Hugh was evasive. “My animals are my concern.”
“Do any of them have the freedom of Savernake?”
“My dogs have keepers who know their occupation.”
“I have hunting dogs myself,” said Ralph. “If they are bred for the chase, they may sometimes chase of their own free will. Let such a creature off the leash and he may kill or maim as viciously as any wolf.”
“That is true,” admitted Hugh. “We have had such a case in our pack before now. When a dog runs amok, I order my men to put it down. There is no place for madness in the kennels of Hugh de Brionne.”
He strode away to the door, then paused as he was struck by a final malignant thought. It produced a leer.
“This new claimant of yours,” he said. “Tell him that I will happily cede the land to him if it will serve to spite the abbey. I’d willingly lose two further hides and half another arm to see that sheep-faced villain of a prior put in his place.”
His laughter was like the howl of a wolf.
Monks were human. Though they aspired to the condition of sainthood, they could reach it only by the mundane paths of their pedestrian abilities. An abbey could not exist simply as a metaphor for God’s purpose. It was a living organism. It had to be fed and watered, clothed and bedded, maintained and improved. An obedientiary might, therefore, have to till fields, cook meals, brew ale, clean plates, fetch rushes, supply hot water, shave heads, provide cowls, change bedding, ring bells, or rehearse the choir to the right sweetness of pitch. Whatever skills a man brought into the enclave were welcomed and employed. There was labour for all arms and work for all minds. No talents were wasted at Bedwyn Abbey.
Brother Peter still bent over his bench to produce fine silverware. Brother Thaddeus still handled a plough with the rough-handed zeal he had shown when he was a farmer. Brother Thomas still sewed and embroidered like the tailor he had once been. And Brother Luke, the robust young novice, still toiled in the bakehouse as his father had taught him. Even when monks were promoted within the house, they found it hard to let their old lives slip entirely away.
“We have been summoned, Matthew.”
“When?” asked the lugubrious subprior.
“Tomorrow morning at ten.”
“We will miss Chapter.”
“That cannot be helped,” said Prior Baldwin. “I have spoken with Abbot Serlo and we have leave to go and face these royal commissioners.”
“Do we know their purpose, Prior Baldwin?”
Baldwin smirked. “We know it and we may refute it.”
“That gladdens my heart,” said Matthew, looking even more miserable than ever. “You talked with Brother Simon?”
“He talked with me.”
The subprior came as near to smiling as he had done in the past five years, but be changed his mind at the very last moment and commuted the smile to a lick of his lips. They were in the scriptorium, the library of the abbey, where patient men with gifted hands sat at their desks to produce the beautiful illuminated manuscripts which adorned the shelves or which went to other parts of the country as cherished gifts. Subprior Baldwin was more patient and gifted than any and his work served to guide all other. If the prior wished to find his assistant, he had merely to open the door of the scriptorium.
“There is another claim,” explained Baldwin.
“To which stretch of land?”
“The two hides we disputed with Hugh de Brionne.”
“But that argument is over and settled.”
“It is now, Matthew.”
“Where is this other claimant?”
“Under six feet of earth in the parish graveyard.”
“Alric Longdon?”
“He will trouble us no more.”
“Then why do the commissioners still call us?”
“A mere formality,” said Baldwin airily. “We may swinge them soundly for taking us away from our holy work and then send them on their way to Winchester once more.”
“What of my lord, Hugh de Brionne?”
“The great black wolf has been chased from the forest.”
“Will he contest that holding once more?”
“He may not. We have the charter to prove it is ours.”
The monks nodded in unison with easy satisfaction. The subprior still wore his mask of sorrow, but it was lit around the edges like a dark cloud with a silver trim. He lifted his hand above the parchment and let it work its magic once more.
They dined at Saewold’s house that afternoon. The town reeve had a comfortable dwelling on the edge of Bedwyn, with land at the front and rear to indicate his status and guarantee him privacy. They sat around a long oak table and feasted on beef, mutton, pork pies, capon, fish, cheese, pastry, blancmange, and fruit tarts. Wine and milk were also served. There were even some oysters for those with a discerning palate.
Gervase Bret was quietly impressed with the house itself, noting its size and furnishings and plate. Canon Hubert confined his admiration to the repast, at first refusing each new dish that was offered, then deigning to find just one more tiny corner in his capacious stomach. Brother Simon was still tormented by his indiscretion in the cloister garth that morning and dared not eat a thing for fear that he would bring it up again out of sheer guilt.
Ralph Delchard saw nothing but Ediva. Struck by her charms at their earlier encounter, he could now study them at his leisure. She bore herself well at table, composed yet merry, and her conversation moved from the light to the serious with no loss of fluency. Ediva was an educated woman in a country where most of her sex were kept ignorant. Ralph began to lose his heart over a plate of oysters.
“You have always lived in Bedwyn?” he asked.
“No, my lord,” she said demurely, “I was born in Warminster and travelled with my father to France and Italy when I was younger.”
“You look well on your voyaging.”
“Would that I could journey so far afield again.”
“Lady, I sense adventure in your soul.”
She said nothing but conveyed a world of meaning with a gesture of her fine-skinned hands. The reeve still burbled.
“Have you concluded your deliberations for the day?” he said with an oleaginous smirk. “Is all well?”
“Yes,” said Brother Simon tamely.
“No,” overruled Canon Hubert.
“We have much more yet to do,” said Gervase.
“And will you call my lord, Alfred of Marlborough?”
Simon winced, Hubert rumbled, and Gervase gave a noncommittal shrug. Saewold knew more than they intended to let him know at this stage. A name which had only been spoken in the presence of Hugh de Brionne had now reached the ears of the town reeve. It made the commissioners treat their host with even more caution. This obliging official who was so anxious to volunteer information could garner it with equal speed. He needed to be watched.
While Saewold went on to divert them with more local gossip, Gervase appraised the man again. The reeve had done well to secure his office and to hold on to it through twenty years of Norman rule. Most Saxons who held positions of authority treated their overlords with a polite respect that masked their inevitable resentment. They obeyed and co-operated because they had no choice in the matter. Saewold dealt successfully with the Normans by doing his best to become one of them. In speech and fashion, he followed his masters and referred condescendingly to his fellow Saxons as if they were an inferior civilisation who had been delivered from their near barbarity by the arrival of a cultural elite from across the Channel. Gervase Bret took the opposite point of view, steadfastly believing, on the evidence of his own experience and observation, that the rich heritage of the Anglo-Saxons was being debased by the cruder values of the invaders. Looking at Saewold now, he saw the man as a rather depressing hybrid who embodied the worst of both cultures. In the next generation or so, Saewolds would populate the whole country like a brood of monstrous children from the forced marriage between Saxon and Norman. Gervase was profou
ndly dejected. The reeve was the face of the future.
“I must tender my apologies,” said their host with an open-armed gesture. “Tomorrow I must ride to Salisbury on important business and may be absent for a few days. I will not be on hand to superintend you here, but I will leave a deputy who will answer for me and render what assistance you may require.”
“We are sorry to lose you,” lied Ralph convincingly, “but we will manage very well without you here.” His mind was on personal rather than royal affairs. “Your help and your hospitality have made our stay in Bedwyn much more pleasant and profitable than might otherwise be the case.”
“Indeed, indeed,” muttered Brother Simon.
“Yes,” decided Canon Hubert. He weighed the excellence of the food against the nuisance of the reeve’s zealous aid and came down in favour of the latter’s departure. “Should we need your advice again, we may send to Salisbury. In the meantime, commend me to my lord, the sheriff.”
“I will, Canon Hubert.”
The meal was over and they rose to leave. Gervase had noted with dismay the blossoming relationship at the other end of the table and he sought to interpose himself between Ralph and Ediva so that no further conference might take place between them. Ralph was forced to take proper notice of his host for the first time and it sparked off another memory. From beneath his mantle, he produced the coins he had salvaged from the stream in the forest and showed them to Saewold.
“Do you recognise these, sir?” he asked.
“I do,” said the reeve confidently. “Those coins were made here in Bedwyn. And recently, too, to judge by their shine. Few hands have soiled these. But they are ours.”
“Can you be so certain?”
“I would know the work of our moneyer anywhere.” He pointed to the markings on the face of the coin. “See here, my lord. This indicates where it was made and this is Eadmer’s signature.”
“Where is your mint?”
“Close by the church. It backs on to the river.”
“And your moneyer? What name did you call him?”
“Eadmer. A curious fellow but skilful at his trade.”
“I would meet with this Eadmer soon.”
“My man will guide you to him.”
“No, Husband,” said Ediva with a natural poise which took all hint of impropriety from the offer. “I will conduct my lord to the place at his leisure.”
Ralph Delchard smiled. He could kill two birds with one stone. It was arranged as easily as that.
“Father,” she implored, “I ask this but as a favour to me.”
“It may not be granted, child.”
“Would you deny a heart-felt plea?”
“It falls on deaf ears.”
“They are in distress and suffer dreadful pain.”
“Let the abbey look to them,” said Wulfgeat. “It is more suited to the relief of sorrow than my house.”
“Will you not show pity to a poor widow and child?”
“I pity them, Leofgifu, but I will not take them in.”
Wulfgeat was poring over his account book when his daughter came to see him, and the fact of her interruption was made more annoying by its nature. Leofgifu wished to bring the widow and son of the late Alric Longdon into their home so that she could sustain them through their mourning. Wulfgeat resisted the idea strongly. He was not unkind and was capable of an astonishing generosity at times, but he drew the line at helping the relatives of an enemy.
He was forthright. “I hated Alric,” he said.
“That is no reason to hate his wife and child.”
“They are tarred with his ignominy.”
“What harm have they ever done to you?”
“None at all,” he confessed, “but there was no need. Alric caused enough harm for all three of them. The rogue cheated me out of fifty marks and threatened to take me to court over another matter he thrust upon me.”
“Why, then, did you do business with such a man?”
“His price was cheap and his sacks full of good flour. If this miller had stuck to his mill, I would have no quarrel, but he grew avaricious and wanted more than his due.”
“Hilda had no part in this.”
“She profited by his foul deception.”
“Where is the profit in a dead husband?”
Leofgifu spoke with unexpected vehemence. She had always been a dutiful daughter who bowed herself to her father’s will, but here was something which even she could not accept without protest. Her father—like so many in the town of Bedwyn—may have loathed and distrusted Alric, but she hoped that loathing would not pursue him beyond the grave. Wulfgeat’s own bereavement should have taught him the value of tenderness and concern, for it was what now bonded father and daughter. Within the last year, her father had lost his wife and Leofgifu had lost both mother and husband. In returning to live at home, she found a softness and a vulnerability about Wulfgeat that she had never known before, and it had drawn them ever closer. Adversity had deepened their love and understanding. It hurt her, therefore, when he was unable to show that same love and understanding now.
“Have you so soon forgotten?” she pressed.
“Peace, child. You touch on my pain.”
“It is shared by a wife and child,” she argued. “They have no one else to turn to at this time. The abbey has opened its doors, but a community of monks can never offer the special solace that a family can which welcomes them into its bosom.” She put her hands on his table and leaned down at him. “Let me be more plain, sir. Hilda needs the company of a woman. I can be of use in her travail.”
“Then visit her at the abbey.”
“Invite her here.”
“I am the master of this house and I refuse.”
“Then I will no longer stay beside you.”
Wulfgeat was shocked. “Leofgifu!”
“I have been obedient in all else, Father, even when my heart counselled against it. But this time, I will not submit to your rule.” She straightened her back and lifted her chin to show her firmness of purpose. “Hilda and the boy beg for help. If you will not give it, I will find a way on my own.”
“You would leave your home?”
“If I find such cruelty here, I will.”
“Leofgifu …”
“My mind is set. They need our Christian charity.”
Wulfgeat was deeply troubled. He got up from his seat and came around the table to offer his arms, but she pulled away. His daughter’s intensity was so uncharacteristic that it took him unawares and he was unable to cope with it. He moved about the room and fingered his beard as he searched for a compromise which would content her yet leave his feelings in the matter quite unchanged. He came to a halt.
“We will give them money,” he suggested.
“They need love not alms.”
“But we will pay for their lodging, Leofgifu.”
“They have lodging enough,” she pointed out. “If that were all their need, they could stay at the abbey or return to the mill itself. It is not just a room that they require. It is a woman who comprehends their misery and who can make that room a place of comfort.”
They faced each other across a widening gap. Both feared the horror of separation, yet neither could find the way to prevent it. Wulfgeat made a last attempt at exerting his paternal authority.
“They will not come and you will not leave,” he said.
“I am not at your command.”
“A daughter must be subject to her father.”
“I am subject to no man,” she insisted, her eyes blazing. “When you gave me to my husband, you gave him the right that you now urge. I served him like a loving wife and grieve for him still. But I will not give allegiance to you or any man on earth.” She spun on her heel. “I will make arrangements to quit your house today.”
“Stay!” he appealed. “I need you here beside me.”
“Others have a stronger claim.”
“Hold there, Leofgifu!”
> She had opened the door, but the anguish in his voice made her stop and turn. He looked as fierce and unyielding as ever, but there were tears in his eyes. Leofgifu met his gaze without flinching. Throughout her life, she had asked so little of him that she felt entitled to make this one demand even if it tore them both apart. Imperceptibly, his coldness began to thaw.
“How long would they stay?” he murmured.
“As long as they find it necessary.”
“I would not wish to see them myself.”
“Nor will you,” she promised. “The house is large and they will need small space. I’ll keep them close by me. Your presence would distress them only the more.”
“I despised that man!”
“Do not punish them for his offence.”
Wulfgeat wandered around the room once more and punched a fist into the palm of the other hand. A man whose command had ruled his house for decades could not easily receive an order himself, but then he had never been challenged from such an unprecedented quarter.
“You may fetch them both here, Leofgifu.”
“Thank you, Father!” She ran to him to bestow a kiss.
“They are your responsibility,” he warned. “I will pay to feed them and house them, but you must supply all else.”
“Indeed I shall.”
“They may come here tomorrow.”
“Why delay?” she said, pressing home her triumph. “I will hurry to the abbey now and secure their release. They will be here within the hour.”
She flitted out of the room before he could stop her. Wulfgeat heaved a sigh. His own wife would never have stood up to him the way that his daughter had just done. He had to respect her for that. It was ironic. Wulfgeat was rightly feared by all in Bedwyn for his iron will and a fierce Saxon pride that would not even moderate itself in the presence of his Norman rulers. Few would dare to cross him in argument and fewer still live to boast that they had bested him. Yet he now lay completely routed and the person who had accomplished the feat was no fellow-burgess who could roar even louder than he. It was the mildest young woman in the town and the only thing in life that he still truly loved.
Brother Thaddeus did not spend all his time chained to one of the abbey ploughs or fetching in the harvest. His strong muscles were put to other service in Bedwyn Abbey. As he strolled into Savernake Forest that evening, it was this secondary employment that was on his mind. A brawny man of middle height, he had a big, shapeless, weather-beaten face that seemed at odds with the careful tonsure above it. As he stumped through the undergrowth on huge and undiscriminating feet, he sang snatches of the Mass to himself and looked about him. He reached a grove of birch trees but rejected them on sight. They had the soft downy twigs that were hopeless for his purpose. He snapped a branch off idly and cast it to the ground. It had too much mercy in it.
The Wolves of Savernake Page 7