Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“I may have wished him dead but would not do the deed myself.

This other foe would seek his life. In her own malicious way.” Wulfgeat lowered his voice. “I speak of Emma.”

The name turned the expectant buzz into a torrent of abuse. They seized upon it with ferocious glee.

“Emma!”

“The Witch of Crofton!”

“A foul slut with a wild dog!”

“An evil sorceress!”

“A slimey hag!”

“Blood-sucker!”

“Devil-worshipper!”

“Poisoner!”

“Whore!”

Wulfgeat raised his hands. “Calm yourselves and hear the argument,” he told them. “I do not accuse Emma, but I do avow she had both cause and means. Or so the widow claims.”

“What did Hilda say?”

“That her husband fell out with Emma.” Wulfgeat spoke on over the mocking laughter. “Yes, yes, everyone fell out with Alric sooner or later, but not in this manner. He bought a potion from her-for what, I do not know. When it did not work, he demanded his money back.

When Emma would not pay, he beat her black-and-blue.”

“Serves the witch right!” sneered a voice.

“She put a curse on him,” explained Wulfgeat. “Alric looked to have another son by his new wife, but Emma said her womb would henceforth be barren. When the miller beat her again, she screamed that he’d be dead within the month.”

“When was this, Wulfgeat?”

“But three weeks past.”

The angry listeners needed no more persuasion. Emma, the so-called Witch of Crofton, the maker of potions, the caster of spells, was promptly installed as the culprit. Out went wolf, fox, bear, and other animals and in came the big black slavering dog that Emma kept in her hovel. Bent on summary justice, they were all for riding down to Crofton there and then to slaughter both witch and dog and rid the shire of two excrescences in one swoop, but Wulfgeat exerted control.

“Silence!” he decreed. “Yesterday, you feared a pack of wolves in Savernake. Today, you are that pack of wolves yourselves. Guilty she may be, but that guilt is not proven in a court of law. This is work for the sheriff. If Emma is a witch and that dog is her familiar, she will be held to account. Her curse and her cur destroyed Alric Longdon.”

The men laughed with brutal delight. They were content.

They now had a scapegoat.

She waddled along through the bushes and gathered herbs into her basket. Somewhere in the thickets, her mangy companion nosed around for food and snuffled excitedly. Emma was a short, rotund woman who was barely into her thirties yet who looked many years older. Her pudgy face had merry eyes, a snub nose, and a full mouth, but its inherent jollity was offset by the thick, dark eyebrows and the unsightly facial hair that spread upwards to merge with her own straggly thatch and make her rather daunting to behold. Even in the heat of summer, she wore a tattered hood and cloak over her stained gunna and she had on the gartered stockings of a man. Her feet were covered in tight bundles of rags.

Emma of Crofton lived just north of the village in a tiny cottage. She was thus within easy walking distance of Savernake Forest and often penetrated its boundaries to search for herbs or to gather firewood in winter. Born and raised in Burbage, to the south-west, she had been fined for adultery with a married man, then driven out by the women of the place to seek a more isolated life. Her cottage was a huddle of stones with a leaking roof, and its stink could be picked up a hundred yards away. But Emma had come to prefer her own company and lived in mild contentment.

She could make ointments, medicines, and compounds for the cure of the sick and set a bone better than any doctor in the area. Even those afraid of her sometimes used her magic. Emma was a potent woman who had grown to be part of the landscape. Nobody bothered her unless they needed help-and even then would they keep their distance.

The man on the roan was not from the locality. As he was trotting towards Bedwyn, he came upon the figure of a fine fat wench groping in the bushes. Because she was bent double, all he could see was the shape of her buttocks and the vigour of her movement. It was enough to kindle lust. Checking that nobody was in sight, he reined in his mount, dropped from the saddle, and approached her boldly from the rear.

“Good morning, mistress!” he said.

“Go your way, sir,” she advised without looking up.

“Then give me a kiss to send me on my way.”

“I will give you more than that.”

The hirsute face turned to confront him and he backed away with disgust. He did not get far. Hurtling out of the thickets with a loud yelp came a huge black dog which did not pause for introduction. It simply launched itself at the man and knocked him flat on his back, baring its fangs in his face and keeping him prisoner for several yapping minutes until a command from his mistress drew him off. He scrambled up and raced to his horse at full speed, unsure whether the dog or its owner was the more frightening. Emma cackled and the animal barked. They had put the man to flight.

He would have a story to tell when he reached Bedwyn.

Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew presented themselves at the shire hall at the appointed hour. Their daily life set to a rigid time-table, they were slaves to punctuality. The commissioners were seated behind the table. Ralph Delchard rose to welcome them and gesture them forward to the two chairs which had been set ready. Matthew moved at his usual funereal pace, but Baldwin had a spring in his step. He was obviously looking forward to matching his wits against those of his examiners and seemed assured of success. There was a tranquil confidence about him which contrasted with the irritation he had shown the previous evening as he left the mill. Disappointment had been put behind him. Only victory and vindication could lie ahead.

When both men were seated, with a satchel of documents resting on the floor between them, Ralph went through the formalities and introduced each member of the commission. He then left the early exchanges to Canon Hubert, who seized his moment like one who has been waiting for it all his life.

“Bedwyn Abbey must be put under close inspection,’’ he said smugly.

“We are unhappy about several details of the return that was made by our predecessors.”

“The fault is with them and not with us,” suggested Baldwin tartly.

“The abbey can withstand any scrutiny.”

Hubert reprimanded him. “It is not your place to criticise the royal officers. May I remind you that the first commissioners included no less a person than His Grace, the Bishop of Durham?”

It was time to trade their credentials.

“We answer to Osmund, Bishop of Salisbury,” asserted Baldwin superciliously.

Hubert replied in kind. “We answer to Walkelyn, Bishop of Winchester and my own master.”

“My master is Abbot Serlo.”

“He falls short of a bishopric.”

“Abbot Serlo was Prior of Caen,” said Baldwin with emphasis, “and I was his subprior.”

“I held that office in Bec,” replied Hubert, “when Lanfranc ruled the house. Archbishop Lanfranc now rules the English Church from Canterbury, while you and Abbot Serlo remain in a lowlier station.”

“We are servants of the Benedictine order.”

“I am the servant of God!”

Canon Hubert was wreathed in smiles. He felt that he had drawn first blood, and he turned to nod at Brother Simon. The abbey repre-sentatives maintained a hurt silence that was broken by Ralph Delchard.

“What does it matter who serves whom?” he bellowed. “Hubert struts around in Winchester Cathedral, while Abbot Serlo and his monks paddle about in this backwater. Each has found his own vocation and must be respected for that. True Christianity lies in showing tolerance.”