The Wolves of Savernake d-1

by Edward Marston

  “We saw it on our way past,” said Ralph.

  His eye kindled as Ediva came into the room to add her welcome and to go through the niceties. Her manner was as poised as ever, but she contrived to bestow a fleeting smile that stirred wondrous memories for her guest. Ediva called a servant and ordered refreshment, then she left the men alone for their discussion. They sat either side of a table.

  “You must have missed your wife when you were away.”

  Saewold shrugged. “I did not have time to miss her or anyone else, my lord. Being reeve of a town like Bedwyn is not an occupation; it is a way of life and it consumes all my attention. Ediva has learned to make shift for herself.”

  “You are blessed in such a wife,” said Ralph without irony, then he addressed himself to the matter at hand. “We have a problem, Saewold, one that must be kept hidden until we have a solution. I speak to you in strictest confidence.”

  “Of course, my lord. Of course.”

  “Do not breathe a word to anyone or the outcry will be raised and the damned miscreant will make a run for it.”

  “Miscreant?”

  “You have a forger in the town.”

  Saewold was shocked. “Here in Bedwyn?”

  “Eadmer confirmed it.”

  “When?”

  “While you were away in Salisbury.” He saw a means to ensure the reeve’s collusion. “It is another reason why we did not disclose the crime. You would have been embarrassed in front of Edward if he had known that so much counterfeit money had been allowed to circulate within your town.”

  “So much?”

  “We believe so.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “For some time.”

  “It must be rooted out at once!” said Saewold. “I will not have Bedwyn tainted with false coin.”

  “The time to announce the deception is when it has been fully uncovered,” advised Ralph. “You may gain some credit then instead of the criticism you may incur if your town is seen to be awash with counterfeit currency. You understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Be ruled by me.”

  “To the letter.”

  “One of the culprits has been identified, but you must help to name his accomplice. Alric Longdon was one party to this dreadful crime.”

  “Alric!”

  His surprise was short-lived. Once he weighed up the intelligence, he saw how it explained both the miller’s behaviour and his rising wealth at a time when some of his rivals were struggling to make even small profits on their labour. Alric certainly had the craftiness to be involved in such a scheme, but he could never be more than the aide of a subtler mind.

  “Who were his friends?” asked Ralph.

  “He had none.”

  “Who were his relatives, his associates, his customers? Give me a list and we will scour it until we find the likeliest men. Eadmer has praised the forgery for its accuracy, so we look for very skilful hands.

  Who in this town could be capable of such intricate work?”

  Saewold thought hard. “There are several with fingers nimble enough,” he said, “but none with such diseased minds. Bedwyn has its share of poachers and thieves and drunken fools, but we do not harbour malefactors of this order. Someone who would work hand in glove with Alric? I cannot imagine such a man.”

  “He lives here, nevertheless,” insisted Ralph, “and you must point him out to me. Fetch paper and pen to set down every name that comes to mind. Start with men in allied trades. Be quick about it, Saewold, and we may stop the rot before it spreads. Now, sir, who is your most likely moneyer? Where is your second Eadmer of the Short Stride?”

  The reeve flinched as a name suddenly hit him.

  “A second Eadmer,” he said. “A second Eadmer.”

  “There is such a person?”

  “Dermon-but, no, it could never be him.”

  “Who is this Dermon?”

  “He was Eadmer’s assistant at one time, but they fell out and parted.

  Dermon does not work in a mint anymore. He keeps accounts.”

  “Put his name at the top of the list,” ordered Ralph. “Why did Eadmer not mention the man himself?”

  “The bitterness between them was deep.”

  “Dermon has cause for revenge?”

  “Perhaps, my lord. But cause is not means. Cause is not opportunity.

  Dermon is forbidden to go near the mint. He rarely comes to Bedwyn at all. I will not suspect him.”

  “Suspect everyone. Where does the fellow live?”

  “Chisbury,” said Saewold. “Dermon is now in the employ of Hugh de Brionne.”

  It was the third time in a row that Emma had taken her doctoring to a lowly place and been rewarded with silver. Who had left the money outside the doors of these hovels? What benefactor had taken pity on the poorest people in the area? Why had she been singled out for her share of the coins? Emma was still preoccupied with the mystery as she set off that morning to gather herbs and replenish her stocks.

  She skirted Bedwyn, then made her way along the river, her dog sniffing along ahead of her. When she came to Alric’s mill, she stopped to throw silent imprecations at it. The beating which he had given her had scarred her soul for life. Alric might be dead, but his mill was still there to remind her of their dealings.

  Emma hurried on until she reached the stream that branched off to the left. Using the cover of the wooded slope, she browsed in safety and picked herbs for her basket. The dog went on patrol. Herbs were plentiful and she threw in a scattering of wildflowers as well to decorate her home. She was bent double in the undergrowth when she heard the tell-tale growl. Her dog had scented menace. Emma rose cautiously and pricked her ears. A hissed command brought the dog to her side. The animal continued to emit a low growl, but she could neither see nor hear any movement in the forest. It was only when the growl turned to a whine of fear that she knew they had company.

  “Where are you?” she called. “Show yourself.”

  Foresters would have come out to harry her. Poachers would have tried to scare her off. Enemies would have hurled something at her and at the dog.

  “We are doing no harm.”

  She sensed where the danger was lurking now and turned to aim her words at the massive oak behind which it hid.

  “Come no closer,” she warned. “I have my dog.”

  But the animal was in no mood to fight on behalf of its mistress. It was crouched at her feet in an attitude of submission, as if begging for her protection against some unseen foe. Whatever skulked behind the tree had frightened the dog into immobility. Its whine intensified.

  “Leave us alone!” she called out with defiance. “I have only taken herbs to cure sickness. I am a healer.”

  There was a grunting noise from behind the tree that made both her and the dog back away slightly, then a large head came round the trunk to appraise her. The hermit had an unsightly face that was made even more revolting by the long, straggly hair, the thick beard, and the accumulated filth. Deep-set eyes glared from beneath shaggy brows. Now that Emma could see him, she was no longer afraid.

  Indeed, when he stepped out from behind the oak and stood before her, she felt a vague sensation of pity glide through her. Being the Witch of Crofton condemned her to a joyless existence, but here was someone in a far worse condition than she. His sheepskin garments were soiled and torn; his bare arms and legs were blackened and grazed. He had a powerful frame and a fierce stare, but there was no real hostility in him. Instead, Emma sensed a kinship.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He remained motionless and watched her intently.

  “Where have you come from?”

  The dog had lost its fear as well. It wagged its tail.

  “Do you understand me?”

  The great face was scrunched up with bewilderment. Emma tried to make contact another way. She reached into her basket for the wildflowers and held them out to him. He looked faintly pleas
ed but refused with a shake of his head. Emma scooped up a handful of herbs instead, but he did not want those either. She had only one thing left to offer him and she searched in the folds of her cloak to find it. Taking a few friendly steps towards him, she offered the silver coins on her palm.

  He peered at them for a second, then a craggy smile cut through the overgrown beard. There was even the ghost of a laugh. The man fished inside his own garment and brought out some matching coins to show her. With a flick of his hand, he threw them to the ground in front of her and indicated that she should have them. Comprehen-sion dawned. Emma had met her benefactor. This strange inhabitant of Savernake Forest had distributed the money among the needy. Where it had come from, she did not know, but it was obvious that he had no need of it. There was abstract kindness in this man. He lived quite alone in self-imposed exile, but he could show care for others. His generous impulse had relieved misery in a number of distressed families.

  The hermit gazed deep into her eyes and their separate worlds merged for a second to banish all contradiction. Both were lonely outcasts. Both would be spurned on sight, yet both could be forgiving to those who spurned them. Both worshipped a deity that was older than time itself and beyond the scope of common imagination. Both followed their own twisting paths to a higher state of being that could be attained only in painful isolation.

  When the moment passed, the contradictions came back to push them apart forever, but the man made one last gesture of contact.

  Pointing up the hill, he beckoned Emma to follow, then he trudged off slowly on bare feet. She picked up the silver coins and did as he wished, keeping a few yards behind him and ordering her dog to stay at her heels. The hermit reached the blasted yew tree and gave it a rueful glance before cutting off into the undergrowth. He stopped beside a depression in the ground that was carpeted with ivy. He jabbed his finger at the spot, then raised it up to point in the direction of the town. Emma was perplexed and no wiser when the man made the identical gestures again.

  The dog needed no second invitation. Its nose scented something under the ivy and it became very agitated. Emma tried to shoo it away, but its interest was too strong and it began to burrow into the ivy with its front paws. Her own curiosity was now aroused and she found a stick to slide under the covering so that she could lift it up. The hollow was deeper at the centre and she could see some sort of tarpaulin there. Her dog darted under the ivy to grab at it with his teeth, but she caught it by the collar and dragged him back. When she put her stick under the tarpaulin to raise its edge up, she was astounded by what she saw and she realised at once why the animal had been so frantic. It took all her force to subdue it and she had to use both hands to pull it away.

  Emma could now interpret the hermit’s gestures. He wanted her to report what she had found. Unable to do so himself, he was asking her to take the message on his behalf. He had made an important discovery that he had no means of passing on. To go to the town would be to break his own cover, and he would never do that. He belonged to Savernake now and was at one with its mysteries. She was to be his emissary. She could pass on his findings without disclosing either his existence or his whereabouts. Emma would be praised and the hermit would be safe.

  She turned to thank him, but he had stolen away minutes before and run back to his clearing in the valley. While Emma waddled off with her dog and her basket, the man was sitting in the clearing with the new piece of sandstone between his knees, using primitive tools to chisel it to shape and holding it up from time to time to catch the sun. When the final stone had been properly dressed and sunk into position, his circle would be complete.

  Gervase Bret flicked through the documents until he found those that had a bearing on the case. He read the Latin with consummate ease and nodded his approval. Leofgifu watched him without any regrets about what she had done. When her father was alive, she was excluded from all knowledge of his business dealings and had to pick up what she could from casual remarks and inferences. Now that she had inherited his property and his wealth, she could do as she wished with all that had been his. Wulfgeat would have been disgusted to see a member of the king’s household searching freely through his papers. His Saxon blood would have curdled. But Gervase was no typical Chancery clerk and his affinities with the English were just as great as his loyalties to the Normans. When Leofgifu stumbled on charters that referred to land disputes around Bedwyn, she only dimly appreciated their import, but she was happy to show them to someone who might make more profitable use of them. As he read his way avidly through the terms of a document, Gervase came to see why Wulfgeat had spoken up so bravely for the vanquished King Harold. He gathered together a small pile of charters.

  “May I borrow these?” he asked.

  “What are they?”

  “Weapons.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Vultures.”

  “Take them,” she said. “I know they will be safe.”

  Gervase gave her a smile of gratitude. Her request had surprised but delighted him and he had rushed to the house to see her again.

  Pleased to find her so self-possessed once more, he was thrilled when she gave him unlimited access to her father’s papers. Wulfgeat’s history and motives were now much clearer in his mind.

  “How else may I help?” she offered.

  “By speaking to Hilda.”

  “She wishes to see you on her own account.”

  “It is the boy I need to question.”

  “Cild?”

  “Persuade her to send him alone to me.”

  “Hilda will not do that.”

  “She may if you ask her, Leofgifu.”

  “The boy is her stepson. She must protect him.”

  “Remind her that he stole the key to the mill.”

  “Can she not be present while you interview him?”

  “I ask you as a favour.”

  “What do you want from him?”

  “A name.”

  Leofgifu nodded, then went out. He could hear her ascend the creaking stairs and enter the room above her head. There was a discussion with Hilda that became quite heated for a while, but it produced a result. Footsteps came down the stairs and Hilda walked into the room, her hands firmly on the shoulders of Cild. She stood him in front of Gervase, then hesitated. The boy turned to plead silently with her, but she steeled herself to walk away. Gervase waited until he heard the door open and close, then he spoke.

  “I will not hurt you, Cild. I am trying to find out how and why your father was killed. Will you help me?”

  The boy glowered at him but said nothing.

  “Let me be frank,” said Gervase softly. “We have been to the mill and found your rope. We have been to the mint and found your way in. We have been to the yew tree and found your snake. We know a lot about you already, Cild.”

  The boy’s cheeks flushed with guilt and he lowered his head.

  Gervase used gentle words that slashed like knives. Cild was in pain. He had thought he was safe, but Gervase Bret was dragging him back into a past that was littered with horror for him. The sight of the gory Wulfgeat came up to fill his mind and his stomach heaved.

  Gervase did not browbeat. “You have done wrong,” he said calmly,

  “but only because you were too young to know any better. You were led cruelly astray. Help yourself by telling the truth. It is the only way forward, Cild. If you lie to me, I will know. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” muttered the boy.

  “Did you break into the mint?” Cild shifted uneasily and Gervase applied more pressure. “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you take an impression of the die?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you give it to your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he pass it on to someone else?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his name?”

  The boy lapsed back into a watchful silence. Gervase saw the insolence in his ga
ze and hardened his voice.

  “We know about Wulfgeat,” he stressed. “You put that snake in the sack so that it would bite him. He was your father’s enemy and you wanted him dead. Murder is the most serious crime of all, even when it is only plotted. Can you hear what I am saying to you, Cild?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must hold nothing back.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your father have an accomplice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they share the money between them?”

  “They did.”

  “Was it someone from Bedwyn?”

  “It was.”

  “Who?” The boy moved from foot to foot again as Gervase gave him no respite. “Who was the man, Cild? Tell me.”

  “I do not know.”

  “Who?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Who!” demanded Gervase. “Who!”

  “My father would not say!” he cried out in despair.

  The boy’s defences cracked and he burst into tears as the real horror of what he had done was borne in upon him. His youth was no excuse. Cild was old enough to know that theft and forgery and attempted murder were serious crimes that carried serious penalties.

  His father had made it seem exciting to break into the mint and he had loved the secret journeys the two of them had made to the hiding-place in the yew tree. Everything had cartwheeled out of control now. He was willing to tell Gervase Bret all he knew in the hope of gaining merciful treatment, but he could not supply a name that his father had kept from him.

  Gervase saw the boy’s predicament only too clearly. He was at once an accomplice and victim of his father. There was no point in questioning Cild further, because it would only sharpen his anguish. He would need to be interrogated at a later date by other authorities. The one thing Gervase needed to know was the one thing that the boy had not been told. He took pity on the whimpering Cild and moved across to him, but comforting arms had already encircled the child. Hilda slipped quietly into the room to pull him to her bosom and pat him soothingly on the back.

  When Gervase looked into her face, he saw the change that had taken place. Innocence had now fled. The tears that had been shed for a brutal man had now dried up. A plaintive expression had hardened into a scowl. Her voice was clipped.