The Wolves of Savernake

Chapter Eight

Brother Peter bore his tribulations with noble equanimity. The punishment he suffered would have disabled most of the monks for days and introduced at least a hint of bitterness into their relationship with Brother Thaddeus. Peter rose above the common experience and astonished the whole house by appearing at Matins next morning to take his appointed place. He was evidently in considerable pain and moved with some difficulty, but the face that was bowed humbly before God contained neither reproach nor suffering but shone with its usual blithe religiosity. When the sacristan picked his way gingerly across the cloister garth after Prime, he was even able to acknowledge the cheerful greeting of Brother Thaddeus. Not a breath of personal animosity stirred. The happy ploughman was but an instrument of harsh discipline and therefore not to blame. Peter even found a moment to ask kindly after the oxen in the field. Like him, they had felt the wounding power of Brother Thaddeus’s strong arm.

It was after Terce when Brother Luke at last found him.

“How are you, Brother Peter?”

“I survive.”

“Reports had you half-dead.”

“Brother Thaddeus would have cut me in two if Abbot Serlo had not curtailed my beating.” He gave a weary smile. “It is all over now. I will not dwell on it.”

Luke studied him with almost-ghoulish fascination. They were in Peter’s workshop and the brazier was still glowing quietly in the corner. The novice could not understand how his friend could so soon and so readily return to his holy labours after such a terrible ordeal. Peter’s stoic attitude was quite inspiring.

“Does it not hurt?” murmured Luke.

“Like the Devil!”

“Then should you not rest?”

“I have done so already.”

“Wounds need time to heal.”

“They may heal just as well if I stand on my feet,” said Peter bravely.

“Brother Infirmarian has been extremely kind to me. He has washed my body clean and applied ointments as a salve. His tender ministrations have softened the pain, if they have not relieved the stiffness.”

Luke was aghast. “Are you not angry?”

“With whom?”

“With anyone or anything that can do this to you. With Abbot Serlo or with Brother Thaddeus. With the strictures of the Benedictine rule. With the brother who informed on you in the first place.” Luke bristled. “I would be enraged.”

“My only anger is reserved for myself.”

“Yourself?”

“I transgressed, Luke. I paid the penalty.”

“You are truly sainted.”

“We all have our cross to bear,” said Peter as he took the silver cross from its drawer and held it up. “This is mine and I was crucified for spending too much time on it.”

“The abbey does not deserve such a wondrous gift.”

“It does, Luke. Do not be blinded by friendship to me from seeing duty to the order. I am but one obedientiary who went astray and have been whipped back into line. I accept that without complaint. Do you likewise.”

Brother Luke made the effort to do so, but it was way beyond his competence. His eye kept roving over Peter’s cowl and he eventually asked the question which had brought him there.

“May I see?”

“No.”

“The others say that Brother Thaddeus is vicious.”

“I have not seen his work and nor will you.”

“But you bear it upon your back.”

“Out of sight to both of us.”

“Can I not wash it for you? Apply more ointment?”

“I am too afraid for you, Luke.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“If I lift my cowl to any other brother, he will see no more than the retribution of Father Abbot.” He put concerned hands on the young shoulders and looked the novice full in the face. “If I show you my wounds, you will see the exit from the order. And I would keep you here.”

“To suffer the same treatment myself?”

“To avoid it by due observance of the rule.”

Peter clapped his hands to change the subject and put the crucifix away once more. His manner was almost spry, though there was still an aching slowness in his motions.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” he said.

“Praying for you.”

“Your prayers were answered. Here I am again.”

“Praise the Lord!” Luke remembered something else. “The young commissioner came to call upon me.”

“Gervase Bret?”

“We talked in the garden.”

“Upon what subject?”

“His reason for leaving Eltham Abbey.”

Peter frowned. “He tried to tempt you away?”

“No, he was careful not to influence my decision in any way. But he was honest about his own travails and that made an impression on me. He spoke in the roundest terms and did not shirk my questions.”

“What else did he say?”

“He was intrigued by the abbey itself,” explained Luke, “and asked me about its working. That was the curious thing. When I met him, I was disposed to be released from my vows and leave the order, yet when I spoke with him about our life together here, I did so with such zeal that I came to see how much I had grown into it.”

“We are a family and you an honoured son.”

“The master of the novices does not honour me.”

“He will in time, Luke. If you stay.” Peter’s frown deepened. “What did you tell Gervase Bret?”

“All that he asked.”

“Did he mention Prior Baldwin?”

“Many times. He has seen through that sacred tyrant.”

“And Subprior Matthew?”

“He questioned me about the subprior’s work.”

“Beware, Luke!”

“Why?”

“He is trying to entrap you.”

“But he came here as a friend.”

“A friend to you, perhaps, but not to Bedwyn Abbey. He is a royal official sent here on a mission. Our prior and subprior represent the abbey. You weaken their position if you divulge any information about our community.” Brother Peter fixed an admonitory gaze on him. “I warned you before. This man was here to use your inexperience against you. The abbey has to fight the commissioners. You give them ammu-nition to use against your brothers.”

“I did not think him so sly.”

“He has his warrant, Luke.”

“Then all he told me was false?”

“I think it was.”

“No, no, it cannot be,” exclaimed the youth with spirit. “He spoke so openly about his own novitiate and suffered once more the pains of separation from the order as he talked. It was a dreadful choice he had to make and doubts will pursue him all his life.” Luke gritted his teeth and thought it over. “Gervase Bret is a straightforward man. He did not lie to me about Eltham Abbey.”

“Why did he leave it?”

“He yielded to temptation.”

“Ambition?”

“A woman.”

Peter sighed, “Each man has his own peculiar weakness. My own lies wrapped in cloth inside that drawer. For Gervase Bret, it was the wonder of a woman.” He sighed again and put an arm around his friend. “We all have fatal flaws, Luke.”

“What is mine?”

The message arrived before noon and it threw Hilda into a panic.

Leofgifu read it out to her and saw the rising terror in her eyes. A frightened creature at the best of times, she was particularly vulnerable at the moment, and Leofgifu had to spend a long time calming her down before they could even begin to address the problem.

Authority unnerved the widow.

“They have sent for me!” she whimpered.

“But they have not,” said her friend. “This is not an official summons.

One of the commissioners simply wishes to speak with you about your husband.”

“I know nothing, Leofgifu.”

“Then you will have nothing to tell them.”

“They will be angry with me.”

“I think not,” said Leofgifu, glancing at the missive once more.

“The man who sent this letter shows you much consideration. He apologises for intruding on your grief. He knows your situation. But your husband brought them all to Bedwyn, so they must talk with you.”

“I will not see them.”

“They have the power to enforce it,” warned the other.

“Tell them I am too ill.”

“It will not deflect them from their purpose.”

Hilda looked anxiously and helplessly around like a small animal caught in a trap. Alric’s death was shock enough to bear without having Prior Baldwin and Wulfgeat bearing down upon her. Now another man was trying to get something from her which she did not possess.

“See him,” advised Leofgifu.

“Will you be with me?” pleaded Hilda.

“Every second.”

“May we receive him here?”

“I am sure my father will consent.”

“What is this commissioner’s name?”

“Master Gervase Bret.”

“And you say he will not scold me?”

Leofgifu gave her pledge. “Not while I am here.”

A change of tactics allowed Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew to exhibit a more compliant attitude to the quartet who sat behind the long table in the shire hall. Baldwin sounded a conciliatory note at the start and Matthew was there to throw in a funereal smile of agreement whenever he deemed it necessary. Having antagonised the commissioners during earlier exchanges, the two men now seemed keen to mollify and compromise. Brother Simon was taken in by the apparent change of heart, but Canon Hubert treated it with an unconcealed scepticism and snorted in disbelief more than once. Ralph Delchard was diverted by the manoeuvres, but he left it to Gervase Bret to lock horns with the prelates.

“I have spoken with Abbot Serlo today,” said Baldwin, “and he agrees that a misunderstanding has arisen. The two hides which arouse this unfortunate controversy were willed to us when he and I first came to Bedwyn. You have the charter which sets the truth before you.”

“But it is a forgery,” affirmed Gervase.

Baldwin smiled sweetly. “No, sir, you allege that it is a forgery, and that is a different matter. That document has been signed, sealed, and proved. Your predecessors found no fault in it. Why must you?”

“Because we have a counter-claim.”

“Could that not be a forgery?”

“Indeed it could,” said Ralph heavily. “The more I see of Bedwyn and its ways, I begin to wonder if anything here is what it seems. We have had so many lies and prevarications that I am coming to think the town itself does not exist! It is a forgery practised on the eye.”

“Leave off these jests,” said Canon Hubert. “They do not advance the case. What we talk of here is the burden of proof.”

“Thank you,” said Baldwin pleasantly. “You are right as usual, Canon Hubert, but the burden of proof lies with you.”

Gervase Bret lifted up the abbey charter to peruse it.

“It is false,” he said quietly.

“How do you know?” challenged Baldwin.

“Intuition.”

“Really!” said Matthew, stirred from his mourning. “Are we to decide the fate of two hundred acres or more by the intuition of a callow youth?”

“I may be callow, Brother Matthew, but I am not blind.”

“Substantiate your allegation,” said Baldwin. “If the document has been falsely drawn up-prove it.”

“Prove it,” echoed Matthew somnolently.

Their confidence had clearly been revived by their long discussions back at the abbey and they had returned with more composure.

If they could discredit the word of Gervase Bret, they had won the day for the abbey. Baldwin had already manipulated the Bishop of Durham and his co-commissioners to good effect. He now carried the fight to a mere clerk of Chancery with every hope of success. Instead of his earlier red-faced bluster, he used a patronising gaze that could quell most opposition by its concentrated power.

All eyes were on Gervase Bret as he fingered the charter before him. He seemed uncertain. Ralph looked worried, Canon Hubert shifted in his chair, and Brother Simon developed a nervous sniff.

The abbey delegation grew more complacent.

“We are waiting, Master Bret,” said Baldwin.

“Waiting in vain, it seems,” added Matthew.

“Will you speak or may we have leave to go?”

“Prove it!” hissed Canon Hubert.

There was an even longer and more stressful pause. It was finally broken by Ralph Delchard, who pounded the table.

“God’s tits!” he yelled. “Prove it, Gervase.”

“Very well,” said the other calmly.

He set the charter before him and put two others beside it. Chairs grated as everyone pulled in closer to view the evidence. The visitors were still supremely assured. Prior Baldwin’s smile now had a touch of studious arrogance.

“Before you are three charters,” said Gervase evenly. “All are reput-edly the work of the same scribe, one Drogo of Wilton, much employed by Osmund, Bishop of Salisbury. You will recognise his hand. It is most distinctive.”

“We know it well,” said Baldwin. “Drogo was a friend to our abbey.

His handiwork adorns many of our charters. He was only a scribe, but we appreciate quality in any man. If he were here, he would own that he had written all three charters.” More arrogance came into the smile. “But he is not here, Master Bret. The poor man is buried in the parish churchyard in Wilton.”

“You seem to have a problem with your witnesses,” said Matthew with a rare flash of humour. “When you wish to call them to your aid, you find that God has issued his summons before you. That is Drogo’s work in all three cases.”

“How can you be so certain?” asked Gervase.

“Because we know,” said Matthew.

A wry eyebrow was raised. “Intuition?”

“We still require your proof,” muttered Canon Hubert.

“Ralph has loaned it to me.”

Gervase slipped a hand into the purse at his belt and took out three silver coins. He put one on each document, then invited the others to examine them as closely as they wished. The prelates were irritated by what they saw as a pointless game, but they consented. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon took longer to inspect the coins, while Ralph Delchard sat back and pretended he had no idea what was going on.

“Well?” said Gervase at length.

“They are the same,” said Baldwin. “Minted here in Bedwyn by Eadmer. They bear his name and mark.”

“I agree,” said Matthew.

“And so do we,” added Hubert, speaking for Brother Simon without even consulting him. “Three identical coins. What is the point of this demonstration?”

“To show how easily we can be deceived,” said Gervase. “The two coins on the outside are genuine, but the one in the middle-on the abbey charter-is counterfeit.”

“How do you know?” said Baldwin.

“Eadmer confirmed it,” explained Ralph, relishing the chance to join in. “He knows his coinage as well as a mother knows her own children, and our moneyer rejected the one in the middle at once. It is a clever forgery.”

“Like the charter,” continued Gervase, moving the coins aside. “See here, if you will. Two documents bear the work of Drogo so manifestly that it cannot be denied. Watch how he loops this letter and turns that and note that flourish on his capitals. Now compare them with your abbey charter. It is so close to Drogo that it could be him and yet, I fear, it is not.” He beckoned them forward. “You see this tiny upward stroke of the quill at each sentence’s end? It is so small a defect in the hand of Drogo that it is hardly worth notice except that it does not occur in the abbey charter. Nor do his ligatures-look here, and here and here. And one thing more, this Drogo was a scribe and not a scholar. His Latin falters briefly in both the genuine documents and he makes neat alteration.” He sat back in his chair. “I spend my whole life sifting through such charters and scribes are all my friends. Drogo’s work has only trifling blemishes, but they single him out. The abbey document is too perfect to be his.”

There was stunned silence as the two prelates stared first at the abbey charter, then at the others, then at each other, then back at Gervase. He couched his accusation in the softest terms.

“A scribe is a scribe,” he said gently, “who writes but as directed.

We must not expect more of him. But the hand which framed this abbey charter has a keener edge and a higher intelligence. It cannot bear to make even the most paltry mistakes. My guess would be that this is no scribe at all but a master of the illuminated manuscript.” He smiled benignly at Matthew. “The subprior will know that errors may not be tolerated in a scriptorium. Drogo would not have gained acceptance there.”

Baldwin and Matthew had been struck dumb yet again. They dared not look at each other and neither lowered his eyes to the abbey charter. It had been torn to shreds. Gervase addressed himself to Prior Baldwin.

“How many other of your charters are the work of Drogo?” he enquired. “We shall need to see them all to pick out any more that are as false as this. Drogo may be dead, but he can speak to us from beyond the grave.”

Ralph Delchard was determined to have the last word. Scooping up the coins, he shook them in his hands, then opened his palm, pointing to each in turn.

“True-false-true.” An expansive grin. “But do not take my word for it. Eadmer the Moneyer may be brought here at your request. He is one witness who has not yet vanished below ground.” A ripe chuckle followed. “Though he seems to be on his way in that direction.”

Wulfgeat’s quieter persuasion finally achieved its aim. He talked with Cild for almost two hours before the success. Reason made no headway. The boy was too stubborn to listen and too young to understand the meaning of the lost charter. It was pointless telling him how much he and his stepmother would gain from it all. Why should he trust the word of his father’s enemy? Alric would never have done so and Cild was like him in every way. It was this fact which eventually told. Wulfgeat appealed directly to the boy’s self-interest.

“I will give you money, Cild.”

A defiant shake of the head.

“You may have it now, if you wish.”

“No!”

“We all need money. Your father taught you that.”

“No!”

“You are a clever boy to hold out for it. I admire that. Put a price on all things, Cild. As your father did.” He regarded the boy with interest.

“What would you like to buy? What do you need? Have you ever had money of your own to spend before?”

Cild had not and the flame of curiosity was ignited. Wulfgeat did not rush. He fanned it gently until it leapt and danced. His method of approach had been completely wrong until now. Logic had failed and bullying had produced only a deeper resistance and resentment. An offer of money put an end to the long negotiation at last.

“Show me where the charter is,” said Wulfgeat, “and I will give you more money than you have ever seen before.”

Cild glared at him stonily for a couple of minutes.

“How much?” he grunted.

The afternoon released them from their deliberations. Lesser witnesses were due to give statements, and Canon Hubert was more than capable of collecting the evidence alone and ordering anything of value to be recorded by Brother Simon. It had been a productive day so far. Hugh de Brionne had been effectively quashed and the abbey representa-tives had been more or less demolished. Four hides in the Bedwyn returns were spreading utter chaos.

Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret mounted their horses. It was a dull afternoon, with dark clouds trying to shoulder the town into submission. Ralph looked up.

“This is a day to stay within-doors,” he said. “Where do you go now, Gervase?”

“To visit the widow.”

“I visit a wife.”

“Ralph!”

“She sent me word. I cannot disappoint her.”

“Think of her husband.”

“He is my chiefest reason for going. That self-serving reeve deserves to be cuckolded. It is my bounden duty.”

“Consider the lady.”

“I have considered nothing else since we met.”

“Pull back before it is too late.”

“Did I obstruct you when you courted Alys?”

“Well, no, but that is different. We are betrothed.”

“So are Ediva and I.” He beamed. “For today.”

He rode away before Gervase could offer more protest. Two of his men followed, but the others remained in the shire hall to act as ushers and guards. Ralph and his escort kept up a steady canter until they reached the hunting lodge. He went inside to wash and to change his attire, glad to shake off the day’s business in favour of pleasure. Ediva was awaiting him. All else paled beside that promise.

One of his men knocked on the door of his chamber.

“She is here, my lord.”

“Here!” The tryst had been arranged elsewhere.

“She waits in the stable.”

“Stable!” He would not roll in the hay with a woman of her quality.

“What does she say?”

“Only that we must fetch you instantly.”

“No more?”

“She became unruly.”

Ralph liked nothing that he had heard and he hurried downstairs with some apprehension. The soldier was at his heels. They came into the stable-yard and looked around. Ralph could see nothing but a huge pile of rags in one corner. Only when it moved did he realise that he was looking at Emma of Crofton. It was her message that had been relayed and which had brought him down so speedily. He grimaced at the thought of a rendezvous with her. The hirsute face emerged from the bundle and she dragged herself up. Something lay on the ground like a nest of eggs on which a hen has been sitting.

Emma reached down to pick it up and offer it to him. It was a basket of wild fruit.

“For me?” said Ralph, pleased.

“I picked them.”

“Thank you, Emma.”

“No, my lord”-she gave him the basket-“thank you.”

“Where did you pick all this?”

But she was already gone. A bark showed that her dog was waiting for her in the trees. Ralph was both moved and delighted. Emma had walked all the way from Crofton to deliver her gift and taken severe risks to get to him. This was a rare act of gratitude for the help he had given.

He looked down at the fruit and selected a red berry.

“No, my lord!” exclaimed the soldier. “The woman is a witch. That may be poisoned.”

“I rescued her,” said Ralph, popping the berry into his mouth without hesitation. “Even witches do not poison their saviours.” He offered the basket. “Try one….”

Hilda’s anxieties were soon put to rest by Gervase Bret. He was young and personable and spoke in her own language. He was not there to accuse or interrogate; indeed, he told her much more than he asked and his questions were merely gentle enquiries. Sensitive to her distressed condition, he was tender and unhurried. Hilda was so used to hearing bad opinions of her husband that it was refreshing to be with a man who accorded him the respect due to all the dead. She let him win her over and slowly dropped her guard.

If Hilda was reassured by their visitor, Leofgifu was greatly impressed. Her father had spoken slightingly of the commissioners and she had a Saxon’s wariness of any Norman, but Gervase did not conform at all to her idea of a member of the king’s household. He was altogether too honest and considerate and unjudging. The mixed parentage so obvious in his appearance gave him an insight into the heart and temperament of the Saxons. Though he was there on a serious errand, she found herself hoping that she could detain him later with an offer of refreshment.

Absorbed with Hilda and her predicament, Gervase was not unaware of his attraction to the daughter of the house. It was mutual. He could see her quality at a glance and sensed the total dependence of the other woman on her. Leofgifu was an act of compassion in herself and truly personified her name of “love-giver.” They provided a stark contrast. Both were beautiful women who had suffered a bereavement.

Sadness rested upon them with almost tangible force, but the resemblance ended there. Hilda’s looks had been extinguished by her ordeal and only the remnants of her handsomeness remained. Leofgifu was different. The pain of loss had somehow enhanced her charms and given her whole face a wistful glow that was quite enchanting. Gervase was reminded of his first meeting with Alys.

The information he had to impart was private, but Hilda insisted that her friend remain to hear it. Leofgifu could be trusted. Neither she nor Gervase even questioned the widow’s wishes. All three stayed sitting where they were.

“We need that charter,” Gervase said with soft emphasis. “It tells the truth about the contested land and puts your future in a kinder light.”

“My future?” Hilda was lost.

“The document names you.”

Alarm flickered. “Me?”

“Your father or his heir, to be precise,” he resumed. “And since your father is now deceased, the holding passes to the next in line.

Women may inherit just as men.”

“But not as often,” said Leofgifu with asperity.

“Thus it is,” he said, taking it stage by stage so that she would not be too confused. “Heregod of Longdon was given that land by royal grant. King Edward the Confessor gave him four hides adjoining Savernake Forest.”

“Why there and not in Worcestershire?” asked Leofgifu.

“We do not know for certain, but the king was fond of hunting.

Even piety likes to chase a deer through a wood.” The remark left Hilda baffled, but Leofgifu smiled. “King Edward knew and liked this shire. He came to Bedwyn with his retinue and stayed at the hunting lodge where we now rest our heads. His gift was land that stands nearby. Heregod of Longdon brought his family to a new home in Bedwyn.” He gave a sigh. “It was not a happy move.…”

Hilda was entranced. Facts which had been kept from her by her father now tumbled out in profusion. Impressions she had gathered as a child and as a wife now took on substance. The detail confused her and the interplay between events and the passage of time left her further bewildered, but a vague sense came through to her of what she stood to gain. Another thing became clear. Gervase Bret was on her side. This only served to increase Leofgifu’s admiration. A blunter recital of the facts could cause Hilda great pain. Gervase chose his words with utmost care, gliding over the courtship that had taken place in Queenhill in such a way as to conceal its essence. Alric Longdon had not married her out of love and his clumsy wooing had been crude pretence. He bought his wife from a dying man so that he could regain the holdings that his father had lost. Hilda was no more than an agreeable factor in a financial transaction.

“And that is why we need the charter,” he concluded.

“I do not know where it is.”

“Give him the key to the mill,” urged Leofgifu.

“The charter is not there.”

“I know,” said Gervase, recalling the futile search made by Prior Baldwin, “but it is a starting place. It will tell me something of the character of your husband-and of his father, Heregod. All that may be relevant. I would like to see inside the mill.”

“I will go with you,” volunteered Leofgifu before she could stop herself. “I can show you to the place.”

“Thank you. I would value your help.”

“You will have the key,” said Hilda.

While she crossed to the table to get it, the others let their eyes connect for a moment. Frank admiration flowed freely between them, but it was soon stemmed. Hilda could not find the key to the mill and was deeply disturbed.

“Who has taken it?” she said.

Light rain was falling as Cild ran along the riverbank. He reached the mill and used the key to let himself in, going straight into the storeroom at the back and choosing one of the empty flour sacks. He banged it against a wall and sent up a cloud of white particles, inhaling the familiar smell with a distant pleasure. Then he went out into the rain once more, locked the door, and vanished into the copse at the rear of the property. He threaded his way between the trees until he came to a willow. Beneath its swaying branches was a box. Like his father, he had his own hiding place in woodland, but Cild’s treasure was of a different order.

The box was no more than rough timber nailed hastily together, but it served its grim purpose. Reaching behind it, he pulled out a stick with a forked end. Cild was cautious but unafraid. He lay the sack on the ground and peeled back its top in readiness, then he used the stick to lift the latch on the makeshift door. The moment the latch moved, he jumped behind the box and waited. Nothing happened for minutes, then the snake came out in a determined slither. Two feet of squirming life had been set free, its fangs bared and its tongue darting in and out with random malice.

Cild moved fast. The stick fell, the forked end trapping the snake’s head from behind. The boy’s other hand inched the sack nearer. As the creature writhed and spat, he put a foot under its body and flicked it into the open mouth of the sack, closing the neck tightly and using a piece of twine to secure it. The operation was over. He was now holding a venomous cargo that threshed wildly around in the sack. A treasured pet had been transformed into a deadly weapon against an enemy.

The forest was patrolled in all weathers, so he used cover wherever he could. Eventually, he came to the stream and followed it up the hill. When Cild finally got to the yew tree, he did not linger. It was the place where his father had been killed and he shuddered at the memory, but one death could be answered by another. The forked stick was used to explore the hollow cavity and he felt the solid object at its base, still wrapped in its sacking. With the snake now flinging itself around inside its prison, he lowered the sack down into the tree, making sure that its neck was uppermost. It was too far down inside the hollow to be seen and a hand would need to grope down to make contact. The trap had been set. Cild shivered with cold joy.

He was suddenly afraid. The enormity of what he was doing seemed to hit him like a huge fist and the hideous significance of the scene pressed down upon him. His father had been savaged on this very spot, his throat torn out by ruthless teeth, his body knocked into the stream to lie there undiscovered for half a day. Cild could almost hear the menacing growl of a wolf. He took to his heels and raced down the hill as fast as he could. His fears had not been imaginary. Two dark and malevolent eyes watched him from the undergrowth.

Heavy rain now hurled itself at the windows and ran in careless rivulets down the panes. As afternoon merged into evening, the force of the storm increased. Ralph Delchard and Ediva did not even hear it. They were still entwined on the bed in languid happiness, their hands now absently caressing where they had grasped and squeezed only minutes before. Ediva was a willing lover and threw off inhibition.

A virile Norman lord was fitter company for her appetite than a fussy, preoccupied, half-hearted man whose work preceded all else. Ralph was strong and urgent. He had brought out her full, rich sensuality and satisfied her with an intensity that she had never known in her marriage. She nestled into him and purred softly. He had reminded her that she was a woman.

“Are you content?” he whispered.

She murmured with pleasure.

“This place is safe?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I would not put a lady in danger.”

“You would and did.” She gave him a teasing kiss. “That is why we are here.”

They were in a small cottage in a wood to the north of the town. It was barely furnished, but the bed was large and soft enough and the place offered all the privacy that they needed. Two of his men were in the trees outside to ward off interruption. It was an ideal choice for a tryst.

“I must ride this way again,” he said.

“My lord will always be welcome.”

“Does your husband often travel from home?”

“Too often,” she said with a slight edge, “and when he is there, I do not get my due of attention.”

“His folly is my gain.”

He kissed her forehead and ran a hand through the long, loose hair whose scent was so enchanting. It was minutes before he picked up the conversation once more.

“Does the reeve own this cottage?”

“No, my lord,” she said, “but we have the use of it.”

“On whose land are we, then?”

She hesitated. “A friend of my husband.”

“A good friend if he lends him such a place to rest.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Who is this man?” He sensed her reluctance and stroked it gently away before pulling her face to his and giving her a long, slow kiss that sucked out all resistance. “Tell me now, Ediva,” he said. “Who is he?”

“Hugh de Brionne.”

Gervase Bret had stayed much longer at the house than he had intended, but he felt no regret. He was sheltering from the rain and quite content to stay there until the key to the mill was found. If Cild had taken it, as now seemed likely, he would return in time. Gervase was happy to loiter in such pleasant company. Leofgifu had brought him back downstairs to leave Hilda alone in her room to rest. As they sat opposite each other at the table, they drank cups of wine and permitted a subtle change to come over their relationship. He was touched by her forlorn beauty, while she was drawn by his easy benevolence. He had learned of her own grief, while she had sensed brutal losses on his side. Both felt the pull of a closer friendship which they knew was beyond their grasp and so they settled for an affectionate togetherness that left them free to explore each other’s minds. He asked about her family and she talked as openly as if she had known him all her life.

“My father hates the Normans,” she said.

“It is to be expected.”

“Do you hate them, Gervase?”

“Sometimes.”

“Yet you are one of them.”

“I am and I am not,” he confessed. “Ralph teases me about it all the time. He calls me an English mongrel and says that I have learned to bark like a Norman but will never have his true breeding.”

“Does that offend you?”

“No, Leofgifu. It comforts me.”

“What of your father?”

“A Breton, and long since dead.”

“He would be proud to see his son rise so high.”

“Not as a clerk of Chancery,” said Gervase. “My father was a soldier and would have wanted a son to fight. Ralph Delchard is the same.

Fighting is in his blood. He mocks me for my love of a peaceful life.

Had he been my father, he often says, he would have strangled me at birth to escape the humiliation of raising such a son.”

“A man of peace is worth a hundred soldiers.”

“If he can manage to stay alive.”

He studied her face and her quiet dignity once more and saw the marks of Wulfgeat clearly imprinted. She had his self-possession and his fearless eye. She had the strength of character he had seen on display in the shire hall.

“We met your father with the other burgesses.”

“He told me of the encounter.”

“I would like to meet him again.”

“His manner would not flatter you.”

“I would not seek for praise. Where is he now?”

“He had business in the town but would not tell me what.” Her lips tightened. “My father thinks that women may not understand. We are here only to adorn the life of a man and not to share it with him.”

“Did your husband take that view as well?”

“He worshipped me.”

“But did he treat you as an equal?”

“No.”

“Did you choose him for yourself?”

“No.”

“Why, then, did you marry?”

“My father has a strong will. I was forced to obey.”

“Did you not resist?”

“For several weeks, but I was overwhelmed. It was my duty to follow his wishes.” She glanced upwards. “You know how Hilda was given in marriage to the miller. It was not exactly so with me, for my husband was kind and loving, but there was the same contract. The marriage was made between two men and not between two lovers.”

“Did you resent your husband?”

“I came to respect him.”

“You mourn and miss him now?”

“Greatly.”

Gervase could see that she wanted him to ask the next question.

“Did you love him?” he said.

“I cherished his goodness.”

“That is not what I mean, Leofgifu.”

“I honoured and obeyed him as I vowed.”

“No more than that?”

“It was all that I could offer him.”

“Why?”

“I loved another.”

“Did your father know this?”

Her face puckered. “He despised the man.”

Gervase took her hand to offer consolation. Wulfgeat had been cruel to name her Leofgifu. This beautiful Love-Giver had so much love to give, but it was callously stifled. Thrust into a marriage she did not want, she was grieving for a husband she could never admit into her heart. What made her plight even more pitiable was that she had been forced to live once again with the very man who ground the hope and passion out of her between the mill-wheels of his ambition.

“Are you happy with your father?”

“No,” she confessed. “Life here is an oppression.”

Wulfgeat trudged along with a cloak over his head and shoulders.

The rain had eased to a drizzle now, but the great black sky was a blanket that pressed down on Savernake to smother it to death.

Birds and animals were muffled. Insects were suffocated into silence.

Even the trees were hushed. The only sound that came from the forest was the swift rushing of its intersecting network of streams as they raced with swollen rage to join the river below and speed its wild current.

Cild met him at the mill and led the way. The gloom served them well, but the boy still moved with caution. He was fearful of being seen with Wulfgeat in case a witness guessed at the dark nature of his purpose. It hung so heavily around his neck that he dared not even look up at his companion. Guilt was tempered with remorse. As soon as he thought of his father and the hatred daily heaped upon the miller, his intent was reaffirmed. Wulfgeat was not just one of the most powerful enemies whose spite had to be endured; he epitomised the attitude of the whole town. In Wulfgeat’s unrelenting acrimony, the boy saw the vindictive face of Bedwyn itself.

“How much farther?” said Wulfgeat.

“Not far.”

“Are you certain you know the way?”

“Yes.”

“And the charter is there?”

“Yes.”

“Safe from this weather?”

“The chest is wrapped and hidden.”

“Did you tell your mother?”

“My mother is dead.”

“Hilda takes her place now,” he said brusquely. “Look to her for comfort. Does she know of this?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You told nobody else?”

The boy shook his head.

“Good.”

They pressed on side by side. Wulfgeat was conscious of the irony of the situation. Nothing in creation would have made him stroll companionably with Alric of Longdon, yet he was now accompanying the boy eagerly along the riverbank. He had no pity or liking for the child. Cild was simply a means to an end and Wulfgeat had bought his cooperation. He did not regret that. The charter would repay him generously.

“Why have you stopped?” he complained.

“I may go no farther.”

“You must take me there.”

“No.”

“I paid you, boy.”

“No.”

“Lead on!”

Wulfgeat grabbed him roughly to shake him into obedience, but the boy’s tears made him stay his hand. Cild was terrified to go farther.

He sobbed his excuses until Wulfgeat came to see his refusal in a more sympathetic way. They had reached the junction of river and stream. Light woodland covered the hill before them. They were patently close to the hiding place itself, but the boy could not bring himself to approach closer. His father had been killed and the spot harboured memories too awful for Cild to confront. Nothing would make him venture one step farther and Wulfgeat had been unwise to resort to force. The boy had his father’s mulish stubbornness. Threaten him again and he might renege on the bargain that had been struck.

“Teach me the way,” said Wulfgeat.

“Follow the line of this stream.”

“How far?”

“Till it goes from sight. Higher up.”

“What do I look for?”

“A yew tree.”

“I see a dozen already from where I stand. How will I know I have the right one?”

“It is by the stream where the water comes out from under the ground. It is split in two.”

“By lightning?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Reach deep into the hollow.”

“That is the hiding place?”

“Your hand will touch a sack.” Cild’s heart was pumping as he rehearsed the execution, but his voice did not betray him. “Untie the cord and thrust your hand right in.”

“The box is there?”

“Box and charter. My father showed me.”

“You have earned your money, Cild.”

“I know.”

“But if you have lied to me …” warned Wulfgeat.

“No, no, I swear it! The sack is in that tree!”

The man could see the boy was speaking the truth. He adjusted his cloak on his shoulders, then followed the trail as he had been directed.

Cild was still shivering with fear when Wulfgeat left him, but it was soon replaced by an evil smirk of anticipation. He had planned it all with care. Only he and his father would ever know what had happened.

Wulfgeat climbed on with awkward steps, cursing the slippery incline and grabbing at roots and branches to steady his ascent. The stream soon vanished, but he could see no yew tree. Had the boy deceived him, after all? But farther up the hill, the water broke through the chalk once more and he was reassured. He grunted on upwards through the dark.

He was out of breath when he reached the yew tree and he rested hard against it for support. Alric Longdon had died here at this hiding-place, but the memory only served to curl his lip. The boy was rightly afraid, but Wulfgeat felt no fear. Where the loathsome miller fell was consecrated ground to him. Wulfgeat peered into the hollow of the tree, then put an inquisitive hand inside. He felt the sack and smiled.

All was as the boy had explained.

He flung off his cloak so that he could untie the sack unencum-bered, but his hands never even reached the twine. As he stretched upwards to fling back the garment, a creature of fur and teeth and claws came leaping from the bushes to bowl him over and snap at his unguarded throat. Wulfgeat was strong, but the force of the attack overpowered him within seconds. His neck and face were eaten vora-ciously away and his twitching carcass soon lay still in a pool of gouting blood.

When Cild crept up on him twenty minutes later, he did not even recognise the man. Nose and eyes had both gone and the head was almost severed from the body. Wulfgeat’s clothing had been ripped apart by claws and one of his hands had been bitten half-away. The boy screamed out in horror.

The wolf of Savernake had another victim.