The Wolves of Savernake

Chapter Three

Brother Luke was a fresh-faced youth whose religious ardour was at last beginning to hear the vague whispers of doubt as he approached the end of his yearlong novitiate. He was tall and angular, with a gawkiness that had not yet been cured by the sombre pace of monastic life. Though he wore the cowl willingly, it still looked like a garment he had just tried on that minute rather than a home in which he had taken up permanent and unquestioning residence. He was alert and well educated but reticent in the presence of strangers. Ralph Delchard left it to Gervase Bret to set up a dialogue with their guide.

“How long have you been a novice, Brother Luke?”

“Ten months, master.”

“It was your own choice to enter the abbey?”

“Mine and that of my parents,” said Luke. “They entered me as a postulant and look to see me a brother of the order soon. I hope I will not disappoint them.”

“There is surely no chance of that?”

The youth shook his head without conviction and lapsed back into silence. All three of them were entering Savernake Forest, tracing the same path along the river that Alric Longdon had taken on that fateful evening. Abbot Serlo had given Brother Luke permission to take the two commissioners to the scene of the miller’s death, and the novice obeyed without demur. Gervase tried to reach the youth with other subjects of conversation, but his replies were laconic and the exchanges soon dried up. Ralph Delchard threw in a piece of information that jolted Luke out of his reserve.

“Gervase almost took the cowl,” he said jovially. “The monks thought they had won his heart and mind for God, but he learned that there is more to life than prayer and fasting.”

“Is this so?” asked the novice with interest.

“It is only part of the truth, Luke,” said Gervase.

“You entered a Benedictine house?”

“The Abbey of St Peter, at Eltham. It was founded by King William himself not long after Battle Abbey was raised. Both abbot and monks were from Normandy, but they soon mastered our tongue.”

Luke was surprised. “You are a Saxon?”

“Half Saxon, half Breton,” explained Ralph. “But we rescued him from misery by turning him into a Norman.”

Gervase enlarged on the jocular comment. “My father was killed at Hastings; my mother and her family had limited means. The abbey was very close and the monks were very friendly. At eight, I was being schooled by them. At ten, I was allowed to spend whole days within the enclave. At twelve, I became a kind of servant and got my learning in place of wages.”

“An abbey is an education for life,” said Luke solemnly as he quoted the master of the novices. “All that there is to know may be gleaned from within the cloister.”

Ralph’s mocking laugh disagreed, but he said nothing.

Luke was intrigued. “But how did you come to rise so high in the king’s service?”

“By listening and learning,” said Gervase. “Eltham is close to London.

Travellers of all types and all nations sought our hospitality. I helped to prepare their beds. They all had tales to tell, sometimes in languages that were so strange on the ear that I barely understood a word at first. But I was a patient student. If you know Latin, you may pick up Italian without too much confusion. If you speak Breton-and my father had instructed me in his tongue when I was a tiny child-you will be able to master Norman French and even stray close to Welsh, for there are Celtic echoes in Breton.”

“Did you become a novice at the abbey?”

“In the fullness of time.”

“For how long did you stay?”

“Six months or more.”

“What made you leave?” asked Luke with keen interest.

“Gervase must tell you another time, lad,” intervened Ralph as they came to a fork in the river. “You spoke of a stream to the left. Is this the place?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Lead on. We follow hard on your heels.”

Luke began the uphill climb, with the others behind him. Ralph winked knowingly to Gervase. They had not only made a friend inside the abbey, they had chosen one untutored in the arts of debate and prevarication of which monks like Prior Baldwin were so patently masters. The novice was a useful ally. By the same token, he would not lose at all by their acquaintance. He had evidently been drawn to Gervase when the latter’s history was recounted, and there was clear affinity between them. Brother Luke was experiencing the kinds of anxieties and misgivings that had afflicted Gervase himself in a similar position. There would be more talk between the two of them in private.

“It is not far now,” said the pathfinder.

“You are a true forester,” praised Ralph.

“The stream goes below ground here, but we will find it again a little higher up.”

It was early evening and the sun was still slanting its rays down through the trees. Birdsong surrounded them and the cheerful buzz of insects swelled the effortless music of the forest. There were other, louder, unexplained noises in the middle distance, but they did not delay the little trio. At length, they reached the ruined yew and looked upon the bank where Brother Luke had first found the dead body of the miller.

“It was here,” he said, pointing an index finger.

“Be more precise, lad,” said Ralph. “Which way did he lie? Where were his body, his feet, his head?”

“He was on his back, my lord, and his head was in the stream.

I will show you if you wish.”

“I do, Luke.”

The youth needed no more encouragement. He lay on the ground beside the stream and adjusted himself so that he was hanging over it. Stretching out too far, he lost his balance and fell backwards, submerging head and shoulders in the water. Ralph gave a hearty laugh, but Gervase dived forward to grab the novice by the folds of his cowl and pull him back up onto the bank. Sodden and spluttering, Brother Luke was not distressed by the mishap.

“That was how I found him, sirs,” he explained. “Even as I was then. On this bank and in that stream.”

Ralph became serious and moved him aside. Taking up the same position, he looked all around him and saw the bushes to the side of the yew. A wolf concealed in those could launch a surprise attack, but its coat might leave some memory of its passage through the brambles. Ralph instituted a careful search and quickly found what he expected.

“Fur,” he said triumphantly. “Our wolf lurked here and leapt upon the miller to push him backwards. This much seems certain. But there are still two larger questions.”

“What are they?” asked Gervase.

“Wolves kill for food or when they are threatened. That heavy body in the mortuary chapel would have made a good meal for a hungry wolf and its family. Why did it take only one bite of its supper?”

“Perhaps it was disturbed,” suggested Gervase.

“In as quiet and lonely a spot as this?”

“Another wolf may have disputed the carcass. They may have chased each other away. Foresters may have been on patrol. Their scent would be caught well before they came to this exact place.”

Ralph was back among the brambles again, finding another piece of fur and holding it to his nose to sniff. He located a third tuft and repeated the process.

“It smells like a wolf,” he said, “and, then again, it does not. I wonder if we are naming the wrong animal as the murderer. A mad dog would kill for the sake of it and leave a victim to bleed to death.”

He crouched behind the bushes, then jumped up by way of demonstration. “If it sprang up high enough and hard enough, it could knock him flat, then sink its fangs into him.”

“You forget something, my lord,” said Luke diffidently.

“What is that?”

“Those marks upon his chest.”

“Front paws would leave such grim reminders.”

“Not in Savernake,” continued the novice. “Forest law is strict. All dogs in and around Bedwyn are lawed. They must have three claws removed from each of their front paws so that they may not bring down game.”

“Even hunting dogs?” said Ralph.

“Only a few escape the rigour of this law.”

“And who would own such mastiffs, excepting the Warden of Savernake himself? This is a royal forest, but the king cannot ride here often. Who else has hunting privileges?”

“None but the lord of Chisbury.”

Gervase was curious. “Hugh de Brionne?”

“The same. He keeps a pack of hounds.”

Ralph and Gervase exchanged a meaningful glance. When the problem of the abbey lands came before them on the next day, Hugh de Brionne would be called as a principal witness. They had so far liked nothing that they had heard of the domineering lord, and the fact that one of his mastiffs might possibly have killed an innocent man did not endear him to them any the more. Ralph put his first question aside and turned to the other, but he did not wish to ask it in the presence of Brother Luke. When the novice got back to the abbey, he would be catechised by the prior about his walk in Savernake Forest. Ralph did not wish the abbey to be party to all his researches.

“Walk further on, Gervase,” he said casually. “If wolf or dog came down this way, find the route by which it left. It would seek cover in its flight. See if you can choose its direction.”

Gervase understood that he was being asked to get Luke out of the way and did so with such natural ease that the youth did not suspect for a moment why he was being taken farther up the hill by way of a ruse. To help in the search for clues gave the novice a sense of excitement, but it paled beside the chance of being able to question Gervase further about his release from his vows in Eltham Abbey.

As soon as they were out of sight, Ralph took out his sword and used its point to describe the shape of Alric Longdon as he lay on the bank beside the stream. Why had the miller come to such a place alone? It was not an area of the forest into which anyone could stray accidentally. He stood on the chest of the dead man and looked around with utmost care, but not even the ghost of an answer flitted across his path. He turned to gaze down into the stream. Gushing out of its underground passage, it was no more than six or nine inches deep, but he was unable to see the bottom of its channel. The foliage above formed such a complete covering that the stream was in shadow even on the brightest day.

He used his sword point to prod through the water and test its chalk base. Ralph jabbed the weapon in a dozen different places, as if he were trying to spear fish, and his enterprise was eventually rewarded. The sword met resistance and he jiggled the point around before thrusting hard to penetrate the object. He brought his hand up slowly to see what he had caught. It was no fish but a far more valuable catch. What was impaled on the end of his sword was a dripping leather pouch. Its draw-string was loosened and it was empty, but Ralph’s mind was racing now. If the miller had been tumbled into the stream with the pouch in his hand, its contents might even now be still resting on the bottom.

Putting sword aside, he knelt down and thrust an arm into the stream. Groping fingers soon located a prize and he brought it out. It was a coin of high value, much more than would normally be paid for a sack of flour. When he dipped in his hand again, he came up with three coins of the same kind. Two minutes of stretching and feeling about beneath water earned him a substantial amount of money and one more item which helped to explain the hoard. Ralph Delchard found a key. Alric Longdon finally spoke to him.

The miller had brought his treasure to a hiding place in the forest.

He was about to stow it away when he was attacked and killed. If he was kneeling when the animal lunged at him, then his position in relation to the stream would be more easily accounted for, since a standing man would have been knocked much farther back. Exhilaration made him smile. His instincts had been right all along. Alric Longdon did have a purpose. When he knelt where the man must have knelt, all became clear. The yew tree was the object of the secret visit at dusk.

Ralph leaned forward to look into its hollow shell, but it was far too dark within. Once again his sword was used to reconnoitre and it met with something hard and solid deep inside the yew. He had to stretch both arms to reach the heavy lump that his fingers now encountered. Alric Longdon had chosen his hiding place well. It was safe and dark and well protected from the elements. No human being could stumble upon it and no animal could do it any harm. It was wedged so tightly in place that he had to apply some strength to heave it loose. Out it came with a shower of moss and wood lice dropping from it.

He was holding what felt like a large wooden box. It was wrapped up snugly in a sack whose floured whiteness proclaimed its origin.

The man had gone to some lengths to protect his treasure chest.

What was in the pouch was a generous haul for any miller. How much more would Ralph find when he inserted the key into the lock of the chest?

“God’s blood!”

The oath came out through gritted teeth. When the sack came off, the box he had felt turned out to be no more than a block of wood.

There was no chest, no money, no hoard of any kind. Had Alric Longdon put his life at risk to inspect a piece of timber from the forest? It did not make sense. The sound of approaching voices made him start. Gervase was giving him warning of their return. Ralph moved swiftly. The key and a few coins were slipped into the pouch at his own belt. The block of wood and the leather pouch were quickly rolled up in the sack and stuffed back into the tree. When Gervase and Brother Luke rejoined him, he was pretending to poke around in the bushes with his sword.

“Did you find anything?” asked Gervase.

“No,” said Ralph with mock annoyance. “It was a waste of our time.

This has been a wild goose chase.”

The abbot was the father of an abbey and the monks vowed obedience to him, staying in the same place for their whole lives as members of a Christian family. Love and tolerance of each other was an article of faith, and Abbot Serlo saw to it that his house evinced a spirit of mutual cooperation. All men were equal before God and all of his brothers were equal before Abbot Serlo. Close friendships nevertheless grew up between members of his community, and Prior Baldwin made a point of watching them carefully so that he was in a position to make use of them if the occasion arose or to pounce on them if the special relationship threatened to take on an intimate dimension.

The prior always knew where to go and to whom to speak. It was the reason that his steps took him into the sacristy that evening.

“What else did he say, Brother Peter?”

“Very little beyond that, Prior Baldwin. The boy’s head was so turned by this remarkable Gervase Bret that he could talk of nothing else. I am not sure that it was wise to let him converse so freely with a layman, especially one who was a novice himself until he succumbed to the temptations of life outside the cloister. This Gervase Bret is a fine model for the benefits of a sound education, but he is hardly a fit subject of study for a callow youth who is wavering.”

“Is he still so?”

“I fear me that he is.”

They were in the sacristy, where all the valuables of the abbey were stored. In addition to the vestments, linen, and banners, there were gold and silver plate, vessels of the altar, precious ornaments and other gifts from benefactors, together with a collection of holy relics that was envied far and wide. The bones from the right hand of St. Mary the Virgin brought in pilgrims from great distances, who also came to view the strands of hair from the beard of her beloved son, Jesus Christ, and a splinter of wood from the cross on which He perished at Calvary.

When the prior called on him, Brother Peter was happy at work, polishing a pair of silver candlesticks until he could see his reflec-tion in their gleaming surfaces. He had become the confidant of Brother Luke, who found the strictures of the master of novices far too harsh to bear at times. In Brother Peter, the novice discovered a gentle and unjudging friend who gave him succour when he most needed it and warm friendship when he did not. It was the sacristan who had helped him to get through the difficult early months and to shape his mind for service to God. The prior could easily understand why Luke had gravitated towards the sacristy.

“You are the perfect example for the boy,” he said. “He is tempted to go out into sinfulness and corruption, but you came to us in flight from them. Our sacristan was not born to monastic life as so many of us were. He sought us out as a refuge from the baseness and futility of common life.”

Brother Peter nodded ruefully. “Base and futile, indeed! And perfidious, too, in its workings. A man’s soul is greatly imperilled in such a world. Only here can it truly be lifted up unto the Lord.”

“Impress that point upon Brother Luke.”

“I have done so daily.”

“Use your persuasion with him.”

“My talents lie elsewhere, Prior Baldwin,” said the sacristan as he held up a candlestick. “When I made these for the abbey, I was inspired by a higher purpose. When I was a silversmith in the town, I thought only of working for gain and personal advantage.” He replaced the candlestick with loving care. “The abbey has given my life a meaning.”

“Implant that same meaning in Brother Luke.”

“He will stay with us, I think.”

“Not if he is led astray by this Gervase Bret,” said the prior sharply.

“I have spoken to the master of the novices to keep the boy well occupied. Do you likewise. If we turn his gaze within these walls, he will forget what idle charms may lay without.”

“Is the young commissioner to be forbidden further access to Luke?”

said Peter.

“If it were left to me, he would. But Abbot Serlo might take a more tolerant view of their association. I spy danger in it.” The prior narrowed his lips and hissed his command. “Should Brother Luke and this fallen novice chance to meet again, I wish you to be present.”

“I understand, Prior Baldwin.”

“They have come to try to take some lands away from the abbey,”

said the other in exasperation. “I will stop them there with the help of Subprior Matthew. If they fail to steal our land, I do not wish them to walk away with one of our novices. Fight for the boy. It is our Christian duty.”

Baldwin picked up another example of Peter’s craftsmanship. It was a large silver box embossed with an image of Christ, and it had taken months to fashion. When Baldwin pressed the catch, the lid sprung back on its hinge, revealing the abbey’s precious supply of frankincense. He inhaled the latent odour of sanctity for a moment, then reinforced his decree. “Do not let Brother Luke smell the foul stench of the outside world. Fight hard for him.”

“He will be saved,” said Peter. “I swear it.”

“Amen!”

Prior Baldwin snapped the lid of the box shut and the gleaming figure of Christ became their silent witness.

The hunting lodge was fitting accommodation for two men who were trying to track down a wolf and an act of criminality.

“Did you tell him the whole truth, Gervase?”

“As much as I needed.”

“Then you lied to the boy.”

“I was prompt in my answers.”

“But deceitful.”

“There was no deceit practised, Ralph,” said the other. “What Brother Luke required to know, he was told. And more will be added on another occasion when we talk further.”

“Be honest with the lad.”

“Why, so I was.”

“Come to the heart of the matter.”

Gervase Bret almost blushed and had to turn away. Ralph Delchard laughed, then reached for his cup and drained it of the last of the wine. They were at supper in the hunting lodge and sat either side of the long table, with food, wine, and a few candles between them.

The accommodation had been put at their disposal by the Warden of Savernake, who had also provided a cook to feed them and servants to wait on them. The stabling was good, the beds comfortable, and the absence of Canon Hubert and Brother Simon a double boon. Six people sharing a lodge that had been built to house a king and his hunting retinue were given luxuries of space and attention which did not always fall their way.

Ralph returned to affectionate teasing of a friend.

“Have you written any letters?” he said.

“I have been too busy with my affairs.”

“Nothing should take precedence over that.”

“Nothing does,” promised Gervase.

“You will be sorely missed in Winchester.”

“The king’s business must be discharged.”

“So must a man’s more private offices.” Ralph refilled his cup and sipped more wine. “I’ll wager that the novice hears nothing of your real desires.”

“They do not concern him in the least.”

“Woman is every man’s concern. If Brother Luke could but see the Lady Alys, he would throw off that cowl with shouts of joy and run naked through Savernake to prove his manhood to the world.” He gave a low chuckle. “She is the reason you broke the vow of chastity.

Tell him, Gervase. Talk of Alys. Acquaint him with the meaning of true love. Release the lad from a life of toil in a house of eunuchs.”

Gervase nodded to close the discussion, but he would open his heart to no man, still less to a faltering novice. Alys was his betrothed.

Thoughts of her kept his mind pure and his life in a straight, clean furrow. It also made him critical of Ralph’s exaggerated interest in female company. He was sensible enough to make allowances for his friend. Ralph Delchard’s wife had died in childbirth trying to bring their only son into the world and the boy himself had lingered for only a week before following his mother to the grave. The experience had turned a caring husband into a suffering recluse for over a year.

He had buried himself on his estates in Hampshire, stirring out only at the express summons of the king. When the fever of remorse finally broke inside him, he vowed he would never marry again and looked to forge a lesser relationship with women. The recluse became such an energetic lecher that even Gervase was forced to lecture him from time to time. Ralph Delchard was a Norman lord of great distinction until his roving lust led him astray from the path of duty and sobriety.

“Tomorrow we dine with the reeve and his sweet wife.”

“Forget her, Ralph,” urged Gervase.

“Have you ever seen such a comely Saxon lady?”

“She is not for you.”

“That long-winded Saewold is not worthy of her.”

“It is a matter between the two of them.”

“When a marriage is that heavy, it sometimes takes three to bear the burden.”

“We have come to Bedwyn on urgent business.”

“Pleasure may help that business, Gervase,” argued Ralph with a pensive smile. “This reeve will gossip about everyone in the town, but Ediva may tell me things that even he does not know. If you wish to gain supremacy over another man, you must strike him at his weakest point. His wife, Ediva-that face, that skin, those eyes-is his weakest point.”

“No, Ralph,” said Gervase levelly. “She is yours.”

Canon Hubert was a visible Christian. He was a devout man who liked his devotion to be made manifest in front of others. Having taken up residence in the abbey, therefore, he joined in all its services when he could and competed for the attention of his God and of those around him. Brother Simon’s was an altogether more restrained and undemanding worship. He was simply waiting to inherit the earth. Hubert chose a more assertive route to heaven. Waiting was quite superfluous in his case. He did not need to inherit what he felt he already owned by right.

Abbot Serlo had received him as a courtesy and offered the comfort of his own quarters to the two guests. Hubert had refused on the grounds that an abbey was his spiritual base and that he felt happy within it only if he was on equal terms with its lowliest occupant. A hard bed would teach him the joys of self-abnegation. It is easy to play the willing martyr for a short while if you know you will be returning to your palatial quarters at Winchester Cathedral before too long. Abbot Serlo mumbled approvingly but he got the measure of this ostentatious canon. Appointing his prior to represent the abbey before the commissioners had been a sagacious move. Baldwin could outmanoeuvre Hubert.

The rivals met again at Matins and traded a faint nod. Lauds gave them a chance to lock their eyes for a second, and Prime set them next to each other on their knees. A silent battle took place, each trying to subdue the other with a show of piety and to make a deeper impression on the congregation of monks around them. Brother Simon remained indifferent to the struggle and did not realise he might become a weapon in it.

“Brother Simon …”

“Good day, Prior Baldwin.”

“I crave a word.”

“As many as you wish.”

“Abbot Serlo was asking after you and Canon Hubert.”

“We are indebted to his kindness.”

“He is troubled in his mind, Brother Simon.”

“On some matter in particular?”

“Indeed, yes,” said the prior solemnly. “And it lies within your power to allay his fears and ease his troubles.”

They were walking across the cloister garth with their heads down and their hands folded inside their sleeves. In the period immediately after Prime, the prior had stalked his prey until it was unprotected, then moved in for the kill.

“This dispute about the abbey lands …” he began.

“It is not my doing,” apologised Simon.

“But you know its import?”

“In bare essentials.”

“Has someone made a claim against the abbey?”

“It is not for me to say, Prior Baldwin. I am bound by my allegiance to Canon Hubert to divulge nothing that bears upon the work of the commission.”

“That is not what I ask,” said the other, guiding the wraith into a corner so that he could turn him and peer into his hollow eyes. “I search for reassurance for Father Abbot. Nothing more. May I tell him, then, that all the abbey lands are safe? That is what will relieve him most.”

Brother Simon’s mouth began to twitch. “I hope that they are safe,”

he said with obvious embarrassment.

“Who is this other claimant?” probed Baldwin before a show of retraction. “No, no, I withdraw that question. It is putting you in an invidious position, and that must never be. I know it cannot be Hugh de Brionne who contests that land, because that debate is over and won.”

The twitching mouth was eloquent once more. Hugh de Brionne was clearly involved and that fact defined the exact land in question.

Prior Baldwin was now forewarned and wished to be forearmed against any eventuality.

“Is this all that brings you back to Bedwyn?”

“This is weighty enough in its implications.”

“Hardly, Brother Simon,” reasoned the other. “We dealt with that stretch of land in half a day before the first commission, and you look to have able counsellors sitting beside you at the table.”

“Very able.”

“Then they will judge it a trifling matter.”

“Two days at least have been set aside.”

Simon bit his lip as the words trickled out before he could stop them. The prior’s gaze intensified and bore deep into the skull in front of him. The nature and scale of the dispute had now been discovered. It remained only to find out why the process was being instituted.

“The Church has countless enemies,” he intoned. “An abbey is a spiritual fortress against the wiles of the outside world. We must strengthen our defences and repel any siege. Wicked men envy our mean possessions. If an abbey loses its lands, the whole Church is the weaker for it.” He inclined his head until their foreheads were almost meeting. “It is not for my benefit that I ask this, Brother Simon.

I am but a humble servant of the Lord. Father Abbot rules here and he is not long for this world. Will you send him to heaven in distress?

One name will content him. Nobody else but he will hear it, and I myself will forget who told it to me, so we are all absolved of guilt.”

The twitching mouth was his encouragement once more. He struck hard. “One name that brought you here to Bedwyn. One man who hates the Church that we both serve. One foul miscreant who could undo all of Abbot Serlo’s work in this abbey and send that reverend body into a worrisome grave.”

Brother Simon trembled. “I may not name him.”

“Then point him out by other means. Tell me where he dwells, show me what he does, give me something to take with me into my prayers.”

Brother Simon was helpless beneath the piercing gaze. Meekness was no defence against the prior. Nor were all the dire warnings that Canon Hubert had issued. Brother Simon clutched at a straw. The case was altered. The novel and dramatic circumstances changed everything. There was no point now in protecting a man who would never be able to testify before the commissioners. He capitulated.

“Abbot Serlo may be content,” he said. “Your accuser has already met the wrath of God and lies in the mortuary chapel. He was our signpost to the town of Bedwyn.”

Brother Simon closed his eyes to escape the steely glare of his persecutor. He kept them shut tightly and prayed for forgiveness. He had broken an oath in conceding such an important detail of the commissioners’ work, and guilt made his face burn and colour. If Canon Hubert or any of his other colleagues found out what he had done, he would be severely chastised and might even lose his place beside them. Yet he had been helpless in the grip of his guileful inquisitor. When he lifted his lids again, he expected to see the prior towering still over him, but Baldwin was now in the quarters occupied by two of the abbey’s guests.

He was comforting the miller’s grieving widow.

It was market day in Bedwyn and everyone from miles around converged on the town to sell produce, buy food, search for bargains, haggle over prices, or simply catch up on the local gossip. The death of a miller and the arrival of royal commissioners had now merged into one unified disaster and it even displaced the weather as the main topic around the carts and stalls. Saxons smouldered with impotent rage as they endured yet another destructive and unwanted Norman invasion. The usual friendly bustle was replaced by a more fraught atmosphere.

The market was held in the middle of the town on the large, open triangular space at the bottom of the hill. It was a natural meeting place and allowed visitors to stream in from different directions. Had any of the angry men or the fearful women cared to walk fifty yards down the long, narrow street which followed the valley, they would have seen a more sacred transaction taking place. The man whose death was keeping the flames of debate crackling away was now having his soul offered up to heaven. In the tiny church that stood in the middle of a well-filled graveyard, Mass was being sung and prayers were being said for Alric Longdon.

It was a small funeral. Father Edgar, the ancient and hobbling priest, took the service and struggled hard in his address to find kind words to say of the deceased. Apart from the widow, her stepson, and a younger woman who consoled both of them, there were three people from the town and two monks from the abbey. The Saxon church was no more than a stone-built porch, nave, and chancel which clutched each other for support against an ungodly universe and which were further bonded together by arcading which ran entirely round the building. Windows were small and splayed, floors were paved and cold, and the chancel arch with its simple motif cut into the stone was so low and narrow that Father Edgar was partially obscured from sight when he went up to the altar.

The graveyard was sullied with the vulgar noise of the market, but the priest did his best to lend a frail dignity to the proceedings. Alric Longdon was lowered into the ground and the first handfuls of earth tossed down upon him. As the weeping Hilda almost swooned, the young woman moved in quickly to support her with a caring arm. The funeral was soon over and the mourners stood helplessly around the grave. Brother Luke had asked to attend and pay his last respects because he had been the person to find the corpse. Brother Peter had accompanied him and stayed him through the novice’s own turbulent emotions. When the youth recovered enough from the harrowing occasion to take stock of those around him, he saw for the first time the sad beauty of the dark-haired young woman who sustained widow and boy with such compassion. She was soberly dressed, but the fine material of her kirtle and gunna disclosed that she was of good family.

Luke was entranced by the heart-shaped face with its silken complexion, its dark eyes, its long black eyelashes, and its full red lips.

A feeling which had no place whatsoever on consecrated ground brushed against him like a cobweb.

He huddled against his companion to ask his question.

“Who is she, Brother Peter?”

“That is Leofgifu,” said the sacristan.

“She is a member of the miller’s family?”

“No, she is here solely out of kindness. Leofgifu is a true Christian and a rare young woman.”

“Where has she come from?”

“She is the daughter of Wulfgeat.” His voice hardened. “Do not stare at her, Luke. It is unseemly. Lower your eyes and pray for the soul of Alric.”

The novice obeyed, but Peter ignored his own injunction. While every other head in the churchyard was bowed down with grief, his remained only slightly tilted forward so that his eyes could watch and marvel at the tenderness of Leofgifu. Here was unselfishness made manifest and real concern for those in distress. Everyone hated the miller, yet she was somehow able to offer love and sympathy to the widow and her stepson. Brother Peter gazed at Leofgifu as if he were in the presence of a saint.

The Warden of Savernake was thorough. When his huntsmen and foresters returned from a fruitless search, he sent them out again next day at first light. They scoured forest and field once more but found neither wolves nor traces of their depredations. Deer were seen in profusion, wild boar could be heard grunting in the undergrowth, and there was even a glimpse of a badger as it dived into its set, but the wolf which had killed Alric Longdon had fled. In the twelve hours since the body had been discovered, it could have run a very long way.

As the disconsolate posse headed back to report their failure, they began to wonder whether a wolf had indeed been responsible. Other animals were considered, and the balance of opinion swung behind the notion of a mastiff. They were picking their way through woodland not far from where the attack had occurred when they finally sighted something. It was fifty yards away, across a clearing and half-hidden by gorse bushes, but they saw movement and sensed danger. The creature was too large to be a boar and too small to be a stag, but the brown hue of its fur could well be that of a wolf.

Hounds were released and spears held at the ready as the huntsmen goaded their horses in pursuit, beating a way through the undergrowth and fired up by the thrill of action. But it was all to no avail.

The scent was lost and the trail went cold. Whatever they had been chasing in Savernake Forest had vanished into thin air. They were deeply annoyed and highly frustrated, but the news which they bore back to their master could sound at least one positive note: The animal had finally been seen.

The mysterious killer still lurked in the forest.