Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

Gervase Bret was startled to hear such an observation from so unlikely a source, and the clergy-monastic and lay alike-were quite astounded. To be lectured on Christianity by a man as brash and worldly as Ralph Delchard was too much to bear. They complained in unison, but he cowed them into silence once more and slapped the table with a firm palm.

“Let us get down to the main point of our visit.”

“Very well,” agreed Canon Hubert, taking the parchment that was slipped to him by Brother Simon, “it concerns two hides of land whose ownership is as yet unclear.”

“To which land do you refer?” asked Baldwin, concealing his fore-knowledge. “Two hides, you say? Two miserable hides? Did you really ride all the way from Winchester to quarrel over such a small parcel of land?”

“There is an issue at stake here.”

“I fail to see it, Canon Hubert.”

“Your capacity for failure already has been noted.”

“Identify this land,” said the prior through clenched teeth, “and we will answer you.”

“It lies to the north-west of the town, along the river. Three farms and two mills occupy it. Hugh de Brionne had an interest in it, but the abbey set it aside.”

Baldwin nodded. “I know this land well.”

“Do you have proof that it belongs to the abbey?”

“We have brought a charter with us.”

“That is very resourceful of you, Prior Baldwin,” said Gervase. “When the abbey has so much land and so many holdings, how did you know that this was the charter that would be needed?”

“Simple guesswork, sir.”

“And the power of prayer,” added Matthew.

“Yes,” said Ralph sharply. “You prayed that one of us would let fall a hint of today’s business.” His eye flicked to Brother Simon. “It appears that one of us did so.”

“Abbot Serlo needs us,” resumed Baldwin airily, “so we would not be detained long here. Brother Matthew will show you this document to affirm our right. You can verify our claim, put these two hides to rest, and let us return to our spiritual duties at the abbey.”

The subprior had the parchment in his hand at once and unrolled it to spread it on the table. He and Baldwin then sat back with the satisfaction of men who are certain they have just won the day.

They could boast about it over dinner with Abbot Serlo. Ralph Delchard gave the document a cursory glance and passed it to Gervase Bret. The latter pored over it intently as Hubert picked up his theme.

“There is another claimant to this land.”

“The lord of the manor of Chisbury has been ousted.”

“I speak of a third voice.”

“Then let us hear it now.”

“That is difficult,” conceded Brother Simon.

“Be quiet, man,” reproved Hubert, “you have said more than enough already. Silentium est aurium .”

Simon accepted the rebuke with a meek nod. There would be further castigation to face from the canon, and he was not looking forward to it. He sagged penitentially.

It was Baldwin’s turn to crow. “Brother Simon touches on the truth of the matter. No claimant, no dispute. Unless you wish to dig him up from the churchyard and ask him to recite his argument. The abbey will not be dispossessed by a dead miller.” He rose to go. “May we please depart?”

“No,” said Ralph.

“But Alric Longdon will not appear.”

“He does not need to, Prior Baldwin,” said Hubert with a shrug. “He is not himself the claimant.”

Complacence was wiped from the countenance opposite.

“Then who is?” demanded Baldwin, sitting down.

“His wife.”

“Hilda?”

“Even she.”

“But she made no mention of this,” whined the prior. “I spoke with her but yesterday and she talked only of her husband’s charter. The poor woman was beside herself with grief, but she would know the difference between what belongs to her husband and what to her.

Would she not?”

Gervase continued to peruse the document but solved a little mystery at the same time. Prior Baldwin had been to the mill to search for the charter. Having inveigled the key from the widow, he let himself into their home, intent on finding and destroying evidence of another’s claim to abbey lands. Fortunately, he left empty-handed.

Matthew came to the help of his beleaguered prior.

“If the woman has a claim, why did she not make it in front of the first commission?”

“Because she did not live in Bedwyn at the time. Alric had not then married her. Hilda-or her father, to be more precise-made their sworn statements to the commissioners of the Worcestershire circuit.”

“Worcestershire?” repeated Matthew.

“Hilda lived in Queenhill. You know the place?”

“No,” snarled Baldwin, “and do not wish to know it.”

“You will come to,” promised Hubert. “Queenhill is a pretty village among several in the area. They include Berrow, Pendock, Ripple, Castlemorton, Bushley, and-”

“We need no lessons in geography,” said Baldwin.

“Plainly, you do.” Hubert gave the professional smile of an executioner who has just been handed his weapon to carry out a sentence.

“Castlemorton, Bushley-and Longdon.”

Baldwin and Matthew froze. “Longdon?” they chorused.

“It is where Alric’s father was born,” explained the canon. “Hence his name. Alric Longdon. He took it out of loyalty to his father, as you will hear in time.”

The prior fought hard to recover. “None of this is germane if the miller is dead. What do we care about his parentage? It has no bearing here.”

“But it does. It is the key to the whole affair.”

“How?”

“All will be explained.”

“This is most perplexing,” said Baldwin, then opted for a frontal attack. “Does the widow possess a charter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have this document?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you have no case.”

“And we may go back to the abbey,” said Matthew.

“Not so fast,” warned Hubert. “We may not have the charter itself, but we have a fair copy.”

“A copy is worthless,” said Baldwin.

“Alfred of Marlborough did not think so. When it was shown to him, he supported every word of it. We are duty-bound to take seriously the oath of such a man as he.”

Baldwin and Matthew were writhing about like two eels caught in a net. They were confounded. Hubert enjoyed the sight before prodding them with an invisible spear.

“You have been lazy,” he mocked. “You are not well informed enough to carry your argument. You prepare to fight against Alric, and his widow is your opponent. You think that we have come here for two hides of land, when it is the entire estate of Bedwyn Abbey that we question. If there is one act of deception, there may be a hundred more. This is not a casual enquiry that we make here. You are on trial.”

“I will not suffer any more of this!” exclaimed the prior, trying to bluster his way out. “We have a charter and the other claimant does not. The law is on our side, the first commissioners are on our side, God is on our side.” He stood once more and restated his case. “Dispute is irrelevant. We have the charter.”

Gervase Bret looked up with a smile and nodded.

“Yes, Prior Baldwin,” he said, “you have the charter. But that will not advantage you in the least.”

“Why not?”

“The document is a complete forgery.”

Brother Luke’s doubts about his future continued to grow. It made him preoccupied and careless. He was distracted during his lessons and the master of the novices upbraided him sternly in front of his fellows. Sarcasm has a cutting edge, and it was a lacerated Brother Luke who sought out his one true friend at the abbey. Brother Peter was in his little workshop near the stables, crouched over his brazier as he heated something up and added a dry turf to bring the blaze to the right temperature. Luke knocked on the door and entered, only to be struck by the force of the heat in the confined space. Peter smiled a welcome, the perspiration glistening on his brow and turning his tonsured head into a veritable mirror.