The Wolves of Savernake (Domesday Series Book 1)

by Edward Marston

  While Ralph Delchard shouldered his way unceremoniously through the undergrowth, therefore, Gervase Bret took the time to look and listen. He played with leaves, he fingered bark, and he picked the wild fruit. He liked the brush of grass against his shins and the swish of bushes against his arms. There was so much to see and enjoy that he wanted to slow down to absorb it all properly, but Ralph was restless. When they stepped into a small clearing, the older man gave it no more than a glance before crossing towards a clump of birches.

  “Wait!” said Gervase.

  “Why?”

  “Hold there!”

  “For what reason?”

  “Can you not see?”

  “No. Let us move on.”

  Gervase grabbed him. “Look around you, Ralph!”

  He did as requested but still saw nothing that should detain him. The clearing was oval in shape and no more than thirty yards in diameter. Around its perimeter was a number of mounds of earth that had grassed over. Ralph Delchard had dismissed them with a glance, but Gervase Bret was intrigued. Running to the first misshapen lump, he bent down to examine it, then pulled away the turf which had been used to cover it. What had looked like a natural mound was, in fact, a piece of red sandstone set carefully in the earth. The stone was no more than eighteen inches high, but it had been crudely dressed to shape. Gervase was thrilled with his discovery. He scampered around the clearing and snatched the turf away from each of the mounds until all were uncovered, then he moved to the centre of the clearing with Ralph. The grassy lumps on the ground were now revealed as a circle of stones set at regular intervals. Gervase was fascinated.

  “It is like Stonehenge!” he said.

  “Yes,” agreed Ralph with a grin. “This must be Eadmer’s home. It is a Stonehenge for dwarves.”

  “See there!” said Gervase, pointing. “That stone has not yet been dressed. It has only just been put into position. What we saw on Salisbury Plain was a dead place, but this is alive. Can you not feel the presence of worship?”

  “No, Gervase.”

  “I sense it very strongly.”

  “All I see is a random collection of stones.”

  “Look for the pattern. Follow the scheme.” Gervase moved to the largest stone and bent to try its weight. “I cannot even budge it. What strength must have been needed to bring it to its resting place?”

  Ralph Delchard could not resist a physical challenge.

  “Leave it to me,” he said, sheathing his sword.

  He crouched down to get a firm hold on the sandstone before jiggling it to and fro to loosen it from the earth. Then he gathered all his energy and put it into one mighty heave that saw him lift the object right up from the ground. It was an appreciable feat of strength, but Gervase was not allowed to admire it for long. No sooner did Ralph strain to stand upright than there was a roar of protest from the undergrowth and a startling figure came bursting out to confront them. It was short, stocky, and quivering with rage. There was so much hair and so much fur, both heavily clotted with filth, that it was impossible to tell whether the creature was human, animal, or some outlandish compound of the two.

  It roared with anger again and bared pointed black teeth at the intruders. Ralph Delchard dropped the sandstone at once and grabbed his sword. Gervase reached for his dagger. Before either of them could strike, however, the newcomer let out a dark babble of noise, then vanished into the trees. They went after it, but they had no chance of catching it in such a warren of trees. Both were breathless when they abandoned the chase and leaned against an outcrop of chalk for support.

  “I was right,” said Ralph proudly. “That lame animal was no more than sport for Hugh de Brionne and his men. The real killer lives here in this place. We have just been face-to-face with the wolf of Savernake.”

  Ralph Delchard spoke as a soldier who had just been roused to combat. When an enemy appeared, his only thought had been to reach for his weapon and attack. Gervase Bret had listened as well as seen. The creature’s loud gabble had just been a howl of anger to his friend, but he had caught something of its meaning.

  “That was no wolf, Ralph,” he said confidently.

  “You saw the creature stand right in front of me. Wolf or bear or whatever it was—that was the killer we seek.”

  “I think not.”

  “We had to fight the monster off!”

  Gervase shook his head. “It was a man.”

  “You heard its roar; you marked those teeth. I’ll wager a month’s pay that that was no human being. It was some freak of nature who haunts the forest like a foul ghost.”

  “No animal would build a circle of stones.”

  “He howled with fury when we invaded his lair.”

  “He was only defending his temple,” explained Gervase. “And he did not attack us. He merely sought to frighten us away with that noise. It may have sounded like the cry of an animal to you, but I could pick out words from it. He is a man, Ralph, of that there is no question. He spoke in Welsh.”

  Chapter Ten

  BROTHER LUKE’S TRIBULATIONS DID NOT BECOME ANY EASIER TO BEAR WITH THE passage of time. Indeed, the closer he came to the end of his novitiate, the worse was his anguish of body and soul. It made him careless and unreliable in his devotions, so the wrath of the master of the novices was visited upon him with greater severity. Luke smarted with indignation and took the earliest opportunity to seek out his one haven of rest in the abbey. Brother Peter, as ever, was bent over the table in his workshop as he put the final touches to his silver crucifix. He gave his own young friend a cordial welcome, waved him to a stool, then sat opposite him. Though Luke was caught up in his agonising, he did notice that the sacristan was still moving stiffly and with barely concealed pain.

  “How are your wounds?” he asked solicitously.

  “I see them as marks of favour, Luke.”

  “Do they not hurt?”

  “Only to remind me of their presence.”

  “Brother Thaddeus might have crippled you.”

  “The abbot knew when to stay his strong arm,” said Peter easily. “But enough of my condition. That is old news. Tell me about Brother Luke and how he fares.”

  “Very ill.”

  “How do you sleep?”

  “Fitfully.”

  “How do you study?”

  “Unevenly.”

  “How do you pray?” The youth bit his lip and Peter leaned in to repeat the question. “How do you pray?”

  “Without conviction.”

  “These are indeed sad tidings. Tell me all.”

  Luke poured out his troubles yet again and spoke of fresh anxieties that had attached themselves to his ever-growing burden of doubt. He talked freely and without shame to Brother Peter. Nothing could shock his friend. Thoughts which had no place inside a man’s head at any time—let alone when he was living an exemplary life within the enclave—were now put into words. He bared his soul, then tried to lessen the impact of his drift away from the demands of the order by quoting from St. Augustine.

  “‘Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo.’”

  Peter smiled as he translated. “‘Give me chastity and continency, but not yet!’ Yes, my friend, St. Augustine had to wrestle mightily with the sins of the flesh. But he chose the true course in the end. Lay another of his edicts to your heart: ‘Salus extra ecclesiam non est.’ There is no salvation outside the Church.’”

  “Salvation may wait. I seek experience of life.”

  “Even if it corrupts you entirely?”

  “That is my dilemma.”

  “I was led astray and found my redemption within these four walls. You may not be so fortunate, Luke. Leave now and you may never be readmitted. Stay with us and you need fear none of the evils of the outside world.”

  The novice rubbed sweaty palms together and looked up.

  “Can love be called an evil, Brother Peter?”

  “In itself, no,” said the other, “but it may lead on to evil-doing
. Love diseases the heart and unbalances the mind. It makes people do terrible things in its name.”

  “But I wish to know love,” insisted the youth.

  “Then find it within the order. Love of God transcends all other earthly passions and brings rewards that are truly everlasting. Look inwards, Luke. Seek for love there.”

  “I have done so, Peter, but my thoughts still wander.”

  “School yourself more strictly.”

  “I may not. He is inside my head all the while.”

  “He?” echoed the sacristan. “Do you mean God?”

  “No. Gervase Bret.”

  Sudden anger surfaced. “You should never have listened to him!”

  “I was only listening to myself,” owned Luke. “What I have imagined, he has had the courage to reach out and take. Gervase Bret is betrothed to a lady called—”

  “We have heard enough of this young man,” said Peter sharply. “I am trying to fit your mind to life inside the abbey and he is trying to tempt you away. Remember the Garden of Eden, my dear friend. You are sitting in it right at this moment. Listen to that serpent—take the apple from his Tree of Knowledge—and you will be cast out.”

  “Gervase is no serpent,” protested Luke.

  “Choose wisely and choose well!”

  Peter’s unaccustomed asperity jolted the novice. The sacristan was normally the soul of affability and he was possessed of almost unlimited forbearance. Yet the young commissioner had somehow caught him on the raw and brought out a more waspish side to him. Peter saw his friend’s obvious dismay and patted his leg reassuringly.

  “You are wrong,” he said in a gentler tone. “I do not dislike this Gervase Bret. I found him a charming young man with an intelligence far greater than that of his blunt companion. But he represents a temptation. Look at the world through his eyes and you will drift towards damnation. View it through mine and you will serve God gladly for the rest of your days.”

  “I am still sorely vexed.”

  “Ponder anew.”

  “I do nothing else.”

  “Remember St. Augustine’s trials.”

  “Chastity and continency, but not yet!”

  “Subdue all fleshly inclination.”

  “How, Peter?” wailed the other. “How?”

  “Brother Thaddeus will teach you the way.”

  A visible shudder ran through Luke as he saw the brawny ploughman at work with his birch twigs. Thaddeus could beat the desire out of anyone, but it was a martyrdom that had no appeal for the novice. There had to be another way to come to terms with the promptings which were turning his nights into long and uneasy assaults upon his virtue. Peter had given him food for thought which he could digest when he was next alone. Time was running out and he would soon have to return to his studies. Another subject now called for discussion and it brought a fresh burst of remorse from the novice.

  “I am deeply troubled by death,” he announced.

  “So are we all, so are we all.”

  “I speak of Wulfgeat,” explained the other. “We are forbidden to visit the mortuary chapel, but I could not keep myself away and I saw what the wolf had done to his poor body. How can any man deserve that, Peter? What happened to Alric Longdon was harrowing enough, but this sight turned my stomach. Wulfgeat was eaten alive. Why?

  Why?”

  “Stay calm and I will instruct you.”

  “Abbot Serlo speaks about justifying the ways of God to men. Is it possible to justify such butchery?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “Wulfgeat was a good man by all account.”

  “Even good men have a streak of badness in them at times,” said Peter evenly. “Whenever you meet with horror or disaster, look for a sign. It is always there if you know where to find it. God is the fount of all joy, but he is also the engine of retribution.”

  “Alric and Wulfgeat were killed by a stray animal.”

  “Who put that animal in Savernake?”

  “It fled from its pack.”

  “Who drove it out?”

  “The other wolves.”

  “At whose behest?” When he saw Brother Luke hesitate, he supplied his own answer. “God arranges all things. Alric and Wulfgeat died violent deaths that others might be warned.”

  “But what did they do, Peter?”

  “They threatened the existence of this abbey.”

  “Could a simple miller do that?”

  “Alric was by no means simple,” corrected Peter. “He had low cunning and enough education to be able to read and write. It was he who summoned these commissioners here and brought this Gervase Bret to cloud your thoughts. I do not know the full details, but Prior Baldwin has told me that Alric posed a serious threat to this foundation. How and in what precise manner, I may only guess, but I accept the prior’s word without question.”

  “What of Wulfgeat?”

  “Likewise. He, too, sought to challenge Bedwyn Abbey through the agency of these commissioners. Can you not discern a connection here, Luke? Two men set themselves up against a house of God and they are struck down by Him.”

  “Is that the sign of which you made mention?”

  “It is. Could it be any clearer?”

  “So Alric and Wulfgeat were victims of the Almighty?”

  “He fights at our side,” reinforced Peter. “Stay with us and He will always guard you. Leave the abbey and you will lose His protection.”

  “But what of the commissioners?”

  “The commissioners?”

  “They are here to confront the abbey.” Brother Luke swallowed hard. “Will they be slaughtered, as well?”

  Peter smiled. “No, my friend. It is not needful. They are birds of passage who will soon be gone from this place. Gervase Bret and his colleagues are no longer a source of jeopardy for this house. Prior Baldwin has seen to that. He assures me that God has guided him in his disputations. He vows to send the commissioners on their way at once.”

  The afternoon session at the shire hall was the most lively and contentious so far. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret had barely resumed their seats alongside their colleagues when the abbey delegation sailed in with a new buoyancy. Prior Baldwin had the unassailable selfassurance of the truly blessed and the doleful Brother Matthew, weighed down though he was with a large satchel of documents, had found a sombre smile to wear upon his face. Beaten men when they last left the hall, they were returning as smug conquerors. Without being invited, Baldwin lowered himself into his chair; without being asked, Matthew flung the satchel down upon the table as if delivering the Ten Commandments to a wayward people. He, too, sat back with unruffled calm. For a few minutes, the commissioners were quite dumbfounded.

  Ralph Delchard was the first to locate his voice.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “You have our documents,” said Baldwin, flicking an eye at the satchel. “Show us yours.”

  Matthew continued. “Every charter before you is legal and binding. It will stand the closest scrutiny. We must now examine your evidence of a counter-claim. Let us see it.”

  “Let us see it,” asserted the prior, “or let us go. We have played your little games far too long as it is.”

  “They are not games,” rumbled Canon Hubert. “The abbey is under suspicion because of an irregularity. The charter relating to a specific piece of land is a forgery.”

  Baldwin preened himself. “We are told that it is a forgery by our young friend here, but the only person who could weigh the document fairly in the balance is the scribe who wrote it out, and Drogo, alas, is no longer among us. We rest our case on custom and usage. The terms of this charter reflect what has happened to those two hides over the last twenty years. Those terms will stand in any court of law unless you can produce a counter-claim which negates them.”

  “We have such a counter-claim,” said Ralph.

  “It predates yours and is genuine,” added Hubert.

  “Then where is it?” s
aid Matthew tonelessly.

  “We have a right to see it,” said Baldwin. “If our abbey is accused, we wish to see the face of the accuser. Give us this charter so that we may peruse it with care and answer its monstrous impudence. Our integrity has been put in question and we demand the opportunity to vindicate ourselves.” His eyes blazed. “Where is your charter?”

  Ralph’s temper flared. “It is we who are empowered to call for evidence and not you, Prior Baldwin. The abbey is on trial because it has overreached itself out of sheer greed. We have taken statements from many witnesses and all attest that the abbey seized that land shortly after Abbot Serlo was brought here from Caen.”

  “You dare to impugn the name of Abbot Serlo!” exclaimed the prior. “He is a saint.”

  “Then others have done his dirty work for him.”

  “God will punish you for such blasphemy!”

  “He has already done so,” moaned Ralph, “by making me sit on this commission and listen to such holy nonsense as you keep thrusting upon me.”

  Canon Hubert intervened. “Abbot Serlo is above reproach,” he said. “Nobody can meet such a man without being aware that they are in the presence of someone who has been touched by the hand of God. But that does not exonerate his abbey. All that we have learned from witnesses supports the claim that brought us to Bedwyn in the first place.”

  “What witnesses?” hissed Baldwin.

  “Subtenants on the land in question.”

  “Ignorant men with a grudge against the abbey.”

  “They have long memories.”

  “Long and unforgiving, Canon Hubert. This is not just a battle between abbey and town. It is a feud between Norman and Saxon. Subtenants have no rights of ownership. They merely till the land and pay rent for that privilege. If they can find a way to flail at their landlords, then they will take it out of Saxon malice. Times are hard and that spreads even more bitterness. The abbey has become its natural target.”

  He turned to his subprior for endorsement and Matthew cleared his throat to make way for a sepulchral comment.