The Wolves of Savernake

Chapter Ten

Brother Luke’s tribulations did not become any easier to bear with the passage of time. Indeed, the closer he came to the end of his novitiate, the worse was his anguish of body and soul. It made him careless and unreliable in his devotions, so the wrath of the master of the novices was visited upon him with greater severity. Luke smarted with indignation and took the earliest opportunity to seek out his one haven of rest in the abbey. Brother Peter, as ever, was bent over the table in his workshop as he put the final touches to his silver crucifix. He gave his own young friend a cordial welcome, waved him to a stool, then sat opposite him. Though Luke was caught up in his agonising, he did notice that the sacristan was still moving stiffly and with barely concealed pain.

“How are your wounds?” he asked solicitously.

“I see them as marks of favour, Luke.”

“Do they not hurt?”

“Only to remind me of their presence.”

“Brother Thaddeus might have crippled you.”

“The abbot knew when to stay his strong arm,” said Peter easily.

“But enough of my condition. That is old news. Tell me about Brother Luke and how he fares.”

“Very ill.”

“How do you sleep?”

“Fitfully.”

“How do you study?”

“Unevenly.”

“How do you pray?” The youth bit his lip and Peter leaned in to repeat the question. “How do you pray?”

“Without conviction.”

“These are indeed sad tidings. Tell me all.”

Luke poured out his troubles yet again and spoke of fresh anxieties that had attached themselves to his ever-growing burden of doubt. He talked freely and without shame to Brother Peter. Nothing could shock his friend. Thoughts which had no place inside a man’s head at any time-let alone when he was living an exemplary life within the enclave-were now put into words. He bared his soul, then tried to lessen the impact of his drift away from the demands of the order by quoting from St. Augustine.

“‘ Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo.’”

Peter smiled as he translated. “‘Give me chastity and continency, but not yet!’ Yes, my friend, St. Augustine had to wrestle mightily with the sins of the flesh. But he chose the true course in the end.

Lay another of his edicts to your heart: ‘ Salus extra ecclesiam non est. ’

There is no salvation outside the Church.’”

“Salvation may wait. I seek experience of life.”

“Even if it corrupts you entirely?”

“That is my dilemma.”

“I was led astray and found my redemption within these four walls.

You may not be so fortunate, Luke. Leave now and you may never be readmitted. Stay with us and you need fear none of the evils of the outside world.”

The novice rubbed sweaty palms together and looked up.

“Can love be called an evil, Brother Peter?”

“In itself, no,” said the other, “but it may lead on to evil-doing. Love diseases the heart and unbalances the mind. It makes people do terrible things in its name.”

“But I wish to know love,” insisted the youth.

“Then find it within the order. Love of God transcends all other earthly passions and brings rewards that are truly everlasting. Look inwards, Luke. Seek for love there.”

“I have done so, Peter, but my thoughts still wander.”

“School yourself more strictly.”

“I may not. He is inside my head all the while.”

“He?” echoed the sacristan. “Do you mean God?”

“No. Gervase Bret.”

Sudden anger surfaced. “You should never have listened to him!”

“I was only listening to myself,” owned Luke. “What I have imagined, he has had the courage to reach out and take. Gervase Bret is betrothed to a lady called-”

“We have heard enough of this young man,” said Peter sharply. “I am trying to fit your mind to life inside the abbey and he is trying to tempt you away. Remember the Garden of Eden, my dear friend. You are sitting in it right at this moment. Listen to that serpent-take the apple from his Tree of Knowledge-and you will be cast out.”

“Gervase is no serpent,” protested Luke.

“Choose wisely and choose well!”

Peter’s unaccustomed asperity jolted the novice. The sacristan was normally the soul of affability and he was possessed of almost unlimited forbearance. Yet the young commissioner had somehow caught him on the raw and brought out a more waspish side to him. Peter saw his friend’s obvious dismay and patted his leg reassuringly.

“You are wrong,” he said in a gentler tone. “I do not dislike this Gervase Bret. I found him a charming young man with an intelligence far greater than that of his blunt companion. But he represents a temptation. Look at the world through his eyes and you will drift towards damnation. View it through mine and you will serve God gladly for the rest of your days.”

“I am still sorely vexed.”

“Ponder anew.”

“I do nothing else.”

“Remember St. Augustine’s trials.”

“Chastity and continency, but not yet!”

“Subdue all fleshly inclination.”

“How, Peter?” wailed the other. “How? ”

“Brother Thaddeus will teach you the way.”

A visible shudder ran through Luke as he saw the brawny ploughman at work with his birch twigs. Thaddeus could beat the desire out of anyone, but it was a martyrdom that had no appeal for the novice.

There had to be another way to come to terms with the promptings which were turning his nights into long and uneasy assaults upon his virtue. Peter had given him food for thought which he could digest when he was next alone. Time was running out and he would soon have to return to his studies. Another subject now called for discussion and it brought a fresh burst of remorse from the novice.

“I am deeply troubled by death,” he announced.

“So are we all, so are we all.”

“I speak of Wulfgeat,” explained the other. “We are forbidden to visit the mortuary chapel, but I could not keep myself away and I saw what the wolf had done to his poor body. How can any man deserve that, Peter? What happened to Alric Longdon was harrowing enough, but this sight turned my stomach. Wulfgeat was eaten alive. Why?

Why?”

“Stay calm and I will instruct you.”

“Abbot Serlo speaks about justifying the ways of God to men. Is it possible to justify such butchery?”

“I believe it is.”

“Wulfgeat was a good man by all account.”

“Even good men have a streak of badness in them at times,” said Peter evenly. “Whenever you meet with horror or disaster, look for a sign. It is always there if you know where to find it. God is the fount of all joy, but he is also the engine of retribution.”

“Alric and Wulfgeat were killed by a stray animal.”

“Who put that animal in Savernake?”

“It fled from its pack.”

“Who drove it out?”

“The other wolves.”

“At whose behest?” When he saw Brother Luke hesitate, he supplied his own answer. “God arranges all things. Alric and Wulfgeat died violent deaths that others might be warned.”

“But what did they do, Peter?”

“They threatened the existence of this abbey.”

“Could a simple miller do that?”

“Alric was by no means simple,” corrected Peter. “He had low cunning and enough education to be able to read and write. It was he who summoned these commissioners here and brought this Gervase Bret to cloud your thoughts. I do not know the full details, but Prior Baldwin has told me that Alric posed a serious threat to this foundation. How and in what precise manner, I may only guess, but I accept the prior’s word without question.”

“What of Wulfgeat?”

“Likewise. He, too, sought to challenge Bedwyn Abbey through the agency of these commissioners. Can you not discern a connection here, Luke? Two men set themselves up against a house of God and they are struck down by Him.”

“Is that the sign of which you made mention?”

“It is. Could it be any clearer?”

“So Alric and Wulfgeat were victims of the Almighty?”

“He fights at our side,” reinforced Peter. “Stay with us and He will always guard you. Leave the abbey and you will lose His protection.”

“But what of the commissioners?”

“The commissioners?”

“They are here to confront the abbey.” Brother Luke swallowed hard.

“Will they be slaughtered, as well?”

Peter smiled. “No, my friend. It is not needful. They are birds of passage who will soon be gone from this place. Gervase Bret and his colleagues are no longer a source of jeopardy for this house. Prior Baldwin has seen to that. He assures me that God has guided him in his disputations. He vows to send the commissioners on their way at once.”

The afternoon session at the shire hall was the most lively and contentious so far. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret had barely resumed their seats alongside their colleagues when the abbey delegation sailed in with a new buoyancy. Prior Baldwin had the unassailable self-assurance of the truly blessed and the doleful Brother Matthew, weighed down though he was with a large satchel of documents, had found a sombre smile to wear upon his face. Beaten men when they last left the hall, they were returning as smug conquerors. Without being invited, Baldwin lowered himself into his chair; without being asked, Matthew flung the satchel down upon the table as if delivering the Ten Commandments to a wayward people. He, too, sat back with unruffled calm. For a few minutes, the commissioners were quite dumbfounded.

Ralph Delchard was the first to locate his voice.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“You have our documents,” said Baldwin, flicking an eye at the satchel. “Show us yours.”

Matthew continued. “Every charter before you is legal and binding.

It will stand the closest scrutiny. We must now examine your evidence of a counter-claim. Let us see it.”

“Let us see it,” asserted the prior, “or let us go. We have played your little games far too long as it is.”

“They are not games,” rumbled Canon Hubert. “The abbey is under suspicion because of an irregularity. The charter relating to a specific piece of land is a forgery.”

Baldwin preened himself. “We are told that it is a forgery by our young friend here, but the only person who could weigh the document fairly in the balance is the scribe who wrote it out, and Drogo, alas, is no longer among us. We rest our case on custom and usage. The terms of this charter reflect what has happened to those two hides over the last twenty years. Those terms will stand in any court of law unless you can produce a counter-claim which negates them.”

“We have such a counter-claim,” said Ralph.

“It predates yours and is genuine,” added Hubert.

“Then where is it?” said Matthew tonelessly.

“We have a right to see it,” said Baldwin. “If our abbey is accused, we wish to see the face of the accuser. Give us this charter so that we may peruse it with care and answer its monstrous impudence. Our integrity has been put in question and we demand the opportunity to vindicate ourselves.” His eyes blazed. “Where is your charter?”

Ralph’s temper flared. “It is we who are empowered to call for evidence and not you, Prior Baldwin. The abbey is on trial because it has overreached itself out of sheer greed. We have taken statements from many witnesses and all attest that the abbey seized that land shortly after Abbot Serlo was brought here from Caen.”

“You dare to impugn the name of Abbot Serlo!” exclaimed the prior.

“He is a saint.”

“Then others have done his dirty work for him.”

“God will punish you for such blasphemy!”

“He has already done so,” moaned Ralph, “by making me sit on this commission and listen to such holy nonsense as you keep thrusting upon me.”

Canon Hubert intervened. “Abbot Serlo is above reproach,” he said.

“Nobody can meet such a man without being aware that they are in the presence of someone who has been touched by the hand of God.

But that does not exonerate his abbey. All that we have learned from witnesses supports the claim that brought us to Bedwyn in the first place.”

“What witnesses?” hissed Baldwin.

“Subtenants on the land in question.”

“Ignorant men with a grudge against the abbey.”

“They have long memories.”

“Long and unforgiving, Canon Hubert. This is not just a battle between abbey and town. It is a feud between Norman and Saxon.

Subtenants have no rights of ownership. They merely till the land and pay rent for that privilege. If they can find a way to flail at their landlords, then they will take it out of Saxon malice. Times are hard and that spreads even more bitterness. The abbey has become its natural target.”

He turned to his subprior for endorsement and Matthew cleared his throat to make way for a sepulchral comment.

“The subtenants bite the hand that feeds them. Their word has no merit in a dispute of this kind. We hold that land from the king. No worthy voice contests that.”

“Yes, it does,” said Gervase.

“To whom does it belong?” asked Matthew.

“Brother John.”

There was mild consternation in the two chairs opposite him, but prior and subprior recovered with impressive speed. Baldwin sighed and gave an indulgent smile.

“Brother John is very old.”

“It is the reason I spoke at length to him.”

“His memory is no longer sound.”

“I found it as sharp as a razor,” said Gervase.

“Brother John is close to death.”

“That is why he values truth so highly.”

“You misled him, I think.”

“I merely asked him about his days as the abbey rent-collector. Before you and Abbot Serlo arrived. Ten minutes with Brother John were most revealing. His account was full of detail to support the counter-claim.”

“Canon Hubert,” said the prior, turning rudely away from Gervase.

“You will best understand our position here. An ancient monk is being asked to betray the house which has nurtured him. Brother John is a dying man who wastes away on his bed at the infirmary. His mind wanders and he does not always know what he says. Explain to your colleague here, if you will, that an obedientiary is not able to bear witness against his abbey. He would never be permitted to come into such a place as this to make a sworn statement.” He threw a disdainful glance at Gervase before he continued. “I appeal to you as a man of God. Insist on just practices here. We must set an example to the laity.

Judge us if you must, but do so by fair means.”

Canon Hubert ran a tongue over dry lips as he heard the plea.

Much as he disliked the prior, he had to concede that there was some truth in what had been said, and he had his own reservations about Gervase’s methods of gathering evidence. Baldwin was encouraged. His plan to create a rift between the lay and clerical members of the commission was working. He tried to open that rift still further.

“You have tested us in this hall, Canon Hubert, but you have done so with scrupulous fairness. We have no criticism to make of your conduct.” His eye moved to Gervase Bret and then on to Ralph Delchard.

“But we have been treated with less respect by others. How has your young colleague sought to overthrow us? By means that are honest, open, and legal? No, Canon Hubert. He has gone behind our backs to speak with the youngest and the oldest members of our house. He has listened to the gossip of a novice and to the ramblings of a vener-able monk. Traduce us, if you must. Bring down the full majesty of the law upon us, if you so desire. But do not insult us and the whole Benedictine order by calling the fledgling Brother Luke and the failing Brother John as your witnesses. They fit into no definition of justice.” He rose imperiously to his feet and addressed his final taunt to Gervase. “Where is your charter?”

“We do not have it here,” admitted the other.

“Call us back when you do,” said Baldwin with a polite sneer, gathering up the satchel of documents and handing it to Subprior Matthew. “We will then return with our written evidence. Your accusations are wild and hurtful, but they carry no substance. Without a charter, you have no case.”

He nudged Matthew to his feet and they made to leave.

Ralph bridled. “Who gave you permission to withdraw?”

“God,” said Baldwin.

He swept out with his subprior and left the commission in turmoil.

Canon Hubert blamed Gervase and tried to lecture him on legal procedure. Ralph defended his friend and cursed all clergy. Even the laconic Brother Simon was drawn into the vicious argument, and it raged for a long time. Gervase eventually brought it to a halt by standing up and waving them into silence.

“Our case is unanswerable,” he said quietly, “but it lacks one vital element. We need Alric’s charter. When that is in our hands, we may confound Prior Baldwin and his windy rhetoric. The charter is the key to it all.”

“Yes,” agreed Ralph, “and it will not only light a fire under the abbey. Hugh de Brionne’s fat arse will burn, as well. He gained his two hides of that land unlawfully with the help of that insidious reeve, Saewold. I had testimony from the most impeccable source.”

“I tremble to think how you obtained it,” said Hubert.

“The charter will corroborate all that I learned during my researches.”

Ralph pushed his chair back from the table. “We must suspend our deliberations until we have found it.”

“If it exists,” wondered Brother Simon meekly.

“It exists right enough,” said Gervase confidently. “And I will not return to this hall until I have tracked it down and verified its contents. Be of good cheer. That charter is out there waiting for us.

Somewhere …”

Living alone in such an isolated place, Emma was free from the tensions and upheavals that characterised life in the towns and villages all around her. She set her own pace and fulfilled her needs in ways of her own choosing. Whenever she was given an insight into the communal experience, she quickly withdrew in disgust to the sanctuary of her mean hovel. Emma could preserve a tattered self-respect there.

Events in Bedwyn had spilled over into her private world, putting her in mortal danger, and only the courage of a Norman lord had saved her and her dog. It made her even more wary of straying too close to her fellow human beings. A woman who aroused great caution in others had now developed more elaborate safeguards herself.

When she was summoned to the cottage, therefore, she approached it with the utmost care, sending her dog on ahead to scout for possible dangers. Because the dwelling was only half a mile from Bedwyn, she kept glancing nervously at the town itself, as if fearing a second attack. But none came and her dog scented no peril. Emma walked slowly towards the cottage, her senses still alert. An ugly, thickset man in his thirties opened the door to give her a gruff welcome. He was a villein on the estate, a peasant who gave service to his lord in return for the humble abode and the patch of cultivable land on which he and his family subsisted. His words drew her into the cottage, but his eyes were full of dread. It had clearly not been his idea to summon the Witch of Crofton and he suffered her presence reluctantly.

Emma saw the sick child at once, lying on a crude mattress in considerable discomfort. The anxious mother sat beside her and bathed her daughter’s fevered brow with brackish water from a wooden pail.

Like her husband, she was fearful of their visitor, but she had called her as a last resort. Nobody else could revive the poor child whose fever had worsened day by day. Too weak to cry out, the little girl yet registered great alarm when she saw the strange figure moving towards her and she clutched at her mother with pathetic urgency.

Both parents tried to soothe the child before handing her over to the ministrations of Emma.

The visitor made her diagnosis within seconds. The patient had a high fever and her face was covered in red blotches. A dry throat was producing a hoarse cough and her condition showed that she had been unable to keep food down for some days. The girl was slowly fading away. When the parents had subdued their daughter, Emma moved swiftly to confirm what her eyes had already told her. Big, coarse hands were surprisingly tender as they felt brow and throat and arms. Dirty fingers were delicate as they parted the child’s lips so that Emma could peer into the mouth.

“You called me just in time,” she concluded.

“Did we?” said the mother.

“She will live.”

“Thank God!”

Emma rummaged in her bag to bring out a handful of tiny stone bottles. She selected two and put the others away. She held up the smaller of the vessels.

“Give her two drops of this in a cup of water every four hours. Sit with her and bathe her as you have been doing. The fever should break by morning.” She displayed the other bottle. “This contains an ointment for her face. Apply it gently every six hours. It will take the sting from those red blotches and they will vanish within a few days.”

She held out the bottles, but husband and wife hesitated as if suspecting witchcraft. How could they trust Emma? The potions might indeed help to cure their ailing daughter, but they might equally turn her into a black cat or set her hair alight or kill her on the spot.

Emma of Crofton saw their dismay and moved to counter it.

“Give her the medicine,” she said, “or she will die.”

The mother made the decision and nodded vigorously. Her husband agreed and crossed to an earthenware pot, into which he thrust a hand. When Emma was given two silver coins, she gazed down in amazement at their sparkling newness. She had seen money like this before.

“It is ours to spend,” said the man defensively. “And there is no better way to use it than to save our child. It was a gift from heaven.

Someone left it outside our door.”

Gervase Bret was stung repeatedly by angry questions that buzzed around his brain like wasps whose nest has been disturbed. What creature had killed Alric Longdon? Where was the miller’s hoard?

Who had been his accomplice in producing counterfeit coinage? Why had Wulfgeat been attacked, as well? What hope had drawn him to the blasted yew and how had he persuaded a surly boy to take him there? Where was the charter which would link and explain all these strange happenings? In what way did Bedwyn Abbey fit into the scheme of things? Who stood most to gain from the turn of events?

Where was the real wolf of Savernake?

As he rode alone through the streets of Bedwyn, he shook his head to escape the assault, but the questions buzzed on in his mind. Relief would come only when he found the answers, and they lay at his destination. Wulfgeat’s house held all the secrets. The widow of the miller and the daughter of the burgess had been plunged into misery and could not even begin to see beyond it at this stage. But they had also inherited a dark truth about their respective menfolk and Gervase had somehow to identify the corruption that had bonded the two victims together. Cild was also living at the house with guilt too heavy for any boy to contain forever. Two grieving women and a boy of nine would be unwilling partners in his investigation. Gervase would have to tread stealthily.

He reached the house, dismounted, and knocked on the door. A servant admitted him, then took charge of his horse. Gervase was left alone in the room where he and Leofgifu had had such a long and soulful conversation. It seemed bleak and empty now. Wulfgeat had a personality that spread right through his home, but it had suddenly vanished. The house itself was in mourning for its master.

The door opened and Hilda took a step into the room.

“Leofgifu thanks you for your concern,” she said.

“I did not wish to disturb her,” apologised Gervase. “I simply came to see if there was anything at all that I could do to ease her suffering at this time.”

“I will tell her that.”

“She may contact me at the hunting lodge.”

“I will tell her that as well.”

“Thank you, Hilda.” He looked upwards. “How is she now?”

“Deeply upset.”

“They were cruel tidings.”

“You were with Leofgifu when she heard,” said the other. “She was grateful. You helped her.”

“I did what I could in her hour of need.”

“It mattered.”

Hilda was now hovering uncertainly and wanting him to leave. It was too much to expect that Leofgifu might receive him and confide in him about her father, but he had hoped for something positive from the visit. He tried a new gambit.

“Has Cild recovered yet?” he asked.

“Cild?”

“From his illness.”

“He is well enough,” she muttered.

“But he collapsed on the floor yesterday.”

“He had been out in foul weather.”

“A hardy young boy like Cild would not be troubled by wind or rain.

That lad could walk through a blizzard without fear. Yet he fainted before us. He went down on this floor as if he had been struck.” He moved closer to her. “Are you sure that your son has not been sick, Hilda?”

She was noncommittal. “He is well enough now.”

“Did he say where he had been?”

“To the mill.”

“Is that why he took the key?”

“Yes.”

“Without asking your permission?”

“Yes.”

“Did that make you angry?”

She took time to think it over. “Yes, it did.”

“Will you punish him?”

“I do not know.”

“What would your husband have done?”

Hilda winced. “He would have beaten Cild.”

“Why did the boy go to the mill?”

“He would not say.”

“Did you ask him?”

“He would not say,” she repeated helplessly.

Hilda was still trying to cope with her own distress and yet she was sharing the sorrow of another woman as well. The effort had drained her to the limit. It would be callous to press her any further and Gervase pulled back. She and Leofgifu were in no fit state to face his enquiries. He could best show his consideration by leaving them alone at this trying time. Mumbling a farewell, he moved to the door.

“Wait,” she said. “I have something for you.”

“For me?”

She crossed to place a strip of iron in his hand. Gervase looked down and his spirits revived at once. Hilda could not tell him anything, but her gesture was eloquent. He was now holding the key to Alric Longdon’s mill.

Gervase Bret went off like a hound that has finally picked up the trail. Reclaiming his horse at once, he mounted swiftly and cantered off to the hunting lodge to collect Ralph Delchard. They were soon riding side by side in the direction of the river. The mill looked grimmer and more derelict than ever now, its silent wheel still buf-feted by water but no longer able to grind out its rough music. The two friends tethered their horses and used the key to let themselves into the premises. Both coughed as they entered the musty atmosphere and they recoiled from the cheerless interior of the miller’s home. They split up to begin their search and went through every part of the building, but they found no more than Prior Baldwin or Wulfgeat had done. Alric had writing materials with his account books, but there was no royal charter. Nor were there any further caches of silver coins. The miller kept his valuables in Savernake Forest.

“Let us look outside,” said Gervase at length.

“For what?”

“Fresh air at least.”

Ralph coughed aloud. “I need that most of all.” He led the way to the door. “Just look at this pigsty, Gervase. Why ever did a respectable woman like Hilda share it with him?”

“She had no choice in the matter.”

They came out of the mill and inhaled lungfuls of air before locking the door behind them. Then they began to walk around the immediate vicinity. Gervase soon found exactly what he had expected. He smacked the wooden box with the flat of his hand.

“Here is it, Ralph. The adder’s home.”

“God in heaven!” exclaimed the other. “What sort of boy would keep a poisonous snake for a pet?”

“The son of a man like Alric Longdon.”

“I had a mouse at his age.”

“You had something more important than that.”

“Did I?”

“A proper childhood.”

They resumed their search, and it was Ralph’s turn to make a discovery. He pointed excitedly up into a tree.

“Do you see it, Gervase?”

“It is only a rope.”

“But it has a hook at the top.”

“Only to make it easier to secure it to the bough.”

“This is where he practised,” said Ralph. “I know it!”

“Did you never swing on a rope as a boy?”

“Not in this way.”

“What is so unusual about it?”

“This, Gervase.”

Ralph took the rope and looped it up before snapping it quickly in his hand. He stepped back as the hook dislodged itself from the bough and fell to the ground. Ralph grabbed it once more and moved to another tree. Aiming at a branch that stood out almost horizontally, he chuckled with glee as the hook settled firmly into place. He tested the rope then held it tight, inching his way upward with his hands as his feet made slow progress up the trunk itself. Ralph was soon ten feet from the ground and laughing his approval. Gervase now understood the purpose of the demonstration.

“The latrine at the mint!”

“Eadmer’s seat of meditation.”

“That is how the boy was taught to climb up it.”

“I must visit the little moneyer again,” said Ralph before dropping heavily to the ground. “He assures me that nothing was stolen from his mint, but Cild did not go up that foul channel simply to view the dwarf’s workplace. He was sent for a purpose.” He punched his friend’s chest. “Come with me, Gervase. Your brain is more acute than mine and you will enjoy meeting Eadmer.”

“I have business elsewhere, Ralph.”

“With whom?”

“A friend.”

He took hold of the rope and jerked it hard so that the hook was lifted off its branch and sent hurtling to the ground. Gathering it up, he coiled the rope carefully, then brandished it in front of him.

“I may need this,” he said.

Piety is its own best advertisement, and Abbot Serlo merely had to appear in the abbey church for his godliness to inspire all around him. He inhabited a higher world but was never patronizing to those of lower station; he was devout but never sanctimonious. The obedientiaries were adoring sons of their Father Abbot. Prior Baldwin could exert a powerful influence, as well. When he appeared at Vespers, he was in a mood of blithe religiosity and the monks read its meaning and rejoiced. The battle had evidently been won. On their behalf, the prior had defended the abbey against the depredations of the commissioners and the day had been his. It put a heartiness into the choral work and mellifluous sound filled the nave before soaring straight up to heaven. Bedwyn Abbey was indeed blessed. Abbot and prior were striking individuals with complementary virtues that served the house superbly well. The combination of holiness from the one and hard bargaining from the other made them invincible.

Serlo was still singing his thanks to the Lord as he returned to his lodgings after Vespers. One of his monks followed him at a discreet distance.

“Excuse me, Father Abbot,” he said deferentially.

“Brother Peter!”

“I crave a brief moment with you.”

“But you will miss your supper,” noted Serlo with paternal interest.

“Bread, fruit, and ale are being served in the refectory. Take your place there and eat.”

“My request has precedence, Father Abbot.”

Serlo invited the sacristan into his lodging and moved across to lower his bulk into the high-backed oak chair. Peter waited until the abbot was properly settled, then he knelt before him and offered up his gift. It was a solid object that was wrapped in cloth and tied with a ribbon.

“What is this, Brother Peter?”

“Proof of my dedication.”

“But we see that every day.”

“I fell from grace and I was justly disciplined,” said Peter, “but I never strayed from the path of righteousness. When my duties were neglected, this is what absorbed my time and my talents. Open it, Father Abbot.”

Serlo obeyed and his eyes strained at their moorings for an instant before running with tears. He was so moved by the beauty of the silver crucifix and by the implications of its existence that he was overcome. It was to produce such a work of art that a master-craftsman had laboured so unremittingly, stealing time wherever he could, even when he knew it might lead to stern reprimand. The crucifix was the latest and finest example of Brother Peter’s skills and it would be given pride of place on the altar. Abbot Serlo rolled his moist eyes over it and stroked the silver with reverential fingers. Like everything else in his life, it was truly a gift from God.

He put a hand on the head of the kneeling sacristan.

“Bless you, my son.”

“I put my poor abilities at the disposal of the Lord.”

“You have made me ashamed.”

“Why, Father Abbot?”

“No man should be punished for this. ”

“It made me wayward in my other duties.”

“You should have spoken up and explained, Peter.”

“That would have ruined the surprise.”

“It would have saved you a beating.”

“Pain brings me nearer to Christ,” said the other. “The hand of Brother Thaddeus nailed me up on the cross. Do not weep for me, Father Abbot. I was content.”

“Can you forgive me, Brother Peter?”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“Can you still love and respect me?”

“More than ever.”

Abbot Serlo set the crucifix on the little table beside him and examined it afresh. Its proportions were perfect, its sheen mesmeric, its enamel figure of Jesus almost lifelike.

“It is a miracle,” he pronounced. “For so much beauty to come out of so much pain. For so much faith to triumph over so much oppression.

This crucifix is a miracle in silver. It tells the whole story of Christianity at a glance.”

Brother Peter wept tears of joy and prostrated himself in front of his abbot. He was in a state of exultation.

Gervase Bret had to ride for a couple of miles before he found what he needed. Leaping from the saddle, he checked the stone for size and shape, then reached for the rope. After tying up his cargo, he clipped the hook around the pommel of his saddle and put a foot in the stirrup once more. His horse made light of the added burden, dragging it along over grass and through bracken as if it were no more than a trailing rein. The sandstone bit and bounced its way along until they reached the wooded slope. Gervase now took over the task of heaving the object on his own, guiding it between the bushes and around the exposed roots of trees and over the recurring undulations of the terrain.

His horse cropped grass beside the stream below while its master sweated and pulled.

Gervase reached the summit and paused to catch his breath. Descent was altogether swifter. Once the sandstone was in motion again, it gathered impetus and chased him down the incline, hacking a shallow trench through the undergrowth and sending birds and animals into dramatic retreat. A stout elm finally halted its passage, but the stone was undamaged. Winding the rope around his shoulders once more, Gervase towed on. The rock seemed heavier than ever now, but he struggled bruisingly on through the denser woodland like a sinner performing an especially onerous penance. Twigs lacerated his face, bushes threshed at his shoulders, and the rope started to eat its way through his skin, yet he did not dare to stop. Only when he finally hauled the sandstone into the clearing did he take note of his aching limbs and his pounding head. Breathing stertorously, he dropped to one knee and let go of the rope. They were still there. The other pieces of sandstone were all hidden beneath their grassy disguise, but they were still in position.

He waited until a semblance of a voice returned. When he was able to call out, he did so in faltering Welsh.

“Are you there!” There was no answer. “I come as a friend!” Still there was no response. “I bring a gift for you!” he cried. “Come and see what it is.”

His voice rang down the valley, but it seemed to reach no human ears. Gervase paused to rest further. He studied the circle of stones again and tried to fathom their meaning. Stonehenge had been vastly larger in scale and set on an open plain. Was that to make its statement loud and clear? Or was it to catch the sun and to use the movements of the heavens? This circle was small and private and hidden away at the heart of a timbered valley. Why had such a secluded spot been chosen? If it was a temple, what was the object of worship?

When he had walked among the sarsens on Salisbury Plain, he had felt the throb of a primitive power that stretched back endlessly in time. The clearing had resonance more than power, the hum of recent activity, the distant echo of a religious service that had been performed there. And yet it was not a religion that Gervase knew or understood. Stonehenge was a place of light and affirmation. This was a darker manifestation of the human soul. He felt like an intruder from another world.

The sky was filming over now and shadows lay across the ground like felled trees. He became aware of the potential danger. Gervase was relying on his own instinct and ignoring that of his friend.

Ralph Delchard had sensed hostility in the clearing and struck at a wild animal. The figure they had seen was certainly big enough and strong enough to overpower men like Alric and Wulfgeat, especially when it had the advantage of surprise. Even a battle-hardened veteran like Ralph had been shocked by its unexpected arrival out of the undergrowth. Two armed men might put the creature to flight, but one tired Chancery clerk might be deemed more easy prey. Gervase looked up at the fading light and the chill hand of fear touched him.

It was time to flee.

“Who are you!”

The voice boomed out in Welsh and seemed to come from behind every tree. Gervase was being watched. He stood in the middle of the clearing and rotated slowly as he tried to work out where the man was standing. It was a deep, rough, and uncultured voice, but it belonged to a human being.

“Who are you!”

The question battered at his ears and he gave answer.

“A friend.”

“What is your name?”

“Gervase.”

“Why are you here?”

“To bring this stone for you.”

“Keep away!”

“It is my gift to you.”

“This place is sacred.”

“Put my stone in your circle.”

There was a long pause, followed by a rustling among the leaves.

Gervase had the impression that the man was circling him to make sure that he was quite alone and did not have any confederates hiding in the undergrowth. Earlier, two armed men had treated him as an enemy. One of them was now claiming to be his friend. He was right to be sceptical.

“I need your help,” Gervase shouted.

“Leave me alone.”

“You dwell in the forest. You know its ways.”

“Go now while you still can.”

“This is your home. Teach me to understand it.”

“My world is not yours.”

“Answer my questions and you will be left in peace.”

“You will come back with others.”

“No!” promised Gervase. “I give you my word. Nobody will hear of this; nobody will search for you and drive you out. You will tell from my voice that I am not Welsh, but neither am I from this place. I will soon leave Bedwyn. You will never see me again.”

There was another long pause and the bushes were parted. Gervase felt the intense scrutiny and tried to meet it with an affable smile.

The voice was still cynical.

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because I brought that stone all the way here.”

“Who knows you have come?”

“Nobody.”

“Why do you wear a dagger?”

Gervase took it out of its sheath and threw it a few yards away. He was now quite defenceless. Against a man as powerful as the one he had glimpsed at their previous encounter, he would have little chance.

Common sense told him to brace himself against attack, but he knew it was important to show no fear. The stone he had lugged there was not simply a present to the man but an act of apology. He waited patiently until the voice boomed forth again.

“What do you want?”

“Guidance. Two men have been killed in Savernake.”

“I know.”

“Was it your doing?”

A roar of protest came from the bushes and they shook violently.

Gervase tried to retract his question, but his uncertain grasp on the language let him down and he had to resort to placatory gestures.

There was wounded pride in the undergrowth, but it was eventually soothed.

“You are a hermit,” said Gervase. “I respect that.”

“Then go your way.”

“You love peace, but it has been disturbed by this strife in the forest. I can take that strife away.” He took a step in the direction of the bushes. “A wolf was caught here yesterday. Did the animal savage those two men?”

“No.”

“Can you say who did?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

Such a long pause ensued that Gervase began to wonder whether the man had quietly withdrawn and left him alone. He took another step in the direction from which the voice had come.

“Stay where you are!” came the warning.

“Why are you afraid of me?”

“I live alone.”

There was a rugged dignity in the way he said this that was an explanation in itself. The hermit had created his own private world in the forest and he survived there with the guile of an animal. No other human being could enter or share his leafy domain. Darkness was now threatening and Gervase did not wish to be lost in Savernake.

He made one last attempt to get through to the invisible listener.

“Help me, my friend. I must find out how these two men died.

Something was stolen from the place where they fell. That, too, must be found.” A third step took him closer to the bushes. “Please help me. I am staying at the hunting lodge near Bedwyn. Help me in my work and we will move on. You will be free to roam the forest as before.”

Gervase strained his eyes to peer through the foliage, but it was too thick to admit his gaze. As he leaned forward to take a closer look, he heard a rustling noise behind him and turned. Strong muscles were pulling on the rope so that the rock was being dragged into the safety of the trees on the other side of the clearing. Gervase was content.

His strange interview was over, but it had ended with a small measure of success.

His gift had been accepted.

Eadmer the Moneyer was in a testy mood when Ralph Delchard called on him without warning. He admitted the unwelcome visitor to his inner sanctum and shut its fortified door with a thud to show his displeasure. His day’s work was now over and he was ready to douse the candles that flickered in their holders, then leave. Ralph was keeping him there against his will. The slight figure grew combative.

“Have you reported to the town reeve?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“But you were here with the man’s wife.”

“That was a separate transaction,” said Ralph with a nostalgic smile.

“Saewold is due home tomorrow and he will be told of the forgery in due course.”

“There is no time to waste, my lord!” insisted Eadmer.

“I delay out of policy.”

“Policy?”

“Yes, my friend. These counterfeit coins are no stray accidents.

They have been steadily minted over a period of time. I believe that the forger is still busy at his nefarious trade. If I raise the alarm through Saewold, then the criminal will be frightened away and may escape our net completely.”

“You know, then, who the villain is?”

“We soon shall,” said Ralph confidently, “and we will catch him in the act. But that requires patience. He must be stalked before he can be taken.”

“I will cut off his hands!”

“The law will do more than that for him, Eadmer.”

“Forgery is worse than murder.”

“You will be able to tell that to the wretch one day.”

“Bring him before me!”

Eadmer grabbed a hammer and brought it down onto a metal tray with such force that the clang made Ralph’s ears sing. The moneyer was small but vengeful. His trade lent itself to fraud and corruption of all kinds and strict procedures were in force to ensure that high standards of professional integrity were maintained at all times. One dishonest moneyer could give the rest a bad name. Debased coins could drive out good ones. Eadmer wanted action.

“Get out there and find the rogue!” he urged.

“I must speak with you first.”

“You have questioned me already.”

“Confirmation is needed.” Ralph looked around the room. “Are you quite sure that nothing is missing from the mint?”

“Certain.”

“What about your strong room?”

“Everything is accounted for.”

“No possibility of error?”

Eader was emphatic. “None!”

“What would a forger need to produce coins?”

“A black heart and a pact with the Devil!”

Ralph grinned. “But what materials must he have?”

“Silver bullion with means of heating and handling it. Then there are these,” he said, indicating the tray of dies. “They are issued in London under special licence. The die is the essence of the whole process.”

“Yet none of yours have been stolen?”

“No, my lord.”

“What of your mint in Marlborough?”

“It is even more of a fortress than this one.”

Ralph nodded and sauntered around the room until he came to the rough curtain across an opening in the wall.

“What is in here?”

“That need not concern you.”

“May I look?”

“Hold your nose if you do.”

Ralph twitched the curtain and peeped into the tiny chamber. It contained four bare walls and a raised block of stone. Aromatic memories of Eadmer’s use of the chamber rose up to offend his sensibilities, but Ralph forced himself to lean over and gaze down through the hole that was cut in the stone. Seen from below in a boat, it had looked smooth and regular. Viewed from above, it was almost conical in shape and tapered upwards. The stone was roughhewn and pitted with droppings. One more feature now declared itself. Two feet down the aperture was a thin iron bar that bisected the narrow space. Only a man as stunted as Eadmer could squeeze through such a gap. The bar was an effective precaution, but it could also become a useful accessory. A rope with a hook on the end could be thrown up to gain a purchase on it.

Ralph stepped back into the room and dared to breathe again. If the boy had climbed up that way and entered the mint, what had he stolen? Everything remained unharmed and in its place. Perhaps he did not need to take anything from the premises. Cild might have gained entry in order to unlock the door and admit the forger.

“Would you know if someone had used your materials?”

“Of course,” snapped Eadmer.

“How?”

“The brazier would still be hot. Smell would linger.”

“That I can vouch for!” said Ralph ruefully.

“My tools would be moved. Each has an exact place and I could tell if one was an inch from where it should be.”

“Nothing taken, nothing moved.”

“Only genuine coins leave this mint.”

“Then how did they do it!”

Ralph stamped a foot in exasperation, then moved to the window.

Evening was drawing in and the river was dappled with pools of darkness. A lone heron was skimming the water aimlessly. On the opposite bank, the little Saxon church had become a murky blur.

Somewhere in its graveyard, the body of Alric lay buried. Nobody would visit such an eerie spot at night and a boat which came downriver at that time would be in no danger of being seen. A boy who swam beneath the house with a rope around his shoulders would risk even less chance of detection. But what was the point of getting Cild inside the mint if nothing was to be taken from it? Ralph scratched his head in bafflement.

An acrid stink made him turn round again.

“You must go,” said Eadmer, licking a finger and thumb so that he could snuff out the tallow candles. “I am wanted elsewhere and you may not stay here alone.”

He extinguished another flame and the wick smoked on pungently.

Ralph Delchard watched him with growing curiosity, then a smile spread slowly across his face until he was beaming. Without knowing it, the moneyer had just provided the vital clue which his visitor was seeking. A daily chore had unlocked a nocturnal mystery. Surging gratitude made Ralph burst into wild laughter. His companion shrunk back in alarm.

“What is the matter, my lord?” he asked.

“Eadmer,” said Ralph, arms out wide, “I love you.”