeat had not been killed. When Cild looked down upon the prostrate body, he had seen his own father. It was Alric who was the victim of the wolf and his cruel and unnecessary death had ruined the futures of his son and of his second wife, putting an unbridge-able gap between them. Anger displaced fear as he reflected on the situation. Shock gave way to cold rancour. Wulfgeat had loathed his father and gloried in his downfall. He and his servant had broken into the mill to search it without permission. His only interest in Alric Longdon lay in finding the miller’s chest so that he could use the charter it contained for his own personal gain. Wulfgeat was no caring friend who took pity on the widow and her stepson. He was a greedy and selfish man who tried to exploit the death of his arch-enemy. Sympathy was wasted on such a person. He deserved to perish in the most violent way. One death answered another.

Cild had set his trap, but the burgess had met a deadlier foe than the snake in the flour sack. The boy should be grateful. He himself had survived and was free from all suspicion. The murder he had plotted did not, in fact, take place. Fate had contrived better than he himself. His father had indeed been avenged and Cild was now lying in the house of the man who had tormented him. That only served to complete the sense of triumph. Instead of being huddled into a frightened ball, he should be full of exultation. Cild had conquered Wulfgeat and taken possession of his home. The son of a mere miller had outfoxed one of the leading burgesses in the town of Bedwyn. It was a signal victory.

The boy slowly uncurled and let his arms and legs stretch right out with growing freedom. Then he began to laugh. It was not the normal happy chuckle of a boy of nine but the weird, uncanny, unsettling, high-pitched cackle of some demented creature of the forest. He was possessed. Caught up in the wildness of his cachinnation, Cild began to twitch and writhe about on the mattress like a poisonous snake that has just been liberated from its irksome prison inside a sack.

Hugh de Brionne chose his moment well, riding into Bedwyn at the break of day on his destrier, with his huntsmen in support, bringing a pack of baying hounds to wake anyone still abed and to announce his bold purpose. Where the Warden of Savernake’s men had failed, Hugh de Brionne would succeed. He would sift through the forest until the wolf was tracked down and caught. Bedwyn might still be immobilised by terror, but a Norman lord was determined to take action.

He was also grateful of anything which diverted attention away from the land dispute in which he had become embroiled. Success in Savernake would make him a hero in the locality. A man who was usually despised for his arrogance would now be praised for his bravery and there would be none of the usual complaints about the damage done to farming land over which he and his huntsmen had to ride to reach the forest. If he could kill the wolf, he could rid the town of a menace that banished all sleep and he would also impress the leader of the commissioners who sat in judgement upon him. A keen huntsman himself, Ralph Delchard would be the first to commend a successful sortie in the forest. Hugh de Brionne had everything to gain.

His horse pranced in a circle around the marketplace while its master waved his stump of an arm to keen onlookers and collected their good wishes.

“Fortune attend you, my lord!”

“Kill the wolf!”

“Run it to ground!”

“Show it no mercy!”

“Unleash your hounds!”

“Bring it back dead!”

“Destroy it!”

The shouts brought more and more heads out of windows and the whole town was soon urging Hugh de Brionne to remove the bane of their existence. He was an unpopular man who could yet turn out to be their saviour, and even the most loyal Saxon was ready to applaud a Norman if he could catch the wolf of Savernake. The name of Emma was hurled into the air, but Hugh de Brionne did not deign to hear it.

Witchcraft did not murder Wulfgeat. Only feeble minds could believe such nonsense. In the opinion of Hugh de Brionne, the burgess was brought down by the angry fangs of a lone wolf. His job was to find it before it could strike again.

“Sound the horn!” he ordered.

The blast reverberated around the town and set off a frenzy among the hounds. With Hugh in the lead, they scurried off eagerly in the direction of the forest, borne along by the cheers of the people and by an overweening confidence. Men with weapons and trained dogs might prove to be their salvation. Bedwyn was certainly able to face the new day with more fortitude than had hitherto been the case.

It soon evaporated. An hour passed and the sounds of the hunt could no longer be heard. The wolf had evidently outrun its pursuers.

A second hour rolled by and the Witch of Crofton was resurrected once more as the culprit. Hugh de Brionne was searching in the wrong direction. There was no wolf in the forest, because it was now a black dog that guarded its mistress. Reality succumbed to superstition as the anxieties of the long night took hold on minds once more.

Nobody could hunt down a wolf that existed only when it was called into being by black magic. Hugh de Brionne and his men were chasing shadows in the forest.

The passage of a third hour reinforced the feeling that the whole venture was a waste of time. Those who had trusted in a Norman lord now reviled him for his false promises and they also noted the recurring link between invasion and affliction. When the commissioners came, Alric Longdon died; while they stayed, the town was being rent apart by boundary disputes and their evil influence had culmi-nated in a second gruesome death. The Normans were not simply there to enforce the king’s business. They were a curse on the community. This thought made people recall the Saxon spirit which had inflamed Wulfgeat throughout his life.

“Down with the Normans!” someone dared to shout.

“Wulfgeat was right! Never surrender!”

“Drive them out!”

“Grind them under the heel!”

“Save a Saxon town for true Saxons!”

“Normans are a plague upon us!”

“Remember Wulfgeat! Resist them!”

“Be true to his memory!”

“Who will stand against them?”

A great cheer went up, but it was marketplace valour. They knew in their hearts that they did not have the skill or the numbers to defeat their Norman overlords and their morning rebellion was, in any case, misjudged. One blast on a hunting horn dispelled it completely.

“They’re coming back!”

“I see Hugh de Brionne.”

“The riders are all scattered.”

“But they are bringing something.”

“They have a kill.”

Speculation grew to bursting point as they watched the huntsmen canter down the hill and into the town. Hugh de Brionne was at the head of his entourage, a smile of satisfaction on his scarred face. His armour glinted in the sunshine and his mantle streamed behind him in the breeze. As he opened up an avenue in the busy marketplace, two of his men came forward. Each held the end of a long branch of wood from which a dead carcass dangled. The animal was hacked into shreds and dripping with blood, its great mouth open to reveal its murderous teeth, its tongue drooping uselessly. On their master’s command, they let their quarry drop to the floor and it spewed out even more blood in front of the awe-struck townsfolk.

Hugh de Brionne pointed with his stump of an arm.

“Behold the wolf of Savernake!”

Abbot Serlo was omniscient. Although there were things that he chose not to know because they interfered with the higher matters to which his life was dedicated, he nevertheless had an instinctive grasp on them. When Prior Baldwin called on him that morning after Prime, the abbot did not need to ask about the latest development in the battle of wits with the commissioners. He sensed at once that there had been setback and threat and relegated the matter to the end of their discussion. Of much more immediate concern to him was the grotesque corpse which lay on a bier in the mortuary chapel. His eyes protruded beyond their customary danger point.

“Should we not send for the sheriff, Prior Baldwin?”

“No, Father Abbot.”

“This is a second tragedy within days.”

“But not brought about by human agency,” said the prior. “A wolf struck down both men. We cannot call on the sheriff to do our hunting for us, especially when there is no work left for him to do.”

Serlo was pleased. “The animal has been caught?”

“Caught and killed, Father Abbot.”

“By whom?”

“Hugh de Brionne and his men.”

The eyes wobbled upwards as the portly abbot mixed gratitude with regret, offering up a prayer of thanks for the removal of the troublesome beast while wishing that someone else could claim the credit for its death. Hugh de Brionne was a thorn in the side of the abbey at the best of times. With something of this order to boast about, he would become even more insufferable.

Prior Baldwin took a more expedient view of it all.

“Set a wolf to catch a wolf,” he said.

“One danger at least is past.”

“Hugh de Brionne will be famous for a week.”

“And notorious for the rest of his days.”

“Let us forget the noble lord,” said Baldwin, anxious to move away from the subject of a man who was still implicated in the boundary dispute with the abbey. “Our thoughts must be with Wulfgeat.”

“Prayers have been said for him at every service.” Abbot Serlo turned his bulging eyes once more upon his guest. “No man deserves to die in such a hideous way, but one is bound to look for purpose in the nature of his demise. Christ went into the wilderness for forty days and forty nights and emerged untouched by the snarling denizens of that place. Goodness is its own protection. Brothers from this house go into the forest every day and come to no harm. Yet Alric and Wulfgeat met with evil among the trees.” He spread his palms questionably.

“Why, Prior Baldwin? What marked these men out for such horror?

How did they incur God’s displeasure? Wherein lies their sin? These were no random killings by a crazed animal. They were a judgment from heaven upon two men who transgressed. In what way?”

“I do not know, Father Abbot.”

“Is there any link between them?”

“None save the heat of their enmity.”

“They were yoked together in wickedness.”

“I fail to see how.”

“Think hard, Prior Baldwin.”

“I am exerting my brain to its utmost limit.”

“The answer stands all around you.”

“Does it, Father Abbot?”

“That is my conjecture.”

His eyelids closed to narrow his gaze to the merest dot, but there was no loss of power. Indeed, Baldwin began to feel distinctly uncomfortable beneath the force of the scrutiny and it helped to concentrate his mind.

“All around me?” he said.

“Even so.”

“You speak of the abbey?”

“Of what else?”

“How are the two men implicated?” wondered Baldwin. “Both were brought here, it is true, and both have lain in our mortuary chapel to await a Christian burial. But neither has been a friend to us. Indeed, it was Alric who brought these inquisitive commissioners down upon us once more.”

Serlo nodded imperceptibly. “That is my point.”

Baldwin finally understood. Alric had challenged the abbey and he had died. Wulfgeat was no benefactor of the order and there had been a series of acrimonious disputes with him over the years.

Both men would have been in a position to embarrass the abbey further in front of the new commissioners, yet both had been eliminated from the enquiry in the most dramatic way. Baldwin smiled inwardly. God did indeed work in mysterious ways. Weak minds fell back on superstition in times of stress, but strong hearts held true to their Maker. The wolf of Savernake was no agent of the Devil trying to avenge personal slights on behalf of a miserable outcast woman from Crofton. It was a hound of heaven sent down expressly to lend aid to Bedwyn Abbey in a time of trial. In accusing the monks, Alric and Wulfgeat had overstepped the bounds of decency and they had to be chastised firmly for their audacity. The wolf was a sign from above. Notwithstanding its precarious position, the abbey would still secure a victory in its fight against other claimants. God was self-evidently on their side and a thousand commissioners could not prevail against His might.

Abbot Serlo watched a sense of profound relief seep its way through his prior. No more required to be said on the issue. He could now leave it once more in Baldwin’s hands. The abbot indicated the little altar which stood in the corner of the room and they knelt beside each other in prayer. Serlo went into his normal ritual, chanting quietly to himself in Latin, exuding purity of heart, rehearsing for sainthood, eyes hooded but mind wide open to view the full wonder of God. Here was prayer as true supplication.

Baldwin likewise went through a set order of worship, but he soon diverged from it. While his abbot was on high beside him, the prior had more earthly concerns. He was not yet ready to advance his claims to canonisation. What he was praying for was another murderous attack from another wolf in Savernake Forest and he nominated the victims.

Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret.

The two friends spent a dull morning in the shire hall with their colleagues, taking statements about the disputed land from a variety of witnesses and building up a more complete picture of the situation. It was uninspiring work and Ralph Delchard seized the first opportunity to unload it on Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. As soon as he heard the uproar in the marketplace that was occasioned by the return of the hunting party, Ralph was on his feet and shuffling his papers. Gervase Bret, too, wanted to be nearer the centre of the action. They excused themselves politely and aroused no protest by their withdrawal. Hubert was delighted to resume control of affairs once more and Simon felt that his own status was also now elevated.

The questioning continued.

Ralph and Gervase reached the marketplace as the crowd was clustering around the dead wolf. Hugh de Brionne was savouring his moment of celebration and he gave them a mock bow when he saw them. Ralph was anxious to examine the wolf itself and forced his way through the press, but Gervase was more squeamish and lurked on the fringes. There was no pleasure for him in the sight of a mangled animal and he could not understand the blood-lust which seemed to excite everyone else who was present. Ralph spoke with the lord of the manor of Chisbury, then left him to enjoy his sudden prestige and made his way back to Gervase. He took his friend aside so that they could speak in private.

“Let us go,” he suggested. “I am out of place here.”

“Why, Ralph?”

“Because I am a heretic among believers.”

Gervase grinned. “That is nothing new.”

“Those who wanted a wolf have now found one.”

“The animal has terrorised the whole town.”

“No, Gervase. What they have been frightened of is the idea of a wolf. Hugh de Brionne has simply put flesh and blood on that idea by dumping a carcass in the marketplace.” He glanced over his shoulder at the happy throng. “I would not trust that arrant knave for a second.

How Alric and Wulfgeat were killed, I do not know, but of one thing I am quite certain. That bleeding mess on the cobbles did not attack either man.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Look at his huntsmen and his hounds,” said Ralph. “They would be heard from miles away and smelled long before they got close enough to corner the beast. Hugh admitted to me that the wolf was lame. My guess is that that is why it was driven out of its pack and forced to hunt alone. And that is why the hounds were able to track it down and overhaul it. A wolf with a damaged front paw did not make those marks on the chest of the dead men.” A rousing cheer went up as Hugh de Brionne rode off with his retinue. “Let him have his hour, Gervase. He has caught a wolf in Savernake but not the wolf-if, indeed, such a creature exists.”

“Something must have been up in those trees, Ralph.”

“I believe it is still there. Let us search for it.”

“Now?”

“Would you rather sit in commission with Hubert?”

Gervase chuckled. “Lead on….”

They found their horses and set off, leaving the four men-at-arms in the shire hall to bolster Canon Hubert’s authority and to enforce his wishes. Ralph and Gervase rode along the river at a rising trot.

The heavy rain of the previous day had left the leaves damp and the ground sodden, but sunshine was slowly drying everything out.

Birdsong seemed much louder and more melodious. They went past Alric’s mill without comment and rode on until they reached the point where the stream fed into the river. Dismounting from their horses, they tethered the animals and continued on foot. Though the woodland was suffused with light and vibrating with the happy buzz of insects, Ralph nevertheless drew his sword as they began the ascent. Alric and Wulfgeat had made this same journey without due care for their safety. Whatever else happened, Ralph would not be taken unawares.

He led the way uphill, picking a route through the undergrowth and using his sword to lever himself along. They eventually reached the blasted yew tree beside which two men had already met their deaths. There were clear signs of a struggle. Wulfgeat had put up more resistance than Alric and the earth was churned up into mud where the burgess had apparently wrestled with his attacker. Wisps of fresh fur were caught up in the brambles to suggest that the bush had once again been the place from which the ambush had been launched. Ralph applied his imagination to the facts he had gleaned from the forester and he walked through a version of the fateful encounter, pretending to be man and wolf by turns and experimenting with possible positions. Gervase watched with interest and admiration. A death-grapple belonged firmly in his friend’s province. His own territory lay in the thickets of the law where the wolves walked on two legs and savaged their prey with charters.

Ralph Delchard was eventually satisfied with his improvisation. It had proved conclusively to him that the wolf captured by Hugh de Brionne had not been the killer. He now turned his attention to the yew tree which had brought both men to that spot in the first place.

Alric had come to deposit silver coin, but Wulfgeat was there in search of something to take away. Ralph was about to thrust a hand into the dark hollow when a sixth sense warned him. He used his sword to probe around and the steel saved him from a very painful end. The sack into which it cut suddenly burst into life and threshed around inside the trunk. Pushing Gervase back out of the way, Ralph jabbed his sword point into the sack, then lifted it right up and tossed it onto the open ground. Its angry inhabitant became even more agitated and the sack twitched violently.

Ralph’s curiosity made him reach forward to tug at the twine around the neck. He stepped back instantly, but there was no response at first. It seemed as if the creature inside the sack was either dead or spurning the opportunity to escape. Gervase moved in for a closer look, but Ralph’s blade stopped him in the nick of time. Out through the folds of the sack came the head of the snake, its eyes alert and its tongue darting. Its slither was slow and measured until it saw them, then it quickened its pace considerably, making a determined wriggle towards Ralph’s ankles. Its fangs were bared to inflict a venomous bite, but it never got close enough to him. His sword point came down with stunning accuracy and pierced through the back of its neck, sinking deep into the ground and leaving it impaled lifelessly.

“That creature was waiting for Wulfgeat,” said Gervase.

“How do you know?”

“Look at the sack.”

“Another from the mill.”

“It was put there to welcome Wulfgeat’s hand.”

“Who would want to set such a trap?”

“Alric’s accomplice.”

“And who is that, Gervase?”

“The same person who gained entry into Eadmer’s mint.”

“You told me that it might be a boy.”

“It was. Cild, son of Alric. This is also his work.”

They handled the sack to make sure that it had come from the same mill and noted Alric’s mark upon it. Ralph now retrieved his sword to make further careful investigation of the yew tree, but there were no more poisonous snakes guarding the absent treasure. All that remained was the block of wood and purse that he himself had put back inside the original sack. Wood and sacks were replaced inside the tree as the two friends considered their next move.

“We must question this boy closely,” said Ralph.

“Not yet,” argued Gervase. “Cild needs time to recover from the shock.

He conducted Wulfgeat to this part of the forest, then waited while he came in search of the chest. The boy expected to find him dying from a snakebite and instead stumbles on his half-eaten remains. No wonder he was still reeling with horror when he returned to the house.”

“Speak to him when you judge it to be fit. You have access to the place. A softer tongue than mine is needed in a house of mourning.”

“I will wait and watch. Cild is still a boy, but he has the cunning of a grown man. He will not confess easily. It will have to be wormed painstakingly out of him.”

Ralph nodded, then turned back to the tree, staring down at the thick tendrils which encircled it with such proprietary zeal. Gervase gave a wry smile.

“This town was well christened,” he said.

“Bedwyn?”

“Its name derives from the Latin for bindweed. Look at this yew tree and you have a symbol of our stay here. All is intertwined confusion.” He gazed back in the direction of the town itself. “A simple assignment brought us here. There was an irregularity in the abbey returns. That is all we knew. Yet from that one tiny seed of doubt has grown this endless convolvulus that twists and turns its way through the whole community. We have met death and decay, fraud and forgery.

And much more may await us before we are done.”

“You are too philosophical,” said Ralph bluntly. “I am no gardener, but I know the way to deal with bindweed.” His sword flashed and the yew tree was freed from its coils. “Cut it away without mercy.”

Gervase was ready to head back to the town, but Ralph was in an exploratory mood. He wanted to see more of Savernake. If the dead wolf had not been responsible for the two deaths, then something else had, and the only place they would find it would be in the forest.

With his sword still at the ready, he climbed farther up the hill until he reached the top. He and Gervase could now survey a wooded slope that swept down into a valley that was more densely timbered. His inquisitiveness was inflamed even more.

“Let us go down there,” he volunteered.

“It will take too long, Ralph.”

“Are you frightened?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you wish to borrow my weapon?”

“I have a dagger in my belt.”

“You are afraid of the exercise, then?”

“That is not so, Ralph.”

“So why do you drag your feet? Am I to tell Alys that you were either too weak or too worried to take a walk among the trees?” He gave a coarse laugh. “If she were with you at this moment, you would stroll through the forest all day.”

“The hunt has already been through here this morning,” said Gervase reasonably. “What can we possibly find that thirty men and a pack of hounds contrived to miss?”

“A great deal,” promised Ralph. “Follow.”

The gradient was steeper on the other side of the hill and they had to grasp at the trunks of saplings to steady themselves. When they reached the valley floor, they heard a stream bubbling nearby and they traced the sound until they found the water. It was a much deeper and wider stream than the one which they had just left and it provided them with a meandering path through this thicker part of the forest. Trees rose up all around them and the overhanging branches sometimes excluded all light, giving a sense of privacy in the half-dark. Birds and insects abounded and smaller animals would occasionally dart from cover for a second before vanishing just as swiftly.

Ralph felt a vague sense of menace that kept his sword up, but Gervase began to warm to this new habitat and to be glad that his friend had made him come on the visit. This section of Savernake was enclosed and well protected. It held no threat for him.

While Ralph Delchard shouldered his way unceremoniously through the undergrowth, therefore, Gervase Bret took the time to look and listen. He played with leaves, he fingered bark, and he picked the wild fruit. He liked the brush of grass against his shins and the swish of bushes against his arms. There was so much to see and enjoy that he wanted to slow down to absorb it all properly, but Ralph was restless. When they stepped into a small clearing, the older man gave it no more than a glance before crossing towards a clump of birches.

“Wait!” said Gervase.

“Why?”

“Hold there!”

“For what reason?”

“Can you not see?”

“No. Let us move on.”

Gervase grabbed him. “Look around you, Ralph!”

He did as requested but still saw nothing that should detain him.

The clearing was oval in shape and no more than thirty yards in diameter. Around its perimeter was a number of mounds of earth that had grassed over. Ralph Delchard had dismissed them with a glance, but Gervase Bret was intrigued. Running to the first misshapen lump, he bent down to examine it, then pulled away the turf which had been used to cover it. What had looked like a natural mound was, in fact, a piece of red sandstone set carefully in the earth. The stone was no more than eighteen inches high, but it had been crudely dressed to shape. Gervase was thrilled with his discovery. He scam-pered around the clearing and snatched the turf away from each of the mounds until all were uncovered, then he moved to the centre of the clearing with Ralph. The grassy lumps on the ground were now revealed as a circle of stones set at regular intervals. Gervase was fascinated.

“It is like Stonehenge!” he said.

“Yes,” agreed Ralph with a grin. “This must be Eadmer’s home. It is a Stonehenge for dwarves.”

“See there!” said Gervase, pointing. “That stone has not yet been dressed. It has only just been put into position. What we saw on Salisbury Plain was a dead place, but this is alive. Can you not feel the presence of worship?”

“No, Gervase.”

“I sense it very strongly.”

“All I see is a random collection of stones.”

“Look for the pattern. Follow the scheme.” Gervase moved to the largest stone and bent to try its weight. “I cannot even budge it. What strength must have been needed to bring it to its resting place?”

Ralph Delchard could not resist a physical challenge.

“Leave it to me,” he said, sheathing his sword.

He crouched down to get a firm hold on the sandstone before jiggling it to and fro to loosen it from the earth. Then he gathered all his energy and put it into one mighty heave that saw him lift the object right up from the ground. It was an appreciable feat of strength, but Gervase was not allowed to admire it for long. No sooner did Ralph strain to stand upright than there was a roar of protest from the undergrowth and a startling figure came bursting out to confront them.

It was short, stocky, and quivering with rage. There was so much hair and so much fur, both heavily clotted with filth, that it was impossible to tell whether the creature was human, animal, or some outlandish compound of the two.

It roared with anger again and bared pointed black teeth at the intruders. Ralph Delchard dropped the sandstone at once and grabbed his sword. Gervase reached for his dagger. Before either of them could strike, however, the newcomer let out a dark babble of noise, then vanished into the trees. They went after it, but they had no chance of catching it in such a warren of trees. Both were breathless when they abandoned the chase and leaned against an outcrop of chalk for support.

“I was right,” said Ralph proudly. “That lame animal was no more than sport for Hugh de Brionne and his men. The real killer lives here in this place. We have just been face-to-face with the wolf of Savernake.”

Ralph Delchard spoke as a soldier who had just been roused to combat. When an enemy appeared, his only thought had been to reach for his weapon and attack. Gervase Bret had listened as well as seen.

The creature’s loud gabble had just been a howl of anger to his friend, but he had caught something of its meaning.

“That was no wolf, Ralph,” he said confidently.

“You saw the creature stand right in front of me. Wolf or bear or whatever it was- that was the killer we seek.”

“I think not.”

“We had to fight the monster off!”

Gervase shook his head. “It was a man.”

“You heard its roar; you marked those teeth. I’ll wager a month’s pay that that was no human being. It was some freak of nature who haunts the forest like a foul ghost.”

“No animal would build a circle of stones.”

“He howled with fury when we invaded his lair.”

“He was only defending his temple,” explained Gervase. “And he did not attack us. He merely sought to frighten us away with that noise. It may have sounded like the cry of an animal to you, but I could pick out words from it. He is a man, Ralph, of that there is no question. He spoke in Welsh.”