The Wolves of Savernake

by Edward Marston

  A forester had heard the scream from half a mile away and ran to the spot where the faceless Wulfgeat was splattered upon the ground. Nobody else was in sight, but the shadow of the animal still seemed to lie across its victim. The forester raced madly to the town to summon help and he set off the typhoon which now engulfed them. Only the monks from the abbey had courage enough to venture into the danger area to rescue the fallen man. The brutalised remains of Wulfgeat were borne back to the mortuary chapel with all due haste. Those who were charged to clean the body had never been given a more repellent task. As they tentatively bathed the mutilated torso, they were convinced that they were dealing with the work of the Devil.

  The Witch of Crofton came quickly back into fashion as the most likely suspect. It was Wulfgeat who had first pointed to her as the author of the first outrage. This was plainly Emma’s revenge. She had killed Alric because he had beaten her and she had murdered Wulfgeat because he had instigated the raid upon her. Nothing could be clearer. Her dog was the agent of her heinous crimes. Transformed by a spell into a giant wolf, it patrolled the forest and lured its victims to an isolated spot so that it could savage them to death. It then resumed its form as the black dog which kept the witch company as her familiar. Hatred of Emma reached new heights, but it was moderated by naked fear of repercussions. Those who wished to ride off again to slay her and her hound now thought about possible consequences. Alric and Wulfgeat had both offended her and both had died as a result. Even from beyond the grave, her potent charms could mean damnation. Her destruction had to be plotted with great care.

  Ralph Delchard did not even consider the name of Emma. Witchcraft did not intrude upon his common sense and he was still grateful for the basket of wild fruit which Emma had picked for him. Such a gesture could not have come from the cold-blooded monster created by common report. When the news of Wulfgeat’s death was brought to him at the hunting lodge, he called for his horse to be saddled and galloped to the abbey, arriving in time to see the body while it was being washed and to scrutinise its wounds without revulsion. He then spoke with the forester who had discovered the corpse. The man had just given a full account to Abbot Serlo of what he had seen and hazy impressions had already hardened into solid fact. A sturdy fellow of middle years, he trembled as he went through the details again.

  “Wulfgeat was mauled by a huge wolf,” he said.

  Ralph was unpersuaded. “Did you see the animal?”

  “No, my lord, but I heard it.”

  “That distinctive howl?”

  “It was more like a scream of triumph.”

  “Wolves do not scream.”

  “This one did, my lord.”

  “Then it was no wolf. A fox might make such a noise. Or at least, a vixen might during mating. But foxes would never attack a man in that way. Was that the sound you thought you heard? A high-pitched cry?”

  “I did hear it, my lord. Clear as a bell.”

  “Shriek or howl?”

  “A scream.”

  “Animal or human?”

  “I took it to be animal.”

  “You are a forester, man. You should know.”

  “It frighted me out of my wits,” said the forester as he rubbed his rough beard. “I thought it was the beast, but it might have been Wulfgeat himself, calling out for help.”

  “How would he do that with his throat bitten away?” said Ralph irritably. “If Wulfgeat had time enough to yell out, then he had time to draw his weapon; yet his sword was still in its scabbard when you found him.”

  “That is so, my lord.”

  “You saw nobody else?”

  “Nobody.”

  “And no sign of a sudden departure?”

  “Some fur caught on the brambles, that is all.”

  “How was he lying?”

  “Upon the bare earth.”

  “But at what angle? Facing what direction? How close to those brambles? How near to that yew tree?” Ralph put a hand on his shoulder. “Steady your nerves and tell me the truth. Much may depend on it. Give me no more talk of huge wolves and wicked witches. Speak only of what you saw. Now, you came rushing upon him by that stream. Describe how he lay.”

  Ralph Delchard slowly dragged the details out of him and gained an approximate knowledge of what had taken place. The man was still far too scared to give an objective report, but he no longer slid into assumptions about a phantom wolf which had been conjured up by the black arts of the Witch of Crofton. Something had killed Wulfgeat and the forester was the first on the scene. His garbled account yielded a number of valuable facts.

  Their discussion took place near the abbey gatehouse and so they were on hand to hear the mild commotion that ensued as eager visitors arrived. A distraught Leofgifu was demanding to be admitted to the mortuary chapel to view the body of her father and to confirm the terrible news which had just reached her. Hilda was trying to hold her friend back and Gervase Bret was doing all he could to persuade the stricken daughter against such a course of action. The porter attempted to calm them down, but Leofgifu insisted on her rights as next of kin. Ralph Delchard stepped in to introduce himself and to add his voice to that of the others.

  “Lady, you have my deepest sympathy,” he said quietly.

  “Where is my father?”

  “Beyond recall. Let him rest in peace.”

  “I must see him.”

  “It is not a sight fit for your young eyes.”

  “I am his only child.”

  “Then remember him for his goodness and do not vex his poor body now. There is nothing you may do to bring him back and the manner of his death will haunt you forever if you persist in looking upon him once more. Spare yourself that agony.”

  “Come away, Leofgifu,” said Gervase gently. “This is no place for you.”

  She was adamant. “I wish to see my father.”

  “Let Gervase take you home,” advised Ralph. “You will live to thank me for this wise counsel. I have seen the body and it is no longer that of the man you once knew. Your father’s soul is in heaven. Pray for him.”

  But even the concerted efforts of four people could not dissuade her from her intent. Fired by a duty that grew out of a sense of guilt, Leofgifu stood her ground. They had no power to prevent her from seeing the body. Her voice became shrill as she reaffirmed her demands.

  Monastic authority interceded in the dispute.

  “What means this unseemly noise?” asked Prior Baldwin as he swooped down on them. “Peace, peace, good lady!” Leofgifu was finally subdued. The sight of the prior and the sacristan had a calming effect on her and their words added further balm. Ralph had no respect for monks, but he had to admire the practised way in which both Baldwin and Peter offered their condolences to the bereaved daughter. They were professionals in the service of death. They knew exactly what to say and exactly how to say it. All of Leofgifu’s truculence disappeared and they talked her out of her purpose before she even had chance to state what it was.

  Prior Baldwin’s tone had a distant condescension in it, but Brother Peter’s voice was soft and sincere. When he looked at Leofgifu, there was a world of sadness in his expression. He spoke as a monk, but she heard him as a friend. She could only respect Baldwin. It was Peter who inspired trust and who offered her real support. He told her that she was to call on him at any time if she needed spiritual sustenance or practical help of any kind, and she knew that it was no idle invitation. During her brief stay at the abbey, Hilda had been greatly buoyed up by the gentle assistance of the sacristan. Now it was Leofgifu who felt his natural generosity reaching out to her. Something in his manner both rallied her and confused her, lifting her up from total despair and yet adding a new bewilderment to her situation. Leofgifu wanted his help but was somehow unable to grasp at it. Prior Baldwin tried to ease her on her way, but Peter detained her with further promises and advice. It was to the latter that she addressed her final question.

  “Was he killed by a wolf?”

  “
We believe so.”

  “May I see him?”

  A kind pause. “We think not, Leofgifu.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath, as if she was in great pain for a second, then she nodded her agreement. Prior Baldwin offered her accommodation at the abbey, but Leofgifu had no reason to be there any longer. Her mind had been slightly eased. Her father was forever beyond her now. Supported by Hilda, she turned towards the gate and went through it. Ralph Delchard collected his horse, then followed with Gervase Bret in order to lend assistance if needed, but Hilda was in control now. Having been helped through her own ordeal by Leofgifu, she could now return that loving kindness.

  The men dropped back a little so that they could converse without being overheard by the two women ahead of them.

  “What did you learn?” asked Gervase.

  “He was killed on the same spot as Alric.”

  “By a wolf?”

  “By an animal of some kind.”

  “What was Wulfgeat doing in such a place?”

  “There is only one explanation,” decided Ralph. “He knew about the hiding place in the yew tree. Wulfgeat was Alric’s accomplice.”

  “But they hated each other.”

  “A mask to their true relationship.”

  “No, Ralph,” said the other. “I talked with the miller’s widow and I could see that the hatred was genuine on both sides. Those men would not have worked together no matter what rewards were offered. Look for some other reason that puts them both in the same part of Savernake when they died.”

  “There is no other reason.”

  “There must be.”

  They walked in silence for a while and saw Hilda’s arm tighten around Leofgifu’s shoulders as the first tears of remorse began to flow. Ralph still felt that there was some collusion between miller and burgess, but Gervase pursued a different line of thought.

  “Why did Wulfgeat visit that spot?” he resumed.

  “To search for the chest.”

  “If he had been Alric’s accomplice, he would have known that the chest was not there. All that the yew tree holds is a block of wood in a sack. Why go after that?”

  “Why indeed?” conceded Ralph.

  “Someone took him there.”

  “Wulfgeat?”

  “Someone showed him the way and led him to his death. He would not have gone to such a place unless he had expected to find something to his advantage—the money or the charter. That was the lure to get him there.”

  “But who set it, Gervase?”

  “I do not know as yet. Let us remember the moneyer.”

  “Eadmer, the dwarf?”

  “You thought you had spied a way into his mint.”

  “Yes,” said Ralph sadly. “Until we rowed beneath his building and looked up into the throne where Eadmer sits. I guessed at a weak link in the chain of his defences, but I was wrong. The moneyer has too small a bottom for my device. No man would ever be able to crawl through that hole and up into the mint. His shoulders would be too wide.”

  “No man, you say?”

  “It is quite impossible.”

  Gervase turned to face him with a quizzical smile.

  “What about a boy?”

  Cild lay curled up on the mattress in the tiny room he shared with his mother. He was still in a state of shock and his young mind was trying to make sense of what he had seen and what it all meant. His had been a harsh life so far and it had lacked all the pleasures of childhood, but there had been compensatory joys. In spite of a strict and punitive upbringing, he had loved his father deeply and relished those moments when he was taken into the latter’s confidence so that he could help to outwit rivals and enemies. Alric sowed corruption in his son at an early age to ensure that he had an ally in the ceaseless battle against an uncaring world. Women never understood the nature of such conflicts. Cild’s mother and his stepmother had, therefore, been kept ignorant of what their menfolk did outside the mill. It had bonded father and son together and it was that bond which now came to the boy’s aid. He reconstructed the progress of events once more in his fevered brain.

  Wulfgeat had not been killed. When Cild looked down upon the prostrate body, he had seen his own father. It was Alric who was the victim of the wolf and his cruel and unnecessary death had ruined the futures of his son and of his second wife, putting an unbridgeable gap between them. Anger displaced fear as he reflected on the situation. Shock gave way to cold rancour. Wulfgeat had loathed his father and gloried in his downfall. He and his servant had broken into the mill to search it without permission. His only interest in Alric Longdon lay in finding the miller’s chest so that he could use the charter it contained for his own personal gain. Wulfgeat was no caring friend who took pity on the widow and her stepson. He was a greedy and selfish man who tried to exploit the death of his archenemy. Sympathy was wasted on such a person. He deserved to perish in the most violent way. One death answered another.

  Cild had set his trap, but the burgess had met a deadlier foe than the snake in the flour sack. The boy should be grateful. He himself had survived and was free from all suspicion. The murder he had plotted did not, in fact, take place. Fate had contrived better than he himself. His father had indeed been avenged and Cild was now lying in the house of the man who had tormented him. That only served to complete the sense of triumph. Instead of being huddled into a frightened ball, he should be full of exultation. Cild had conquered Wulfgeat and taken possession of his home. The son of a mere miller had outfoxed one of the leading burgesses in the town of Bedwyn. It was a signal victory.

  The boy slowly uncurled and let his arms and legs stretch right out with growing freedom. Then he began to laugh. It was not the normal happy chuckle of a boy of nine but the weird, uncanny, unsettling, high-pitched cackle of some demented creature of the forest. He was possessed. Caught up in the wildness of his cachinnation, Cild began to twitch and writhe about on the mattress like a poisonous snake that has just been liberated from its irksome prison inside a sack.

  Hugh de Brionne chose his moment well, riding into Bedwyn at the break of day on his destrier, with his huntsmen in support, bringing a pack of baying hounds to wake anyone still abed and to announce his bold purpose. Where the Warden of Savernake’s men had failed, Hugh de Brionne would succeed. He would sift through the forest until the wolf was tracked down and caught. Bedwyn might still be immobilised by terror, but a Norman lord was determined to take action. He was also grateful of anything which diverted attention away from the land dispute in which he had become embroiled. Success in Savernake would make him a hero in the locality. A man who was usually despised for his arrogance would now be praised for his bravery and there would be none of the usual complaints about the damage done to farming land over which he and his huntsmen had to ride to reach the forest. If he could kill the wolf, he could rid the town of a menace that banished all sleep and he would also impress the leader of the commissioners who sat in judgement upon him. A keen huntsman himself, Ralph Delchard would be the first to commend a successful sortie in the forest. Hugh de Brionne had everything to gain.

  His horse pranced in a circle around the marketplace while its master waved his stump of an arm to keen onlookers and collected their good wishes.

  “Fortune attend you, my lord!”

  “Kill the wolf!”

  “Run it to ground!”

  “Show it no mercy!”

  “Unleash your hounds!”

  “Bring it back dead!”

  “Destroy it!”

  The shouts brought more and more heads out of windows and the whole town was soon urging Hugh de Brionne to remove the bane of their existence. He was an unpopular man who could yet turn out to be their saviour, and even the most loyal Saxon was ready to applaud a Norman if he could catch the wolf of Savernake. The name of Emma was hurled into the air, but Hugh de Brionne did not deign to hear it. Witchcraft did not murder Wulfgeat. Only feeble minds could believe such nonsense. In the opinion of Hugh de Brio
nne, the burgess was brought down by the angry fangs of a lone wolf. His job was to find it before it could strike again.

  “Sound the horn!” he ordered.

  The blast reverberated around the town and set off a frenzy among the hounds. With Hugh in the lead, they scurried off eagerly in the direction of the forest, borne along by the cheers of the people and by an overweening confidence. Men with weapons and trained dogs might prove to be their salvation. Bedwyn was certainly able to face the new day with more fortitude than had hitherto been the case.

  It soon evaporated. An hour passed and the sounds of the hunt could no longer be heard. The wolf had evidently outrun its pursuers. A second hour rolled by and the Witch of Crofton was resurrected once more as the culprit. Hugh de Brionne was searching in the wrong direction. There was no wolf in the forest, because it was now a black dog that guarded its mistress. Reality succumbed to superstition as the anxieties of the long night took hold on minds once more. Nobody could hunt down a wolf that existed only when it was called into being by black magic. Hugh de Brionne and his men were chasing shadows in the forest.

  The passage of a third hour reinforced the feeling that the whole venture was a waste of time. Those who had trusted in a Norman lord now reviled him for his false promises and they also noted the recurring link between invasion and affliction. When the commissioners came, Alric Longdon died; while they stayed, the town was being rent apart by boundary disputes and their evil influence had culminated in a second gruesome death. The Normans were not simply there to enforce the king’s business. They were a curse on the community. This thought made people recall the Saxon spirit which had inflamed Wulfgeat throughout his life.

  “Down with the Normans!” someone dared to shout.

  “Wulfgeat was right! Never surrender!”

  “Drive them out!”

  “Grind them under the heel!”

  “Save a Saxon town for true Saxons!”