Ralph Delchard called the assembly to order, then gave Canon Hubert his head. The commissioners’ terms of reference were set out for all to hear.
“Earlier this year,” recited Hubert, “our predecessors visited this county to assess the disposition of its wealth. The returns from that visit were set alongside similar details from other parts of the country so that a complete description of England could be built up. The largest holder of land in this county is—as is right and proper—King William himself, who not only took over, in 1066, the royal estates, which include the boroughs of Bedwyn, Calne, Tilshead, and Warminster, but also reserved for himself the extensive personal holdings of the families of King Edward and the usurper, Harold.” There were murmurings of discontent from the benches. “The estates of King William now account for almost one-fifth of the area of this county.”
The discontent became more vocal and Ralph had to curb it with his most belligerent glare before Hubert could continue. The litany rolled on.
“Next in order of wealth come four great ecclesiastical persons who built up their estates by gift and purchase well before the Conquest. They are the Bishop of Salisbury, the Bishop of Winchester, the Abbot of Glastonbury, and the Abbot of Malmesbury. Substantial holdings have also accrued to another monastic house and it is this circumstance which has brought us all here today. I speak of Bedwyn Abbey.”
Prior Baldwin was unafraid. The prefatory remarks served only to inflate his confidence. Canon Hubert rumbled on with sententious fluency while Brother Simon nodded his agreement to almost every syllable that was uttered. Ralph let his colleague proceed for another five minutes before he leaned across to Gervase Bret and whispered in his ear.
“Hubert has bored them into submission. We may start.”
When the speaker next paused for breath, the leader of the commissioners stepped in smartly to take over the reins.
“Thank you, Canon Hubert,” he said with exaggerated graciousness. “That was a most lucid account of our presence here today. We may now move on. Like you, I will be brief.”
Laughter rocked the benches at Hubert’s expense. There were muted jeers from the rear of the hall. Everyone knew how rich the monastic foundations were and how pervasive their influence in the county, and they did not wish to be reminded of the power of the Church by a pompous churchman. The four ecclesiastics cited owned between them almost a quarter of all the land in Wiltshire, and there were other holy fingers in the pie. The bishops of Bayeux, Coutances, and Lisieux—all friends or relations of the king—had combined holdings of over five hundred acres and they were not the only Norman prelates who acted as absentee landlords over prime English estates. Bedwyn was a God-fearing town, but it could still resent the yoke of His ministers.
“Our enquiry,” said Ralph, “related to two small hides of land. Those two quickly became four; those four multiplied still further. We were forced to broaden the scope of our investigations as the catalogue of fraud and deception grew in length.” He held a long pause, then flashed a brilliant smile. “There are guilty men in this hall.”
One of them was on his feet immediately.
“I will not stay and listen to these vile accusations,” said Hugh de Brionne. “I have a rightful claim to all four hides but am left with two. And now you dare to try to rob me of those. It is intolerable!”
“Sit down, my lord,” invited Ralph.
“Do you now know who I am—and what I am!”
“We certainly know what you are,” said Ralph levelly. “And if you will not resume your seat and listen, the king will hear personally of your misconduct.”
Hugh de Brionne issued a torrent of abuse, then sank back into his chair and smouldered. His status as the wolf-killer counted for nothing before the commissioners, who instead were treating him as a quarry to be hunted. Ralph Delchard turned to Prior Baldwin and his assistant.
“Let us start with the two hides that provoked this boundary dispute. State the abbey’s position, please.”
“It remains what it has been from the start,” said Baldwin without bothering to rise. “We hold that land and we have a charter to enforce our claim. It was seen and accepted by your predecessors. The abbey has the law on its side.”
“My lord?” said Ralph. “What can you add to that?”
Hugh was direct. “Only that the abbot is a grasping monster who will steal every acre of land on which he can get his fat and greedy hands!”
“Insult!” howled Baldwin.
“Truth!” yelled Hugh.
“Sacrilege!”
“Theft!”
“I demand an apology!”
“You will get it through my arse!”
The onlookers roared with amusement at the sight of two Normans shouting wildly at each other. Ralph Delchard was enjoying it all too much himself to interrupt at first, but he eventually asserted his authority and delivered a joint reprimand. Now that the two major combatants had both drawn blood, it was time to bring in Gervase Bret.
He waited for complete silence before he spoke.
“I crave your indulgence,” he began. “What I have to say reaches back in time, but it has a bearing on the present and affects many of you here in this hall. There has been wilful deceit. Restitution must be made.”
Gervase had the full attention of the audience. If it was a case of restitution, then someone stood to gain and someone else to lose. Gervase indicated a colleague.
“Canon Hubert has told you of the royal estates and listed all the tenants-in-chief in this part of the county. King William took that land into his possession after the Conquest in 1066, but much else was spared. He respected the dispositions made by his predecessor and ratified them at his succession.” Disagreement festered in the hall, but nobody gave it voice. “That predecessor was King Edward the Confessor, a good friend to Normandy, where he spent so many years in exile. But England had another king after Edward.”
There was a buzz of astonishment. The Normans had tried to obliterate the memory of King Harold from the public mind and to consign him to history as a renegade, yet here was a senior member of the king’s household daring to recognise the existence of the last Saxon ruler of the island. Prior Baldwin was scandalised, Subprior Matthew was outraged, and Hugh de Brionne was seething with fury. Both Canon Hubert and Brother Simon tried to signal their disapproval and even Ralph Delchard was discomfited.
Gervase ignored the hubbub and moved steadily on.
“Grants of land under King Edward were acknowledged. I have such a document before me. Grants of land under King Harold were void. I have an example of that here as well.” Gervase held up a charter in each hand. “On the right, you see a grant of land to Heregod of Longdon, father of the miller Alric. It is a royal charter issued by King Edward. On the left, you see a grant of land to Wulfgeat, lately a burgess of this town. It is a royal charter issued by King Harold. One of these charters is still valid; one is not. They are linked, however, in a more sinister way.” Gervase put the charters side by side on the table. “Because of these same documents, two men died in Savernake Forest.”
The ripple of noise burst into a surge of speculation and Ralph had to thump the table and yell before he brought it under control again. Gervase was brisk with detail.
“As you all know,” he said, “King Edward loved hunting. While riding in the royal forest at Queenhill, in the county of Worcestershire, he was thrown from his horse and knocked senseless. They carried him to a house on the outskirts of the village of Longdon where he rested and recovered. He showed his gratitude to his host by granting him four hides of land near one of his favourite hunting lodges. It was here in Bedwyn.” Gervase had learned the whole story now. “Heregod moved his family here and occupied the mill, but his charter went astray when King Edward died. There was bitter conflict over the holding. Two of those hides came into the hands of Wulfgeat by courtesy of King Harold, but they were taken away again after the Conquest. Heregod lost four hides; Wulfgeat had two of the
m, then lost both. Where did they go?”
He looked first at Prior Baldwin and then at Hugh de Brionne. Both began to squirm slightly. Gervase struck home.
“The abbey seized Heregod’s land by means of a forged charter,” he decreed. “Hugh de Brionne took the two hides of Wulfgeat with no charter at all beyond the use of force.”
Uproar ensued. The accused parties jumped to their feet to plead their innocence while the rest of the hall chanted their guilt. Ralph Delchard bellowed for silence, Canon Hubert delivered an impromptu sermon on the merits of restraint, and Brother Simon waved his quill ineffectually in the air. The four men-at-arms were quite unable to stifle the chaos. It seemed as if the commission’s business would have to be suspended. Then the pandemonium ceased abruptly. Nobody seemed to know why at first and they stared at each other openmouthed. Then they realised what had altered the whole atmosphere inside the hall. Abbot Serlo had entered.
He stood in the doorway with quiet dignity and waited while a path hastily cleared itself in front of him. Then he made a stately progress towards the table and held out a magisterial hand. Gervase gave him the charter which had come from the miller’s chest and the abbot studied it with glaucous eyes. Prescience had brought him to the hall and conscience made him ready to face his accusers. Only he could truly speak for his abbey. In delegating the task to his subordinates, he was shirking a sacred duty. It was still not too late to make amends. He could not tarnish his hopes of sainthood at the eleventh hour. Abbot Serlo finished reading the document, then turned to address the hushed gathering. There was no hint of complaint, self-pity, or evasion.
“We have sinned,” he said honestly. “For almost twenty years, the abbey has taken rent from land that belongs by right to the heirs of Heregod of Longdon. We have sinned against them and we will pay full recompense. Bedwyn Abbey will restore those two hides to its lawful holder and repay every penny that was harvested from them.”
The simplicity of his public confession added to its force. He swung round to face the four commissioners.
“Bear with me,” he requested. “How this has come about, I do not yet know, but I have my suspicions. Let me enquire further into the matter. You have uncovered one forgery. There may be others. I will work swiftly to rid my abbey of every whisper of evil.”
One baleful stare was enough to jerk Baldwin and Matthew to their feet. Abbot Serlo left with the same ethereal tread with which he had entered, but his two companions crept out apprehensively behind him. There would be long and painful discussions within the abbey confines and further tremors would shake its ordered calm.
There was a general murmur of admiration for Abbot Serlo’s performance and even the mocking Hugh de Brionne was for once impressed. The prelate had been dignified in defeat. He had also set a precedent, and Gervase Bret was quick to seize on it.
“The abbey has admitted its error and offered to pay for it in full,” he said to Hugh. “Will you follow where they lead? Will you restore those two hides and offer recompense to the injured party?”
Hugh snarled and looked for a way out of his plight, but Ralph Delchard cut off his retreat. He threw a smile of gratitude to Ediva before he rounded on his opponent.
“If you wish to contest the matter,” he threatened, “we will have to call witnesses. The town reeve will be first. He knows better than anyone how that land was obtained.”
Hugh and Saewold coloured as they traded a look. A partnership which had brought mutual benefit to them over two decades had just fallen apart. Ralph somehow knew about the acquisition of two hides from Wulfgeat and he would prosecute his case vigorously. In admitting one abuse of property rights, Hugh might be able to conceal all the others. He stretched himself to his full height and strove for a gallantry that rang quite hollow.
“There is error on our side, too,” he conceded, “and we offer the most humble apologies for the oversight. I give my word as a soldier that it will be put right at once.”
The commissioners were satisfied. Details had yet to be worked out and new documents drawn up, but that could wait. They had carried the day. When Ralph Delchard dismissed the assembly, he was actually given a cheer. Feared and resented when they came to Bedwyn, they had won a better opinion from the town. It would be a happier place for their visit. Hugh de Brionne made straight for Saewold and dragged him out. Ediva lingered to steal a last glance from Ralph. Canon Hubert congratulated himself on his crucial role in the afternoon’s proceedings and Brother Simon reinforced that illusion by his unctuous flattery.
Leofgifu and Hilda descended on Gervase. They were both overwhelmed by the turn of events. Hilda sobbed with joy.
“It is all mine?” she said in disbelief.
“Yes,” he promised. “You inherit from your husband.”
“Four hides of land?”
“With all the arrears due to you, Hilda. Bedwyn Abbey and the lord of the manor of Chisbury will make you a rich woman between them.”
“What will I do with such wealth?” she wondered.
“Enjoy it,” said Leofgifu. “You deserve it.”
Hilda took her hands and squeezed them hard.
“We will share this good fortune together.”
Before Leofgifu could protest, there was a disturbance at the rear of the hall as someone tried to push in past the guards. Hot words were exchanged and a dog barked. Ralph saw the newcomer and snapped a command.
“Let her pass!”
Emma was released by two of the men-at-arms and she curled her lip at them before proceeding down the hall. Ralph knew that she would venture into the town only on an errand of the greatest importance and so he took her aside at once.
“How is your arm?” he asked considerately.
“It is better, my lord.”
“No more threats from the town bullies?”
“They leave me alone now.”
“Yes,” said Ralph. “They needed a killer and Hugh de Brionne gave them one. That lifted suspicion from you. They no longer believe that your dog was the wolf of Savernake.”
“He is not, my lord. The wolf is still in the forest.”
“You have seen him?”
“I have come to take you to the place.”
Bedwyn Abbey felt the chill wind of ignominy blowing through its cloisters. Abbot Serlo was closeted in his lodging with Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew as he tried to assess the extent of their perfidy. The absence of all three from Vespers made the singing flat and the obedientiaries dispirited. When their saint was angry, they all felt the weight of his displeasure. Brother Thaddeus was anxious.
“What has happened, Peter?” he asked.
“We will know in good time.”
“Father Abbot went into the town with good humour and came back in disarray. What can have upset him?”
“He will tell us when he chooses.”
“Someone will pay for this,” said Thaddeus, spying a personal angle in it. “Should I lay in a supply of fresh birch twigs, do you think?”
“It will not be necessary.”
“Father Abbot relies on my arm.”
“Save it to guide the plough,” said Peter.
They were walking across the cloister garth and talking in muted tones. Thaddeus wanted to probe deeper into the mystery of the abbot’s wrath, but Peter saw something which made him excuse himself and hurry away. Brother Luke was in conversation with Gervase Bret.
“You work in the bakehouse, I believe,” said Gervase.
“I learned the trade from my father.”
“Where does the abbey get its grain?”
“It used to come from the mill of Alric Longdon.”
Gervase heard what he expected, then turned to welcome Peter as the sacristan came up with an enquiring smile. Brother Luke was now in the presence of the two men he respected most in the world, but they pulled him in opposite directions. He could not choose between them.
“Have no fear,” said Gervase. “I have not come to seduce Luke away f
rom the order. I merely require his assistance for a short while.”
“My assistance?” said Luke.
“Leofgifu suffers greatly over the death of her father. I have tried to counsel against it because it may only increase her woe, but she insists on going there.”
“Going where?” asked Peter.
“To the spot where he died.”
“In the forest?”
“Yes, Peter,” said Gervase with a sigh. “It was a grim place when Alric Longdon lay there, but now it has seen two hideous deaths. I hate to conduct her there.”
“Nor shall you,” said Peter firmly. “Leofgifu must not go. Her father is dead and she must mourn for him in the privacy of her house. Stifle these wild thoughts of hers.”
“I have tried in vain.”
“Let me speak to her.”
“She refuses to see anyone else,” said Gervase. “I have to humour this madness and that is why I come to you. It was Luke who guided us to that dreadful part of the forest and we need his help once more.”
Luke was eager. “I will gladly give it, Gervase.”
“No,” said Peter, “you must stay here. Father Abbot would never give permission for you to leave.”
“How, then, will we find the place?” asked Gervase. “I must take Leofgifu there this evening. She will give me no rest until I do. And she can find no peace herself until she knows the worst about her poor father.”
“Let me go, Peter,” said Luke. “Please let me go.”
The Wolves of Savernake (Domesday Series Book 1) Page 24