Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“Wulfgeat’s daughter tends her now.”

Gervase looked across at the forest. Patches of thick woodland were interspersed with heath and scrub. Birds drew pictures in the air as they sang. Animals called out in the trees. The wind produced a thousand answering voices as it bent creaking branches and shook crisp leaves.

“You are a huntsman, Ralph,” he said.

“Whenever I have the time.”

“Do you think there is a wolf in Savernake?”

“Not now,” said Ralph, “or it would certainly have been seen or scented or killed. Wolves are untidy guests. They leave a mess behind.”

“Yes. I saw the miller at the mortuary.”

“Something is in those trees, Gervase. But not a wolf.”

“What sort of animal is it, then?”

“One that I will enjoy tracking down.”

“We have other inquiries to make first,” recalled his friend. “I must make contact with Brother Luke and see what I can learn about the abbey from the inside. And you must see Eadmer the Moneyer.”

“I go to the mint this evening.”

“Is it wise to take a guide?”

“Ediva offered,” said Ralph artlessly. “How could I refuse such an invitation from a lady? Her husband is away in Salisbury and she has need of diversion.”

“The lady is married,” insisted Gervase.

“She chafes against the yoke.”

“Adultery is a mortal sin.”

“Then do not commit it,” advised Ralph. “Think on Alys and keep yourself pure. Leave wickedness to those of us with greater urges and lesser scruples.”

“Think on the danger !”

“That is the chief attraction.”

Gervase did all he could to talk his friend around, but no headway had been made by the time they reached the lodge. He should have known better. Once Ralph Delchard committed himself to a course of action, whatever its nature, he never diverged from it. Grooms took their horses to stable them while the two commissioners went indoors.

One last question remained unanswered for Ralph.

“How did you know that the charter was forged?”

“I did not,” admitted Gervase. “But I do now.”

The peasant woman was typical of so many who lived on the fringes of Bedwyn. Her husband was a cottar, part of a small and wretched underclass who were given a hovel and a thin slice of land in return for their labour. The man worked hard, but the good earth did not reward him well. The bad harvest of the previous year was followed by a famine that struck those at the lower end of society most keenly.

When the man’s sufferings were compounded by an injury to his arm while using the plough in which he had quarter share, he was unable to do his full quota of work. His wife and small children grew thin and sickly. Desperation drove him to slip into Savernake Forest one night. Two hares and some wood pigeons kept them fed for a week or more, but their good fortune was noted by envious eyes. Information was laid against the cottar and the warden’s officers arrived in time to find the wife making a stew with the bones.

“He has been locked up for a month,” wailed the woman.

“Forest law is cruel,” said Emma with rough sympathy.

“He must wait for the shire court to sit and hear his case. If they find him guilty, he may lose his sight or worse. What condition will we be in then?”

“Think on yourself and the children,” advised the visitor. “Your husband’s ordeal is the worse for worrying about you. If we can make you better, we take one small load off his mind.”

The woman nodded. Starvation had pushed her to extremes and she had seized on the rotting carcass of a squirrel she had found. It had filled their bellies but emptied them almost as quickly. Both she and her children were crying with such pain that Emma of Crofton had to be sent for as a last resort. While her dog sat outside the hovel, Emma reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of liquid.

“Mix three drops of this with a little water,” she prescribed. “Take it morning, noon, and night. Your pains will soon abate.”

“We have no money,” said the patient hopelessly, “but you may look around this room and take whatever you wish.”

Emma threw a glance around the mean abode and patted the woman reassuringly on the shoulder. No payment was needed. The relief of such pain and desolation was a reward in itself and her chubby face bunched itself into a kind smile. She turned to leave, but the woman clutched at her.

“Will you pray for us?” she begged.

“Not to God,” said Emma sharply, “but I will offer up a plea that something will come soon to ease your distress.”

The woman thanked her profusely and watched her saunter off along the road to Crofton. Witch or not, the visitor had provided the first crumbs of comfort in weeks. The woman mixed the potion as directed and gave some to the children before she drank it down herself. Relief was immediate. They felt much better but very drowsy and dropped off into a restorative sleep. Emma of Crofton had worked her wonders.

There was more welfare at hand. When the woman opened her front door that evening, something lay shining on her doorstep. It was minutes before she overcame the shock enough to bend down and pick up the six silver coins.

Abbot Serlo did not believe in the power of public disgrace. He had seen monks in other abbeys take their beatings in front of the whole house and it was an unedifying spectacle in every way. The fact of punishment was a sufficient deterrent in itself. When one brother felt the severity of his judgement, the others would take eager note and mend their ways accordingly. Brother Peter’s fate would keep the abbey free from misdemeanour for several weeks. The only witness to his agony, however, would be his abbot, his fellow-monk with the mighty arm, and his God.

“Do you understand your fault, Brother Peter?”

“I understand and repent, Father Abbot.”

“We must scourge the weakness out of you.”

“I submit myself wholly to your will.”

“Do not hold back, Brother Thaddeus,” instructed Serlo.

“I will not, Father Abbot,” said the eager brother as he swished the birch twigs through the air. “I will break the flesh until you tell me to cease.”

They were in a room behind the chapter-house. The abbot sat in the one chair and Peter stood beside a long bench. Brother Thaddeus had been looking forward to doing his duty and his fondness for the sacristan was no bar to his patent readiness to wield the fresh birch twigs.

Abbot Serlo widened his eyes recklessly and raised his hands as if to catch them when they fell out. He sent a short prayer up to heaven and the monks bowed their heads. When he was prepared, the abbot settled back in his chair and gave a curt nod to Brother Thaddeus.

“Proceed.”

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

“Make yourself ready, Peter.”

“I do, Father Abbot.”

“Fit both mind and body to what approaches.”

“I have done so.”

Brother Peter crouched down to take the hem of his cowl and lift it right up to his shoulders. He then straddled the bench and lay face-down, with his naked body exposed to the view and mercy of Brother Thaddeus. The back and buttocks had already been chafed by the coarse-ness of the material, but its stark whiteness would now be striped indelibly with red. Brother Thaddeus took another practice swing, then stepped forward into position. The birch twigs came down with such force on the defenceless body that Brother Peter convulsed with pain. Yet he did not cry out. Buried in the folds of his cowl, he was biting on a bunched fist to stem his cries. Each time the twigs flashed through the air on their cruel journey, his teeth sank deeper and deeper until they drew blood and threatened to sever the fingers.