Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

He was forthright. “I hated Alric,” he said.

“That is no reason to hate his wife and child.”

“They are tarred with his ignominy.”

“What harm have they ever done to you?”

“None at all,” he confessed, “but there was no need. Alric caused enough harm for all three of them. The rogue cheated me out of fifty marks and threatened to take me to court over another matter he thrust upon me.”

“Why, then, did you do business with such a man?”

“His price was cheap and his sacks full of good flour. If this miller had stuck to his mill, I would have no quarrel, but he grew avaricious and wanted more than his due.”

“Hilda had no part in this.”

“She profited by his foul deception.”

“Where is the profit in a dead husband?”

Leofgifu spoke with unexpected vehemence. She had always been a dutiful daughter who bowed herself to her father’s will, but here was something which even she could not accept without protest. Her father-like so many in the town of Bedwyn-may have loathed and distrusted Alric, but she hoped that loathing would not pursue him beyond the grave. Wulfgeat’s own bereavement should have taught him the value of tenderness and concern, for it was what now bonded father and daughter. Within the last year, her father had lost his wife and Leofgifu had lost both mother and husband. In returning to live at home, she found a softness and a vulnerability about Wulfgeat that she had never known before, and it had drawn them ever closer.

Adversity had deepened their love and understanding. It hurt her, therefore, when he was unable to show that same love and understanding now.

“Have you so soon forgotten?” she pressed.

“Peace, child. You touch on my pain.”

“It is shared by a wife and child,” she argued. “They have no one else to turn to at this time. The abbey has opened its doors, but a community of monks can never offer the special solace that a family can which welcomes them into its bosom.” She put her hands on his table and leaned down at him. “Let me be more plain, sir. Hilda needs the company of a woman. I can be of use in her travail.”

“Then visit her at the abbey.”

“Invite her here.”

“I am the master of this house and I refuse.”

“Then I will no longer stay beside you.”

Wulfgeat was shocked. “Leofgifu!”

“I have been obedient in all else, Father, even when my heart counselled against it. But this time, I will not submit to your rule.” She straightened her back and lifted her chin to show her firmness of purpose. “Hilda and the boy beg for help. If you will not give it, I will find a way on my own.”

“You would leave your home?”

“If I find such cruelty here, I will.”

“Leofgifu …”

“My mind is set. They need our Christian charity.”

Wulfgeat was deeply troubled. He got up from his seat and came around the table to offer his arms, but she pulled away. His daughter’s intensity was so uncharacteristic that it took him unawares and he was unable to cope with it. He moved about the room and fingered his beard as he searched for a compromise which would content her yet leave his feelings in the matter quite unchanged. He came to a halt.

“We will give them money,” he suggested.

“They need love not alms.”

“But we will pay for their lodging, Leofgifu.”

“They have lodging enough,” she pointed out. “If that were all their need, they could stay at the abbey or return to the mill itself. It is not just a room that they require. It is a woman who comprehends their misery and who can make that room a place of comfort.”

They faced each other across a widening gap. Both feared the horror of separation, yet neither could find the way to prevent it. Wulfgeat made a last attempt at exerting his paternal authority.

“They will not come and you will not leave,” he said.

“I am not at your command.”

“A daughter must be subject to her father.”

“I am subject to no man,” she insisted, her eyes blazing. “When you gave me to my husband, you gave him the right that you now urge. I served him like a loving wife and grieve for him still. But I will not give allegiance to you or any man on earth.” She spun on her heel. “I will make arrangements to quit your house today.”

“Stay!” he appealed. “I need you here beside me.”

“Others have a stronger claim.”

“Hold there, Leofgifu!”

She had opened the door, but the anguish in his voice made her stop and turn. He looked as fierce and unyielding as ever, but there were tears in his eyes. Leofgifu met his gaze without flinching.

Throughout her life, she had asked so little of him that she felt entitled to make this one demand even if it tore them both apart. Imperceptibly, his coldness began to thaw.

“How long would they stay?” he murmured.

“As long as they find it necessary.”

“I would not wish to see them myself.”

“Nor will you,” she promised. “The house is large and they will need small space. I’ll keep them close by me. Your presence would distress them only the more.”

“I despised that man!”

“Do not punish them for his offence.”

Wulfgeat wandered around the room once more and punched a fist into the palm of the other hand. A man whose command had ruled his house for decades could not easily receive an order himself, but then he had never been challenged from such an unprecedented quarter.

“You may fetch them both here, Leofgifu.”

“Thank you, Father!” She ran to him to bestow a kiss.

“They are your responsibility,” he warned. “I will pay to feed them and house them, but you must supply all else.”

“Indeed I shall.”

“They may come here tomorrow.”

“Why delay?” she said, pressing home her triumph. “I will hurry to the abbey now and secure their release. They will be here within the hour.”

She flitted out of the room before he could stop her. Wulfgeat heaved a sigh. His own wife would never have stood up to him the way that his daughter had just done. He had to respect her for that. It was ironic. Wulfgeat was rightly feared by all in Bedwyn for his iron will and a fierce Saxon pride that would not even moderate itself in the presence of his Norman rulers. Few would dare to cross him in argument and fewer still live to boast that they had bested him. Yet he now lay completely routed and the person who had accomplished the feat was no fellow-burgess who could roar even louder than he. It was the mildest young woman in the town and the only thing in life that he still truly loved.

Brother Thaddeus did not spend all his time chained to one of the abbey ploughs or fetching in the harvest. His strong muscles were put to other service in Bedwyn Abbey. As he strolled into Savernake Forest that evening, it was this secondary employment that was on his mind. A brawny man of middle height, he had a big, shapeless, weather-beaten face that seemed at odds with the careful tonsure above it. As he stumped through the undergrowth on huge and undis-criminating feet, he sang snatches of the Mass to himself and looked about him. He reached a grove of birch trees but rejected them on sight. They had the soft downy twigs that were hopeless for his purpose. He snapped a branch off idly and cast it to the ground. It had too much mercy in it.

Other twigs cracked nearby and he paused to listen. He was being watched. By what or by whom, he did not know, but he sensed at once that he was under surveillance. Stopping as casually as he could, he picked up the fallen branch and pretended to examine it while trying to work out exactly where the sound had originated. When he was confident of direction, he tapped the branch gently against a tree, then turned without warning to fling it with venom at the watching creature. His aim was close enough. There was a scramble in the bushes and the sound of flight. Thaddeus pulled the sharp knife from his scrip and thundered after the noise, but all he managed to see was a flash of matted brown hair as it scuttled into oblivion.