The Wolves of Savernake (Domesday Series Book 1)

by Edward Marston

  “Who gives the lectures now?” mocked Ralph.

  “It legalises all the changes that took place when Norman feet trampled first on English soil.” He pointed to his documents. “See what your predecessors saw. Behave as they did. Ratify my claims. And trespass no more upon my indulgence.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Gervase. He rolled up the documents and tied them once more with a ribbon. “They appear to be in order but refer to holdings that are outside the scope of this examination. Our interest is in two particular hides.”

  “Stolen from me by the abbey!”

  “No, my lord,” replied Gervase. “Taken into your demesne from one Heregod of Longdon. Four hides in all are thrown in question here, either side of the boundary between the abbey lands and the manor of Chisbury. I see a charter in your parcel to challenge the abbey land but none to enforce the two hides of your own.”

  “They are mine by royal grant.”

  “Show us the proof and you may go.”

  “The document is mislaid.”

  “Then maybe the land was mislaid, too.”

  “Do you accuse Hugh de Brionne of dishonesty!” howled the other. “Take care of your manners, young sir, or I will have to teach you some.”

  Ralph smiled. “Forgive my colleague’s rudeness. It is but the folly of youth and will improve with time. Let him have his answer and our dealings with you will conclude.”

  “That land has always been part of my demesne.”

  “But by what right, my lord?” said Gervase.

  “Royal grant!”

  “We find no record of it back in Winchester.”

  “Word of mouth will uphold me,” argued Hugh, trying to hurry the business through. “Call my subtenants from those same hides and let them speak under oath. I’ll wager my ten best horses that each man swears for me.”

  “We may all rely on that,” said Ralph, knowing that any subtenant of Hugh de Brionne would be terrified into saying precisely what he wanted him to say. “Filling this hall with the oaths of wretched Saxons will not content us. We need firmer proof.”

  “In writing,” said Gervase.

  “Find this charter you mislaid,” suggested Canon Hubert with irony. “Its disappearance has been too convenient.”

  Hugh de Brionne seethed with rage and stamped his foot again, but they were unmoved by his show of temper. Flicking his mantle over his shoulder to display the black wolf on his tunic, he emitted a low animal growl.

  “I will be back!”

  Then he snatched up his documents and stalked out.

  Living alone for so long had given Emma of Crofton a fierce independence. Rejected by all and feared by most, she had learned to cope with the sneers and the taunts that came her way each day, and she had also taught herself how to dodge a stone or take an occasional blow. A bloodthirsty mob, however, was a different matter, especially when it descended on her so violently out of the gloom. Ralph Delchard’s intercession had saved her life. There was no doubt that she and the dog would have been torn apart and she was equally certain that nobody would have grieved for either of them. No sheriff would be summoned to investigate her murder, no action taken against the killers. A witch and her familiar had been destroyed. Their remains might not have been found for weeks. The kindest thing that would have happened was for someone to dig a hole and kick them into it. She and her dog would have shared the same unmarked grave, two dead animals found lying on the ground and tossed with cold indifference into oblivion.

  A Norman lord had come to her rescue and bound up her wounded arm, but he could not stand sentry all night. When he left, others might sneak back to finish the execution that he had interrupted. That fear took her out of the house and up into the wood nearby. She and the dog dug themselves a pit in the soft earth and curled up together in the safety of nature. Exhaustion made her sleep well into the morning.

  The journey back to her hovel was made with furtive steps. Enemies might lurk to ambush her again. She sent her dog on ahead and watched from behind a thick hedge as it sniffed its way around their home. Its wagging tail was a signal that bore relief. Emma dared to venture out of cover.

  “Wait there, wait there!”

  She tensed with apprehension, but it was no threat to her life that came scurrying towards her. It was the same peasant woman to whom she had given the potion for the family’s stomach pains. The ragged newcomer was moving with such freedom that her indisposition was clearly gone. The woman had been waiting for Emma to return.

  “I heard about those men,” she sympathised.

  “They have gone now.”

  “But they may come back one day.”

  “I have lived with that fear a long time now.”

  “Come to me.”

  “What?”

  “If you are in danger,” said the woman, “come to me. Our house is small, but you are welcome to hide there with your dog. Do not sleep in the wood again. Come to me.”

  Emma was touched. Everyone else rejected her. Even the patients whose health she had restored stayed out of her way thereafter. Yet she was now being offered a refuge. A woman who had almost nothing of her own was willing to share the last thing she had—a mean dwelling which would be taken from her if her husband was found guilty—with an outcast. She was willing to risk the danger of having a reviled witch under her roof when armed men were out hunting her. Emma came close to real tears and she looked into the willing face of her new friend.

  “Why do you help me in this way?” she wondered.

  “You cured our pain; you gave us bread.”

  “Bread?”

  “Your prayer was answered, Emma. We thank you.”

  The woman leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, then she turned on her heel and hurried back in the direction of her home. Emma could not comprehend such kindness. As she walked on down to her own house, she tried to puzzle it out. Yesterday, she had faced death in the night; today, she was being shown the face of true friendship. It was baffling.

  Her dog came bounding up to her and nuzzled her fat thigh as she trundled on, then he ran back to the front door of the house and crouched excitedly over something. Emma at first thought that he had caught a bird or mouse, but she soon saw otherwise. As she reached the door and moved the animal back with her foot, she saw something scattered across her doorstep. They were silver coins.

  Chapter Eight

  BROTHER PETER BORE HIS TRIBULATIONS WITH NOBLE EQUANIMITY. THE PUNISHMENT he suffered would have disabled most of the monks for days and introduced at least a hint of bitterness into their relationship with Brother Thaddeus. Peter rose above the common experience and astonished the whole house by appearing at Matins next morning to take his appointed place. He was evidently in considerable pain and moved with some difficulty, but the face that was bowed humbly before God contained neither reproach nor suffering but shone with its usual blithe religiosity. When the sacristan picked his way gingerly across the cloister garth after Prime, he was even able to acknowledge the cheerful greeting of Brother Thaddeus. Not a breath of personal animosity stirred. The happy ploughman was but an instrument of harsh discipline and therefore not to blame. Peter even found a moment to ask kindly after the oxen in the field. Like him, they had felt the wounding power of Brother Thaddeus’s strong arm.

  It was after Terce when Brother Luke at last found him.

  “How are you, Brother Peter?”

  “I survive.”

  “Reports had you half-dead.”

  “Brother Thaddeus would have cut me in two if Abbot Serlo had not curtailed my beating.” He gave a weary smile. “It is all over now. I will not dwell on it.”

  Luke studied him with almost-ghoulish fascination. They were in Peter’s workshop and the brazier was still glowing quietly in the corner. The novice could not understand how his friend could so soon and so readily return to his holy labours after such a terrible ordeal. Peter’s stoic attitude was quite inspiring.

  “Does it not hurt?” mur
mured Luke.

  “Like the Devil!”

  “Then should you not rest?”

  “I have done so already.”

  “Wounds need time to heal.”

  “They may heal just as well if I stand on my feet,” said Peter bravely. “Brother Infirmarian has been extremely kind to me. He has washed my body clean and applied ointments as a salve. His tender ministrations have softened the pain, if they have not relieved the stiffness.”

  Luke was aghast. “Are you not angry?”

  “With whom?”

  “With anyone or anything that can do this to you. With Abbot Serlo or with Brother Thaddeus. With the strictures of the Benedictine rule. With the brother who informed on you in the first place.” Luke bristled. “I would be enraged.”

  “My only anger is reserved for myself.”

  “Yourself?”

  “I transgressed, Luke. I paid the penalty.”

  “You are truly sainted.”

  “We all have our cross to bear,” said Peter as he took the silver cross from its drawer and held it up. “This is mine and I was crucified for spending too much time on it.”

  “The abbey does not deserve such a wondrous gift.”

  “It does, Luke. Do not be blinded by friendship to me from seeing duty to the order. I am but one obedientiary who went astray and have been whipped back into line. I accept that without complaint. Do you likewise.”

  Brother Luke made the effort to do so, but it was way beyond his competence. His eye kept roving over Peter’s cowl and he eventually asked the question which had brought him there.

  “May I see?”

  “No.”

  “The others say that Brother Thaddeus is vicious.”

  “I have not seen his work and nor will you.”

  “But you bear it upon your back.”

  “Out of sight to both of us.”

  “Can I not wash it for you? Apply more ointment?”

  “I am too afraid for you, Luke.”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “If I lift my cowl to any other brother, he will see no more than the retribution of Father Abbot.” He put concerned hands on the young shoulders and looked the novice full in the face. “If I show you my wounds, you will see the exit from the order. And I would keep you here.”

  “To suffer the same treatment myself?”

  “To avoid it by due observance of the rule.”

  Peter clapped his hands to change the subject and put the crucifix away once more. His manner was almost spry, though there was still an aching slowness in his motions.

  “What have you been doing with yourself?” he said.

  “Praying for you.”

  “Your prayers were answered. Here I am again.”

  “Praise the Lord!” Luke remembered something else. “The young commissioner came to call upon me.”

  “Gervase Bret?”

  “We talked in the garden.”

  “Upon what subject?”

  “His reason for leaving Eltham Abbey.”

  Peter frowned. “He tried to tempt you away?”

  “No, he was careful not to influence my decision in any way. But he was honest about his own travails and that made an impression on me. He spoke in the roundest terms and did not shirk my questions.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He was intrigued by the abbey itself,” explained Luke, “and asked me about its working. That was the curious thing. When I met him, I was disposed to be released from my vows and leave the order, yet when I spoke with him about our life together here, I did so with such zeal that I came to see how much I had grown into it.”

  “We are a family and you an honoured son.”

  “The master of the novices does not honour me.”

  “He will in time, Luke. If you stay.” Peter’s frown deepened. “What did you tell Gervase Bret?”

  “All that he asked.”

  “Did he mention Prior Baldwin?”

  “Many times. He has seen through that sacred tyrant.”

  “And Subprior Matthew?”

  “He questioned me about the subprior’s work.”

  “Beware, Luke!”

  “Why?”

  “He is trying to entrap you.”

  “But he came here as a friend.”

  “A friend to you, perhaps, but not to Bedwyn Abbey. He is a royal official sent here on a mission. Our prior and subprior represent the abbey. You weaken their position if you divulge any information about our community.” Brother Peter fixed an admonitory gaze on him. “I warned you before. This man was here to use your inexperience against you. The abbey has to fight the commissioners. You give them ammunition to use against your brothers.”

  “I did not think him so sly.”

  “He has his warrant, Luke.”

  “Then all he told me was false?”

  “I think it was.”

  “No, no, it cannot be,” exclaimed the youth with spirit. “He spoke so openly about his own novitiate and suffered once more the pains of separation from the order as he talked. It was a dreadful choice he had to make and doubts will pursue him all his life.” Luke gritted his teeth and thought it over. “Gervase Bret is a straightforward man. He did not lie to me about Eltham Abbey.”

  “Why did he leave it?”

  “He yielded to temptation.”

  “Ambition?”

  “A woman.”

  Peter sighed, “Each man has his own peculiar weakness. My own lies wrapped in cloth inside that drawer. For Gervase Bret, it was the wonder of a woman.” He sighed again and put an arm around his friend. “We all have fatal flaws, Luke.”

  “What is mine?”

  The message arrived before noon and it threw Hilda into a panic. Leofgifu read it out to her and saw the rising terror in her eyes. A frightened creature at the best of times, she was particularly vulnerable at the moment, and Leofgifu had to spend a long time calming her down before they could even begin to address the problem. Authority unnerved the widow.

  “They have sent for me!” she whimpered.

  “But they have not,” said her friend. “This is not an official summons. One of the commissioners simply wishes to speak with you about your husband.”

  “I know nothing, Leofgifu.”

  “Then you will have nothing to tell them.”

  “They will be angry with me.”

  “I think not,” said Leofgifu, glancing at the missive once more. “The man who sent this letter shows you much consideration. He apologises for intruding on your grief. He knows your situation. But your husband brought them all to Bedwyn, so they must talk with you.”

  “I will not see them.”

  “They have the power to enforce it,” warned the other.

  “Tell them I am too ill.”

  “It will not deflect them from their purpose.”

  Hilda looked anxiously and helplessly around like a small animal caught in a trap. Alric’s death was shock enough to bear without having Prior Baldwin and Wulfgeat bearing down upon her. Now another man was trying to get something from her which she did not possess.

  “See him,” advised Leofgifu.

  “Will you be with me?” pleaded Hilda.

  “Every second.”

  “May we receive him here?”

  “I am sure my father will consent.”

  “What is this commissioner’s name?”

  “Master Gervase Bret.”

  “And you say he will not scold me?”

  Leofgifu gave her pledge. “Not while I am here.”

  A change of tactics allowed Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew to exhibit a more compliant attitude to the quartet who sat behind the long table in the shire hall. Baldwin sounded a conciliatory note at the start and Matthew was there to throw in a funereal smile of agreement whenever he deemed it necessary. Having antagonised the commissioners during earlier exchanges, the two men now seemed keen to mollify and compromise. Brother Simon was taken in by the apparent cha
nge of heart, but Canon Hubert treated it with an unconcealed scepticism and snorted in disbelief more than once. Ralph Delchard was diverted by the manoeuvres, but he left it to Gervase Bret to lock horns with the prelates.

  “I have spoken with Abbot Serlo today,” said Baldwin, “and he agrees that a misunderstanding has arisen. The two hides which arouse this unfortunate controversy were willed to us when he and I first came to Bedwyn. You have the charter which sets the truth before you.”

  “But it is a forgery,” affirmed Gervase.

  Baldwin smiled sweetly. “No, sir, you allege that it is a forgery, and that is a different matter. That document has been signed, sealed, and proved. Your predecessors found no fault in it. Why must you?”

  “Because we have a counter-claim.”

  “Could that not be a forgery?”

  “Indeed it could,” said Ralph heavily. “The more I see of Bedwyn and its ways, I begin to wonder if anything here is what it seems. We have had so many lies and prevarications that I am coming to think the town itself does not exist! It is a forgery practised on the eye.”

  “Leave off these jests,” said Canon Hubert. “They do not advance the case. What we talk of here is the burden of proof.”

  “Thank you,” said Baldwin pleasantly. “You are right as usual, Canon Hubert, but the burden of proof lies with you.”

  Gervase Bret lifted up the abbey charter to peruse it.

  “It is false,” he said quietly.

  “How do you know?” challenged Baldwin.

  “Intuition.”

  “Really!” said Matthew, stirred from his mourning. “Are we to decide the fate of two hundred acres or more by the intuition of a callow youth?”

  “I may be callow, Brother Matthew, but I am not blind.”

  “Substantiate your allegation,” said Baldwin. “If the document has been falsely drawn up—prove it.”

  “Prove it,” echoed Matthew somnolently.

  Their confidence had clearly been revived by their long discussions back at the abbey and they had returned with more composure. If they could discredit the word of Gervase Bret, they had won the day for the abbey. Baldwin had already manipulated the Bishop of Durham and his co-commissioners to good effect. He now carried the fight to a mere clerk of Chancery with every hope of success. Instead of his earlier red-faced bluster, he used a patronising gaze that could quell most opposition by its concentrated power.