The Wolves of Savernake

by Edward Marston

  “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 facedown, with his naked body exposed to the view and mercy of Brother Thaddeus. The back and buttocks had already been chafed by the coarseness 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.

  Chapter Six

  RALPH DELCHARD KNEW THE VALUE OF LETTING A ROMANCE FIND ITS OWN PACE. Hasty wooing could frighten a lady away and a protracted period of courtship could mean that desire waned long before its object was achieved. Wide experience of women had given him an intuition that rarely failed him and it was now encouraging him to believe that Ediva, wife of the town reeve, did not wish to waste too much time on the preliminaries. Her husband was away, she was alone, and Ralph was in the town of Bedwyn for only one week in his entire life. This combination of factors dictated a certain speed. Ralph was delighted with this state of affairs.

  “What kind of man is this moneyer?” he asked.

  “Meet him and judge, my lord,” she said.

  “Your husband called him a curious fellow. In what way does this curiosity show itself?”

  Ediva smiled. “I would not spoil the surprise.”

  “This moneyer is a freak?” guessed Ralph. “He has two heads, three arms, and four legs? What monster awaits us?”

  “Eadmer is no monster,” she promised. “Be patient.”

  They were walking past the church on their way to the mint. She was wearing a russet gown and mantle in the style of a Norman lady and the white wimple set off the sculptured beauty of her features. When Ralph Delchard first arrived in England, he had little time for Saxon women and Saxon ways, but twenty years had revised his opinion dramatically. His own wife had been from Coutances and was without compare in his memory, but the finer points of an English lady could now impress themselves very forcibly upon him. Ediva was more than lovely. She was stately and subdued, a woman of quality and intelligence who knew when to speak and exactly what to say. He felt drawn to her more strongly by the second.

  Ediva was a married woman who needed to maintain her respectability. To accompany a stranger through the town would have been unthinkable, but the presence of a female companion gave it the necessary decorum. Two of Ralph’s men marched in their wake to reinforce the sense of decency. Knowing their master of old, they realised what was actually afoot and their eyes glinted either side of their iron nasals. They were practised in their roles.

  “This is the place,” said Ediva at length.

  “Thank you, lady. Will you enter with me?”

  “I will wait for you here, my lord.”

  “But I would prefer your company within,” said Ralph as he raised a roguish eyebrow. “This curious fellow may scare me, and your protection would be gratefully received.”

  She pondered. “Very well,” she consented.

  The woman moved to follow her, but Ediva stopped her with a gesture. The first part of Ralph’s stratagem had worked. He had separated the two of them. The companion was now left alone with the two soldiers, and all three seemed happy with the potentialities of that situation. Even before he had reached the door and knocked, Ralph could hear the other woman laughing as his men began to joke with her.

  A servant opened the door and conducted them w
ithin. They came to a smaller, stouter door that was studded with iron and clad with metal strips. Its lock would have done justice to a dungeon with a large key was needed to turn it from within when the servant pounded on the door. Ralph had sent word of his visit so that the moneyer would be there to receive him. The heavy door swung open on smooth hinges.

  Ralph Delchard stared into an empty room.

  “Where, in God’s name, is the fellow?”

  “He stands before you, my lord.”

  “Where?”

  He looked down and stammered his apologies. Eadmer was curious indeed, a short, bent, wizened creature of fifty or more with a bearded face that sported a reddening nose and a pair of tiny, watchful eyes. A mere six inches in height saved Eadmer from being regarded as a dwarf. He was used to his deficiencies and made light of them. When introductions had been made, he brought the newcomers into his mint and slammed the door. As well as turning the key in the lock, he pushed home two solid bolts, then hooked a chain tightly across the door. A battering ram would have been needed to gain admission.

  Ralph was impressed. “You keep the mint secure.”

  “I would lose my license else.”

  “And your money, good sir.”

  “Thieves lurk everywhere these days,” said Eadmer. “A man may not be too careful with his property or his coin.”

  “I know it well.”

  Ralph placed himself where he could take inventory of the room and its other security arrangements. It was long but narrow and the ceiling was designed more for a person of Eadmer’s stature than of his own. He had to bend his head beneath the low central beam as he looked around. All of the moneyer’s equipment was there. His bench was pitted by long use and his dies stood ready in their tray. Hammers and other tools hung from racks on the wall. Two braziers were smouldering quietly in a corner. Moulds and tongs stood close by. Boxes and sacks which were obviously full did not disclose their contents. Two windows admitted light, but it was severely restricted by the thick iron bars that ran vertically down them. Ralph took a step closer to peer out and saw that the building hung over the river itself. Supported on wooden props, it stood fifteen feet above the waterline. Eadmer had his own moat.

  “I congratulate you,” said Ralph, then turned to the other door on the far side of the room. It was even more barricaded than the first. “What lies behind there?”

  Eadmer gave a hesitant grin. “Money!”

  “You stand over the river like a mill,” observed his guest. “While they grind out flour, you produce coin.”

  The moneyer let out an unexpected peal of laughter. It gave Ralph a moment to weigh their diminutive host. Gnarled and comical he might be, but Eadmer was a man of undoubted standing and wealth. Moneyers worked by royal license and played a fundamental part in the whole structure of royal finance. Their dies were issued centrally in London and they were entitled to keep six silver pennies from every pound that they struck in their respective mints. An industrious man could thus, literally, make a lot of money and further augment it by lending it out at interest. To this end, the more successful moneyers in the larger cities were already developing close and mutually beneficial relationships with goldsmiths. Eadmer was a nugget in himself.

  “You work here alone?” said Ralph.

  “With one assistant, my lord. The other stays at the mint in Marlborough.”

  “There are two so close together?”

  “I am moneyer to them both,” said Eadmer proudly. “In London, you will find a dozen or more mints, each with their moneyer’s name on it. I rule this countryside and my name is legal tender on the face of every coin.”

  “Eadmer is greatly respected,” said Ediva quietly. “My husband speaks highly of his integrity.”

  “He has good cause.” The moneyer enjoyed flattery. “I work on here as I did under King Edward the Confessor, who knew the importance of a stable coinage. King William had made many changes to our country, but he was pleased to leave the mints alone. We know our trade better than the mints in Normandy, which are but two in number, Bayeux and Rouen. Our coins are never debased.”

  Ralph was happy to concede the point. The king had the sense to take over anything that operated efficiently so that he could use it for his own purpose, and the Anglo-Saxons had always understood the significance of an ordered coinage. Monetary reforms were constant and the system had been greatly improved by the time of Hastings. The face of King Harold stared up from coins of almost fifty mints at the time of his death. Conquest devalued him utterly.

  “How may I help you?” said Eadmer.

  “By looking at these,” replied Ralph, taking out the two coins and holding them on his palm. “They are yours?”

  Eadmer peered. “I believe they may well be.”

  “You are not sure?”

  “I go by feel, not sight, my lord. May I?”

  “Please.” Ralph proferred the coins.

  Eadmer selected one and took it to the window to stare at it more closely in the light. He then placed it in his own palm and judged its weight. A third test saw it slipped between his ancient teeth and bitten. He fingered the coin obsessively and clicked his tongue.

  “Well?” said Ralph.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “That does not matter.”

  “It matters to me and to every honest man hereabouts. That coin looks like mine and would pass for mine to most of those who handled it. But I did not make it. It is too light and made of a compound unknown to me.” Eadmer threw back his little shoulders and lifted an indignant chin. “This should be reported to the town reeve.”

  “My husband is away at present,” said Ediva.

  “Send him here as soon as he returns.”

  “I will do so. And promptly.”

  “May I keep this coin, my lord?”

  “If you wish.”

  “It is essential,” said Eadmer seriously. “I have to clear my own name here. Moneyers who turn forgers suffer mutilation or death.” He looked at the coin again with faint disgust. “It is a fitting end for such an offence.”

  Ralph questioned him some more about his trade and the controls under which it operated in Bedwyn and Marlborough. After expressing their gratitude, he and Ediva took their leave and were shown to the front door by the servant. Once outside, they found themselves alone. Laughter from the rear of the mint showed that the soldiers were chatting with the woman beside the river. Ralph looked at her with masculine frankness for the first time and she shed a wife’s enforced humility to stand before him in her own right.

  “When may we meet again?” he whispered.

  “As soon as may be, my lord.”

  “That lies in your choosing, lady.”

  “I’ll send word of time and place.”

  “The evening finds me free.”

  “What of the night?”

  She extended her hand for him to plant a chaste kiss upon it, then she leaned forward to touch his cheek with her lips. Her softness and her delicate fragrance enchanted him even more and he could not wait for the moment of consummation. He heard fresh laughter from his men and a giggle from the woman. Ralph Delchard and Ediva put on their masks again.

  “Lady,” he said respectfully, “allow us to conduct you home again. The evening has been a constant delight to me, but it has yielded all that it may.”

  Gervase Bret arrived at the abbey in the sober attire of his office. He had documents with him and he was admitted by the porter so that he could deliver them to Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. That, at least, was what he had told the monk in the gatehouse, knowing full well that the information would be swiftly relayed to Prior Baldwin. The documents could be handed over later. Other business had to be first discharged. Gervase had timed his appearance well. Vespers was held later in the summer and there was every hope that he might be able to locate Brother Luke before the bell tolled out its command.

  The novice was in the garden, standing outside the empty workshop of Brot
her Peter. Red-rimmed eyes showed that he had wept copiously and his shoulders were bent in dejection.

  “What ails you, Brother Luke?” said Gervase.

  “I suffer another’s pain.”

  “All Christians do that.”

  “Brother Peter has been beaten.”

  Gervase was taken aback. “The kind sacristan? For what offence could such a man be punished?”

  “He has been lax in attendance once or twice.”

  “Is that a matter for harsh sentencing?” said Gervase. “Even the best horse stumbles. You do not thrash it with your whip for one or two mistakes.”

  “There was more beside, master, but I may not tell it. Brother Peter has sworn me to secrecy.”

  “Then I will pry no further.” He glanced around. “Is there some place where we may walk in the garden and talk unobserved? I would value conversation.”

  “And so would I.”

  “Lead on.”

  Novices quickly learned the corners of the abbey where they could hide or seek respite. Brother Luke took him to the farthest edge of the garden where a cluster of crab-apple trees grew in the shade of the abbey wall. They would not easily be seen or interrupted there.

  “Brother Peter is your closest friend, is he not?”

  “My only friend within the enclave.”

  “No, Luke,” said Gervase, slipping easily back into the reflex answers of his monastic days, “you have a friend above who looks down from heaven and pities you.” He put an arm on the youth’s shoulder. “Are you still troubled?”

  “Mightily.”

  “What is Peter’s counsel?”

  “Watch and pray.”

  “But you still wish to leave?”

  “Only to flee my persecutors.”

  “That would leave your dearest friend behind.”

  “I know,” said the boy, sighing. “If I think of myself and am released from my vows, I lose Peter. If I stay here, I will lose my freedom.”

  “To do what?”