The Wolves of Savernake d-1

by Edward Marston

  He was holding what felt like a large wooden box. It was wrapped up snugly in a sack whose floured whiteness proclaimed its origin.

  The man had gone to some lengths to protect his treasure chest.

  What was in the pouch was a generous haul for any miller. How much more would Ralph find when he inserted the key into the lock of the chest?

  “God’s blood!”

  The oath came out through gritted teeth. When the sack came off, the box he had felt turned out to be no more than a block of wood.

  There was no chest, no money, no hoard of any kind. Had Alric Longdon put his life at risk to inspect a piece of timber from the forest? It did not make sense. The sound of approaching voices made him start. Gervase was giving him warning of their return. Ralph moved swiftly. The key and a few coins were slipped into the pouch at his own belt. The block of wood and the leather pouch were quickly rolled up in the sack and stuffed back into the tree. When Gervase and Brother Luke rejoined him, he was pretending to poke around in the bushes with his sword.

  “Did you find anything?” asked Gervase.

  “No,” said Ralph with mock annoyance. “It was a waste of our time.

  This has been a wild goose chase.”

  The abbot was the father of an abbey and the monks vowed obedience to him, staying in the same place for their whole lives as members of a Christian family. Love and tolerance of each other was an article of faith, and Abbot Serlo saw to it that his house evinced a spirit of mutual cooperation. All men were equal before God and all of his brothers were equal before Abbot Serlo. Close friendships nevertheless grew up between members of his community, and Prior Baldwin made a point of watching them carefully so that he was in a position to make use of them if the occasion arose or to pounce on them if the special relationship threatened to take on an intimate dimension.

  The prior always knew where to go and to whom to speak. It was the reason that his steps took him into the sacristy that evening.

  “What else did he say, Brother Peter?”

  “Very little beyond that, Prior Baldwin. The boy’s head was so turned by this remarkable Gervase Bret that he could talk of nothing else. I am not sure that it was wise to let him converse so freely with a layman, especially one who was a novice himself until he succumbed to the temptations of life outside the cloister. This Gervase Bret is a fine model for the benefits of a sound education, but he is hardly a fit subject of study for a callow youth who is wavering.”

  “Is he still so?”

  “I fear me that he is.”

  They were in the sacristy, where all the valuables of the abbey were stored. In addition to the vestments, linen, and banners, there were gold and silver plate, vessels of the altar, precious ornaments and other gifts from benefactors, together with a collection of holy relics that was envied far and wide. The bones from the right hand of St. Mary the Virgin brought in pilgrims from great distances, who also came to view the strands of hair from the beard of her beloved son, Jesus Christ, and a splinter of wood from the cross on which He perished at Calvary.

  When the prior called on him, Brother Peter was happy at work, polishing a pair of silver candlesticks until he could see his reflec-tion in their gleaming surfaces. He had become the confidant of Brother Luke, who found the strictures of the master of novices far too harsh to bear at times. In Brother Peter, the novice discovered a gentle and unjudging friend who gave him succour when he most needed it and warm friendship when he did not. It was the sacristan who had helped him to get through the difficult early months and to shape his mind for service to God. The prior could easily understand why Luke had gravitated towards the sacristy.

  “You are the perfect example for the boy,” he said. “He is tempted to go out into sinfulness and corruption, but you came to us in flight from them. Our sacristan was not born to monastic life as so many of us were. He sought us out as a refuge from the baseness and futility of common life.”

  Brother Peter nodded ruefully. “Base and futile, indeed! And perfidious, too, in its workings. A man’s soul is greatly imperilled in such a world. Only here can it truly be lifted up unto the Lord.”

  “Impress that point upon Brother Luke.”

  “I have done so daily.”

  “Use your persuasion with him.”

  “My talents lie elsewhere, Prior Baldwin,” said the sacristan as he held up a candlestick. “When I made these for the abbey, I was inspired by a higher purpose. When I was a silversmith in the town, I thought only of working for gain and personal advantage.” He replaced the candlestick with loving care. “The abbey has given my life a meaning.”

  “Implant that same meaning in Brother Luke.”

  “He will stay with us, I think.”

  “Not if he is led astray by this Gervase Bret,” said the prior sharply.

  “I have spoken to the master of the novices to keep the boy well occupied. Do you likewise. If we turn his gaze within these walls, he will forget what idle charms may lay without.”

  “Is the young commissioner to be forbidden further access to Luke?”

  said Peter.

  “If it were left to me, he would. But Abbot Serlo might take a more tolerant view of their association. I spy danger in it.” The prior narrowed his lips and hissed his command. “Should Brother Luke and this fallen novice chance to meet again, I wish you to be present.”

  “I understand, Prior Baldwin.”

  “They have come to try to take some lands away from the abbey,”

  said the other in exasperation. “I will stop them there with the help of Subprior Matthew. If they fail to steal our land, I do not wish them to walk away with one of our novices. Fight for the boy. It is our Christian duty.”

  Baldwin picked up another example of Peter’s craftsmanship. It was a large silver box embossed with an image of Christ, and it had taken months to fashion. When Baldwin pressed the catch, the lid sprung back on its hinge, revealing the abbey’s precious supply of frankincense. He inhaled the latent odour of sanctity for a moment, then reinforced his decree. “Do not let Brother Luke smell the foul stench of the outside world. Fight hard for him.”

  “He will be saved,” said Peter. “I swear it.”

  “Amen!”

  Prior Baldwin snapped the lid of the box shut and the gleaming figure of Christ became their silent witness.

  The hunting lodge was fitting accommodation for two men who were trying to track down a wolf and an act of criminality.

  “Did you tell him the whole truth, Gervase?”

  “As much as I needed.”

  “Then you lied to the boy.”

  “I was prompt in my answers.”

  “But deceitful.”

  “There was no deceit practised, Ralph,” said the other. “What Brother Luke required to know, he was told. And more will be added on another occasion when we talk further.”

  “Be honest with the lad.”

  “Why, so I was.”

  “Come to the heart of the matter.”

  Gervase Bret almost blushed and had to turn away. Ralph Delchard laughed, then reached for his cup and drained it of the last of the wine. They were at supper in the hunting lodge and sat either side of the long table, with food, wine, and a few candles between them.

  The accommodation had been put at their disposal by the Warden of Savernake, who had also provided a cook to feed them and servants to wait on them. The stabling was good, the beds comfortable, and the absence of Canon Hubert and Brother Simon a double boon. Six people sharing a lodge that had been built to house a king and his hunting retinue were given luxuries of space and attention which did not always fall their way.

  Ralph returned to affectionate teasing of a friend.

  “Have you written any letters?” he said.

  “I have been too busy with my affairs.”

  “Nothing should take precedence over that.”

  “Nothing does,” promised Gervase.

  “You will be sorely missed in Winch
ester.”

  “The king’s business must be discharged.”

  “So must a man’s more private offices.” Ralph refilled his cup and sipped more wine. “I’ll wager that the novice hears nothing of your real desires.”

  “They do not concern him in the least.”

  “Woman is every man’s concern. If Brother Luke could but see the Lady Alys, he would throw off that cowl with shouts of joy and run naked through Savernake to prove his manhood to the world.” He gave a low chuckle. “She is the reason you broke the vow of chastity.

  Tell him, Gervase. Talk of Alys. Acquaint him with the meaning of true love. Release the lad from a life of toil in a house of eunuchs.”

  Gervase nodded to close the discussion, but he would open his heart to no man, still less to a faltering novice. Alys was his betrothed.

  Thoughts of her kept his mind pure and his life in a straight, clean furrow. It also made him critical of Ralph’s exaggerated interest in female company. He was sensible enough to make allowances for his friend. Ralph Delchard’s wife had died in childbirth trying to bring their only son into the world and the boy himself had lingered for only a week before following his mother to the grave. The experience had turned a caring husband into a suffering recluse for over a year.

  He had buried himself on his estates in Hampshire, stirring out only at the express summons of the king. When the fever of remorse finally broke inside him, he vowed he would never marry again and looked to forge a lesser relationship with women. The recluse became such an energetic lecher that even Gervase was forced to lecture him from time to time. Ralph Delchard was a Norman lord of great distinction until his roving lust led him astray from the path of duty and sobriety.

  “Tomorrow we dine with the reeve and his sweet wife.”

  “Forget her, Ralph,” urged Gervase.

  “Have you ever seen such a comely Saxon lady?”

  “She is not for you.”

  “That long-winded Saewold is not worthy of her.”

  “It is a matter between the two of them.”

  “When a marriage is that heavy, it sometimes takes three to bear the burden.”

  “We have come to Bedwyn on urgent business.”

  “Pleasure may help that business, Gervase,” argued Ralph with a pensive smile. “This reeve will gossip about everyone in the town, but Ediva may tell me things that even he does not know. If you wish to gain supremacy over another man, you must strike him at his weakest point. His wife, Ediva-that face, that skin, those eyes-is his weakest point.”

  “No, Ralph,” said Gervase levelly. “She is yours.”

  Canon Hubert was a visible Christian. He was a devout man who liked his devotion to be made manifest in front of others. Having taken up residence in the abbey, therefore, he joined in all its services when he could and competed for the attention of his God and of those around him. Brother Simon’s was an altogether more restrained and undemanding worship. He was simply waiting to inherit the earth. Hubert chose a more assertive route to heaven. Waiting was quite superfluous in his case. He did not need to inherit what he felt he already owned by right.

  Abbot Serlo had received him as a courtesy and offered the comfort of his own quarters to the two guests. Hubert had refused on the grounds that an abbey was his spiritual base and that he felt happy within it only if he was on equal terms with its lowliest occupant. A hard bed would teach him the joys of self-abnegation. It is easy to play the willing martyr for a short while if you know you will be returning to your palatial quarters at Winchester Cathedral before too long. Abbot Serlo mumbled approvingly but he got the measure of this ostentatious canon. Appointing his prior to represent the abbey before the commissioners had been a sagacious move. Baldwin could outmanoeuvre Hubert.

  The rivals met again at Matins and traded a faint nod. Lauds gave them a chance to lock their eyes for a second, and Prime set them next to each other on their knees. A silent battle took place, each trying to subdue the other with a show of piety and to make a deeper impression on the congregation of monks around them. Brother Simon remained indifferent to the struggle and did not realise he might become a weapon in it.

  “Brother Simon …”

  “Good day, Prior Baldwin.”

  “I crave a word.”

  “As many as you wish.”

  “Abbot Serlo was asking after you and Canon Hubert.”

  “We are indebted to his kindness.”

  “He is troubled in his mind, Brother Simon.”

  “On some matter in particular?”

  “Indeed, yes,” said the prior solemnly. “And it lies within your power to allay his fears and ease his troubles.”

  They were walking across the cloister garth with their heads down and their hands folded inside their sleeves. In the period immediately after Prime, the prior had stalked his prey until it was unprotected, then moved in for the kill.

  “This dispute about the abbey lands …” he began.

  “It is not my doing,” apologised Simon.

  “But you know its import?”

  “In bare essentials.”

  “Has someone made a claim against the abbey?”

  “It is not for me to say, Prior Baldwin. I am bound by my allegiance to Canon Hubert to divulge nothing that bears upon the work of the commission.”

  “That is not what I ask,” said the other, guiding the wraith into a corner so that he could turn him and peer into his hollow eyes. “I search for reassurance for Father Abbot. Nothing more. May I tell him, then, that all the abbey lands are safe? That is what will relieve him most.”

  Brother Simon’s mouth began to twitch. “I hope that they are safe,”

  he said with obvious embarrassment.

  “Who is this other claimant?” probed Baldwin before a show of retraction. “No, no, I withdraw that question. It is putting you in an invidious position, and that must never be. I know it cannot be Hugh de Brionne who contests that land, because that debate is over and won.”

  The twitching mouth was eloquent once more. Hugh de Brionne was clearly involved and that fact defined the exact land in question.

  Prior Baldwin was now forewarned and wished to be forearmed against any eventuality.

  “Is this all that brings you back to Bedwyn?”

  “This is weighty enough in its implications.”

  “Hardly, Brother Simon,” reasoned the other. “We dealt with that stretch of land in half a day before the first commission, and you look to have able counsellors sitting beside you at the table.”

  “Very able.”

  “Then they will judge it a trifling matter.”

  “Two days at least have been set aside.”

  Simon bit his lip as the words trickled out before he could stop them. The prior’s gaze intensified and bore deep into the skull in front of him. The nature and scale of the dispute had now been discovered. It remained only to find out why the process was being instituted.

  “The Church has countless enemies,” he intoned. “An abbey is a spiritual fortress against the wiles of the outside world. We must strengthen our defences and repel any siege. Wicked men envy our mean possessions. If an abbey loses its lands, the whole Church is the weaker for it.” He inclined his head until their foreheads were almost meeting. “It is not for my benefit that I ask this, Brother Simon.

  I am but a humble servant of the Lord. Father Abbot rules here and he is not long for this world. Will you send him to heaven in distress?

  One name will content him. Nobody else but he will hear it, and I myself will forget who told it to me, so we are all absolved of guilt.”

  The twitching mouth was his encouragement once more. He struck hard. “One name that brought you here to Bedwyn. One man who hates the Church that we both serve. One foul miscreant who could undo all of Abbot Serlo’s work in this abbey and send that reverend body into a worrisome grave.”

  Brother Simon trembled. “I may not name him.”

  “Then point him out by o
ther means. Tell me where he dwells, show me what he does, give me something to take with me into my prayers.”

  Brother Simon was helpless beneath the piercing gaze. Meekness was no defence against the prior. Nor were all the dire warnings that Canon Hubert had issued. Brother Simon clutched at a straw. The case was altered. The novel and dramatic circumstances changed everything. There was no point now in protecting a man who would never be able to testify before the commissioners. He capitulated.

  “Abbot Serlo may be content,” he said. “Your accuser has already met the wrath of God and lies in the mortuary chapel. He was our signpost to the town of Bedwyn.”

  Brother Simon closed his eyes to escape the steely glare of his persecutor. He kept them shut tightly and prayed for forgiveness. He had broken an oath in conceding such an important detail of the commissioners’ work, and guilt made his face burn and colour. If Canon Hubert or any of his other colleagues found out what he had done, he would be severely chastised and might even lose his place beside them. Yet he had been helpless in the grip of his guileful inquisitor. When he lifted his lids again, he expected to see the prior towering still over him, but Baldwin was now in the quarters occupied by two of the abbey’s guests.

  He was comforting the miller’s grieving widow.

  It was market day in Bedwyn and everyone from miles around converged on the town to sell produce, buy food, search for bargains, haggle over prices, or simply catch up on the local gossip. The death of a miller and the arrival of royal commissioners had now merged into one unified disaster and it even displaced the weather as the main topic around the carts and stalls. Saxons smouldered with impotent rage as they endured yet another destructive and unwanted Norman invasion. The usual friendly bustle was replaced by a more fraught atmosphere.