Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“To which stretch of land?”

“The two hides we disputed with Hugh de Brionne.”

“But that argument is over and settled.”

“It is now, Matthew.”

“Where is this other claimant?”

“Under six feet of earth in the parish graveyard.”

“Alric Longdon?”

“He will trouble us no more.”

“Then why do the commissioners still call us?”

“A mere formality,” said Baldwin airily. “We may swinge them soundly for taking us away from our holy work and then send them on their way to Winchester once more.”

“What of my lord, Hugh de Brionne?”

“The great black wolf has been chased from the forest.”

“Will he contest that holding once more?”

“He may not. We have the charter to prove it is ours.”

The monks nodded in unison with easy satisfaction. The subprior still wore his mask of sorrow, but it was lit around the edges like a dark cloud with a silver trim. He lifted his hand above the parchment and let it work its magic once more.

They dined at Saewold’s house that afternoon. The town reeve had a comfortable dwelling on the edge of Bedwyn, with land at the front and rear to indicate his status and guarantee him privacy. They sat around a long oak table and feasted on beef, mutton, pork pies, ca-pon, fish, cheese, pastry, blancmange, and fruit tarts. Wine and milk were also served. There were even some oysters for those with a discerning palate.

Gervase Bret was quietly impressed with the house itself, noting its size and furnishings and plate. Canon Hubert confined his admiration to the repast, at first refusing each new dish that was offered, then deigning to find just one more tiny corner in his capacious stomach. Brother Simon was still tormented by his indiscretion in the cloister garth that morning and dared not eat a thing for fear that he would bring it up again out of sheer guilt.

Ralph Delchard saw nothing but Ediva. Struck by her charms at their earlier encounter, he could now study them at his leisure. She bore herself well at table, composed yet merry, and her conversation moved from the light to the serious with no loss of fluency. Ediva was an educated woman in a country where most of her sex were kept ignorant. Ralph began to lose his heart over a plate of oysters.

“You have always lived in Bedwyn?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” she said demurely, “I was born in Warminster and travelled with my father to France and Italy when I was younger.”

“You look well on your voyaging.”

“Would that I could journey so far afield again.”

“Lady, I sense adventure in your soul.”

She said nothing but conveyed a world of meaning with a gesture of her fine-skinned hands. The reeve still burbled.

“Have you concluded your deliberations for the day?” he said with an oleaginous smirk. “Is all well?”

“Yes,” said Brother Simon tamely.

“No,” overruled Canon Hubert.

“We have much more yet to do,” said Gervase.

“And will you call my lord, Alfred of Marlborough?”

Simon winced, Hubert rumbled, and Gervase gave a noncommittal shrug. Saewold knew more than they intended to let him know at this stage. A name which had only been spoken in the presence of Hugh de Brionne had now reached the ears of the town reeve. It made the commissioners treat their host with even more caution.

This obliging official who was so anxious to volunteer information could garner it with equal speed. He needed to be watched.

While Saewold went on to divert them with more local gossip, Gervase appraised the man again. The reeve had done well to secure his office and to hold on to it through twenty years of Norman rule.

Most Saxons who held positions of authority treated their overlords with a polite respect that masked their inevitable resentment. They obeyed and cooperated because they had no choice in the matter.

Saewold dealt successfully with the Normans by doing his best to become one of them. In speech and fashion, he followed his masters and referred condescendingly to his fellow Saxons as if they were an inferior civilisation who had been delivered from their near barbarity by the arrival of a cultural elite from across the Channel. Gervase Bret took the opposite point of view, steadfastly believing, on the evidence of his own experience and observation, that the rich heri-tage of the Anglo-Saxons was being debased by the cruder values of the invaders. Looking at Saewold now, he saw the man as a rather depressing hybrid who embodied the worst of both cultures. In the next generation or so, Saewolds would populate the whole country like a brood of monstrous children from the forced marriage between Saxon and Norman. Gervase was profoundly dejected. The reeve was the face of the future.

“I must tender my apologies,” said their host with an open-armed gesture. “Tomorrow I must ride to Salisbury on important business and may be absent for a few days. I will not be on hand to superin-tend you here, but I will leave a deputy who will answer for me and render what assistance you may require.”

“We are sorry to lose you,” lied Ralph convincingly, “but we will manage very well without you here.” His mind was on personal rather than royal affairs. “Your help and your hospitality have made our stay in Bedwyn much more pleasant and profitable than might otherwise be the case.”

“Indeed, indeed,” muttered Brother Simon.

“Yes,” decided Canon Hubert. He weighed the excellence of the food against the nuisance of the reeve’s zealous aid and came down in favour of the latter’s departure. “Should we need your advice again, we may send to Salisbury. In the meantime, commend me to my lord, the sheriff.”

“I will, Canon Hubert.”

The meal was over and they rose to leave. Gervase had noted with dismay the blossoming relationship at the other end of the table and he sought to interpose himself between Ralph and Ediva so that no further conference might take place between them. Ralph was forced to take proper notice of his host for the first time and it sparked off another memory. From beneath his mantle, he produced the coins he had salvaged from the stream in the forest and showed them to Saewold.

“Do you recognise these, sir?” he asked.

“I do,” said the reeve confidently. “Those coins were made here in Bedwyn. And recently, too, to judge by their shine. Few hands have soiled these. But they are ours.”

“Can you be so certain?”

“I would know the work of our moneyer anywhere.” He pointed to the markings on the face of the coin. “See here, my lord. This indicates where it was made and this is Eadmer’s signature.”

“Where is your mint?”

“Close by the church. It backs on to the river.”

“And your moneyer? What name did you call him?”

“Eadmer. A curious fellow but skilful at his trade.”

“I would meet with this Eadmer soon.”

“My man will guide you to him.”

“No, Husband,” said Ediva with a natural poise which took all hint of impropriety from the offer. “I will conduct my lord to the place at his leisure.”

Ralph Delchard smiled. He could kill two birds with one stone. It was arranged as easily as that.

“Father,” she implored, “I ask this but as a favour to me.”

“It may not be granted, child.”

“Would you deny a heart-felt plea?”

“It falls on deaf ears.”

“They are in distress and suffer dreadful pain.”

“Let the abbey look to them,” said Wulfgeat. “It is more suited to the relief of sorrow than my house.”

“Will you not show pity to a poor widow and child?”

“I pity them, Leofgifu, but I will not take them in.”

Wulfgeat was poring over his account book when his daughter came to see him, and the fact of her interruption was made more annoying by its nature. Leofgifu wished to bring the widow and son of the late Alric Longdon into their home so that she could sustain them through their mourning. Wulfgeat resisted the idea strongly. He was not unkind and was capable of an astonishing generosity at times, but he drew the line at helping the relatives of an enemy.