The Wolves of Savernake (Domesday Series Book 1)

by Edward Marston

  “Simple guesswork, sir.”

  “And the power of prayer,” added Matthew.

  “Yes,” said Ralph sharply. “You prayed that one of us would let fall a hint of today’s business.” His eye flicked to Brother Simon. “It appears that one of us did so.”

  “Abbot Serlo needs us,” resumed Baldwin airily, “so we would not be detained long here. Brother Matthew will show you this document to affirm our right. You can verify our claim, put these two hides to rest, and let us return to our spiritual duties at the abbey.”

  The subprior had the parchment in his hand at once and unrolled it to spread it on the table. He and Baldwin then sat back with the satisfaction of men who are certain they have just won the day. They could boast about it over dinner with Abbot Serlo. Ralph Delchard gave the document a cursory glance and passed it to Gervase Bret. The latter pored over it intently as Hubert picked up his theme.

  “There is another claimant to this land.”

  “The lord of the manor of Chisbury has been ousted.”

  “I speak of a third voice.”

  “Then let us hear it now.”

  “That is difficult,” conceded Brother Simon.

  “Be quiet, man,” reproved Hubert, “you have said more than enough already. Silentium est aurium.”

  Simon accepted the rebuke with a meek nod. There would be further castigation to face from the canon, and he was not looking forward to it. He sagged penitentially.

  It was Baldwin’s turn to crow. “Brother Simon touches on the truth of the matter. No claimant, no dispute. Unless you wish to dig him up from the churchyard and ask him to recite his argument. The abbey will not be dispossessed by a dead miller.” He rose to go. “May we please depart?”

  “No,” said Ralph.

  “But Alric Longdon will not appear.”

  “He does not need to, Prior Baldwin,” said Hubert with a shrug. “He is not himself the claimant.”

  Complacence was wiped from the countenance opposite.

  “Then who is?” demanded Baldwin, sitting down.

  “His wife.”

  “Hilda?”

  “Even she.”

  “But she made no mention of this,” whined the prior. “I spoke with her but yesterday and she talked only of her husband’s charter. The poor woman was beside herself with grief, but she would know the difference between what belongs to her husband and what to her. Would she not?”

  Gervase continued to peruse the document but solved a little mystery at the same time. Prior Baldwin had been to the mill to search for the charter. Having inveigled the key from the widow, he let himself into their home, intent on finding and destroying evidence of another’s claim to abbey lands. Fortunately, he left empty-handed.

  Matthew came to the help of his beleaguered prior.

  “If the woman has a claim, why did she not make it in front of the first commission?”

  “Because she did not live in Bedwyn at the time. Alric had not then married her. Hilda—or her father, to be more precise—made their sworn statements to the commissioners of the Worcestershire circuit.”

  “Worcestershire?” repeated Matthew.

  “Hilda lived in Queenhill. You know the place?”

  “No,” snarled Baldwin, “and do not wish to know it.”

  “You will come to,” promised Hubert. “Queenhill is a pretty village among several in the area. They include Berrow, Pendock, Ripple, Castlemorton, Bushley, and—”

  “We need no lessons in geography,” said Baldwin.

  “Plainly, you do.” Hubert gave the professional smile of an executioner who has just been handed his weapon to carry out a sentence. “Castlemorton, Bushley—and Longdon.”

  Baldwin and Matthew froze. “Longdon?” they chorused.

  “It is where Alric’s father was born,” explained the canon. “Hence his name. Alric Longdon. He took it out of loyalty to his father, as you will hear in time.”

  The prior fought hard to recover. “None of this is germane if the miller is dead. What do we care about his parentage? It has no bearing here.”

  “But it does. It is the key to the whole affair.”

  “How?”

  “All will be explained.”

  “This is most perplexing,” said Baldwin, then opted for a frontal attack. “Does the widow possess a charter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have this document?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then you have no case.”

  “And we may go back to the abbey,” said Matthew.

  “Not so fast,” warned Hubert. “We may not have the charter itself, but we have a fair copy.”

  “A copy is worthless,” said Baldwin.

  “Alfred of Marlborough did not think so. When it was shown to him, he supported every word of it. We are duty-bound to take seriously the oath of such a man as he.”

  Baldwin and Matthew were writhing about like two eels caught in a net. They were confounded. Hubert enjoyed the sight before prodding them with an invisible spear.

  “You have been lazy,” he mocked. “You are not well informed enough to carry your argument. You prepare to fight against Alric, and his widow is your opponent. You think that we have come here for two hides of land, when it is the entire estate of Bedwyn Abbey that we question. If there is one act of deception, there may be a hundred more. This is not a casual enquiry that we make here. You are on trial.”

  “I will not suffer any more of this!” exclaimed the prior, trying to bluster his way out. “We have a charter and the other claimant does not. The law is on our side, the first commissioners are on our side, God is on our side.” He stood once more and restated his case. “Dispute is irrelevant. We have the charter.”

  Gervase Bret looked up with a smile and nodded.

  “Yes, Prior Baldwin,” he said, “you have the charter. But that will not advantage you in the least.”

  “Why not?”

  “The document is a complete forgery.”

  Brother Luke’s doubts about his future continued to grow. It made him preoccupied and careless. He was distracted during his lessons and the master of the novices upbraided him sternly in front of his fellows. Sarcasm has a cutting edge, and it was a lacerated Brother Luke who sought out his one true friend at the abbey. Brother Peter was in his little workshop near the stables, crouched over his brazier as he heated something up and added a dry turf to bring the blaze to the right temperature. Luke knocked on the door and entered, only to be struck by the force of the heat in the confined space. Peter smiled a welcome, the perspiration glistening on his brow and turning his tonsured head into a veritable mirror.

  Busy as he was, Peter sensed the greater needs of his young charge and put his work aside instantly. He sat Luke down and let him pour out his troubles at will, hearing of qualms and fears that he himself had experienced when he first entered the abbey. He told the novice how he had wrestled with them and finally overcome all reservation.

  “Do you have no regrets, Peter?”

  “None at all, save one.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I wish I had been a postulant at your age.”

  “Truly?”

  “The world coarsened me, Luke.”

  “But how?”

  “It dragged me down; it snared me in temptation. It gave me a trade— I practice it here, as you see—but my life was empty and wasted. It had neither form nor direction until I came here. Abbot Serlo was my salvation.”

  Brother Luke winced. “I feel he is my gaoler.”

  “Our holy father is a blessed man.”

  “You may say that, Peter, because you have come through the torment, but I still suffer it. I still yearn for my freedom. I still toss and turn at night.”

  Peter shook his head. “You are wrong. There is torment here still for me and I must endure it.” He glanced in the direction of the abbot’s quarters. “I have an audience with Abbot Serlo soon and he will take confession.”
r />   “But you have no sins on your conscience.”

  “Indeed I do, Brother Luke.”

  “May I know what they are?”

  “You see one right in front of you.”

  “This workshop?”

  “I serve the Lord in my own way but neglect my other duties. I have missed services in church and been lax in the sacristy of late. Brother Paul, the subsacristan, has hidden my misdeeds and made excuse for my absences, but someone else has reported me to Father Abbot.”

  Luke was shocked. “You will be punished?”

  “Severely. I deserve no less.”

  “But you are sacristan.”

  “Then I should dignify my office, not let it slip.”

  “No brother in the abbey labours more than you.”

  “It is true,” agreed Peter, “but my work conflicts with my allotted tasks. I come here instead of to the sacristy. I leave the dormitory at night to find more time at my bench.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Shall I show you?”

  The boyish face lit up. “You are making something?”

  “My finest piece of work.”

  “Let me see it. Please let me see it.”

  “Nobody else must know.”

  “I can keep a secret, Brother Peter. Trust me.”

  Peter closed the door in case anyone should chance to pass, then he took a key from his scrip to unlock a drawer in the workbench. Something large and heavy was lifted out with reverential care and laid down on the wooden service where it could catch the morning light through the window. The object was wrapped in an old sheet, and Peter lifted back the folds with delicate movements of his hands. When Brother Luke finally beheld it, his eyes moistened with emotion.

  “A crucifix!”

  “Silver-plated, with an enamel Saviour.”

  “It is beautiful, Peter! Such workmanship.”

  “Wait till it is finished.”

  “Abbot Serlo will not correct you for making this,” said Luke earnestly. “He will fall to his knees and give thanks for your goodness.”

  Peter smiled soulfully. “I think not.”

  The silversmith put the crucifix away and locked the drawer, then he took the novice on a walk around the garden to let him voice his disquiet once more. When Luke finally left his friend, his anxieties had been stilled and his faith rekindled by what he had seen in the workshop. Brother Peter was indeed a fine example for the boy.

  Abbot Serlo disagreed. When he had heard confession an hour later, he rolled his bulging eyes with disapproval at his erring sacristan. Obedience to the rule had been flouted and that could never be ignored or forgiven.

  “You have sinned, Brother Peter.”

  “I know it, Father Abbot, and do confess it.”

  “Others rely on you and they were sorely let down.”

  “I was led astray by my work.”

  “You are a monk first and foremost,” chided the other. “That fact must guide your every waking thought.”

  “And so it did,” said Peter, “until this month.”

  “You are guilty of neglect and deception,” Abbot Serlo adjudicated, “and Subsacristan Paul did you no favours by concealing your shortcomings. They were bound to be revealed in good time and bring you to my sentence.”

  “I accept it willingly, Father Abbot.”

  “Serious offences call for serious punishment.”

  “Pronounce upon me.”

  Abbot Serlo stared down at the wayward monk and took time to consider his fate. Peter’s record at the abbey had been blameless until now and brought him promotion to the office that he held. To deprive him of that office would be a humiliation, and Serlo stopped short of that. What was needed was a painful shock to awake the sacristan to the pre-eminence of his duties. The abbot might be destined for sainthood, but that did not absolve him from making stern decisions while he still remained on earth. He cleared his throat noisily, his jowls vibrated, and his eyes threatened to leave their sockets entirely. Brother Peter took a deep breath and braced himself for the verdict. Abbot Serlo was succinct.

  “Here is work for Brother Thaddeus.…”

  Four hours of unremitting tussle with Prior Baldwin and with Subprior Matthew left them feeling exhilarated but tired. It had opened up all kinds of possibilities. The prelates had limped away to report to their abbot and to cover their disarray. As they left the shire hall, the commissioners were pleased with their prosecution of the case. They had won a resounding victory at the first skirmish, but the battle was far from over. Baldwin and Matthew would soon be back with other weapons and other forms of defence.

  Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret rode back alone towards the hunting lodge, choosing the route which took them along the river as it bordered Savernake. Both had been impressed by the role that Canon Hubert had taken that morning.

  “He roasted the prior over a slow fire,” said Ralph with a chortle. “He led him along by the nose before he struck. Our canon is no mean fighting man, Gervase.”

  “Brother Simon was his bait.”

  “That was why he left him alone with Baldwin at the abbey. Simon knew only what we wanted him to know.”

  “Yes,” said Gervase with a grin. “When he told the prior the truth, he really believed it himself. He did not realise it was only part of the truth, fed to him on purpose so that it could be wheedled out of him.”

  “Innocence is a blessed thing.”

  “It has its uses.”

  The sky was overcast now and there was a hint of rain in the wind. Savernake Forest looked overgrown and surly. It was certainly in no mood to yield up the secret which still tantalised them. Ralph had given it much thought.

  “Alric Longdon kept his hoard in the yew,” he said, “and he was about to add to it the day he was killed. But someone else found his hiding place and took his treasure chest away.”

  “Before or after his death?”

  “Who can say?”

  “Why was it kept there and not in his mill?”

  “For the sake of safety,” said Ralph. “The mill had many visitors and there was a wife and son to consider. Alric concealed his bounty even from them. Besides,” he continued with a grim chuckle, “had he left it in the mill, any thieving prior might find it when he let himself in to search for a missing charter. I now believe that the charter, which we all seek, is locked away in the treasure chest as well and may be worth more than all those silver coins together. The widow should have a rich inheritance.”

  “It is as well she has left the abbey.”

  “Wulfgeat’s daughter tends her now.”

  Gervase looked across at the forest. Patches of thick woodland were interspersed with heath and scrub. Birds drew pictures in the air as they sang. Animals called out in the trees. The wind produced a thousand answering voices as it bent creaking branches and shook crisp leaves.

  “You are a huntsman, Ralph,” he said.

  “Whenever I have the time.”

  “Do you think there is a wolf in Savernake?”

  “Not now,” said Ralph, “or it would certainly have been seen or scented or killed. Wolves are untidy guests. They leave a mess behind.”

  “Yes. I saw the miller at the mortuary.”

  “Something is in those trees, Gervase. But not a wolf.”

  “What sort of animal is it, then?”

  “One that I will enjoy tracking down.”

  “We have other inquiries to make first,” recalled his friend. “I must make contact with Brother Luke and see what I can learn about the abbey from the inside. And you must see Eadmer the Moneyer.”

  “I go to the mint this evening.”

  “Is it wise to take a guide?”

  “Ediva offered,” said Ralph artlessly. “How could I refuse such an invitation from a lady? Her husband is away in Salisbury and she has need of diversion.”

  “The lady is married,” insisted Gervase.

  “She chafes against the yoke.”

  “
Adultery is a mortal sin.”

  “Then do not commit it,” advised Ralph. “Think on Alys and keep yourself pure. Leave wickedness to those of us with greater urges and lesser scruples.”

  “Think on the danger!”

  “That is the chief attraction.”

  Gervase did all he could to talk his friend around, but no headway had been made by the time they reached the lodge. He should have known better. Once Ralph Delchard committed himself to a course of action, whatever its nature, he never diverged from it. Grooms took their horses to stable them while the two commissioners went indoors. One last question remained unanswered for Ralph.

  “How did you know that the charter was forged?”

  “I did not,” admitted Gervase. “But I do now.”

  * * *

  The peasant woman was typical of so many who lived on the fringes of Bedwyn. Her husband was a cottar, part of a small and wretched underclass who were given a hovel and a thin slice of land in return for their labour. The man worked hard, but the good earth did not reward him well. The bad harvest of the previous year was followed by a famine that struck those at the lower end of society most keenly. When the man’s sufferings were compounded by an injury to his arm while using the plough in which he had quarter share, he was unable to do his full quota of work. His wife and small children grew thin and sickly. Desperation drove him to slip into Savernake Forest one night. Two hares and some wood pigeons kept them fed for a week or more, but their good fortune was noted by envious eyes. Information was laid against the cottar and the warden’s officers arrived in time to find the wife making a stew with the bones.

  “He has been locked up for a month,” wailed the woman.

  “Forest law is cruel,” said Emma with rough sympathy.

  “He must wait for the shire court to sit and hear his case. If they find him guilty, he may lose his sight or worse. What condition will we be in then?”

  “Think on yourself and the children,” advised the visitor. “Your husband’s ordeal is the worse for worrying about you. If we can make you better, we take one small load off his mind.”

  The woman nodded. Starvation had pushed her to extremes and she had seized on the rotting carcass of a squirrel she had found. It had filled their bellies but emptied them almost as quickly. Both she and her children were crying with such pain that Emma of Crofton had to be sent for as a last resort. While her dog sat outside the hovel, Emma reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of liquid.