The Wolves of Savernake (Domesday Series Book 1)

by Edward Marston

  Serlo was still singing his thanks to the Lord as he returned to his lodgings after Vespers. One of his monks followed him at a discreet distance.

  “Excuse me, Father Abbot,” he said deferentially.

  “Brother Peter!”

  “I crave a brief moment with you.”

  “But you will miss your supper,” noted Serlo with paternal interest. “Bread, fruit, and ale are being served in the refectory. Take your place there and eat.”

  “My request has precedence, Father Abbot.”

  Serlo invited the sacristan into his lodging and moved across to lower his bulk into the high-backed oak chair. Peter waited until the abbot was properly settled, then he knelt before him and offered up his gift. It was a solid object that was wrapped in cloth and tied with a ribbon.

  “What is this, Brother Peter?”

  “Proof of my dedication.”

  “But we see that every day.”

  “I fell from grace and I was justly disciplined,” said Peter, “but I never strayed from the path of righteousness. When my duties were neglected, this is what absorbed my time and my talents. Open it, Father Abbot.”

  Serlo obeyed and his eyes strained at their moorings for an instant before running with tears. He was so moved by the beauty of the silver crucifix and by the implications of its existence that he was overcome. It was to produce such a work of art that a master-craftsman had laboured so unremittingly, stealing time wherever he could, even when he knew it might lead to stern reprimand. The crucifix was the latest and finest example of Brother Peter’s skills and it would be given pride of place on the altar. Abbot Serlo rolled his moist eyes over it and stroked the silver with reverential fingers. Like everything else in his life, it was truly a gift from God.

  He put a hand on the head of the kneeling sacristan.

  “Bless you, my son.”

  “I put my poor abilities at the disposal of the Lord.”

  “You have made me ashamed.”

  “Why, Father Abbot?”

  “No man should be punished for this.”

  “It made me wayward in my other duties.”

  “You should have spoken up and explained, Peter.”

  “That would have ruined the surprise.”

  “It would have saved you a beating.”

  “Pain brings me nearer to Christ,” said the other. “The hand of Brother Thaddeus nailed me up on the cross. Do not weep for me, Father Abbot. I was content.”

  “Can you forgive me, Brother Peter?”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “Can you still love and respect me?”

  “More than ever.”

  Abbot Serlo set the crucifix on the little table beside him and examined it afresh. Its proportions were perfect, its sheen mesmeric, its enamel figure of Jesus almost lifelike.

  “It is a miracle,” he pronounced. “For so much beauty to come out of so much pain. For so much faith to triumph over so much oppression. This crucifix is a miracle in silver. It tells the whole story of Christianity at a glance.”

  Brother Peter wept tears of joy and prostrated himself in front of his abbot. He was in a state of exultation.

  Gervase Bret had to ride for a couple of miles before he found what he needed. Leaping from the saddle, he checked the stone for size and shape, then reached for the rope. After tying up his cargo, he clipped the hook around the pommel of his saddle and put a foot in the stirrup once more. His horse made light of the added burden, dragging it along over grass and through bracken as if it were no more than a trailing rein. The sandstone bit and bounced its way along until they reached the wooded slope. Gervase now took over the task of heaving the object on his own, guiding it between the bushes and around the exposed roots of trees and over the recurring undulations of the terrain. His horse cropped grass beside the stream below while its master sweated and pulled.

  Gervase reached the summit and paused to catch his breath. Descent was altogether swifter. Once the sandstone was in motion again, it gathered impetus and chased him down the incline, hacking a shallow trench through the undergrowth and sending birds and animals into dramatic retreat. A stout elm finally halted its passage, but the stone was undamaged. Winding the rope around his shoulders once more, Gervase towed on. The rock seemed heavier than ever now, but he struggled bruisingly on through the denser woodland like a sinner performing an especially onerous penance. Twigs lacerated his face, bushes threshed at his shoulders, and the rope started to eat its way through his skin, yet he did not dare to stop. Only when he finally hauled the sandstone into the clearing did he take note of his aching limbs and his pounding head. Breathing stertorously, he dropped to one knee and let go of the rope. They were still there. The other pieces of sandstone were all hidden beneath their grassy disguise, but they were still in position.

  He waited until a semblance of a voice returned. When he was able to call out, he did so in faltering Welsh.

  “Are you there!” There was no answer. “I come as a friend!” Still there was no response. “I bring a gift for you!” he cried. “Come and see what it is.”

  His voice rang down the valley, but it seemed to reach no human ears. Gervase paused to rest further. He studied the circle of stones again and tried to fathom their meaning. Stonehenge had been vastly larger in scale and set on an open plain. Was that to make its statement loud and clear? Or was it to catch the sun and to use the movements of the heavens? This circle was small and private and hidden away at the heart of a timbered valley. Why had such a secluded spot been chosen? If it was a temple, what was the object of worship? When he had walked among the sarsens on Salisbury Plain, he had felt the throb of a primitive power that stretched back endlessly in time. The clearing had resonance more than power, the hum of recent activity, the distant echo of a religious service that had been performed there. And yet it was not a religion that Gervase knew or understood. Stonehenge was a place of light and affirmation. This was a darker manifestation of the human soul. He felt like an intruder from another world.

  The sky was filming over now and shadows lay across the ground like felled trees. He became aware of the potential danger. Gervase was relying on his own instinct and ignoring that of his friend. Ralph Delchard had sensed hostility in the clearing and struck at a wild animal. The figure they had seen was certainly big enough and strong enough to overpower men like Alric and Wulfgeat, especially when it had the advantage of surprise. Even a battle-hardened veteran like Ralph had been shocked by its unexpected arrival out of the undergrowth. Two armed men might put the creature to flight, but one tired Chancery clerk might be deemed more easy prey. Gervase looked up at the fading light and the chill hand of fear touched him. It was time to flee.

  “Who are you!”

  The voice boomed out in Welsh and seemed to come from behind every tree. Gervase was being watched. He stood in the middle of the clearing and rotated slowly as he tried to work out where the man was standing. It was a deep, rough, and uncultured voice, but it belonged to a human being.

  “Who are you!”

  The question battered at his ears and he gave answer.

  “A friend.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Gervase.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To bring this stone for you.”

  “Keep away!”

  “It is my gift to you.”

  “This place is sacred.”

  “Put my stone in your circle.”

  There was a long pause, followed by a rustling among the leaves. Gervase had the impression that the man was circling him to make sure that he was quite alone and did not have any confederates hiding in the undergrowth. Earlier, two armed men had treated him as an enemy. One of them was now claiming to be his friend. He was right to be sceptical.

  “I need your help,” Gervase shouted.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You dwell in the forest. You know its ways.”

  “Go now while you still ca
n.”

  “This is your home. Teach me to understand it.”

  “My world is not yours.”

  “Answer my questions and you will be left in peace.”

  “You will come back with others.”

  “No!” promised Gervase. “I give you my word. Nobody will hear of this; nobody will search for you and drive you out. You will tell from my voice that I am not Welsh, but neither am I from this place. I will soon leave Bedwyn. You will never see me again.”

  There was another long pause and the bushes were parted. Gervase felt the intense scrutiny and tried to meet it with an affable smile. The voice was still cynical.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Because I brought that stone all the way here.”

  “Who knows you have come?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Why do you wear a dagger?”

  Gervase took it out of its sheath and threw it a few yards away. He was now quite defenceless. Against a man as powerful as the one he had glimpsed at their previous encounter, he would have little chance. Common sense told him to brace himself against attack, but he knew it was important to show no fear. The stone he had lugged there was not simply a present to the man but an act of apology. He waited patiently until the voice boomed forth again.

  “What do you want?”

  “Guidance. Two men have been killed in Savernake.”

  “I know.”

  “Was it your doing?”

  A roar of protest came from the bushes and they shook violently. Gervase tried to retract his question, but his uncertain grasp on the language let him down and he had to resort to placatory gestures. There was wounded pride in the undergrowth, but it was eventually soothed.

  “You are a hermit,” said Gervase. “I respect that.”

  “Then go your way.”

  “You love peace, but it has been disturbed by this strife in the forest. I can take that strife away.” He took a step in the direction of the bushes. “A wolf was caught here yesterday. Did the animal savage those two men?”

  “No.”

  “Can you say who did?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  Such a long pause ensued that Gervase began to wonder whether the man had quietly withdrawn and left him alone. He took another step in the direction from which the voice had come.

  “Stay where you are!” came the warning.

  “Why are you afraid of me?”

  “I live alone.”

  There was a rugged dignity in the way he said this that was an explanation in itself. The hermit had created his own private world in the forest and he survived there with the guile of an animal. No other human being could enter or share his leafy domain. Darkness was now threatening and Gervase did not wish to be lost in Savernake. He made one last attempt to get through to the invisible listener.

  “Help me, my friend. I must find out how these two men died. Something was stolen from the place where they fell. That, too, must be found.” A third step took him closer to the bushes. “Please help me. I am staying at the hunting lodge near Bedwyn. Help me in my work and we will move on. You will be free to roam the forest as before.”

  Gervase strained his eyes to peer through the foliage, but it was too thick to admit his gaze. As he leaned forward to take a closer look, he heard a rustling noise behind him and turned. Strong muscles were pulling on the rope so that the rock was being dragged into the safety of the trees on the other side of the clearing. Gervase was content. His strange interview was over, but it had ended with a small measure of success.

  His gift had been accepted.

  Eadmer the Moneyer was in a testy mood when Ralph Delchard called on him without warning. He admitted the unwelcome visitor to his inner sanctum and shut its fortified door with a thud to show his displeasure. His day’s work was now over and he was ready to douse the candles that flickered in their holders, then leave. Ralph was keeping him there against his will. The slight figure grew combative.

  “Have you reported to the town reeve?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “But you were here with the man’s wife.”

  “That was a separate transaction,” said Ralph with a nostalgic smile. “Saewold is due home tomorrow and he will be told of the forgery in due course.”

  “There is no time to waste, my lord!” insisted Eadmer.

  “I delay out of policy.”

  “Policy?”

  “Yes, my friend. These counterfeit coins are no stray accidents. They have been steadily minted over a period of time. I believe that the forger is still busy at his nefarious trade. If I raise the alarm through Saewold, then the criminal will be frightened away and may escape our net completely.”

  “You know, then, who the villain is?”

  “We soon shall,” said Ralph confidently, “and we will catch him in the act. But that requires patience. He must be stalked before he can be taken.”

  “I will cut off his hands!”

  “The law will do more than that for him, Eadmer.”

  “Forgery is worse than murder.”

  “You will be able to tell that to the wretch one day.”

  “Bring him before me!”

  Eadmer grabbed a hammer and brought it down onto a metal tray with such force that the clang made Ralph’s ears sing. The moneyer was small but vengeful. His trade lent itself to fraud and corruption of all kinds and strict procedures were in force to ensure that high standards of professional integrity were maintained at all times. One dishonest moneyer could give the rest a bad name. Debased coins could drive out good ones. Eadmer wanted action.

  “Get out there and find the rogue!” he urged.

  “I must speak with you first.”

  “You have questioned me already.”

  “Confirmation is needed.” Ralph looked around the room. “Are you quite sure that nothing is missing from the mint?”

  “Certain.”

  “What about your strong room?”

  “Everything is accounted for.”

  “No possibility of error?”

  Eader was emphatic. “None!”

  “What would a forger need to produce coins?”

  “A black heart and a pact with the Devil!”

  Ralph grinned. “But what materials must he have?”

  “Silver bullion with means of heating and handling it. Then there are these,” he said, indicating the tray of dies. “They are issued in London under special licence. The die is the essence of the whole process.”

  “Yet none of yours have been stolen?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “What of your mint in Marlborough?”

  “It is even more of a fortress than this one.”

  Ralph nodded and sauntered around the room until he came to the rough curtain across an opening in the wall.

  “What is in here?”

  “That need not concern you.”

  “May I look?”

  “Hold your nose if you do.”

  Ralph twitched the curtain and peeped into the tiny chamber. It contained four bare walls and a raised block of stone. Aromatic memories of Eadmer’s use of the chamber rose up to offend his sensibilities, but Ralph forced himself to lean over and gaze down through the hole that was cut in the stone. Seen from below in a boat, it had looked smooth and regular. Viewed from above, it was almost conical in shape and tapered upwards. The stone was roughhewn and pitted with droppings. One more feature now declared itself. Two feet down the aperture was a thin iron bar that bisected the narrow space. Only a man as stunted as Eadmer could squeeze through such a gap. The bar was an effective precaution, but it could also become a useful accessory. A rope with a hook on the end could be thrown up to gain a purchase on it.

  Ralph stepped back into the room and dared to breathe again. If the boy had climbed up that way and entered the mint, what had he stolen? Everything remained unharmed and in its place. Perhaps he did not need to take anything f
rom the premises. Cild might have gained entry in order to unlock the door and admit the forger.

  “Would you know if someone had used your materials?”

  “Of course,” snapped Eadmer.

  “How?”

  “The brazier would still be hot. Smell would linger.”

  “That I can vouch for!” said Ralph ruefully.

  “My tools would be moved. Each has an exact place and I could tell if one was an inch from where it should be.”

  “Nothing taken, nothing moved.”

  “Only genuine coins leave this mint.”

  “Then how did they do it!”

  Ralph stamped a foot in exasperation, then moved to the window. Evening was drawing in and the river was dappled with pools of darkness. A lone heron was skimming the water aimlessly. On the opposite bank, the little Saxon church had become a murky blur. Somewhere in its graveyard, the body of Alric lay buried. Nobody would visit such an eerie spot at night and a boat which came downriver at that time would be in no danger of being seen. A boy who swam beneath the house with a rope around his shoulders would risk even less chance of detection. But what was the point of getting Cild inside the mint if nothing was to be taken from it? Ralph scratched his head in bafflement.

  An acrid stink made him turn round again.

  “You must go,” said Eadmer, licking a finger and thumb so that he could snuff out the tallow candles. “I am wanted elsewhere and you may not stay here alone.”

  He extinguished another flame and the wick smoked on pungently. Ralph Delchard watched him with growing curiosity, then a smile spread slowly across his face until he was beaming. Without knowing it, the moneyer had just provided the vital clue which his visitor was seeking. A daily chore had unlocked a nocturnal mystery. Surging gratitude made Ralph burst into wild laughter. His companion shrunk back in alarm.

  “What is the matter, my lord?” he asked.

  “Eadmer,” said Ralph, arms out wide, “I love you.”

  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.