The Wolves of Savernake

by Edward Marston

  Other twigs cracked nearby and he paused to listen. He was being watched. By what or by whom, he did not know, but he sensed at once that he was under surveillance. Stopping as casually as he could, he picked up the fallen branch and pretended to examine it while trying to work out exactly where the sound had originated. When he was confident of direction, he tapped the branch gently against a tree, then turned without warning to fling it with venom at the watching creature. His aim was close enough. There was a scramble in the bushes and the sound of flight. Thaddeus pulled the sharp knife from his scrip and thundered after the noise, but all he managed to see was a flash of matted brown hair as it scuttled into oblivion.

  Panting with his exertions, he stopped to recover his breath and to wonder what it was that he had seen. He recalled the dead body he had helped to carry in from the forest and guessed at some connection with this phantom animal. His lumbering pursuit brought one consolation. He was now standing beside another birch and one more fitted to his needs. Thaddeus grinned, the knife slashed, and he gathered up a handful of the harsh, rough twigs. He took a great swipe at the trunk itself and left it scarred with the power of his arm.

  Brother Thaddeus was happy. When he got back to the abbey, he would be fully equipped to administer correction to any wrongdoers. It was a pleasing way to serve God.

  Gervase Bret still occasionally felt that lust for solitude which had drawn him to the monastic life in his youth, though not always from the same promptings. Time alone meant time to think of his beloved Alys back in Winchester and to rehearse the speech with which he would next greet her. He missed her more each time mat they were parted, but the king’s work had to be done and that meant constant travel away from the Treasury. Domesday Book was a prodigious undertaking and the commissioners who had visited the various circuits had been as rigorous in their researches as they could, but the very speed of their enquiry told against them, for their returns were full of minor errors, strange inconsistencies, deliberate lies, patent malpractices, and clear evidence of criminal behaviour. Gervase Bret and his colleagues would be months on the road before their work of detection and arrest was fully completed. Alys would have to pine for him in Winchester.

  Time alone also meant time away from Ralph Delchard. The closeness of their friendship became an aggravation whenever Ralph found a new woman to court and conquer. Apart from scandalising the faithful Gervase, it drew attention to the exigencies in his own romance and increased his sense of yearning. If he could do nothing to stop Ralph’s pursuit of Ediva, the wife of the town reeve, he would not encourage it by letting his friend talk interminably about his carnal ambitions. On this issue, if on no other, they neither thought nor acted as one.

  Gervase mixed seclusion with curiosity. Instead of walking aimlessly near the hunting lodge, he headed for the river and strolled along its bank towards the disputed land which had brought them down on Bedwyn. It was a most pleasant walk in the warm evening air and his eyes remained alert to take in every change and beauty of the landscape. His mind, however, shifted to other things. Bidding farewell to Alys, his thoughts turned back to the bizarre experience on Salisbury Plain when he had looked on Stonehenge for the first time. It affected his whole perception of himself and the world in which he lived and he was exercised by the notion, if not the certainty, that the circle of stones on the plain was the work of an intelligence and a faith that went back thousands of years to the dawn of time. He was still trying to divine its mysteries and to pluck some meaning from its fractured magnificence when he saw the mill.

  He knew that it had belonged to Alric Longdon, because its wheel had been stopped. It was a low, squat, ramshackle construction, with the cottage leaning against it for support like a child clutching the skirts of its mother. Yet it was well situated to catch the best of the current and its wheel gained further advantage from a primitive sluicegate which had been installed a little farther upstream. In times of drought, when the river level dropped, the gate could be partially closed to restrict the channel and quicken the surge. Alric Longdon was an astute miller who knew how to exploit nature to the full. His sluice-gate was the only one in Bedwyn because his rivals were deterred from following his example by the heavy cost of the enterprise.

  Gervase Bret was mesmerised. What had made a lovely young woman like Hilda share her life with an unpopular man in the deafening roar of his mill? How had the ugly creature he had seen in the mortuary chapel met and married such a wife? What did they talk about in the isolation of their home? How did they pass their days and spend their nights? These and other questions crowded into his mind, to be expelled at once and replaced by a much more immediate query: Who was this?

  For the mill was not as neglected and uninhabited as it appeared. Someone was at the window. The figure disappeared from view, then emerged again from the door. He turned to slam it shut and lock it with a key, testing it to make sure that it was sound. The key vanished into the man’s scrip and his tonsured head vanished into his hood. With swift and sandalled feet, he hurried off in the direction of the abbey and was soon blending with the shadow of the trees.

  Gervase watched it all with surprised interest. There was something about the man’s manner which suggested defeat and annoyance, as if he had entered the building in search of an object which he never found. While Gervase could only speculate on his purpose, he was certain of his identity. He had met this man before. Gervase was too far away to recognise the face but close enough to observe the stance and gait of the visitor. Those years spent in Eltham Abbey had taught him how to distinguish monk from monk even when they were hooded and bowed. Each man moved in a different way, knelt in a different way, and prayed in a different way. This tall and longstriding prelate declared himself as clearly as if he had yelled out his own name.

  It was Prior Baldwin.

  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. “W
e 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 socalled 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 timetable, 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 representatives 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 wo
rldly 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 foreknowledge. “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.”