The Wolves of Savernake d-1

by Edward Marston

  A virile Norman lord was fitter company for her appetite than a fussy, preoccupied, half-hearted man whose work preceded all else. Ralph was strong and urgent. He had brought out her full, rich sensuality and satisfied her with an intensity that she had never known in her marriage. She nestled into him and purred softly. He had reminded her that she was a woman.

  “Are you content?” he whispered.

  She murmured with pleasure.

  “This place is safe?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I would not put a lady in danger.”

  “You would and did.” She gave him a teasing kiss. “That is why we are here.”

  They were in a small cottage in a wood to the north of the town. It was barely furnished, but the bed was large and soft enough and the place offered all the privacy that they needed. Two of his men were in the trees outside to ward off interruption. It was an ideal choice for a tryst.

  “I must ride this way again,” he said.

  “My lord will always be welcome.”

  “Does your husband often travel from home?”

  “Too often,” she said with a slight edge, “and when he is there, I do not get my due of attention.”

  “His folly is my gain.”

  He kissed her forehead and ran a hand through the long, loose hair whose scent was so enchanting. It was minutes before he picked up the conversation once more.

  “Does the reeve own this cottage?”

  “No, my lord,” she said, “but we have the use of it.”

  “On whose land are we, then?”

  She hesitated. “A friend of my husband.”

  “A good friend if he lends him such a place to rest.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Who is this man?” He sensed her reluctance and stroked it gently away before pulling her face to his and giving her a long, slow kiss that sucked out all resistance. “Tell me now, Ediva,” he said. “Who is he?”

  “Hugh de Brionne.”

  Gervase Bret had stayed much longer at the house than he had intended, but he felt no regret. He was sheltering from the rain and quite content to stay there until the key to the mill was found. If Cild had taken it, as now seemed likely, he would return in time. Gervase was happy to loiter in such pleasant company. Leofgifu had brought him back downstairs to leave Hilda alone in her room to rest. As they sat opposite each other at the table, they drank cups of wine and permitted a subtle change to come over their relationship. He was touched by her forlorn beauty, while she was drawn by his easy benevolence. He had learned of her own grief, while she had sensed brutal losses on his side. Both felt the pull of a closer friendship which they knew was beyond their grasp and so they settled for an affectionate togetherness that left them free to explore each other’s minds. He asked about her family and she talked as openly as if she had known him all her life.

  “My father hates the Normans,” she said.

  “It is to be expected.”

  “Do you hate them, Gervase?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Yet you are one of them.”

  “I am and I am not,” he confessed. “Ralph teases me about it all the time. He calls me an English mongrel and says that I have learned to bark like a Norman but will never have his true breeding.”

  “Does that offend you?”

  “No, Leofgifu. It comforts me.”

  “What of your father?”

  “A Breton, and long since dead.”

  “He would be proud to see his son rise so high.”

  “Not as a clerk of Chancery,” said Gervase. “My father was a soldier and would have wanted a son to fight. Ralph Delchard is the same.

  Fighting is in his blood. He mocks me for my love of a peaceful life.

  Had he been my father, he often says, he would have strangled me at birth to escape the humiliation of raising such a son.”

  “A man of peace is worth a hundred soldiers.”

  “If he can manage to stay alive.”

  He studied her face and her quiet dignity once more and saw the marks of Wulfgeat clearly imprinted. She had his self-possession and his fearless eye. She had the strength of character he had seen on display in the shire hall.

  “We met your father with the other burgesses.”

  “He told me of the encounter.”

  “I would like to meet him again.”

  “His manner would not flatter you.”

  “I would not seek for praise. Where is he now?”

  “He had business in the town but would not tell me what.” Her lips tightened. “My father thinks that women may not understand. We are here only to adorn the life of a man and not to share it with him.”

  “Did your husband take that view as well?”

  “He worshipped me.”

  “But did he treat you as an equal?”

  “No.”

  “Did you choose him for yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Why, then, did you marry?”

  “My father has a strong will. I was forced to obey.”

  “Did you not resist?”

  “For several weeks, but I was overwhelmed. It was my duty to follow his wishes.” She glanced upwards. “You know how Hilda was given in marriage to the miller. It was not exactly so with me, for my husband was kind and loving, but there was the same contract. The marriage was made between two men and not between two lovers.”

  “Did you resent your husband?”

  “I came to respect him.”

  “You mourn and miss him now?”

  “Greatly.”

  Gervase could see that she wanted him to ask the next question.

  “Did you love him?” he said.

  “I cherished his goodness.”

  “That is not what I mean, Leofgifu.”

  “I honoured and obeyed him as I vowed.”

  “No more than that?”

  “It was all that I could offer him.”

  “Why?”

  “I loved another.”

  “Did your father know this?”

  Her face puckered. “He despised the man.”

  Gervase took her hand to offer consolation. Wulfgeat had been cruel to name her Leofgifu. This beautiful Love-Giver had so much love to give, but it was callously stifled. Thrust into a marriage she did not want, she was grieving for a husband she could never admit into her heart. What made her plight even more pitiable was that she had been forced to live once again with the very man who ground the hope and passion out of her between the mill-wheels of his ambition.

  “Are you happy with your father?”

  “No,” she confessed. “Life here is an oppression.”

  Wulfgeat trudged along with a cloak over his head and shoulders.

  The rain had eased to a drizzle now, but the great black sky was a blanket that pressed down on Savernake to smother it to death.

  Birds and animals were muffled. Insects were suffocated into silence.

  Even the trees were hushed. The only sound that came from the forest was the swift rushing of its intersecting network of streams as they raced with swollen rage to join the river below and speed its wild current.

  Cild met him at the mill and led the way. The gloom served them well, but the boy still moved with caution. He was fearful of being seen with Wulfgeat in case a witness guessed at the dark nature of his purpose. It hung so heavily around his neck that he dared not even look up at his companion. Guilt was tempered with remorse. As soon as he thought of his father and the hatred daily heaped upon the miller, his intent was reaffirmed. Wulfgeat was not just one of the most powerful enemies whose spite had to be endured; he epitomised the attitude of the whole town. In Wulfgeat’s unrelenting acrimony, the boy saw the vindictive face of Bedwyn itself.

  “How much farther?” said Wulfgeat.

  “Not far.”

  “Are you certain you know the way?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the charter is there?”

  “Yes.”
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br />   “Safe from this weather?”

  “The chest is wrapped and hidden.”

  “Did you tell your mother?”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “Hilda takes her place now,” he said brusquely. “Look to her for comfort. Does she know of this?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “You told nobody else?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Good.”

  They pressed on side by side. Wulfgeat was conscious of the irony of the situation. Nothing in creation would have made him stroll companionably with Alric of Longdon, yet he was now accompanying the boy eagerly along the riverbank. He had no pity or liking for the child. Cild was simply a means to an end and Wulfgeat had bought his cooperation. He did not regret that. The charter would repay him generously.

  “Why have you stopped?” he complained.

  “I may go no farther.”

  “You must take me there.”

  “No.”

  “I paid you, boy.”

  “No.”

  “Lead on!”

  Wulfgeat grabbed him roughly to shake him into obedience, but the boy’s tears made him stay his hand. Cild was terrified to go farther.

  He sobbed his excuses until Wulfgeat came to see his refusal in a more sympathetic way. They had reached the junction of river and stream. Light woodland covered the hill before them. They were patently close to the hiding place itself, but the boy could not bring himself to approach closer. His father had been killed and the spot harboured memories too awful for Cild to confront. Nothing would make him venture one step farther and Wulfgeat had been unwise to resort to force. The boy had his father’s mulish stubbornness. Threaten him again and he might renege on the bargain that had been struck.

  “Teach me the way,” said Wulfgeat.

  “Follow the line of this stream.”

  “How far?”

  “Till it goes from sight. Higher up.”

  “What do I look for?”

  “A yew tree.”

  “I see a dozen already from where I stand. How will I know I have the right one?”

  “It is by the stream where the water comes out from under the ground. It is split in two.”

  “By lightning?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then?”

  “Reach deep into the hollow.”

  “That is the hiding place?”

  “Your hand will touch a sack.” Cild’s heart was pumping as he rehearsed the execution, but his voice did not betray him. “Untie the cord and thrust your hand right in.”

  “The box is there?”

  “Box and charter. My father showed me.”

  “You have earned your money, Cild.”

  “I know.”

  “But if you have lied to me …” warned Wulfgeat.

  “No, no, I swear it! The sack is in that tree!”

  The man could see the boy was speaking the truth. He adjusted his cloak on his shoulders, then followed the trail as he had been directed.

  Cild was still shivering with fear when Wulfgeat left him, but it was soon replaced by an evil smirk of anticipation. He had planned it all with care. Only he and his father would ever know what had happened.

  Wulfgeat climbed on with awkward steps, cursing the slippery incline and grabbing at roots and branches to steady his ascent. The stream soon vanished, but he could see no yew tree. Had the boy deceived him, after all? But farther up the hill, the water broke through the chalk once more and he was reassured. He grunted on upwards through the dark.

  He was out of breath when he reached the yew tree and he rested hard against it for support. Alric Longdon had died here at this hiding-place, but the memory only served to curl his lip. The boy was rightly afraid, but Wulfgeat felt no fear. Where the loathsome miller fell was consecrated ground to him. Wulfgeat peered into the hollow of the tree, then put an inquisitive hand inside. He felt the sack and smiled.

  All was as the boy had explained.

  He flung off his cloak so that he could untie the sack unencum-bered, but his hands never even reached the twine. As he stretched upwards to fling back the garment, a creature of fur and teeth and claws came leaping from the bushes to bowl him over and snap at his unguarded throat. Wulfgeat was strong, but the force of the attack overpowered him within seconds. His neck and face were eaten vora-ciously away and his twitching carcass soon lay still in a pool of gouting blood.

  When Cild crept up on him twenty minutes later, he did not even recognise the man. Nose and eyes had both gone and the head was almost severed from the body. Wulfgeat’s clothing had been ripped apart by claws and one of his hands had been bitten half-away. The boy screamed out in horror.

  The wolf of Savernake had another victim.

  Chapter Nine

  Gervase Bret was needed elsewhere, but he was quite unable to leave.

  Conversation with Leofgifu was so interesting and so pleasur-able that an hour slipped past with the speed of a minute. She was indeed an unusual young woman with qualities that reminded him of his dear Alys back in Winchester-thus causing him a twinge of guilt-but these were offset by characteristics that were entirely her own. What astounded him was her complete lack of bitterness. Most daughters who had been through her ordeal would have been alien-ated from their fathers, consumed by self-pity and animated by deep resentment at the severity of their fate. Leofgifu, by contrast, was an image of acceptance. She was honest about her unhappiness, but she did not thrust it upon all around her. She had learned how to suffer in silence and to find relief in helping others whose predicament was worse than her own. Gervase was entranced. He felt that he was watching true heroism on display and it moved him.

  By the same token, Leofgifu was increasingly attracted to him. His youthful candour was underpinned by a restraint and discretion that were uncommon in someone of his age. Because Gervase was so unthreatening, she was able to relax with him and to talk openly in a way that she had not done for years. Leofgifu had never been short of male attention. As soon as she was widowed, she sensed lecher-ous eyes falling upon her once more and it was not long before lonely and desperate men were whispering in corners with her father about the possibility of a second marriage. The very notion of tying herself to another man appalled her and she treated all approaches with an icy contempt that her father’s entreaties had been unable to melt.

  Leofgifu had earned and now cherished her independence. Yet all those emotions which had once made her want to yield totally and uncritically to a man came flooding back as she talked with Gervase.

  He was not for her, but she could share briefly in the joy of his life.

  “Are you betrothed?” she asked softly.

  “Yes.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Alys.”

  “She is most fortunate.”

  He smiled. “Alys does not always think so.”

  “When will you marry?”

  “When we may find the time.” He hid his frustration in a sigh. “My work must come first and it keeps me away from Winchester too often and too long. Ralph tells me that a man can understand real love only when he is separated from his beloved, but it makes for much suffering as well.”

  “I know.” Wistfulness descended. She studied him for a moment before speaking. “You said earlier that you entered the abbey at Eltham.

  Why did you leave?”

  “Alys.”

  “Was she the sole reason?”

  “No.”

  “What else drove you out?”

  “I was too weak to withstand the monastic discipline.”

  “Too weak or too worldly?”

  “Both,” he said. “I failed the test. Self-denial was too high a price for me to pay.”

  “How do you look at monastic life now?”

  “With admiration.”

  “And with regrets?”

  “No, Leofgifu. With fear. I am in two minds about this assignment of ours in Bedwyn. Part
of me is still drawn to the beautiful simplicity of life within the cloister, but another part of me shudders whenever I see the abbey. It is too demanding, too searching, too overwhelming.

  I could never envisage taking the cowl again.”

  “Supposing that you had never met Alys.”

  “I would still have escaped the order.”

  “How?”

  “By meeting you.”

  It was such an innocent and natural expression of affection that she was lit by a glow of uncomplicated delight. Years suddenly fell away as she recaptured, for an instant, another time with another man when this same feeling had infused her. Leofgifu and Gervase stared at each other for a long while before they realised that they were still holding hands. Self-consciousness made them loosen their grasp and sit apart.

  It was only then they became aware that they were no longer alone.

  Standing in the open doorway was a sorry figure with the rain beating at his back. Cild was drenched. He was panting with his exertions and bent double by his woes. But it was his face that caused real alarm. It had turned to such a ghastly whiteness that he looked positively ill and his mouth was agape with frozen terror. Gervase and Leofgifu rose at once and moved across to him with concern.

  The boy collapsed in a heap before them.

  Bedwyn was drowned in a sea of hysteria. The first wave had come with the death of Alric Longdon, but this, it now appeared, had merely lapped at the communal fears of the town. When the news of Wulfgeat’s grisly end spread, it was a tidal surge that swept all before it. Every man, woman, and child gibbered helplessly as gushing water claimed them. Bedwyn was doomed. The whole community was at the mercy of some supernatural creature which could take its prey at will and with complete impunity. There was nowhere to hide. The wolf of Savernake would eat its way through the entire town.

  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.