All eyes were on Gervase Bret as he fingered the charter before him. He seemed uncertain. Ralph looked worried, Canon Hubert shifted in his chair, and Brother Simon developed a nervous sniff. The abbey delegation grew more complacent.
“We are waiting, Master Bret,” said Baldwin.
“Waiting in vain, it seems,” added Matthew.
“Will you speak or may we have leave to go?”
“Prove it!” hissed Canon Hubert.
There was an even longer and more stressful pause. It was finally broken by Ralph Delchard, who pounded the table.
“God’s tits!” he yelled. “Prove it, Gervase.”
“Very well,” said the other calmly.
He set the charter before him and put two others beside it. Chairs grated as everyone pulled in closer to view the evidence. The visitors were still supremely assured. Prior Baldwin’s smile now had a touch of studious arrogance.
“Before you are three charters,” said Gervase evenly. “All are reputedly the work of the same scribe, one Drogo of Wilton, much employed by Osmund, Bishop of Salisbury. You will recognise his hand. It is most distinctive.”
“We know it well,” said Baldwin. “Drogo was a friend to our abbey. His handiwork adorns many of our charters. He was only a scribe, but we appreciate quality in any man. If he were here, he would own that he had written all three charters.” More arrogance came into the smile. “But he is not here, Master Bret. The poor man is buried in the parish churchyard in Wilton.”
“You seem to have a problem with your witnesses,” said Matthew with a rare flash of humour. “When you wish to call them to your aid, you find that God has issued his summons before you. That is Drogo’s work in all three cases.”
“How can you be so certain?” asked Gervase.
“Because we know,” said Matthew.
A wry eyebrow was raised. “Intuition?”
“We still require your proof,” muttered Canon Hubert.
“Ralph has loaned it to me.”
Gervase slipped a hand into the purse at his belt and took out three silver coins. He put one on each document, then invited the others to examine them as closely as they wished. The prelates were irritated by what they saw as a pointless game, but they consented. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon took longer to inspect the coins, while Ralph Delchard sat back and pretended he had no idea what was going on.
“Well?” said Gervase at length.
“They are the same,” said Baldwin. “Minted here in Bedwyn by Eadmer. They bear his name and mark.”
“I agree,” said Matthew.
“And so do we,” added Hubert, speaking for Brother Simon without even consulting him. “Three identical coins. What is the point of this demonstration?”
“To show how easily we can be deceived,” said Gervase. “The two coins on the outside are genuine, but the one in the middle—on the abbey charter—is counterfeit.”
“How do you know?” said Baldwin.
“Eadmer confirmed it,” explained Ralph, relishing the chance to join in. “He knows his coinage as well as a mother knows her own children, and our moneyer rejected the one in the middle at once. It is a clever forgery.”
“Like the charter,” continued Gervase, moving the coins aside. “See here, if you will. Two documents bear the work of Drogo so manifestly that it cannot be denied. Watch how he loops this letter and turns that and note that flourish on his capitals. Now compare them with your abbey charter. It is so close to Drogo that it could be him and yet, I fear, it is not.” He beckoned them forward. “You see this tiny upward stroke of the quill at each sentence’s end? It is so small a defect in the hand of Drogo that it is hardly worth notice except that it does not occur in the abbey charter. Nor do his ligatures—look here, and here and here. And one thing more, this Drogo was a scribe and not a scholar. His Latin falters briefly in both the genuine documents and he makes neat alteration.” He sat back in his chair. “I spend my whole life sifting through such charters and scribes are all my friends. Drogo’s work has only trifling blemishes, but they single him out. The abbey document is too perfect to be his.”
There was stunned silence as the two prelates stared first at the abbey charter, then at the others, then at each other, then back at Gervase. He couched his accusation in the softest terms.
“A scribe is a scribe,” he said gently, “who writes but as directed. We must not expect more of him. But the hand which framed this abbey charter has a keener edge and a higher intelligence. It cannot bear to make even the most paltry mistakes. My guess would be that this is no scribe at all but a master of the illuminated manuscript.” He smiled benignly at Matthew. “The subprior will know that errors may not be tolerated in a scriptorium. Drogo would not have gained acceptance there.”
Baldwin and Matthew had been struck dumb yet again. They dared not look at each other and neither lowered his eyes to the abbey charter. It had been torn to shreds. Gervase addressed himself to Prior Baldwin.
“How many other of your charters are the work of Drogo?” he enquired. “We shall need to see them all to pick out any more that are as false as this. Drogo may be dead, but he can speak to us from beyond the grave.”
Ralph Delchard was determined to have the last word. Scooping up the coins, he shook them in his hands, then opened his palm, pointing to each in turn.
“True—false—true.” An expansive grin. “But do not take my word for it. Eadmer the Moneyer may be brought here at your request. He is one witness who has not yet vanished below ground.” A ripe chuckle followed. “Though he seems to be on his way in that direction.”
Wulfgeat’s quieter persuasion finally achieved its aim. He talked with Cild for almost two hours before the success. Reason made no headway. The boy was too stubborn to listen and too young to understand the meaning of the lost charter. It was pointless telling him how much he and his stepmother would gain from it all. Why should he trust the word of his father’s enemy? Alric would never have done so and Cild was like him in every way. It was this fact which eventually told. Wulfgeat appealed directly to the boy’s self-interest.
“I will give you money, Cild.”
A defiant shake of the head.
“You may have it now, if you wish.”
“No!”
“We all need money. Your father taught you that.”
“No!”
“You are a clever boy to hold out for it. I admire that. Put a price on all things, Cild. As your father did.” He regarded the boy with interest. “What would you like to buy? What do you need? Have you ever had money of your own to spend before?”
Cild had not and the flame of curiosity was ignited. Wulfgeat did not rush. He fanned it gently until it leapt and danced. His method of approach had been completely wrong until now. Logic had failed and bullying had produced only a deeper resistance and resentment. An offer of money put an end to the long negotiation at last.
“Show me where the charter is,” said Wulfgeat, “and I will give you more money than you have ever seen before.”
Cild glared at him stonily for a couple of minutes.
“How much?” he grunted.
The afternoon released them from their deliberations. Lesser witnesses were due to give statements, and Canon Hubert was more than capable of collecting the evidence alone and ordering anything of value to be recorded by Brother Simon. It had been a productive day so far. Hugh de Brionne had been effectively quashed and the abbey representatives had been more or less demolished. Four hides in the Bedwyn returns were spreading utter chaos.
Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret mounted their horses. It was a dull afternoon, with dark clouds trying to shoulder the town into submission. Ralph looked up.
“This is a day to stay within-doors,” he said. “Where do you go now, Gervase?”
“To visit the widow.”
“I visit a wife.”
“Ralph!”
“She sent me word. I cannot disappoint her.”
“Th
ink of her husband.”
“He is my chiefest reason for going. That self-serving reeve deserves to be cuckolded. It is my bounden duty.”
“Consider the lady.”
“I have considered nothing else since we met.”
“Pull back before it is too late.”
“Did I obstruct you when you courted Alys?”
“Well, no, but that is different. We are betrothed.”
“So are Ediva and I.” He beamed. “For today.”
He rode away before Gervase could offer more protest. Two of his men followed, but the others remained in the shire hall to act as ushers and guards. Ralph and his escort kept up a steady canter until they reached the hunting lodge. He went inside to wash and to change his attire, glad to shake off the day’s business in favour of pleasure. Ediva was awaiting him. All else paled beside that promise.
One of his men knocked on the door of his chamber.
“She is here, my lord.”
“Here!” The tryst had been arranged elsewhere.
“She waits in the stable.”
“Stable!” He would not roll in the hay with a woman of her quality. “What does she say?”
“Only that we must fetch you instantly.”
“No more?”
“She became unruly.”
Ralph liked nothing that he had heard and he hurried downstairs with some apprehension. The soldier was at his heels. They came into the stable-yard and looked around. Ralph could see nothing but a huge pile of rags in one corner. Only when it moved did he realise that he was looking at Emma of Crofton. It was her message that had been relayed and which had brought him down so speedily. He grimaced at the thought of a rendezvous with her. The hirsute face emerged from the bundle and she dragged herself up. Something lay on the ground like a nest of eggs on which a hen has been sitting. Emma reached down to pick it up and offer it to him. It was a basket of wild fruit.
“For me?” said Ralph, pleased.
“I picked them.”
“Thank you, Emma.”
“No, my lord”—she gave him the basket—“thank you.”
“Where did you pick all this?”
But she was already gone. A bark showed that her dog was waiting for her in the trees. Ralph was both moved and delighted. Emma had walked all the way from Crofton to deliver her gift and taken severe risks to get to him. This was a rare act of gratitude for the help he had given.
He looked down at the fruit and selected a red berry.
“No, my lord!” exclaimed the soldier. “The woman is a witch. That may be poisoned.”
“I rescued her,” said Ralph, popping the berry into his mouth without hesitation. “Even witches do not poison their saviours.” He offered the basket. “Try one….”
Hilda’s anxieties were soon put to rest by Gervase Bret. He was young and personable and spoke in her own language. He was not there to accuse or interrogate; indeed, he told her much more than he asked and his questions were merely gentle enquiries. Sensitive to her distressed condition, he was tender and unhurried. Hilda was so used to hearing bad opinions of her husband that it was refreshing to be with a man who accorded him the respect due to all the dead. She let him win her over and slowly dropped her guard.
If Hilda was reassured by their visitor, Leofgifu was greatly impressed. Her father had spoken slightingly of the commissioners and she had a Saxon’s wariness of any Norman, but Gervase did not conform at all to her idea of a member of the king’s household. He was altogether too honest and considerate and unjudging. The mixed parentage so obvious in his appearance gave him an insight into the heart and temperament of the Saxons. Though he was there on a serious errand, she found herself hoping that she could detain him later with an offer of refreshment.
Absorbed with Hilda and her predicament, Gervase was not unaware of his attraction to the daughter of the house. It was mutual. He could see her quality at a glance and sensed the total dependence of the other woman on her. Leofgifu was an act of compassion in herself and truly personified her name of ‘love-giver.” They provided a stark contrast. Both were beautiful women who had suffered a bereavement. Sadness rested upon them with almost tangible force, but the resemblance ended there. Hilda’s looks had been extinguished by her ordeal and only the remnants of her handsomeness remained. Leofgifu was different. The pain of loss had somehow enhanced her charms and given her whole face a wistful glow that was quite enchanting. Gervase was reminded of his first meeting with Alys.
The information he had to impart was private, but Hilda insisted that her friend remain to hear it. Leofgifu could be trusted. Neither she nor Gervase even questioned the widow’s wishes. All three stayed sitting where they were.
“We need that charter,” Gervase said with soft emphasis. “It tells the truth about the contested land and puts your future in a kinder light.”
“My future?” Hilda was lost.
“The document names you.”
Alarm flickered. “Me?”
“Your father or his heir, to be precise,” he resumed. “And since your father is now deceased, the holding passes to the next in line. Women may inherit just as men.”
“But not as often,” said Leofgifu with asperity.
“Thus it is,” he said, taking it stage by stage so that she would not be too confused. “Heregod of Longdon was given that land by royal grant. King Edward the Confessor gave him four hides adjoining Savernake Forest.”
“Why there and not in Worcestershire?” asked Leofgifu.
“We do not know for certain, but the king was fond of hunting. Even piety likes to chase a deer through a wood.” The remark left Hilda baffled, but Leofgifu smiled. “King Edward knew and liked this shire. He came to Bedwyn with his retinue and stayed at the hunting lodge where we now rest our heads. His gift was land that stands nearby. Heregod of Longdon brought his family to a new home in Bedwyn.” He gave a sigh. “It was not a happy move.…”
Hilda was entranced. Facts which had been kept from her by her father now tumbled out in profusion. Impressions she had gathered as a child and as a wife now took on substance. The detail confused her and the interplay between events and the passage of time left her further bewildered, but a vague sense came through to her of what she stood to gain. Another thing became clear. Gervase Bret was on her side. This only served to increase Leofgifu’s admiration. A blunter recital of the facts could cause Hilda great pain. Gervase chose his words with utmost care, gliding over the courtship that had taken place in Queenhill in such a way as to conceal its essence. Alric Longdon had not married her out of love and his clumsy wooing had been crude pretence. He bought his wife from a dying man so that he could regain the holdings that his father had lost. Hilda was no more than an agreeable factor in a financial transaction.
“And that is why we need the charter,” he concluded.
“I do not know where it is.”
“Give him the key to the mill,” urged Leofgifu.
“The charter is not there.”
“I know,” said Gervase, recalling the futile search made by Prior Baldwin, “but it is a starting place. It will tell me something of the character of your husband—and of his father, Heregod. All that may be relevant. I would like to see inside the mill.”
“I will go with you,” volunteered Leofgifu before she could stop herself. “I can show you to the place.”
“Thank you. I would value your help.”
“You will have the key,” said Hilda.
While she crossed to the table to get it, the others let their eyes connect for a moment. Frank admiration flowed freely between them, but it was soon stemmed. Hilda could not find the key to the mill and was deeply disturbed.
“Who has taken it?” she said.
Light rain was falling as Cild ran along the river-bank. He reached the mill and used the key to let himself in, going straight into the storeroom at the back and choosing one of the empty flour sacks. He banged it against a wall and sent up a cloud of white
particles, inhaling the familiar smell with a distant pleasure. Then he went out into the rain once more, locked the door, and vanished into the copse at the rear of the property. He threaded his way between the trees until he came to a willow. Beneath its swaying branches was a box. Like his father, he had his own hiding place in woodland, but Cild’s treasure was of a different order.
The box was no more than rough timber nailed hastily together, but it served its grim purpose. Reaching behind it, he pulled out a stick with a forked end. Cild was cautious but unafraid. He lay the sack on the ground and peeled back its top in readiness, then he used the stick to lift the latch on the makeshift door. The moment the latch moved, he jumped behind the box and waited. Nothing happened for minutes, then the snake came out in a determined slither. Two feet of squirming life had been set free, its fangs bared and its tongue darting in and out with random malice.
Cild moved fast. The stick fell, the forked end trapping the snake’s head from behind. The boy’s other hand inched the sack nearer. As the creature writhed and spat, he put a foot under its body and flicked it into the open mouth of the sack, closing the neck tightly and using a piece of twine to secure it. The operation was over. He was now holding a venomous cargo that threshed wildly around in the sack. A treasured pet had been transformed into a deadly weapon against an enemy.
The forest was patrolled in all weathers, so he used cover wherever he could. Eventually, he came to the stream and followed it up the hill. When Cild finally got to the yew tree, he did not linger. It was the place where his father had been killed and he shuddered at the memory, but one death could be answered by another. The forked stick was used to explore the hollow cavity and he felt the solid object at its base, still wrapped in its sacking. With the snake now flinging itself around inside its prison, he lowered the sack down into the tree, making sure that its neck was uppermost. It was too far down inside the hollow to be seen and a hand would need to grope down to make contact. The trap had been set. Cild shivered with cold joy.
The Wolves of Savernake (Domesday Series Book 1) Page 15