The Wolves of Savernake

by Edward Marston

  Luke shrugged. “I do not know.”

  “Consider it well before you decide.”

  They heard voices and moved a few yards farther into their hiding place. The voices passed and they could resume.

  “Why did you leave Eltham Abbey?”

  Gervase looked into the open face of the novice and saw himself. His dilemma had been exactly that of Brother Luke except in one particular. To win the boy’s confidence and to gain his help, Gervase knew that he would have to tell the truth. Even now, the confession could still touch off the pangs of guilt.

  “I loved a woman.”

  “While you were still a novice?”

  “She lived nearby the abbey. I saw her often.”

  “But we take vows of chastity here.”

  “I found that commitment too final a one to make.”

  Brother Luke looked uncomfortable, as if the same problem was vexing him but he was not able to share it. Instead, he asked for more detail, and Gervase supplied it with some misgivings. To talk of his precious Alys was always a source of immense pleasure, but it was soured a little by the present circumstance. He was not sure whether he was tempting Luke to flee from the order or convincing him that love of a woman was a sinful condition. What was certain was the rapt attention he was given. Luke was taking a first full and unequivocal look into a world to which he had been so far denied entry. Gervase was honest in the way that Brother Peter was honest. They answered his questions directly and did not obstruct or evade.

  Gervase now sought his own supply of information.

  “Brother Peter is surely not your only kind face in the abbey,” he began. “What of the other novices?”

  “They are too serious or too stupid for my liking.”

  “Abbot Serlo?”

  “A blessed man, but he has no dealings with me.”

  “Prior Baldwin?”

  “I fear him the most after Brother Thaddeus.”

  “Why?”

  Luke talked freely about life within the confines of the abbey and described, without realising it, the whole political structure of the house. His comments on both prior and subprior had a youthful rawness to them, but their spirit accorded with Gervase’s own observations. He eased the boy along until the latter was reminded of some happier incidents during his novitiate, talking himself into an appreciation of the values of the monastic life. Gervase heard him out until the bell for Vespers chimed. Brother Luke started. After the punishment meted out to Brother Peter, he did not want to be found wanting.

  Gervase strolled back towards the church with him so that he could put a last few questions.

  “Who is the oldest monk at the abbey?”

  “The oldest?” Luke shrugged. “Brother John.”

  “Was he born in this area?”

  “Not far from Burbage, I believe.”

  “What age would he be?”

  “Oh, ancient,” said the other. “I could not guess at his exact years, but he is weak and bedridden. The infirmarian sees Brother John the most. Seek of him.”

  “Have you met this reverend old gentleman yourself?”

  “Yes, master. All the novices are presented to him when they join the house. Brother John tells us of the joys of the Benedictine rule and is living proof of its goodness. His body may be broken, but his mind is as clear as ever.”

  “Thank you, Brother Luke,” said Gervase. “Go in to Vespers. Say a prayer for Brother Peter and meditate on your own confusion of heart.”

  The novice squeezed his arm in gratitude, then broke into a run as the last few monks converged on the church. Gervase now had the information he needed.

  * * *

  Having escorted Ediva back to her home, Ralph Delchard and his two knights were still in the town when the commotion started. Men who had been given a name by Wulfgeat had now had a whole day to brood on it. Some had taken ale; some were intoxicated with revenge. All of them could wait no longer to bring the malefactor to justice. Arming themselves and gathering more people as they went along, they met in the market square at Bedwyn before riding off into the twilight.

  “What’s afoot?” Ralph asked of a passer-by.

  “They know the killer of Alric Longdon,” said the man.

  “A wolf?”

  “No, my lord. A dog that can savage like a wolf.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “The Witch of Crofton.”

  “Who?”

  “Emma is her name. She can weave spells.”

  “Can you be sure her dog was responsible?”

  “No question of it, my lord.”

  “What proof do you have?”

  “A stranger rode into the town this afternoon. He met Emma on the road and stopped to speak to her. He says the beast attacked him and would have torn his throat out if he had not run away.” The man pointed after the horsemen. “They ride to Crofton to put an end to this terror we all feel.”

  Ralph had seen an enraged mob before and he knew how easily it could get out of hand. Though there was a number of respectable burgesses in the pack, it also contained more headstrong and violent characters. Whatever this Emma had done or not done, her chances of a fair hearing were non-existent. The best Ralph could do was to prevent bloodshed. He barked an order to his men and the three of them were soon leaping into their own saddles. It was not difficult to pick up the trail of the fury that thundered ahead of them.

  Wulfgeat took no part in the communal vengeance and he was distressed to be its author. Emma’s dog might well have been the killer, but that did not necessarily mean that she had set it on to do the deed. It was often seen roaming on the edges of Savernake and was dispatched with a loud curse or a hurled stone. If the dog had strayed into the forest on the evening in question, its attack on the miller might have been a random act of madness or even provoked by his antagonism to the beast. A man who can beat a woman black-and-blue would not hold back his foot from kicking her dog.

  There was another element in the situation which made Wulfgeat pause and showed him again how little he really knew and understood his only child. Leofgifu was alarmed when she heard how the other men had reacted that morning to the possibility—no more than that at this stage—that Emma of Crofton was implicated here, and she confessed for the first time that she had turned in extremity to the fearsome woman whom everyone called a witch. When her husband was slowly dying from a wasting disease, no doctor could find a medicine to soften his pain. It became so unbearable that he was ready to try anything, and Leofgifu sent to Crofton. Emma was quick to come and quicker still to prescribe a special potion for Leofgifu’s husband. His condition did not improve, but the pain faded away completely.

  “If that is witchcraft,” Leofgifu had said, “then I welcome it, Father. My husband had suffered so much.”

  Those words were spoken at the start of the day. As it drew to its close, Wulfgeat and his daughter stood at the window and watched the horses ride past. The dog would be hacked down before its mistress was even allowed to defend it. Emma of Crofton was an eccentric and unappealing woman who eked out a life that disgusted God-fearing folk, but she did have someone to share her squalid and lonely life. That partner was about to be cruelly taken from her and she herself not spared.

  “Stop them, Father,” begged Leofgifu.

  “It is too late, child.”

  “Go after them and turn them back.”

  “They would not listen to me.”

  “Emma of Crofton may not be guilty,” she urged. “And even if she is, this is no civilised way to deal with her. Why does it take all those men to converse with an unarmed woman and her dog? That is bravery indeed!”

  “They fear her witchcraft.”

  “My husband did not.”

  “Alric Longdon was killed,” he reminded her.

  “Yes,” she retorted, cheeks aflame, “and there is not a man who gallops in that party who is not pleased with the death. They hated the miller and showed it in ways that beggar description.
His widow has told me all.”

  “She also told you that Emma had put a curse on him.”

  “Would you not curse a man who beat you soundly?”

  “A witch’s spell can murder any man.”

  “Then why has she not murdered fifty or more who have reviled her these past years? Emma may be innocent.”

  “The widow does not think so.”

  “She speaks in sorrow and anger,” said Leofgifu. “Hilda and the boy are in despair. Their man has been taken away. She named Emma, but she has no proof.”

  “Nor will they try to find it when they reach Crofton.”

  “Her appearance alone will condemn her.”

  Wulfgeat nodded and plucked nervously at his beard. He had been too swift to throw the name to the others. More evidence should first have been gathered against her and in a more discreet way. Wulfgeat was a hard man, but he prided himself on being a fair one. Setting a crazed mob on a lonely woman could not be construed as an act of fairness. He raised his shoulders in apology, but Leofgifu would not be appeased by that. If Emma and the dog were destroyed by the selfappointed posse, then she herself would be partly to blame for entrusting her father with what she had heard from the miller’s widow. Another thought twisted a knife within her. Supposing that both woman and animal were subsequently cleared of blame when the real culprit was caught? Leofgifu and her father would be chained by guilt for the rest of their days.

  “How can I make amends?” asked Wulfgeat.

  “Speak to Hilda yourself.”

  “No,” he refused. “That is asking too much. To give them shelter is one thing. But you promised me that I would never have to see either of them. Stand by your word.”

  “Things have changed,” said Leofgifu. “See her, Father.”

  “What purpose is served?”

  “A form of reconciliation. It is bad enough to lose a husband without being spurned by everyone who hated him. We are the only place who would take her in, save the abbey.” She moved across to clutch his arm. “Listen to her for my sake. She rambles in her speech, but you will have a clearer understanding of it than I. It is not just his death that she talks about but the land that is now disputed before the commission.”

  “What land?” he said.

  “Two hides alongside the river. Their mill stands on part of it. The abbey claims the holding.”

  “And so does Hugh de Brionne.”

  “There is a new voice raised,” said Leofgifu. “She tried to tell me why but lost her way in tears. All I did gather was this. It was Alric who summoned the commissioners by letter. He started this debate.”

  Wulfgeat pondered. Fierce arguments over land were part of normal life in a town like Bedwyn. Boundary disputes had enlivened its temper for hundreds of years. Each time they were settled, they were redrawn; each time a new disposition was accepted, along would come Viking or Dane or rebel Saxon to redefine it again. Edward the Confessor’s reign saw yet another shift in property, confirmed during the brief reign of Harold, but the whole process was started once again by the Normans. Ownership was at times a lottery. After the Conquest, when the invaders shared out the spoils of war, Wulfgeat had lost holdings of his own to the abbey and to Hugh de Brionne. It was a wound that had festered ever since. He had been dispossessed. If Hilda knew anything that might challenge the rights of a Norman abbot and a Norman lord, he was very anxious to hear it. There might be personal advantage for him as well as deep satisfaction. He assessed the implications of the new situation. Undying hatred of the miller fought with bald self-interest.

  “I will see her,” he decided.

  They came out of the half-darkness at a mad gallop and descended the hill with reckless abandon. Emma heard them when they were half a mile away and she came out of her hovel to see what produced the frightening noise. Forty or more horsemen were swarming towards her and they had surrounded the whole property before she could even guess at their purpose. As they reined in their mounts, they formed a menacing circle that slowly began to close. The dog stood protectively in front of its mistress and growled its defiance. A spear sank into the ground only inches away from the animal and Emma recoiled in alarm.

  “What do you want?” she cried.

  “The killer,” answered a spokesman.

  “There is no killer here.”

  “That dog of yours was sent to murder Alric Longdon.”

  “He never leaves my side.”

  “You put a curse on the miller.”

  “He beat me till I bled,” she retorted.

  “And so will we,” shouted another voice that was met with a rousing cheer. “Why do we stay our hands?”

  It was a signal for the ring of hatred to tighten around them at a faster pace. A second spear all but hit the dog and a third grazed Emma’s fat arm as it passed. The men began to chant, the dog began to bark, and the whole night seemed to fill with pandemonium. The Witch of Crofton and her miserable cur would be put down without mercy. A first sword was lifted to strike.

  “Hold!”

  Ralph Delchard’s cry cut through the din as he came charging down the hill with his two men riding behind him. His appearance was so sudden and unexpected that some of the men thought that he and his knights were devils from hell who had been summoned to help the witch. Yells of fear went up. A few took flight at once. Others backed away out of caution. Horses bucked and neighed to add to the general chaos and the dog barked on with renewed frenzy.

  Ralph’s destrier cleared a path through the angry mob and came to a halt beside Emma. His men joined him and the three formed a triangle around her.

  “Who speaks for you?” demanded Ralph sternly.

  “I,” said a voice in the gloom.

  “Show your face if you have courage to do so.”

  “Keep out of this,” ordered the man, remaining in the shadows. “You have no quarrel here.”

  “Forty men against a solitary woman is not a quarrel. It is a cowardly massacre and I will not allow it.”

  “Stand aside!” roared another voice.

  “Yes!” supported a third, drawing strength from the over-whelming odds. “You will not save this witch. Stand aside or Norman blood will run.”

  This threat produced an ear-splitting shout of agreement. Ralph Delchard answered it immediately. His sword jumped into his hand, his horse reared up on its hind legs, and his challenge rang out across the field.

  “If any man dare try me, here I am!”

  Several riders inched their horses forward to take a closer look at him, then changed their minds at once. Here was no common townsman who wielded a sword or spear perhaps once in six months. Ralph was a seasoned warlord with twenty years of action behind him. He had killed his way into England with the rest of the Norman invaders and he thrived on battle. There were enough of them to overpower him, but he would reduce their numbers drastically in the process. His men were trained soldiers, too, and they kept their horses prancing on their hooves and ready for any encounter.

  Three men around a shivering woman and a barking dog. Who would strike the first blow or show the first sign of weakness? Both sides glared at each other for a long time.

  “Give up this woman to us,” called the spokesman.

  “She has my arm to guard her.”

  “The woman is a witch.”

  “Even witches must stand trial in courts of law.”

  “We are a court of law!” he attested.

  But the supportive yell was patchy and half-hearted. Ralph took his destrier in a circle so that he could taunt them and put them to shame.

  “Go home to your wives,” he advised. “Tell them what heroes you have been tonight. Boast about the woman you almost killed and the dog you all but slaughtered. Away with you all! Tell them how three Normans got the better of forty Saxons. Yes, you sturdy warriors, you have done noble work this day. Begone!”

  There were token protests, but the heat and impetus had been taken out of the raid. Emma and the dog were an easy
target on their own. Protected by Ralph and his men-at-arms, they were a different proposition, and however much the Saxons loathed the Norman usurpers, they had been taught to respect their military supremacy and the merciless swiftness of any reprisals. If a royal commissioner was cut down in cold blood with his men, a whole army would sally forth from Winchester to exact the most damning revenge. King William would not rest until every one of them had been hunted down and hanged.

  “Well?” roared Ralph. “Will you fight or flee?”

  There were some token jibes from the men, but they gradually drifted away and set off at a trot back towards Bedwyn. Ralph had savoured the excitement. Sheathing his sword, he jumped down from the saddle to introduce himself to Emma of Crofton. She was suffused with gratitude and the dog added a whining note of thanks.

  Danger was over for a while. Ralph could take a closer look at this supposed witch. He grinned amiably, then saw the trickle of blood upon her arm. Gallantry and concern now prompted him. “That wound needs dressing, lady. Let us go inside….”

  * * *

  While a meeting was taking place between an outcast Saxon woman and a Norman lord, an even more unlikely encounter occurred at Wulfgeat’s house. He consented to meet and talk to Hilda, widow of the deceased miller and thus his natural enemy. Her grief was quite disarming. As soon as he walked into the little room, he realised that she posed no threat and harboured no hostility. Hilda was curled up into a ball of misery in the corner, clutching her stepson for support and trying to make sense of what had happened to them both. She was so pathetically grateful to him for extending the hospitality of his home that he felt embarrassed he had not been courteous enough to welcome her before.

  Leofgifu was with him and her gentle presence was a balm to the guests. Where her father might have disturbed Hilda with the urgency of his questions, Leofgifu was a model of patience and tact. She took time to get the woman talking before she let Wulfgeat join the conversation. When she had married the miller, Hilda had indeed been beautiful, but her charms had been buried along with her husband. Her face was now so white, pinched, and fraught that she looked fifteen years older. Wulfgeat’s compassion rose, but he found it dry up when he turned to the boy, only nine but the image of his father. Cild was a hardy child whose young muscles were already used to work and strain. He not only had Alric’s pallor and bovine ugliness, but there was the same sullen stare in the eyes. Cild could already nurse resentment with the slow intensity of an adult.