The Wolves of Savernake d-1

by Edward Marston

Chapter Eleven

  It was nightfall by the time Gervase Bret finally picked his way back to the hunting lodge, and the servant who greeted him was carrying a blazing torch. While the man took the horse off to be stabled, the weary Gervase went into the building, to find his companion seated alone at the long table. Ralph Delchard was in a jovial mood. The remains of a roasted chicken lay on a pewter dish before him and he was washing it down with a cup of wine. He waved his friend across and Gervase sank gratefully down on the bench opposite him. Ralph reached for the jug to pour out a second cup of wine, then pushed it across the table.

  “Drink deep and think of Normandy.”

  “It is French wine?”

  “No,” said Ralph, “it comes from the vineyard at Bradford-on-Avon, but its grapes were grown by a Norman hand and it will quench your thirst well enough.” He emptied his own cup, then refilled it. “It was the one great mistake that the Conqueror made,” he observed sagely.

  “A Norman army marches on its supply of wine. When we set sail for England twenty years ago, no proper thought was given to the matter.

  We landed at Pevensey and made our position secure before we headed across country towards Hastings. The army was hungry, so we killed and ate whatever lay in our way. We were also thirsty, but what little wine we had brought soon ran out and we had to drink their foul English water.” He grimaced at the bitter memory. “It did almost as much damage to our host as King Harold and his housecarls. That water poisoned our bellies and opened our bowels with a vengeance.

  If William had only carried enough wine in his invasion fleet, we would have been in a fit state to win the battle of Hastings in half the time.”

  Gervase smiled obligingly. He had heard the story before, but he did not mind the repetition. Ralph’s high spirits showed that his visit to the mint had been profitable. He was still glowing with pleasure, but he wanted to hear from his friend before he divulged his own news.

  “Where have you been, Gervase?”

  “To the forest.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, I had a piece of red sandstone with me.”

  “Can you be serious?” said Ralph, sitting up. “When you took that rope and told me you were off to see a friend, I thought you had arranged a tryst with one of these lovely Saxon women. I hoped you were going to tie her down and have your way with her like any red-blooded Norman.”

  “Do not make a jest of it, Ralph,” reproved Gervase. “You know my lineage and you know my fidelity. Alys waits for me in Winchester and no woman could take me from her.”

  “Not even Leofgifu?”

  It was a question that halted him and he took some time to compose his answer. There was more than a tinge of regret in his voice when he eventually spoke.

  “No,” he said. “Not even Leofgifu.”

  “So what did you do with this rock and this rope?”

  Gervase gave a terse description of events and saw his friend’s amazement turn into apprehension. Ralph could not believe that he had been so careless of his safety.

  “Two men have already been killed in Savernake.”

  “Not by his hand.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He is a gentle creature at heart.”

  “Gentle!” exclaimed Ralph. “Can you call that thing of hair and fur which jumped out at us in any way gentle? I took it for a wolf, but you say it is a man. I hold to my conclusion, Gervase. The Welsh are untamed. They are far more animal than human. I have fought against them on the border and I know them to be savage barbarians with not an ounce of gentleness between them.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “And you faced such an ogre on your own in Savernake!”

  “He did not harm me,” said Gervase simply.

  Ralph snorted. “I’ll take my men out at first light tomorrow and hunt this wild beast down.”

  “No! I gave him my word.”

  “Honour means nothing to the Welsh.”

  “It means everything,” retorted Gervase with fierce certitude. “To him and to me. My pledge will not be broken, Ralph. If you try to lift a hand against the man, I will stop you by any means that I have. He has not hurt me and he has not hurt anyone else. All he desires is to be left alone in peace. He is a hermit.”

  “So why did you seek him out?”

  “To ask for help.”

  “From some madman in a filthy sheepskin?”

  “He knows, Ralph. You were right about the wolf that Hugh de Brionne caught. It did not kill the two men. The hermit knows who did.”

  “He told you?”

  “I have not yet won his confidence.”

  “Leave him to me, Gervase,” said Ralph. “I’ll make the villain talk. If he can shed light on this business, I’ll cut the truth out of him with my sword.”

  “Touch that man and you lose my friendship forever!”

  It was such a vehement and unexpected threat that Ralph was pushed back into his seat. Gervase was never unassertive in argument, but this issue went especially deep with him. It made the older man more reflective. Ralph made an effort to understand his companion’s viewpoint.

  “Can you like such a monster?” he asked.

  “I respect him for what he is doing.”

  “Living as an animal in the forest?”

  “Turning his back on the world to follow his beliefs. It is no more than the monks at the abbey are doing. They have retreated into a life of self-denial in order to serve God. The hermit serves another deity and his withdrawal is more complete. He needs no brothers to share his suffering. He is a holy anchorite who chooses to worship alone.”

  “But the man is a heathen!” protested Ralph.

  “He is not a Christian,” said Gervase, “that is true. His religion goes back well before the birth of Jesus and it may seem crude and ignorant to us, but it has weathered many long centuries. Any man who can live that way for the sake of his soul must have immense strength of mind and spirit. He has not just made vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. He has renounced everything. Can you not see why I am so interested in this hermit? He is a survivor from some ancient culture, Ralph. He is our guide to the past.”

  “All we need is a guide to that charter.”

  “He may help us with that search, as well.”

  “How?” said Ralph impatiently. “What did he tell you?”

  “Enough.”

  Gervase was satisfied that progress had been made, but his friend wanted more positive proof of the fact. His own visit had yielded one important clue.

  “Keep your gabbling Welshman,” he said scornfully. “I prefer Eadmer the Moneyer. At least, he can instruct us.”

  “What did you learn from him?”

  “This.”

  Ralph lifted up the large tallow candle that stood before him in its holder. Tilting it slightly, he poured hot wax onto the table, then produced a coin from his purse. He dropped the coin into the wax and banged it with his fist.

  “Instead of a coin, use one of Eadmer’s dies.”

  “When the wax hardens, the imprint would be perfect.”

  “That is what the boy stole from the mint,” said Ralph. “All he had to do was to climb up that stinking hole, melt some wax and push a die into it, wait until it was ready, then clean the die and replace it exactly as it was found. Then back down the shaft with him to the boat where his father was waiting. Poor little Eadmer was none the wiser.” He rubbed a hand across his chin in contemplation. “I have solved the mystery of how the die was stolen, but to whom was it then given? Alric was no moneyer. Who was the miller’s accomplice in this conspiracy?”

  “We shall soon know.”

  “How? Will your Welsh hermit send us his name?”

  “Do not scoff at him, Ralph.”

  “What can that savage offer?”

  “A sharp pair of eyes in Savernake Forest.”

  “With a sharp set of teeth to match. You are deceived by him, Gervase.

  He is a wolf in sheep’
s clothing.”

  They argued on for another hour without resolution, then went off to their separate beds. Both were tired, but neither could sleep. The wine had freshened Ralph Delchard’s lust and he began to muse about the beauteous Ediva once more and wish that she was beside him. She had brightened his visit to Bedwyn and offered him a refuge from the tedious litigation on which his colleagues seemed to thrive.

  Ediva had given him both love and priceless information. There was no more satisfying way to serve his king than between the thighs of such a woman. He was about to take her in his arms again when he at last fell into a deep slumber.

  In the adjoining chamber, Gervase Bret tried to direct his imagination to Alys, but she was, for once, an inadequate occupant of his thoughts. Whenever she smiled, he saw the bearded face of the recluse; whenever she talked, he heard the rough Welsh voice in the bushes.

  He went through each detail of his encounter with the solitary creature in the forest and wished that he had learned enough to comprehend the man’s universe. He recalled vague snatches of travellers’ tales from the days when he had studied at Eltham Abbey. They talked of weird religions in distant lands and put the fear of death into his young mind as they recounted the barbaric rites that were involved.

  One man had spoken of mysteries nearer home and Gervase now wished that he had paid more attention to his words. The stories were about the ancient religion of Wales when a mystic order of Druids flourished. Could the hermit of Savernake be the heir to such a culture?

  Had he been driven out of his native land by the spread of Christianity to seek a place where he could practice the old faith? Gervase cudgelled his brain to extract what meagre knowledge he had on the subject, but all that came was an unsatisfactory mixture of fact and conjecture. He did remember that oak trees were sacred to the Druids, and the clearing in the valley had been ringed by oaks. He also recalled the paramount importance of the sun and wondered whether the oval site had been chosen to trap its rays. But it was the most stark feature of the religion which had impressed itself upon him at the time and which now changed his whole attitude to his meeting in the forest.

  Druids were said to use human sacrifices. They spilled blood in the cause of their religion. If the hermit was still practising the ancient rites with full vigour, Alric Longdon and Wulfgeat might well have been his victims. They were not attacked by any wolf. Their deaths had served a profounder purpose. Slain by the hermit, they had been necessary sacrifices on the altar of his belief. Gervase himself was lucky not to have followed them to the grave. It was not until well into the night that his demons relented and allowed his troubled mind a modicum of rest.

  “Wake up, Gervase!”

  “What?” He only half-heard the call.

  “Come here, man. At once!”

  “Why?”

  “Look, Gervase! Just look.”

  “Do not pound my head so, Ralph.”

  But his friend was only banging on the door of his chamber. When Gervase forced himself to sit up and open his eyes, he saw that dawn was pushing the first spears of light in through the casement. He scrambled up and pulled back the bolt on the door before flinging it open. Ralph Delchard had been torn from his own bed, but he was in a state of great excitement. He was holding something in both hands and he came in to set it down on the floor. It was a wooden chest that was ribbed with stout metal clasps.

  “Where did you find it?” asked Gervase.

  “Outside the front door.”

  “Who left it there?”

  “I do not know, but one of the servants heard him. When he went to see what the noise was, he found this.”

  “Is it Alric’s treasure chest?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Have you opened the lid?”

  “No, Gervase. I wanted you to be with me when I did.” Ralph had brought the key which he had found in the stream near the blasted yew. “This moment belongs to both of us.”

  He inserted the key into the lock with anticipatory delight, but it soon became dismay. They key did not fit.

  “It is the wrong chest!” he cursed.

  “Or the right chest but the wrong key.”

  “It must fit!” insisted Ralph, trying again. “It must.”

  But the key still jammed in the lock. Gervase had now come fully awake. He picked up the chest and took it across to the window to get the best of the light.

  “Someone has forced this chest open,” he noted.

  “But it is locked tight.”

  “The catch must have been wrenched free.”

  “Then the contents will have been taken.”

  “I think not, Ralph. This was left here by design. What value would there be in an empty chest?”

  He set it down once more and removed the key, reaching instead for his dagger. Inserting it in the lock, he twisted away until there was a sharp click. One flick of its point sent the lid of the chest up and back.

  Ralph plunged a hand into the hoard of silver coins that lay within, but Gervase had already snatched out the most valuable item. He unrolled the parchment in the half-dark and took one glance at it.

  “We have our charter,” he said.

  Leofgifu slept soundly in the house of mourning and woke to curse herself for passing the night in such comfort. It was unseemly and uncaring, yet no matter how hard she tried to find fresh tears for her father, they would not come. True sorrow had not really touched her.

  She had been horrified by the way he had died rather than shaken by the fact of his death. Now that she had had time to take stock, she came to see just how unhappy she had been sharing the home with him. The loss of Wulfgeat was also a gain for her. Instead of depressing her spirit, it filled her with an odd sense of freedom and it was this which activated her guilt. Leofgifu feared that she was an unnatural daughter. Wulfgeat’s death meant that she was now expected to grieve for a man she had come to hate, as well as for another whom she had never managed to love. Father and husband chained her to the grave.

  Activity was the best escape from brooding and she threw herself into her chores with excessive readiness. She took over duties which would normally be left to the servants and spent more time on her embroidery that morning than she had done in the previous month.

  Remorse still troubled her, however, and her restlessness would not be eased. It took her into the little room which her father had used for his business affairs, Leofgifu half-hoping that the sight of his ledgers and his papers might unleash a hidden spring of lamentation somewhere deep inside her and enable her to mark his passing with appropriate despair. But her heart remained cold and her mind unengaged. She sat at the table and idly reached for the first ledger.

  It was over an hour before Hilda found her.

  “Are you busy, Leofgifu?”

  “No, no. Please come in.”

  “Do not let me interrupt you.”

  “I am glad of your company, Hilda. How are you today?”

  “Do not worry about me, Leofgifu. How are you?”

  “Still oppressed.”

  But she did not feel the weight of that oppression and wished that she could suffer in the way that Hilda, with her shattered beauty, still plainly did. Hers was the true coinage of grief; Leofgifu was offering only counterfeit currency.

  “I need your permission to go out,” said Hilda.

  “You may come and go as you please.”

  “But you might need me here.”

  “It is kind of you to put me first, Hilda, but I can spare you. Will you go far?”

  “Only to the hunting lodge.”

  Leofgifu was puzzled. “Why there?”

  “To speak with the young commissioner.”

  “Gervase Bret?”

  “When he called yesterday, I was … too weak.”

  “Weak?”

  “He needed help and I pulled back out of fear.” Her chin lifted bravely. “But I will speak to him today and I will make sure that Cild speaks with him also.”


  “Cild?”

  “I must be strict with him now that he is mine.”

  Leofgifu only partially understood what Hilda was saying, but it connected with her own inclinations. She gazed down at the ledgers she had been reading and the documents she had just leafed through, then made her election.

  “You will not go to the hunting lodge, Hilda.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is much too far to walk.”

  “We do not mind the journey.”

  “Gervase will come to the house.”

  “It would cause too much upset.”

  “Perhaps that is what I need,” said Leofgifu. “Before you and Cild talk with him, I will see him myself. I may not mourn properly for my father until I fully understand the reason for his death, and Gervase may help me to do that.” She kissed Hilda on the cheek. “Go back to your room. I will send a servant to fetch him at once.”

  The instincts of a born soldier never desert a man. After all these years, Ralph Delchard could still feel in his bones if a battle ahead would go well for him. Belief in success made it virtually inevitable and he had never been robbed of a promised victory yet. As soon as he saw the chest, his hope flowered; as soon as they found the charter, it blossomed into complete confidence; and when Gervase had examined the document closely enough to proclaim its authenticity, Ralph had the surge of exhilaration that he felt always in the first cavalry charge.

  Word was sent to the abbey that the commission would convene again that afternoon. A personal summons was delivered to Prior Baldwin ordering him to present himself with all of the relevant abbey charters at a given time. The morning now gave Ralph an opportunity to make some last important enquiries in the town. Gervase Bret agreed to go with him, but he was called away by a message from Leofgifu and hurried off to her house. Ralph had to pay his visit alone.

  “Come in, my lord. You are most welcome.”

  “I am glad to see you safely returned, Saewold.”

  “Business detained me in Salisbury.”

  “How did you find Edward?”

  “The earl is in fine fettle,” said the reeve with an obsequious smirk.

  “As well as discharging his many duties as sheriff of the county, he is supervising the extensions to his castle. The building progresses.”