The Wolves of Savernake

Chapter Eleven

It was nightfall by the time Gervase Bret finally picked his way back to the hunting lodge, and the servant who greeted him was carrying a blazing torch. While the man took the horse off to be stabled, the weary Gervase went into the building, to find his companion seated alone at the long table. Ralph Delchard was in a jovial mood. The remains of a roasted chicken lay on a pewter dish before him and he was washing it down with a cup of wine. He waved his friend across and Gervase sank gratefully down on the bench opposite him. Ralph reached for the jug to pour out a second cup of wine, then pushed it across the table.

“Drink deep and think of Normandy.”

“It is French wine?”

“No,” said Ralph, “it comes from the vineyard at Bradford-on-Avon, but its grapes were grown by a Norman hand and it will quench your thirst well enough.” He emptied his own cup, then refilled it. “It was the one great mistake that the Conqueror made,” he observed sagely.

“A Norman army marches on its supply of wine. When we set sail for England twenty years ago, no proper thought was given to the matter.

We landed at Pevensey and made our position secure before we headed across country towards Hastings. The army was hungry, so we killed and ate whatever lay in our way. We were also thirsty, but what little wine we had brought soon ran out and we had to drink their foul English water.” He grimaced at the bitter memory. “It did almost as much damage to our host as King Harold and his housecarls. That water poisoned our bellies and opened our bowels with a vengeance.

If William had only carried enough wine in his invasion fleet, we would have been in a fit state to win the battle of Hastings in half the time.”

Gervase smiled obligingly. He had heard the story before, but he did not mind the repetition. Ralph’s high spirits showed that his visit to the mint had been profitable. He was still glowing with pleasure, but he wanted to hear from his friend before he divulged his own news.

“Where have you been, Gervase?”

“To the forest.”

“Alone?”

“No, I had a piece of red sandstone with me.”

“Can you be serious?” said Ralph, sitting up. “When you took that rope and told me you were off to see a friend, I thought you had arranged a tryst with one of these lovely Saxon women. I hoped you were going to tie her down and have your way with her like any red-blooded Norman.”

“Do not make a jest of it, Ralph,” reproved Gervase. “You know my lineage and you know my fidelity. Alys waits for me in Winchester and no woman could take me from her.”

“Not even Leofgifu?”

It was a question that halted him and he took some time to compose his answer. There was more than a tinge of regret in his voice when he eventually spoke.

“No,” he said. “Not even Leofgifu.”

“So what did you do with this rock and this rope?”

Gervase gave a terse description of events and saw his friend’s amazement turn into apprehension. Ralph could not believe that he had been so careless of his safety.

“Two men have already been killed in Savernake.”

“Not by his hand.”

“How do you know that?”

“He is a gentle creature at heart.”

“Gentle!” exclaimed Ralph. “Can you call that thing of hair and fur which jumped out at us in any way gentle? I took it for a wolf, but you say it is a man. I hold to my conclusion, Gervase. The Welsh are untamed. They are far more animal than human. I have fought against them on the border and I know them to be savage barbarians with not an ounce of gentleness between them.” He shook his head in disgust.

“And you faced such an ogre on your own in Savernake!”

“He did not harm me,” said Gervase simply.

Ralph snorted. “I’ll take my men out at first light tomorrow and hunt this wild beast down.”

“No! I gave him my word.”

“Honour means nothing to the Welsh.”

“It means everything,” retorted Gervase with fierce certitude. “To him and to me. My pledge will not be broken, Ralph. If you try to lift a hand against the man, I will stop you by any means that I have. He has not hurt me and he has not hurt anyone else. All he desires is to be left alone in peace. He is a hermit.”

“So why did you seek him out?”

“To ask for help.”

“From some madman in a filthy sheepskin?”

“He knows, Ralph. You were right about the wolf that Hugh de Brionne caught. It did not kill the two men. The hermit knows who did.”

“He told you?”

“I have not yet won his confidence.”

“Leave him to me, Gervase,” said Ralph. “I’ll make the villain talk. If he can shed light on this business, I’ll cut the truth out of him with my sword.”

“Touch that man and you lose my friendship forever!”

It was such a vehement and unexpected threat that Ralph was pushed back into his seat. Gervase was never unassertive in argument, but this issue went especially deep with him. It made the older man more reflective. Ralph made an effort to understand his companion’s viewpoint.

“Can you like such a monster?” he asked.

“I respect him for what he is doing.”

“Living as an animal in the forest?”

“Turning his back on the world to follow his beliefs. It is no more than the monks at the abbey are doing. They have retreated into a life of self-denial in order to serve God. The hermit serves another deity and his withdrawal is more complete. He needs no brothers to share his suffering. He is a holy anchorite who chooses to worship alone.”

“But the man is a heathen!” protested Ralph.

“He is not a Christian,” said Gervase, “that is true. His religion goes back well before the birth of Jesus and it may seem crude and ignorant to us, but it has weathered many long centuries. Any man who can live that way for the sake of his soul must have immense strength of mind and spirit. He has not just made vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. He has renounced everything. Can you not see why I am so interested in this hermit? He is a survivor from some ancient culture, Ralph. He is our guide to the past.”

“All we need is a guide to that charter.”

“He may help us with that search, as well.”

“How?” said Ralph impatiently. “What did he tell you?”

“Enough.”

Gervase was satisfied that progress had been made, but his friend wanted more positive proof of the fact. His own visit had yielded one important clue.

“Keep your gabbling Welshman,” he said scornfully. “I prefer Eadmer the Moneyer. At least, he can instruct us.”

“What did you learn from him?”

“This.”

Ralph lifted up the large tallow candle that stood before him in its holder. Tilting it slightly, he poured hot wax onto the table, then produced a coin from his purse. He dropped the coin into the wax and banged it with his fist.

“Instead of a coin, use one of Eadmer’s dies.”

“When the wax hardens, the imprint would be perfect.”

“That is what the boy stole from the mint,” said Ralph. “All he had to do was to climb up that stinking hole, melt some wax and push a die into it, wait until it was ready, then clean the die and replace it exactly as it was found. Then back down the shaft with him to the boat where his father was waiting. Poor little Eadmer was none the wiser.” He rubbed a hand across his chin in contemplation. “I have solved the mystery of how the die was stolen, but to whom was it then given? Alric was no moneyer. Who was the miller’s accomplice in this conspiracy?”

“We shall soon know.”

“How? Will your Welsh hermit send us his name?”

“Do not scoff at him, Ralph.”

“What can that savage offer?”

“A sharp pair of eyes in Savernake Forest.”

“With a sharp set of teeth to match. You are deceived by him, Gervase.

He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

They argued on for another hour without resolution, then went off to their separate beds. Both were tired, but neither could sleep. The wine had freshened Ralph Delchard’s lust and he began to muse about the beauteous Ediva once more and wish that she was beside him. She had brightened his visit to Bedwyn and offered him a refuge from the tedious litigation on which his colleagues seemed to thrive.

Ediva had given him both love and priceless information. There was no more satisfying way to serve his king than between the thighs of such a woman. He was about to take her in his arms again when he at last fell into a deep slumber.

In the adjoining chamber, Gervase Bret tried to direct his imagination to Alys, but she was, for once, an inadequate occupant of his thoughts. Whenever she smiled, he saw the bearded face of the recluse; whenever she talked, he heard the rough Welsh voice in the bushes.

He went through each detail of his encounter with the solitary creature in the forest and wished that he had learned enough to comprehend the man’s universe. He recalled vague snatches of travellers’ tales from the days when he had studied at Eltham Abbey. They talked of weird religions in distant lands and put the fear of death into his young mind as they recounted the barbaric rites that were involved.

One man had spoken of mysteries nearer home and Gervase now wished that he had paid more attention to his words. The stories were about the ancient religion of Wales when a mystic order of Druids flourished. Could the hermit of Savernake be the heir to such a culture?

Had he been driven out of his native land by the spread of Christianity to seek a place where he could practice the old faith? Gervase cudgelled his brain to extract what meagre knowledge he had on the subject, but all that came was an unsatisfactory mixture of fact and conjecture. He did remember that oak trees were sacred to the Druids, and the clearing in the valley had been ringed by oaks. He also recalled the paramount importance of the sun and wondered whether the oval site had been chosen to trap its rays. But it was the most stark feature of the religion which had impressed itself upon him at the time and which now changed his whole attitude to his meeting in the forest.

Druids were said to use human sacrifices. They spilled blood in the cause of their religion. If the hermit was still practising the ancient rites with full vigour, Alric Longdon and Wulfgeat might well have been his victims. They were not attacked by any wolf. Their deaths had served a profounder purpose. Slain by the hermit, they had been necessary sacrifices on the altar of his belief. Gervase himself was lucky not to have followed them to the grave. It was not until well into the night that his demons relented and allowed his troubled mind a modicum of rest.

“Wake up, Gervase!”

“What?” He only half-heard the call.

“Come here, man. At once!”

“Why?”

“Look, Gervase! Just look.”

“Do not pound my head so, Ralph.”

But his friend was only banging on the door of his chamber. When Gervase forced himself to sit up and open his eyes, he saw that dawn was pushing the first spears of light in through the casement. He scrambled up and pulled back the bolt on the door before flinging it open. Ralph Delchard had been torn from his own bed, but he was in a state of great excitement. He was holding something in both hands and he came in to set it down on the floor. It was a wooden chest that was ribbed with stout metal clasps.

“Where did you find it?” asked Gervase.

“Outside the front door.”

“Who left it there?”

“I do not know, but one of the servants heard him. When he went to see what the noise was, he found this.”

“Is it Alric’s treasure chest?”

“What else could it be?”

“Have you opened the lid?”

“No, Gervase. I wanted you to be with me when I did.” Ralph had brought the key which he had found in the stream near the blasted yew. “This moment belongs to both of us.”

He inserted the key into the lock with anticipatory delight, but it soon became dismay. They key did not fit.

“It is the wrong chest!” he cursed.

“Or the right chest but the wrong key.”

“It must fit!” insisted Ralph, trying again. “It must.”

But the key still jammed in the lock. Gervase had now come fully awake. He picked up the chest and took it across to the window to get the best of the light.

“Someone has forced this chest open,” he noted.

“But it is locked tight.”

“The catch must have been wrenched free.”

“Then the contents will have been taken.”

“I think not, Ralph. This was left here by design. What value would there be in an empty chest?”

He set it down once more and removed the key, reaching instead for his dagger. Inserting it in the lock, he twisted away until there was a sharp click. One flick of its point sent the lid of the chest up and back.

Ralph plunged a hand into the hoard of silver coins that lay within, but Gervase had already snatched out the most valuable item. He unrolled the parchment in the half-dark and took one glance at it.

“We have our charter,” he said.

Leofgifu slept soundly in the house of mourning and woke to curse herself for passing the night in such comfort. It was unseemly and uncaring, yet no matter how hard she tried to find fresh tears for her father, they would not come. True sorrow had not really touched her.

She had been horrified by the way he had died rather than shaken by the fact of his death. Now that she had had time to take stock, she came to see just how unhappy she had been sharing the home with him. The loss of Wulfgeat was also a gain for her. Instead of depressing her spirit, it filled her with an odd sense of freedom and it was this which activated her guilt. Leofgifu feared that she was an unnatural daughter. Wulfgeat’s death meant that she was now expected to grieve for a man she had come to hate, as well as for another whom she had never managed to love. Father and husband chained her to the grave.

Activity was the best escape from brooding and she threw herself into her chores with excessive readiness. She took over duties which would normally be left to the servants and spent more time on her embroidery that morning than she had done in the previous month.

Remorse still troubled her, however, and her restlessness would not be eased. It took her into the little room which her father had used for his business affairs, Leofgifu half-hoping that the sight of his ledgers and his papers might unleash a hidden spring of lamentation somewhere deep inside her and enable her to mark his passing with appropriate despair. But her heart remained cold and her mind unengaged. She sat at the table and idly reached for the first ledger.

It was over an hour before Hilda found her.

“Are you busy, Leofgifu?”

“No, no. Please come in.”

“Do not let me interrupt you.”

“I am glad of your company, Hilda. How are you today?”

“Do not worry about me, Leofgifu. How are you?”

“Still oppressed.”

But she did not feel the weight of that oppression and wished that she could suffer in the way that Hilda, with her shattered beauty, still plainly did. Hers was the true coinage of grief; Leofgifu was offering only counterfeit currency.

“I need your permission to go out,” said Hilda.

“You may come and go as you please.”

“But you might need me here.”

“It is kind of you to put me first, Hilda, but I can spare you. Will you go far?”

“Only to the hunting lodge.”

Leofgifu was puzzled. “Why there?”

“To speak with the young commissioner.”

“Gervase Bret?”

“When he called yesterday, I was … too weak.”

“Weak?”

“He needed help and I pulled back out of fear.” Her chin lifted bravely. “But I will speak to him today and I will make sure that Cild speaks with him also.”

“Cild?”

“I must be strict with him now that he is mine.”

Leofgifu only partially understood what Hilda was saying, but it connected with her own inclinations. She gazed down at the ledgers she had been reading and the documents she had just leafed through, then made her election.

“You will not go to the hunting lodge, Hilda.”

“Why not?”

“It is much too far to walk.”

“We do not mind the journey.”

“Gervase will come to the house.”

“It would cause too much upset.”

“Perhaps that is what I need,” said Leofgifu. “Before you and Cild talk with him, I will see him myself. I may not mourn properly for my father until I fully understand the reason for his death, and Gervase may help me to do that.” She kissed Hilda on the cheek. “Go back to your room. I will send a servant to fetch him at once.”

The instincts of a born soldier never desert a man. After all these years, Ralph Delchard could still feel in his bones if a battle ahead would go well for him. Belief in success made it virtually inevitable and he had never been robbed of a promised victory yet. As soon as he saw the chest, his hope flowered; as soon as they found the charter, it blossomed into complete confidence; and when Gervase had examined the document closely enough to proclaim its authenticity, Ralph had the surge of exhilaration that he felt always in the first cavalry charge.

Word was sent to the abbey that the commission would convene again that afternoon. A personal summons was delivered to Prior Baldwin ordering him to present himself with all of the relevant abbey charters at a given time. The morning now gave Ralph an opportunity to make some last important enquiries in the town. Gervase Bret agreed to go with him, but he was called away by a message from Leofgifu and hurried off to her house. Ralph had to pay his visit alone.

“Come in, my lord. You are most welcome.”

“I am glad to see you safely returned, Saewold.”

“Business detained me in Salisbury.”

“How did you find Edward?”

“The earl is in fine fettle,” said the reeve with an obsequious smirk.

“As well as discharging his many duties as sheriff of the county, he is supervising the extensions to his castle. The building progresses.”

“We saw it on our way past,” said Ralph.

His eye kindled as Ediva came into the room to add her welcome and to go through the niceties. Her manner was as poised as ever, but she contrived to bestow a fleeting smile that stirred wondrous memories for her guest. Ediva called a servant and ordered refreshment, then she left the men alone for their discussion. They sat either side of a table.

“You must have missed your wife when you were away.”

Saewold shrugged. “I did not have time to miss her or anyone else, my lord. Being reeve of a town like Bedwyn is not an occupation; it is a way of life and it consumes all my attention. Ediva has learned to make shift for herself.”

“You are blessed in such a wife,” said Ralph without irony, then he addressed himself to the matter at hand. “We have a problem, Saewold, one that must be kept hidden until we have a solution. I speak to you in strictest confidence.”

“Of course, my lord. Of course.”

“Do not breathe a word to anyone or the outcry will be raised and the damned miscreant will make a run for it.”

“Miscreant?”

“You have a forger in the town.”

Saewold was shocked. “Here in Bedwyn?”

“Eadmer confirmed it.”

“When?”

“While you were away in Salisbury.” He saw a means to ensure the reeve’s collusion. “It is another reason why we did not disclose the crime. You would have been embarrassed in front of Edward if he had known that so much counterfeit money had been allowed to circulate within your town.”

“So much?”

“We believe so.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“For some time.”

“It must be rooted out at once!” said Saewold. “I will not have Bedwyn tainted with false coin.”

“The time to announce the deception is when it has been fully uncovered,” advised Ralph. “You may gain some credit then instead of the criticism you may incur if your town is seen to be awash with counterfeit currency. You understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Be ruled by me.”

“To the letter.”

“One of the culprits has been identified, but you must help to name his accomplice. Alric Longdon was one party to this dreadful crime.”

“Alric!”

His surprise was short-lived. Once he weighed up the intelligence, he saw how it explained both the miller’s behaviour and his rising wealth at a time when some of his rivals were struggling to make even small profits on their labour. Alric certainly had the craftiness to be involved in such a scheme, but he could never be more than the aide of a subtler mind.

“Who were his friends?” asked Ralph.

“He had none.”

“Who were his relatives, his associates, his customers? Give me a list and we will scour it until we find the likeliest men. Eadmer has praised the forgery for its accuracy, so we look for very skilful hands.

Who in this town could be capable of such intricate work?”

Saewold thought hard. “There are several with fingers nimble enough,” he said, “but none with such diseased minds. Bedwyn has its share of poachers and thieves and drunken fools, but we do not harbour malefactors of this order. Someone who would work hand in glove with Alric? I cannot imagine such a man.”

“He lives here, nevertheless,” insisted Ralph, “and you must point him out to me. Fetch paper and pen to set down every name that comes to mind. Start with men in allied trades. Be quick about it, Saewold, and we may stop the rot before it spreads. Now, sir, who is your most likely moneyer? Where is your second Eadmer of the Short Stride?”

The reeve flinched as a name suddenly hit him.

“A second Eadmer,” he said. “A second Eadmer.”

“There is such a person?”

“Dermon-but, no, it could never be him.”

“Who is this Dermon?”

“He was Eadmer’s assistant at one time, but they fell out and parted.

Dermon does not work in a mint anymore. He keeps accounts.”

“Put his name at the top of the list,” ordered Ralph. “Why did Eadmer not mention the man himself?”

“The bitterness between them was deep.”

“Dermon has cause for revenge?”

“Perhaps, my lord. But cause is not means. Cause is not opportunity.

Dermon is forbidden to go near the mint. He rarely comes to Bedwyn at all. I will not suspect him.”

“Suspect everyone. Where does the fellow live?”

“Chisbury,” said Saewold. “Dermon is now in the employ of Hugh de Brionne.”

It was the third time in a row that Emma had taken her doctoring to a lowly place and been rewarded with silver. Who had left the money outside the doors of these hovels? What benefactor had taken pity on the poorest people in the area? Why had she been singled out for her share of the coins? Emma was still preoccupied with the mystery as she set off that morning to gather herbs and replenish her stocks.

She skirted Bedwyn, then made her way along the river, her dog sniffing along ahead of her. When she came to Alric’s mill, she stopped to throw silent imprecations at it. The beating which he had given her had scarred her soul for life. Alric might be dead, but his mill was still there to remind her of their dealings.

Emma hurried on until she reached the stream that branched off to the left. Using the cover of the wooded slope, she browsed in safety and picked herbs for her basket. The dog went on patrol. Herbs were plentiful and she threw in a scattering of wildflowers as well to decorate her home. She was bent double in the undergrowth when she heard the tell-tale growl. Her dog had scented menace. Emma rose cautiously and pricked her ears. A hissed command brought the dog to her side. The animal continued to emit a low growl, but she could neither see nor hear any movement in the forest. It was only when the growl turned to a whine of fear that she knew they had company.

“Where are you?” she called. “Show yourself.”

Foresters would have come out to harry her. Poachers would have tried to scare her off. Enemies would have hurled something at her and at the dog.

“We are doing no harm.”

She sensed where the danger was lurking now and turned to aim her words at the massive oak behind which it hid.

“Come no closer,” she warned. “I have my dog.”

But the animal was in no mood to fight on behalf of its mistress. It was crouched at her feet in an attitude of submission, as if begging for her protection against some unseen foe. Whatever skulked behind the tree had frightened the dog into immobility. Its whine intensified.

“Leave us alone!” she called out with defiance. “I have only taken herbs to cure sickness. I am a healer.”

There was a grunting noise from behind the tree that made both her and the dog back away slightly, then a large head came round the trunk to appraise her. The hermit had an unsightly face that was made even more revolting by the long, straggly hair, the thick beard, and the accumulated filth. Deep-set eyes glared from beneath shaggy brows. Now that Emma could see him, she was no longer afraid.

Indeed, when he stepped out from behind the oak and stood before her, she felt a vague sensation of pity glide through her. Being the Witch of Crofton condemned her to a joyless existence, but here was someone in a far worse condition than she. His sheepskin garments were soiled and torn; his bare arms and legs were blackened and grazed. He had a powerful frame and a fierce stare, but there was no real hostility in him. Instead, Emma sensed a kinship.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He remained motionless and watched her intently.

“Where have you come from?”

The dog had lost its fear as well. It wagged its tail.

“Do you understand me?”

The great face was scrunched up with bewilderment. Emma tried to make contact another way. She reached into her basket for the wildflowers and held them out to him. He looked faintly pleased but refused with a shake of his head. Emma scooped up a handful of herbs instead, but he did not want those either. She had only one thing left to offer him and she searched in the folds of her cloak to find it. Taking a few friendly steps towards him, she offered the silver coins on her palm.

He peered at them for a second, then a craggy smile cut through the overgrown beard. There was even the ghost of a laugh. The man fished inside his own garment and brought out some matching coins to show her. With a flick of his hand, he threw them to the ground in front of her and indicated that she should have them. Comprehen-sion dawned. Emma had met her benefactor. This strange inhabitant of Savernake Forest had distributed the money among the needy. Where it had come from, she did not know, but it was obvious that he had no need of it. There was abstract kindness in this man. He lived quite alone in self-imposed exile, but he could show care for others. His generous impulse had relieved misery in a number of distressed families.

The hermit gazed deep into her eyes and their separate worlds merged for a second to banish all contradiction. Both were lonely outcasts. Both would be spurned on sight, yet both could be forgiving to those who spurned them. Both worshipped a deity that was older than time itself and beyond the scope of common imagination. Both followed their own twisting paths to a higher state of being that could be attained only in painful isolation.

When the moment passed, the contradictions came back to push them apart forever, but the man made one last gesture of contact.

Pointing up the hill, he beckoned Emma to follow, then he trudged off slowly on bare feet. She picked up the silver coins and did as he wished, keeping a few yards behind him and ordering her dog to stay at her heels. The hermit reached the blasted yew tree and gave it a rueful glance before cutting off into the undergrowth. He stopped beside a depression in the ground that was carpeted with ivy. He jabbed his finger at the spot, then raised it up to point in the direction of the town. Emma was perplexed and no wiser when the man made the identical gestures again.

The dog needed no second invitation. Its nose scented something under the ivy and it became very agitated. Emma tried to shoo it away, but its interest was too strong and it began to burrow into the ivy with its front paws. Her own curiosity was now aroused and she found a stick to slide under the covering so that she could lift it up. The hollow was deeper at the centre and she could see some sort of tarpaulin there. Her dog darted under the ivy to grab at it with his teeth, but she caught it by the collar and dragged him back. When she put her stick under the tarpaulin to raise its edge up, she was astounded by what she saw and she realised at once why the animal had been so frantic. It took all her force to subdue it and she had to use both hands to pull it away.

Emma could now interpret the hermit’s gestures. He wanted her to report what she had found. Unable to do so himself, he was asking her to take the message on his behalf. He had made an important discovery that he had no means of passing on. To go to the town would be to break his own cover, and he would never do that. He belonged to Savernake now and was at one with its mysteries. She was to be his emissary. She could pass on his findings without disclosing either his existence or his whereabouts. Emma would be praised and the hermit would be safe.

She turned to thank him, but he had stolen away minutes before and run back to his clearing in the valley. While Emma waddled off with her dog and her basket, the man was sitting in the clearing with the new piece of sandstone between his knees, using primitive tools to chisel it to shape and holding it up from time to time to catch the sun. When the final stone had been properly dressed and sunk into position, his circle would be complete.

Gervase Bret flicked through the documents until he found those that had a bearing on the case. He read the Latin with consummate ease and nodded his approval. Leofgifu watched him without any regrets about what she had done. When her father was alive, she was excluded from all knowledge of his business dealings and had to pick up what she could from casual remarks and inferences. Now that she had inherited his property and his wealth, she could do as she wished with all that had been his. Wulfgeat would have been disgusted to see a member of the king’s household searching freely through his papers. His Saxon blood would have curdled. But Gervase was no typical Chancery clerk and his affinities with the English were just as great as his loyalties to the Normans. When Leofgifu stumbled on charters that referred to land disputes around Bedwyn, she only dimly appreciated their import, but she was happy to show them to someone who might make more profitable use of them. As he read his way avidly through the terms of a document, Gervase came to see why Wulfgeat had spoken up so bravely for the vanquished King Harold. He gathered together a small pile of charters.

“May I borrow these?” he asked.

“What are they?”

“Weapons.”

“Against whom?”

“Vultures.”

“Take them,” she said. “I know they will be safe.”

Gervase gave her a smile of gratitude. Her request had surprised but delighted him and he had rushed to the house to see her again.

Pleased to find her so self-possessed once more, he was thrilled when she gave him unlimited access to her father’s papers. Wulfgeat’s history and motives were now much clearer in his mind.

“How else may I help?” she offered.

“By speaking to Hilda.”

“She wishes to see you on her own account.”

“It is the boy I need to question.”

“Cild?”

“Persuade her to send him alone to me.”

“Hilda will not do that.”

“She may if you ask her, Leofgifu.”

“The boy is her stepson. She must protect him.”

“Remind her that he stole the key to the mill.”

“Can she not be present while you interview him?”

“I ask you as a favour.”

“What do you want from him?”

“A name.”

Leofgifu nodded, then went out. He could hear her ascend the creaking stairs and enter the room above her head. There was a discussion with Hilda that became quite heated for a while, but it produced a result. Footsteps came down the stairs and Hilda walked into the room, her hands firmly on the shoulders of Cild. She stood him in front of Gervase, then hesitated. The boy turned to plead silently with her, but she steeled herself to walk away. Gervase waited until he heard the door open and close, then he spoke.

“I will not hurt you, Cild. I am trying to find out how and why your father was killed. Will you help me?”

The boy glowered at him but said nothing.

“Let me be frank,” said Gervase softly. “We have been to the mill and found your rope. We have been to the mint and found your way in. We have been to the yew tree and found your snake. We know a lot about you already, Cild.”

The boy’s cheeks flushed with guilt and he lowered his head.

Gervase used gentle words that slashed like knives. Cild was in pain. He had thought he was safe, but Gervase Bret was dragging him back into a past that was littered with horror for him. The sight of the gory Wulfgeat came up to fill his mind and his stomach heaved.

Gervase did not browbeat. “You have done wrong,” he said calmly,

“but only because you were too young to know any better. You were led cruelly astray. Help yourself by telling the truth. It is the only way forward, Cild. If you lie to me, I will know. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” muttered the boy.

“Did you break into the mint?” Cild shifted uneasily and Gervase applied more pressure. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take an impression of the die?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give it to your father?”

“Yes.”

“Did he pass it on to someone else?”

“Yes.”

“What was his name?”

The boy lapsed back into a watchful silence. Gervase saw the insolence in his gaze and hardened his voice.

“We know about Wulfgeat,” he stressed. “You put that snake in the sack so that it would bite him. He was your father’s enemy and you wanted him dead. Murder is the most serious crime of all, even when it is only plotted. Can you hear what I am saying to you, Cild?”

“Yes.”

“You must hold nothing back.”

“Yes.”

“Did your father have an accomplice?”

“Yes.”

“Did they share the money between them?”

“They did.”

“Was it someone from Bedwyn?”

“It was.”

“Who?” The boy moved from foot to foot again as Gervase gave him no respite. “Who was the man, Cild? Tell me.”

“I do not know.”

“Who?”

“I do not know.”

“Who!” demanded Gervase. “Who!”

“My father would not say!” he cried out in despair.

The boy’s defences cracked and he burst into tears as the real horror of what he had done was borne in upon him. His youth was no excuse. Cild was old enough to know that theft and forgery and attempted murder were serious crimes that carried serious penalties.

His father had made it seem exciting to break into the mint and he had loved the secret journeys the two of them had made to the hiding-place in the yew tree. Everything had cartwheeled out of control now. He was willing to tell Gervase Bret all he knew in the hope of gaining merciful treatment, but he could not supply a name that his father had kept from him.

Gervase saw the boy’s predicament only too clearly. He was at once an accomplice and victim of his father. There was no point in questioning Cild further, because it would only sharpen his anguish. He would need to be interrogated at a later date by other authorities. The one thing Gervase needed to know was the one thing that the boy had not been told. He took pity on the whimpering Cild and moved across to him, but comforting arms had already encircled the child. Hilda slipped quietly into the room to pull him to her bosom and pat him soothingly on the back.

When Gervase looked into her face, he saw the change that had taken place. Innocence had now fled. The tears that had been shed for a brutal man had now dried up. A plaintive expression had hardened into a scowl. Her voice was clipped.

“I can give you a name.”

The shire hall was full to capacity that afternoon for the final confrontation. All four commissioners were installed behind the table.

Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew appeared for the abbey once more and sat upright in their seats with an arrogant humility. Hugh de Brionne lounged in a chair beside them, still basking in his fame as the putative saviour of Bedwyn and confident that this would elevate him above any petty squabbles over land. Saewold’s rank also entitled him to a chair and Ediva had come along with her husband as an interested observer. The rows of benches were occupied by the burgesses, Leofgifu sitting proudly among them in her father’s place, with Hilda at her side. Their presence at any time in such a place would have been arresting, but during a period of mourning it was doubly startling. Minor town officials stood at the rear. Those of lesser sort found what space they could. Tall and forbidding in their chain mail, the four men-at-arms took up their positions just inside the door of the hall. There was an audible throb of expectation throughout the building.

Ralph Delchard called the assembly to order, then gave Canon Hubert his head. The commissioners’ terms of reference were set out for all to hear.

“Earlier this year,” recited Hubert, “our predecessors visited this county to assess the disposition of its wealth. The returns from that visit were set alongside similar details from other parts of the country so that a complete description of England could be built up. The largest holder of land in this county is-as is right and proper-King William himself, who not only took over, in 1066, the royal estates, which include the boroughs of Bedwyn, Calne, Tilshead, and Warminster, but also reserved for himself the extensive personal holdings of the families of King Edward and the usurper, Harold.” There were murmurings of discontent from the benches. “The estates of King William now account for almost one-fifth of the area of this county.”

The discontent became more vocal and Ralph had to curb it with his most belligerent glare before Hubert could continue. The litany rolled on.

“Next in order of wealth come four great ecclesiastical persons who built up their estates by gift and purchase well before the Conquest.

They are the Bishop of Salisbury, the Bishop of Winchester, the Abbot of Glastonbury, and the Abbot of Malmesbury. Substantial holdings have also accrued to another monastic house and it is this circumstance which has brought us all here today. I speak of Bedwyn Abbey.”

Prior Baldwin was unafraid. The prefatory remarks served only to inflate his confidence. Canon Hubert rumbled on with sententious fluency while Brother Simon nodded his agreement to almost every syllable that was uttered. Ralph let his colleague proceed for another five minutes before he leaned across to Gervase Bret and whispered in his ear.

“Hubert has bored them into submission. We may start.”

When the speaker next paused for breath, the leader of the commissioners stepped in smartly to take over the reins.

“Thank you, Canon Hubert,” he said with exaggerated graciousness.

“That was a most lucid account of our presence here today. We may now move on. Like you, I will be brief.”

Laughter rocked the benches at Hubert’s expense. There were muted jeers from the rear of the hall. Everyone knew how rich the monastic foundations were and how pervasive their influence in the county, and they did not wish to be reminded of the power of the Church by a pompous churchman. The four ecclesiastics cited owned between them almost a quarter of all the land in Wiltshire, and there were other holy fingers in the pie. The bishops of Bayeux, Coutances, and Lisieux-all friends or relations of the king-had combined holdings of over five hundred acres and they were not the only Norman prelates who acted as absentee landlords over prime English estates. Bedwyn was a God-fearing town, but it could still resent the yoke of His ministers.

“Our enquiry,” said Ralph, “related to two small hides of land. Those two quickly became four; those four multiplied still further. We were forced to broaden the scope of our investigations as the catalogue of fraud and deception grew in length.” He held a long pause, then flashed a brilliant smile. “There are guilty men in this hall.”

One of them was on his feet immediately.

“I will not stay and listen to these vile accusations,” said Hugh de Brionne. “I have a rightful claim to all four hides but am left with two.

And now you dare to try to rob me of those. It is intolerable!”

“Sit down, my lord,” invited Ralph.

“Do you now know who I am-and what I am!”

“We certainly know what you are,” said Ralph levelly. “And if you will not resume your seat and listen, the king will hear personally of your misconduct.”

Hugh de Brionne issued a torrent of abuse, then sank back into his chair and smouldered. His status as the wolf-killer counted for nothing before the commissioners, who instead were treating him as a quarry to be hunted. Ralph Delchard turned to Prior Baldwin and his assistant.

“Let us start with the two hides that provoked this boundary dispute. State the abbey’s position, please.”

“It remains what it has been from the start,” said Baldwin without bothering to rise. “We hold that land and we have a charter to enforce our claim. It was seen and accepted by your predecessors. The abbey has the law on its side.”

“My lord?” said Ralph. “What can you add to that?”

Hugh was direct. “Only that the abbot is a grasping monster who will steal every acre of land on which he can get his fat and greedy hands!”

“Insult!” howled Baldwin.

“Truth!” yelled Hugh.

“Sacrilege!”

“Theft!”

“I demand an apology!”

“You will get it through my arse!”

The onlookers roared with amusement at the sight of two Normans shouting wildly at each other. Ralph Delchard was enjoying it all too much himself to interrupt at first, but he eventually asserted his authority and delivered a joint reprimand. Now that the two major combatants had both drawn blood, it was time to bring in Gervase Bret.

He waited for complete silence before he spoke.

“I crave your indulgence,” he began. “What I have to say reaches back in time, but it has a bearing on the present and affects many of you here in this hall. There has been wilful deceit. Restitution must be made.”

Gervase had the full attention of the audience. If it was a case of restitution, then someone stood to gain and someone else to lose.

Gervase indicated a colleague.

“Canon Hubert has told you of the royal estates and listed all the tenants-in-chief in this part of the county. King William took that land into his possession after the Conquest in 1066, but much else was spared. He respected the dispositions made by his predecessor and ratified them at his succession.” Disagreement festered in the hall, but nobody gave it voice. “That predecessor was King Edward the Confessor, a good friend to Normandy, where he spent so many years in exile. But England had another king after Edward.”

There was a buzz of astonishment. The Normans had tried to oblit-erate the memory of King Harold from the public mind and to consign him to history as a renegade, yet here was a senior member of the king’s household daring to recognise the existence of the last Saxon ruler of the island. Prior Baldwin was scandalised, Subprior Matthew was outraged, and Hugh de Brionne was seething with fury. Both Canon Hubert and Brother Simon tried to signal their disapproval and even Ralph Delchard was discomfited.

Gervase ignored the hubbub and moved steadily on.

“Grants of land under King Edward were acknowledged. I have such a document before me. Grants of land under King Harold were void. I have an example of that here as well.” Gervase held up a charter in each hand. “On the right, you see a grant of land to Heregod of Longdon, father of the miller Alric. It is a royal charter issued by King Edward. On the left, you see a grant of land to Wulfgeat, lately a burgess of this town. It is a royal charter issued by King Harold. One of these charters is still valid; one is not. They are linked, however, in a more sinister way.” Gervase put the charters side by side on the table. “Because of these same documents, two men died in Savernake Forest.”

The ripple of noise burst into a surge of speculation and Ralph had to thump the table and yell before he brought it under control again.

Gervase was brisk with detail.

“As you all know,” he said, “King Edward loved hunting. While riding in the royal forest at Queenhill, in the county of Worcestershire, he was thrown from his horse and knocked senseless. They carried him to a house on the outskirts of the village of Longdon where he rested and recovered. He showed his gratitude to his host by granting him four hides of land near one of his favourite hunting lodges. It was here in Bedwyn.” Gervase had learned the whole story now.

“Heregod moved his family here and occupied the mill, but his charter went astray when King Edward died. There was bitter conflict over the holding. Two of those hides came into the hands of Wulfgeat by courtesy of King Harold, but they were taken away again after the Conquest. Heregod lost four hides; Wulfgeat had two of them, then lost both. Where did they go?”

He looked first at Prior Baldwin and then at Hugh de Brionne. Both began to squirm slightly. Gervase struck home.

“The abbey seized Heregod’s land by means of a forged charter,” he decreed. “Hugh de Brionne took the two hides of Wulfgeat with no charter at all beyond the use of force.”

Uproar ensued. The accused parties jumped to their feet to plead their innocence while the rest of the hall chanted their guilt. Ralph Delchard bellowed for silence, Canon Hubert delivered an impromptu sermon on the merits of restraint, and Brother Simon waved his quill ineffectually in the air. The four men-at-arms were quite unable to stifle the chaos. It seemed as if the commission’s business would have to be suspended. Then the pandemonium ceased abruptly. Nobody seemed to know why at first and they stared at each other open-mouthed. Then they realised what had altered the whole atmosphere inside the hall. Abbot Serlo had entered.

He stood in the doorway with quiet dignity and waited while a path hastily cleared itself in front of him. Then he made a stately progress towards the table and held out a magisterial hand. Gervase gave him the charter which had come from the miller’s chest and the abbot studied it with glaucous eyes. Prescience had brought him to the hall and conscience made him ready to face his accusers. Only he could truly speak for his abbey. In delegating the task to his subordinates, he was shirking a sacred duty. It was still not too late to make amends.

He could not tarnish his hopes of sainthood at the eleventh hour.

Abbot Serlo finished reading the document, then turned to address the hushed gathering. There was no hint of complaint, self-pity, or evasion.

“We have sinned,” he said honestly. “For almost twenty years, the abbey has taken rent from land that belongs by right to the heirs of Heregod of Longdon. We have sinned against them and we will pay full recompense. Bedwyn Abbey will restore those two hides to its lawful holder and repay every penny that was harvested from them.”

The simplicity of his public confession added to its force. He swung round to face the four commissioners.

“Bear with me,” he requested. “How this has come about, I do not yet know, but I have my suspicions. Let me enquire further into the matter. You have uncovered one forgery. There may be others. I will work swiftly to rid my abbey of every whisper of evil.”

One baleful stare was enough to jerk Baldwin and Matthew to their feet. Abbot Serlo left with the same ethereal tread with which he had entered, but his two companions crept out apprehensively behind him. There would be long and painful discussions within the abbey confines and further tremors would shake its ordered calm.

There was a general murmur of admiration for Abbot Serlo’s performance and even the mocking Hugh de Brionne was for once impressed.

The prelate had been dignified in defeat. He had also set a precedent, and Gervase Bret was quick to seize on it.

“The abbey has admitted its error and offered to pay for it in full,”

he said to Hugh. “Will you follow where they lead? Will you restore those two hides and offer recompense to the injured party?”

Hugh snarled and looked for a way out of his plight, but Ralph Delchard cut off his retreat. He threw a smile of gratitude to Ediva before he rounded on his opponent.

“If you wish to contest the matter,” he threatened, “we will have to call witnesses. The town reeve will be first. He knows better than anyone how that land was obtained.”

Hugh and Saewold coloured as they traded a look. A partnership which had brought mutual benefit to them over two decades had just fallen apart. Ralph somehow knew about the acquisition of two hides from Wulfgeat and he would prosecute his case vigorously. In admitting one abuse of property rights, Hugh might be able to conceal all the others. He stretched himself to his full height and strove for a gallantry that rang quite hollow.

“There is error on our side, too,” he conceded, “and we offer the most humble apologies for the oversight. I give my word as a soldier that it will be put right at once.”

The commissioners were satisfied. Details had yet to be worked out and new documents drawn up, but that could wait. They had carried the day. When Ralph Delchard dismissed the assembly, he was actually given a cheer. Feared and resented when they came to Bedwyn, they had won a better opinion from the town. It would be a happier place for their visit. Hugh de Brionne made straight for Saewold and dragged him out. Ediva lingered to steal a last glance from Ralph.

Canon Hubert congratulated himself on his crucial role in the afternoon’s proceedings and Brother Simon reinforced that illusion by his unctuous flattery.

Leofgifu and Hilda descended on Gervase. They were both overwhelmed by the turn of events. Hilda sobbed with joy.

“It is all mine?” she said in disbelief.

“Yes,” he promised. “You inherit from your husband.”

“Four hides of land?”

“With all the arrears due to you, Hilda. Bedwyn Abbey and the lord of the manor of Chisbury will make you a rich woman between them.”

“What will I do with such wealth?” she wondered.

“Enjoy it,” said Leofgifu. “You deserve it.”

Hilda took her hands and squeezed them hard.

“We will share this good fortune together.”

Before Leofgifu could protest, there was a disturbance at the rear of the hall as someone tried to push in past the guards. Hot words were exchanged and a dog barked. Ralph saw the newcomer and snapped a command.

“Let her pass!”

Emma was released by two of the men-at-arms and she curled her lip at them before proceeding down the hall. Ralph knew that she would venture into the town only on an errand of the greatest importance and so he took her aside at once.

“How is your arm?” he asked considerately.

“It is better, my lord.”

“No more threats from the town bullies?”

“They leave me alone now.”

“Yes,” said Ralph. “They needed a killer and Hugh de Brionne gave them one. That lifted suspicion from you. They no longer believe that your dog was the wolf of Savernake.”

“He is not, my lord. The wolf is still in the forest.”

“You have seen him?”

“I have come to take you to the place.”

Bedwyn Abbey felt the chill wind of ignominy blowing through its cloisters. Abbot Serlo was closeted in his lodging with Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew as he tried to assess the extent of their perfidy.

The absence of all three from Vespers made the singing flat and the obedientiaries dispirited. When their saint was angry, they all felt the weight of his displeasure. Brother Thaddeus was anxious.

“What has happened, Peter?” he asked.

“We will know in good time.”

“Father Abbot went into the town with good humour and came back in disarray. What can have upset him?”

“He will tell us when he chooses.”

“Someone will pay for this,” said Thaddeus, spying a personal angle in it. “Should I lay in a supply of fresh birch twigs, do you think?”

“It will not be necessary.”

“Father Abbot relies on my arm.”

“Save it to guide the plough,” said Peter.

They were walking across the cloister garth and talking in muted tones. Thaddeus wanted to probe deeper into the mystery of the abbot’s wrath, but Peter saw something which made him excuse himself and hurry away. Brother Luke was in conversation with Gervase Bret.

“You work in the bakehouse, I believe,” said Gervase.

“I learned the trade from my father.”

“Where does the abbey get its grain?”

“It used to come from the mill of Alric Longdon.”

Gervase heard what he expected, then turned to welcome Peter as the sacristan came up with an enquiring smile. Brother Luke was now in the presence of the two men he respected most in the world, but they pulled him in opposite directions. He could not choose between them.

“Have no fear,” said Gervase. “I have not come to seduce Luke away from the order. I merely require his assistance for a short while.”

“My assistance?” said Luke.

“Leofgifu suffers greatly over the death of her father. I have tried to counsel against it because it may only increase her woe, but she insists on going there.”

“Going where?” asked Peter.

“To the spot where he died.”

“In the forest?”

“Yes, Peter,” said Gervase with a sigh. “It was a grim place when Alric Longdon lay there, but now it has seen two hideous deaths. I hate to conduct her there.”

“Nor shall you,” said Peter firmly. “Leofgifu must not go. Her father is dead and she must mourn for him in the privacy of her house.

Stifle these wild thoughts of hers.”

“I have tried in vain.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“She refuses to see anyone else,” said Gervase. “I have to humour this madness and that is why I come to you. It was Luke who guided us to that dreadful part of the forest and we need his help once more.”

Luke was eager. “I will gladly give it, Gervase.”

“No,” said Peter, “you must stay here. Father Abbot would never give permission for you to leave.”

“How, then, will we find the place?” asked Gervase. “I must take Leofgifu there this evening. She will give me no rest until I do. And she can find no peace herself until she knows the worst about her poor father.”

“Let me go, Peter,” said Luke. “Please let me go.”

“Brother Thaddeus will teach them the way.”

“But I know it as well as he.”

Peter was adamant. “I will decide,” he said.

The novice was abashed. A last chance to spend more time with Gervase had just been crushed before his eyes. A final opportunity to seek advice from his new friend about the decision that confronted him had gone. He was forced to stay within the enclave. It made the pull of the outside world and its untold wonders even stronger.

Obedience was a virtue, but it was one that was starting to suffocate him. Did Brother Luke really want to spend the rest of his days in such a way?

It was a warm evening and the insects still droned. The river curled on down to the town and some wildfowl wheeled and dipped above it. A light breeze fingered the leaves. It was a time for lovers to walk hand in hand beside the forest, but Gervase Bret found himself in another station. Led by the plodding Brother Thaddeus, he and Leofgifu went slowly along the riverbank and past Alric’s mill. She was still in evident distress and had pulled her hood down to cover her face. Gervase offered his arm to support her.

Thaddeus made a few blundering attempts to comfort her, then fell into silence, striding out ahead of them and keeping an eye peeled for any suitable birch trees along the way. Peter had given him specific instructions and he did not deviate from them. When they reached the fork where the stream diverged from the river, their guide stopped and pointed.

“Climb up and follow the water.”

“Will you not take us?” said Leofgifu.

“I would be in your way, dear lady. This is between you and your father, and I would not intrude. I will stay here.”

“We will find it,” said Gervase.

They went into the trees and began the ascent. Gervase waited until they were out of sight of Thaddeus, then he smiled at her in gratitude. Leofgifu was showing bravery and composure. She was unaware of the real danger that lurked, because she could not be told.

She was simply doing what had been asked of her. Gervase knew the best route up the hill, but her slowness held him back. It took some time before they reached the point where the stream issued from the chalk. He drew her well back from the yew tree and indicated the patch of ground which had been churned up.

“Your father died here, Leofgifu,” he said.

“Where was he standing?”

“Right on this spot.”

Gervase Bret faced the bramble bushes as both Alric and Wulfgeat had done, but he was forewarned and forearmed in a way that they had not been. There was a hungry growl, then the head of a wolf came hurtling straight at him through the bushes. Leofgifu screamed in alarm, but Gervase was ready for his assailant. Flicking his head to avoid the snapping teeth, he grabbed at the body and got a firm hold. They fell to the ground and grappled madly. The teeth went for his throat, but he pushed the head aside with an arm. The struggle intensified. Gervase was no miller with his mind on his money. Nor was he a burgess with thoughts only of a charter. He was a strong young man with a dagger in his hand. When his first lunge drew blood, there was a yell of pain from a human mouth.

The wolf was driven to a frenzy and made one last effort to bite at his face. Gervase lay on his back, the animal astride him, holding it off with one hand while trying to stab it with the other. But the beast had a surge of manic power and the weapon was struck from Gervase’s hand. The great ugly head rose up to strike and the silver teeth opened wide in a smile of triumph.

But the attack never came. Before the animal could move an inch, a sword whistled through the air and its head was sliced off. It spun through the air and rolled to a halt in the bushes. Ralph Delchard stood over the fallen body and kicked it aside. Gervase was panting too heavily to speak, but he gave a smile of thanks as his friend helped him up.

Leofgifu had been terrified by the suddenness of it all and had not dared to look at the fierce struggle. When Gervase put a consoling arm around her, she opened an eye to peep at the dead carcass and saw that it belonged to a man. The wolf of Savernake was no more than the head, skin, and paws of a real animal. A cunning craftsman had used his skill to construct a set of vicious silver teeth which were fitted into the mouth and which operated on a spring. The hands which had made an exquisite silver box in which to store frankincense could also produce this lethal device. A trusted sacristan with access to all the robes and vestments in the abbey had sewn the pelt of the wolf onto some rough dark cloth so that it formed a complete disguise for the wearer. He had even fixed silver spurs to the creature’s claws so that it could tear its prey more readily. Designed and made in the abbey, the death garb was hidden near the place where it would be needed. When it was put on, it turned a thwarted lover into a wild animal.

Alric Longdon and Wulfgeat had indeed been savaged by the wolf of Savernake, but he was known by another name. The only person who could have lured him to that same part of the forest again was Leofgifu, and Gervase had used her quite deliberately for that purpose.

Ralph had been stationed nearby to lend his help, but that did not lessen the horror of it all for Leofgifu. She was petrified. Clinging to Gervase, she stared down in disbelief at the face of the man she had once loved and whom her father had forced her to abandon. The person who had wanted to be her husband had degenerated into a manic killer. Murder had come full circle. Brother Peter now lay on the very spot where his victims had perished. The wolf of Savernake was slain.