The Wolves of Savernake

Chapter Five

Cold fear tightened its grip slowly but inexorably on the town of Bedwyn.

A man had been savaged by a wolf, but the animal had neither been tracked nor caught. Something had been sighted in Savernake Forest by the warden’s huntsmen, and one of the venders also claimed to have caught a glimpse of a peculiar creature that flitted through the trees. Rumours now came from the abbey of Brother Thaddeus’s encounter with this nameless beast. Bedwyn locked its doors and slept uneasily. Something was out there in the forest which could elude all attempt at capture. It concentrated the mind of the whole community. When would it strike again?

The longer it remained at large, the more hysterical became the theories about its true identity. Some claimed it was a giant fox, quicker and more cunning than a wolf, able to deceive and outrun its pursuers with ease. Others believed it to be a bear, long thought extinct in Savernake, hiding in safety in some tall tree and descending only to search for food. More exotic animals were also numbered in the catalogue of horrific possibilities. Lions and tigers were the favoured species, even though neither were native to England. Leopards were also invented to explain the nimble feet with which the predator could so swiftly vanish. Those most in terror fled into the realms of myth and decided that Savernake was haunted by a gryphon, a dragon, or a minotaur and that it would descend upon the town at any moment to wreak its havoc.

Wulfgeat did not surrender to the general frenzy, but he nevertheless supplied an idea which acted as its focus. An early visitor to the market that morning, he found the hubbub unabated on the subject of Alric Longdon’s death. Scoffing at the wilder suggestions, he produced a much more telling one.

“The widow and the boy stay at my house,” he said, and immediately set off a murmur of surprise. “Leogifu is able to bring comfort and that is our Christian duty. My daughter has talked at length with the poor woman. What she has found may kill off wolf, fox, and bear.”

“Hilda can name the creature?” asked a listener.

“No,” said Wulfgeat, “but she can point to a sworn enemy of her husband.”

“Then she can point in any direction!” came a cynical retort. “We were all sworn enemies of that man. You as much as anyone, Wulfgeat. We bear witness to that.”

“I may have wished him dead but would not do the deed myself.

This other foe would seek his life. In her own malicious way.” Wulfgeat lowered his voice. “I speak of Emma.”

The name turned the expectant buzz into a torrent of abuse. They seized upon it with ferocious glee.

“Emma!”

“The Witch of Crofton!”

“A foul slut with a wild dog!”

“An evil sorceress!”

“A slimey hag!”

“Blood-sucker!”

“Devil-worshipper!”

“Poisoner!”

“Whore!”

Wulfgeat raised his hands. “Calm yourselves and hear the argument,” he told them. “I do not accuse Emma, but I do avow she had both cause and means. Or so the widow claims.”

“What did Hilda say?”

“That her husband fell out with Emma.” Wulfgeat spoke on over the mocking laughter. “Yes, yes, everyone fell out with Alric sooner or later, but not in this manner. He bought a potion from her-for what, I do not know. When it did not work, he demanded his money back.

When Emma would not pay, he beat her black-and-blue.”

“Serves the witch right!” sneered a voice.

“She put a curse on him,” explained Wulfgeat. “Alric looked to have another son by his new wife, but Emma said her womb would henceforth be barren. When the miller beat her again, she screamed that he’d be dead within the month.”

“When was this, Wulfgeat?”

“But three weeks past.”

The angry listeners needed no more persuasion. Emma, the so-called Witch of Crofton, the maker of potions, the caster of spells, was promptly installed as the culprit. Out went wolf, fox, bear, and other animals and in came the big black slavering dog that Emma kept in her hovel. Bent on summary justice, they were all for riding down to Crofton there and then to slaughter both witch and dog and rid the shire of two excrescences in one swoop, but Wulfgeat exerted control.

“Silence!” he decreed. “Yesterday, you feared a pack of wolves in Savernake. Today, you are that pack of wolves yourselves. Guilty she may be, but that guilt is not proven in a court of law. This is work for the sheriff. If Emma is a witch and that dog is her familiar, she will be held to account. Her curse and her cur destroyed Alric Longdon.”

The men laughed with brutal delight. They were content.

They now had a scapegoat.

She waddled along through the bushes and gathered herbs into her basket. Somewhere in the thickets, her mangy companion nosed around for food and snuffled excitedly. Emma was a short, rotund woman who was barely into her thirties yet who looked many years older. Her pudgy face had merry eyes, a snub nose, and a full mouth, but its inherent jollity was offset by the thick, dark eyebrows and the unsightly facial hair that spread upwards to merge with her own straggly thatch and make her rather daunting to behold. Even in the heat of summer, she wore a tattered hood and cloak over her stained gunna and she had on the gartered stockings of a man. Her feet were covered in tight bundles of rags.

Emma of Crofton lived just north of the village in a tiny cottage. She was thus within easy walking distance of Savernake Forest and often penetrated its boundaries to search for herbs or to gather firewood in winter. Born and raised in Burbage, to the south-west, she had been fined for adultery with a married man, then driven out by the women of the place to seek a more isolated life. Her cottage was a huddle of stones with a leaking roof, and its stink could be picked up a hundred yards away. But Emma had come to prefer her own company and lived in mild contentment.

She could make ointments, medicines, and compounds for the cure of the sick and set a bone better than any doctor in the area. Even those afraid of her sometimes used her magic. Emma was a potent woman who had grown to be part of the landscape. Nobody bothered her unless they needed help-and even then would they keep their distance.

The man on the roan was not from the locality. As he was trotting towards Bedwyn, he came upon the figure of a fine fat wench groping in the bushes. Because she was bent double, all he could see was the shape of her buttocks and the vigour of her movement. It was enough to kindle lust. Checking that nobody was in sight, he reined in his mount, dropped from the saddle, and approached her boldly from the rear.

“Good morning, mistress!” he said.

“Go your way, sir,” she advised without looking up.

“Then give me a kiss to send me on my way.”

“I will give you more than that.”

The hirsute face turned to confront him and he backed away with disgust. He did not get far. Hurtling out of the thickets with a loud yelp came a huge black dog which did not pause for introduction. It simply launched itself at the man and knocked him flat on his back, baring its fangs in his face and keeping him prisoner for several yapping minutes until a command from his mistress drew him off. He scrambled up and raced to his horse at full speed, unsure whether the dog or its owner was the more frightening. Emma cackled and the animal barked. They had put the man to flight.

He would have a story to tell when he reached Bedwyn.

Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew presented themselves at the shire hall at the appointed hour. Their daily life set to a rigid time-table, they were slaves to punctuality. The commissioners were seated behind the table. Ralph Delchard rose to welcome them and gesture them forward to the two chairs which had been set ready. Matthew moved at his usual funereal pace, but Baldwin had a spring in his step. He was obviously looking forward to matching his wits against those of his examiners and seemed assured of success. There was a tranquil confidence about him which contrasted with the irritation he had shown the previous evening as he left the mill. Disappointment had been put behind him. Only victory and vindication could lie ahead.

When both men were seated, with a satchel of documents resting on the floor between them, Ralph went through the formalities and introduced each member of the commission. He then left the early exchanges to Canon Hubert, who seized his moment like one who has been waiting for it all his life.

“Bedwyn Abbey must be put under close inspection,’’ he said smugly.

“We are unhappy about several details of the return that was made by our predecessors.”

“The fault is with them and not with us,” suggested Baldwin tartly.

“The abbey can withstand any scrutiny.”

Hubert reprimanded him. “It is not your place to criticise the royal officers. May I remind you that the first commissioners included no less a person than His Grace, the Bishop of Durham?”

It was time to trade their credentials.

“We answer to Osmund, Bishop of Salisbury,” asserted Baldwin superciliously.

Hubert replied in kind. “We answer to Walkelyn, Bishop of Winchester and my own master.”

“My master is Abbot Serlo.”

“He falls short of a bishopric.”

“Abbot Serlo was Prior of Caen,” said Baldwin with emphasis, “and I was his subprior.”

“I held that office in Bec,” replied Hubert, “when Lanfranc ruled the house. Archbishop Lanfranc now rules the English Church from Canterbury, while you and Abbot Serlo remain in a lowlier station.”

“We are servants of the Benedictine order.”

“I am the servant of God!”

Canon Hubert was wreathed in smiles. He felt that he had drawn first blood, and he turned to nod at Brother Simon. The abbey repre-sentatives maintained a hurt silence that was broken by Ralph Delchard.

“What does it matter who serves whom?” he bellowed. “Hubert struts around in Winchester Cathedral, while Abbot Serlo and his monks paddle about in this backwater. Each has found his own vocation and must be respected for that. True Christianity lies in showing tolerance.”

Gervase Bret was startled to hear such an observation from so unlikely a source, and the clergy-monastic and lay alike-were quite astounded. To be lectured on Christianity by a man as brash and worldly as Ralph Delchard was too much to bear. They complained in unison, but he cowed them into silence once more and slapped the table with a firm palm.

“Let us get down to the main point of our visit.”

“Very well,” agreed Canon Hubert, taking the parchment that was slipped to him by Brother Simon, “it concerns two hides of land whose ownership is as yet unclear.”

“To which land do you refer?” asked Baldwin, concealing his fore-knowledge. “Two hides, you say? Two miserable hides? Did you really ride all the way from Winchester to quarrel over such a small parcel of land?”

“There is an issue at stake here.”

“I fail to see it, Canon Hubert.”

“Your capacity for failure already has been noted.”

“Identify this land,” said the prior through clenched teeth, “and we will answer you.”

“It lies to the north-west of the town, along the river. Three farms and two mills occupy it. Hugh de Brionne had an interest in it, but the abbey set it aside.”

Baldwin nodded. “I know this land well.”

“Do you have proof that it belongs to the abbey?”

“We have brought a charter with us.”

“That is very resourceful of you, Prior Baldwin,” said Gervase. “When the abbey has so much land and so many holdings, how did you know that this was the charter that would be needed?”

“Simple guesswork, sir.”

“And the power of prayer,” added Matthew.

“Yes,” said Ralph sharply. “You prayed that one of us would let fall a hint of today’s business.” His eye flicked to Brother Simon. “It appears that one of us did so.”

“Abbot Serlo needs us,” resumed Baldwin airily, “so we would not be detained long here. Brother Matthew will show you this document to affirm our right. You can verify our claim, put these two hides to rest, and let us return to our spiritual duties at the abbey.”

The subprior had the parchment in his hand at once and unrolled it to spread it on the table. He and Baldwin then sat back with the satisfaction of men who are certain they have just won the day.

They could boast about it over dinner with Abbot Serlo. Ralph Delchard gave the document a cursory glance and passed it to Gervase Bret. The latter pored over it intently as Hubert picked up his theme.

“There is another claimant to this land.”

“The lord of the manor of Chisbury has been ousted.”

“I speak of a third voice.”

“Then let us hear it now.”

“That is difficult,” conceded Brother Simon.

“Be quiet, man,” reproved Hubert, “you have said more than enough already. Silentium est aurium.”

Simon accepted the rebuke with a meek nod. There would be further castigation to face from the canon, and he was not looking forward to it. He sagged penitentially.

It was Baldwin’s turn to crow. “Brother Simon touches on the truth of the matter. No claimant, no dispute. Unless you wish to dig him up from the churchyard and ask him to recite his argument. The abbey will not be dispossessed by a dead miller.” He rose to go. “May we please depart?”

“No,” said Ralph.

“But Alric Longdon will not appear.”

“He does not need to, Prior Baldwin,” said Hubert with a shrug. “He is not himself the claimant.”

Complacence was wiped from the countenance opposite.

“Then who is?” demanded Baldwin, sitting down.

“His wife.”

“Hilda?”

“Even she.”

“But she made no mention of this,” whined the prior. “I spoke with her but yesterday and she talked only of her husband’s charter. The poor woman was beside herself with grief, but she would know the difference between what belongs to her husband and what to her.

Would she not?”

Gervase continued to peruse the document but solved a little mystery at the same time. Prior Baldwin had been to the mill to search for the charter. Having inveigled the key from the widow, he let himself into their home, intent on finding and destroying evidence of another’s claim to abbey lands. Fortunately, he left empty-handed.

Matthew came to the help of his beleaguered prior.

“If the woman has a claim, why did she not make it in front of the first commission?”

“Because she did not live in Bedwyn at the time. Alric had not then married her. Hilda-or her father, to be more precise-made their sworn statements to the commissioners of the Worcestershire circuit.”

“Worcestershire?” repeated Matthew.

“Hilda lived in Queenhill. You know the place?”

“No,” snarled Baldwin, “and do not wish to know it.”

“You will come to,” promised Hubert. “Queenhill is a pretty village among several in the area. They include Berrow, Pendock, Ripple, Castlemorton, Bushley, and-”

“We need no lessons in geography,” said Baldwin.

“Plainly, you do.” Hubert gave the professional smile of an executioner who has just been handed his weapon to carry out a sentence.

“Castlemorton, Bushley-and Longdon.”

Baldwin and Matthew froze. “Longdon?” they chorused.

“It is where Alric’s father was born,” explained the canon. “Hence his name. Alric Longdon. He took it out of loyalty to his father, as you will hear in time.”

The prior fought hard to recover. “None of this is germane if the miller is dead. What do we care about his parentage? It has no bearing here.”

“But it does. It is the key to the whole affair.”

“How?”

“All will be explained.”

“This is most perplexing,” said Baldwin, then opted for a frontal attack. “Does the widow possess a charter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have this document?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you have no case.”

“And we may go back to the abbey,” said Matthew.

“Not so fast,” warned Hubert. “We may not have the charter itself, but we have a fair copy.”

“A copy is worthless,” said Baldwin.

“Alfred of Marlborough did not think so. When it was shown to him, he supported every word of it. We are duty-bound to take seriously the oath of such a man as he.”

Baldwin and Matthew were writhing about like two eels caught in a net. They were confounded. Hubert enjoyed the sight before prodding them with an invisible spear.

“You have been lazy,” he mocked. “You are not well informed enough to carry your argument. You prepare to fight against Alric, and his widow is your opponent. You think that we have come here for two hides of land, when it is the entire estate of Bedwyn Abbey that we question. If there is one act of deception, there may be a hundred more. This is not a casual enquiry that we make here. You are on trial.”

“I will not suffer any more of this!” exclaimed the prior, trying to bluster his way out. “We have a charter and the other claimant does not. The law is on our side, the first commissioners are on our side, God is on our side.” He stood once more and restated his case. “Dispute is irrelevant. We have the charter.”

Gervase Bret looked up with a smile and nodded.

“Yes, Prior Baldwin,” he said, “you have the charter. But that will not advantage you in the least.”

“Why not?”

“The document is a complete forgery.”

Brother Luke’s doubts about his future continued to grow. It made him preoccupied and careless. He was distracted during his lessons and the master of the novices upbraided him sternly in front of his fellows. Sarcasm has a cutting edge, and it was a lacerated Brother Luke who sought out his one true friend at the abbey. Brother Peter was in his little workshop near the stables, crouched over his brazier as he heated something up and added a dry turf to bring the blaze to the right temperature. Luke knocked on the door and entered, only to be struck by the force of the heat in the confined space. Peter smiled a welcome, the perspiration glistening on his brow and turning his tonsured head into a veritable mirror.

Busy as he was, Peter sensed the greater needs of his young charge and put his work aside instantly. He sat Luke down and let him pour out his troubles at will, hearing of qualms and fears that he himself had experienced when he first entered the abbey. He told the novice how he had wrestled with them and finally overcome all reservation.

“Do you have no regrets, Peter?”

“None at all, save one.”

“And what is that?”

“I wish I had been a postulant at your age.”

“Truly?”

“The world coarsened me, Luke.”

“But how?”

“It dragged me down; it snared me in temptation. It gave me a trade-

I practice it here, as you see-but my life was empty and wasted. It had neither form nor direction until I came here. Abbot Serlo was my salvation.”

Brother Luke winced. “I feel he is my gaoler.”

“Our holy father is a blessed man.”

“You may say that, Peter, because you have come through the torment, but I still suffer it. I still yearn for my freedom. I still toss and turn at night.”

Peter shook his head. “You are wrong. There is torment here still for me and I must endure it.” He glanced in the direction of the abbot’s quarters. “I have an audience with Abbot Serlo soon and he will take confession.”

“But you have no sins on your conscience.”

“Indeed I do, Brother Luke.”

“May I know what they are?”

“You see one right in front of you.”

“This workshop?”

“I serve the Lord in my own way but neglect my other duties. I have missed services in church and been lax in the sacristy of late. Brother Paul, the subsacristan, has hidden my misdeeds and made excuse for my absences, but someone else has reported me to Father Abbot.”

Luke was shocked. “You will be punished?”

“Severely. I deserve no less.”

“But you are sacristan.”

“Then I should dignify my office, not let it slip.”

“No brother in the abbey labours more than you.”

“It is true,” agreed Peter, “but my work conflicts with my allotted tasks. I come here instead of to the sacristy. I leave the dormitory at night to find more time at my bench.”

“For what reason?”

“Shall I show you?”

The boyish face lit up. “You are making something?”

“My finest piece of work.”

“Let me see it. Please let me see it.”

“Nobody else must know.”

“I can keep a secret, Brother Peter. Trust me.”

Peter closed the door in case anyone should chance to pass, then he took a key from his scrip to unlock a drawer in the workbench.

Something large and heavy was lifted out with reverential care and laid down on the wooden service where it could catch the morning light through the window. The object was wrapped in an old sheet, and Peter lifted back the folds with delicate movements of his hands.

When Brother Luke finally beheld it, his eyes moistened with emotion.

“A crucifix!”

“Silver-plated, with an enamel Saviour.”

“It is beautiful, Peter! Such workmanship.”

“Wait till it is finished.”

“Abbot Serlo will not correct you for making this,” said Luke ear-nestly. “He will fall to his knees and give thanks for your goodness.”

Peter smiled soulfully. “I think not.”

The silversmith put the crucifix away and locked the drawer, then he took the novice on a walk around the garden to let him voice his disquiet once more. When Luke finally left his friend, his anxieties had been stilled and his faith rekindled by what he had seen in the workshop. Brother Peter was indeed a fine example for the boy.

Abbot Serlo disagreed. When he had heard confession an hour later, he rolled his bulging eyes with disapproval at his erring sacristan.

Obedience to the rule had been flouted and that could never be ignored or forgiven.

“You have sinned, Brother Peter.”

“I know it, Father Abbot, and do confess it.”

“Others rely on you and they were sorely let down.”

“I was led astray by my work.”

“You are a monk first and foremost,” chided the other. “That fact must guide your every waking thought.”

“And so it did,” said Peter, “until this month.”

“You are guilty of neglect and deception,” Abbot Serlo adjudicated,

“and Subsacristan Paul did you no favours by concealing your short-comings. They were bound to be revealed in good time and bring you to my sentence.”

“I accept it willingly, Father Abbot.”

“Serious offences call for serious punishment.”

“Pronounce upon me.”

Abbot Serlo stared down at the wayward monk and took time to consider his fate. Peter’s record at the abbey had been blameless until now and brought him promotion to the office that he held. To deprive him of that office would be a humiliation, and Serlo stopped short of that. What was needed was a painful shock to awake the sacristan to the pre-eminence of his duties. The abbot might be destined for sainthood, but that did not absolve him from making stern decisions while he still remained on earth. He cleared his throat noisily, his jowls vibrated, and his eyes threatened to leave their sockets entirely.

Brother Peter took a deep breath and braced himself for the verdict.

Abbot Serlo was succinct.

“Here is work for Brother Thaddeus.…”

Four hours of unremitting tussle with Prior Baldwin and with Subprior Matthew left them feeling exhilarated but tired. It had opened up all kinds of possibilities. The prelates had limped away to report to their abbot and to cover their disarray. As they left the shire hall, the commissioners were pleased with their prosecution of the case. They had won a resounding victory at the first skirmish, but the battle was far from over. Baldwin and Matthew would soon be back with other weapons and other forms of defence.

Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret rode back alone towards the hunting lodge, choosing the route which took them along the river as it bordered Savernake. Both had been impressed by the role that Canon Hubert had taken that morning.

“He roasted the prior over a slow fire,” said Ralph with a chortle.

“He led him along by the nose before he struck. Our canon is no mean fighting man, Gervase.”

“Brother Simon was his bait.”

“That was why he left him alone with Baldwin at the abbey. Simon knew only what we wanted him to know.”

“Yes,” said Gervase with a grin. “When he told the prior the truth, he really believed it himself. He did not realise it was only part of the truth, fed to him on purpose so that it could be wheedled out of him.”

“Innocence is a blessed thing.”

“It has its uses.”

The sky was overcast now and there was a hint of rain in the wind. Savernake Forest looked overgrown and surly. It was certainly in no mood to yield up the secret which still tantalised them. Ralph had given it much thought.

“Alric Longdon kept his hoard in the yew,” he said, “and he was about to add to it the day he was killed. But someone else found his hiding place and took his treasure chest away.”

“Before or after his death?”

“Who can say?”

“Why was it kept there and not in his mill?”

“For the sake of safety,” said Ralph. “The mill had many visitors and there was a wife and son to consider. Alric concealed his bounty even from them. Besides,” he continued with a grim chuckle, “had he left it in the mill, any thieving prior might find it when he let himself in to search for a missing charter. I now believe that the charter, which we all seek, is locked away in the treasure chest as well and may be worth more than all those silver coins together. The widow should have a rich inheritance.”

“It is as well she has left the abbey.”

“Wulfgeat’s daughter tends her now.”

Gervase looked across at the forest. Patches of thick woodland were interspersed with heath and scrub. Birds drew pictures in the air as they sang. Animals called out in the trees. The wind produced a thousand answering voices as it bent creaking branches and shook crisp leaves.

“You are a huntsman, Ralph,” he said.

“Whenever I have the time.”

“Do you think there is a wolf in Savernake?”

“Not now,” said Ralph, “or it would certainly have been seen or scented or killed. Wolves are untidy guests. They leave a mess behind.”

“Yes. I saw the miller at the mortuary.”

“Something is in those trees, Gervase. But not a wolf.”

“What sort of animal is it, then?”

“One that I will enjoy tracking down.”

“We have other inquiries to make first,” recalled his friend. “I must make contact with Brother Luke and see what I can learn about the abbey from the inside. And you must see Eadmer the Moneyer.”

“I go to the mint this evening.”

“Is it wise to take a guide?”

“Ediva offered,” said Ralph artlessly. “How could I refuse such an invitation from a lady? Her husband is away in Salisbury and she has need of diversion.”

“The lady is married,” insisted Gervase.

“She chafes against the yoke.”

“Adultery is a mortal sin.”

“Then do not commit it,” advised Ralph. “Think on Alys and keep yourself pure. Leave wickedness to those of us with greater urges and lesser scruples.”

“Think on the danger!”

“That is the chief attraction.”

Gervase did all he could to talk his friend around, but no headway had been made by the time they reached the lodge. He should have known better. Once Ralph Delchard committed himself to a course of action, whatever its nature, he never diverged from it. Grooms took their horses to stable them while the two commissioners went indoors.

One last question remained unanswered for Ralph.

“How did you know that the charter was forged?”

“I did not,” admitted Gervase. “But I do now.”

The peasant woman was typical of so many who lived on the fringes of Bedwyn. Her husband was a cottar, part of a small and wretched underclass who were given a hovel and a thin slice of land in return for their labour. The man worked hard, but the good earth did not reward him well. The bad harvest of the previous year was followed by a famine that struck those at the lower end of society most keenly.

When the man’s sufferings were compounded by an injury to his arm while using the plough in which he had quarter share, he was unable to do his full quota of work. His wife and small children grew thin and sickly. Desperation drove him to slip into Savernake Forest one night. Two hares and some wood pigeons kept them fed for a week or more, but their good fortune was noted by envious eyes. Information was laid against the cottar and the warden’s officers arrived in time to find the wife making a stew with the bones.

“He has been locked up for a month,” wailed the woman.

“Forest law is cruel,” said Emma with rough sympathy.

“He must wait for the shire court to sit and hear his case. If they find him guilty, he may lose his sight or worse. What condition will we be in then?”

“Think on yourself and the children,” advised the visitor. “Your husband’s ordeal is the worse for worrying about you. If we can make you better, we take one small load off his mind.”

The woman nodded. Starvation had pushed her to extremes and she had seized on the rotting carcass of a squirrel she had found. It had filled their bellies but emptied them almost as quickly. Both she and her children were crying with such pain that Emma of Crofton had to be sent for as a last resort. While her dog sat outside the hovel, Emma reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of liquid.

“Mix three drops of this with a little water,” she prescribed. “Take it morning, noon, and night. Your pains will soon abate.”

“We have no money,” said the patient hopelessly, “but you may look around this room and take whatever you wish.”

Emma threw a glance around the mean abode and patted the woman reassuringly on the shoulder. No payment was needed. The relief of such pain and desolation was a reward in itself and her chubby face bunched itself into a kind smile. She turned to leave, but the woman clutched at her.

“Will you pray for us?” she begged.

“Not to God,” said Emma sharply, “but I will offer up a plea that something will come soon to ease your distress.”

The woman thanked her profusely and watched her saunter off along the road to Crofton. Witch or not, the visitor had provided the first crumbs of comfort in weeks. The woman mixed the potion as directed and gave some to the children before she drank it down herself. Relief was immediate. They felt much better but very drowsy and dropped off into a restorative sleep. Emma of Crofton had worked her wonders.

There was more welfare at hand. When the woman opened her front door that evening, something lay shining on her doorstep. It was minutes before she overcame the shock enough to bend down and pick up the six silver coins.

Abbot Serlo did not believe in the power of public disgrace. He had seen monks in other abbeys take their beatings in front of the whole house and it was an unedifying spectacle in every way. The fact of punishment was a sufficient deterrent in itself. When one brother felt the severity of his judgement, the others would take eager note and mend their ways accordingly. Brother Peter’s fate would keep the abbey free from misdemeanour for several weeks. The only witness to his agony, however, would be his abbot, his fellow-monk with the mighty arm, and his God.

“Do you understand your fault, Brother Peter?”

“I understand and repent, Father Abbot.”

“We must scourge the weakness out of you.”

“I submit myself wholly to your will.”

“Do not hold back, Brother Thaddeus,” instructed Serlo.

“I will not, Father Abbot,” said the eager brother as he swished the birch twigs through the air. “I will break the flesh until you tell me to cease.”

They were in a room behind the chapter-house. The abbot sat in the one chair and Peter stood beside a long bench. Brother Thaddeus had been looking forward to doing his duty and his fondness for the sacristan was no bar to his patent readiness to wield the fresh birch twigs.

Abbot Serlo widened his eyes recklessly and raised his hands as if to catch them when they fell out. He sent a short prayer up to heaven and the monks bowed their heads. When he was prepared, the abbot settled back in his chair and gave a curt nod to Brother Thaddeus.

“Proceed.”

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

“Make yourself ready, Peter.”

“I do, Father Abbot.”

“Fit both mind and body to what approaches.”

“I have done so.”

Brother Peter crouched down to take the hem of his cowl and lift it right up to his shoulders. He then straddled the bench and lay face-down, with his naked body exposed to the view and mercy of Brother Thaddeus. The back and buttocks had already been chafed by the coarse-ness of the material, but its stark whiteness would now be striped indelibly with red. Brother Thaddeus took another practice swing, then stepped forward into position. The birch twigs came down with such force on the defenceless body that Brother Peter convulsed with pain. Yet he did not cry out. Buried in the folds of his cowl, he was biting on a bunched fist to stem his cries. Each time the twigs flashed through the air on their cruel journey, his teeth sank deeper and deeper until they drew blood and threatened to sever the fingers.

Brother Thaddeus might have been threshing corn. He took an uncomplicated joy in his handiwork and built up a steady rhythm with his searing strokes. The body beneath him was now inflamed with horror and streaked with blood. By shifting his feet and altering his angle, Thaddeus could spread his misery across a wider area. He was a careful ploughman who dug his furrows straight and deep.

Only when the whole of the torso was thoroughly flayed did the hideous ordeal come to an end.

“Enough,” said Abbot Serlo.

“Yes, Father Abbot,” said Thaddeus with muted dismay.

“You have discharged your duty well.” He stood up and walked across to the prostrate figure which was still heaving and twitching on the bench. “God bless you, my son.”

Brother Peter was too exhausted to reply, but he felt no bitterness at his punishment. If abbot or monk could have seen his face at that moment, they would have been amazed, because it was covered with a beatific smile. With aching slowness, Peter stretched his arms wide so that he resembled the enamel figure of Christ on his own crucifix.

An imaginary crown of thorns encircled his throbbing head. He was wounded beyond endurance and yet he was strangely content.

His sins had now been expiated.