Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“With one assistant, my lord. The other stays at the mint in Marlborough.”

“There are two so close together?”

“I am moneyer to them both,” said Eadmer proudly. “In London, you will find a dozen or more mints, each with their moneyer’s name on it. I rule this countryside and my name is legal tender on the face of every coin.”

“Eadmer is greatly respected,” said Ediva quietly. “My husband speaks highly of his integrity.”

“He has good cause.” The moneyer enjoyed flattery. “I work on here as I did under King Edward the Confessor, who knew the importance of a stable coinage. King William had made many changes to our country, but he was pleased to leave the mints alone. We know our trade better than the mints in Normandy, which are but two in number, Bayeux and Rouen. Our coins are never debased.”

Ralph was happy to concede the point. The king had the sense to take over anything that operated efficiently so that he could use it for his own purpose, and the Anglo-Saxons had always understood the significance of an ordered coinage. Monetary reforms were constant and the system had been greatly improved by the time of Hastings.

The face of King Harold stared up from coins of almost fifty mints at the time of his death. Conquest devalued him utterly.

“How may I help you?” said Eadmer.

“By looking at these,” replied Ralph, taking out the two coins and holding them on his palm. “They are yours?”

Eadmer peered. “I believe they may well be.”

“You are not sure?”

“I go by feel, not sight, my lord. May I?”

“Please.” Ralph proferred the coins.

Eadmer selected one and took it to the window to stare at it more closely in the light. He then placed it in his own palm and judged its weight. A third test saw it slipped between his ancient teeth and bitten. He fingered the coin obsessively and clicked his tongue.

“Well?” said Ralph.

“Where did you find it?”

“That does not matter.”

“It matters to me and to every honest man hereabouts. That coin looks like mine and would pass for mine to most of those who handled it. But I did not make it. It is too light and made of a compound unknown to me.” Eadmer threw back his little shoulders and lifted an indignant chin. “This should be reported to the town reeve.”

“My husband is away at present,” said Ediva.

“Send him here as soon as he returns.”

“I will do so. And promptly.”

“May I keep this coin, my lord?”

“If you wish.”

“It is essential,” said Eadmer seriously. “I have to clear my own name here. Moneyers who turn forgers suffer mutilation or death.”

He looked at the coin again with faint disgust. “It is a fitting end for such an offence.”

Ralph questioned him some more about his trade and the controls under which it operated in Bedwyn and Marlborough. After expressing their gratitude, he and Ediva took their leave and were shown to the front door by the servant. Once outside, they found themselves alone. Laughter from the rear of the mint showed that the soldiers were chatting with the woman beside the river. Ralph looked at her with masculine frankness for the first time and she shed a wife’s enforced humility to stand before him in her own right.

“When may we meet again?” he whispered.

“As soon as may be, my lord.”

“That lies in your choosing, lady.”

“I’ll send word of time and place.”

“The evening finds me free.”

“What of the night?”

She extended her hand for him to plant a chaste kiss upon it, then she leaned forward to touch his cheek with her lips. Her softness and her delicate fragrance enchanted him even more and he could not wait for the moment of consummation. He heard fresh laughter from his men and a giggle from the woman. Ralph Delchard and Ediva put on their masks again.

“Lady,” he said respectfully, “allow us to conduct you home again.

The evening has been a constant delight to me, but it has yielded all that it may.”

Gervase Bret arrived at the abbey in the sober attire of his office. He had documents with him and he was admitted by the porter so that he could deliver them to Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. That, at least, was what he had told the monk in the gatehouse, knowing full well that the information would be swiftly relayed to Prior Baldwin.

The documents could be handed over later. Other business had to be first discharged. Gervase had timed his appearance well. Vespers was held later in the summer and there was every hope that he might be able to locate Brother Luke before the bell tolled out its command.

The novice was in the garden, standing outside the empty workshop of Brother Peter. Red-rimmed eyes showed that he had wept copiously and his shoulders were bent in dejection.

“What ails you, Brother Luke?” said Gervase.

“I suffer another’s pain.”

“All Christians do that.”

“Brother Peter has been beaten.”

Gervase was taken aback. “The kind sacristan? For what offence could such a man be punished?”

“He has been lax in attendance once or twice.”

“Is that a matter for harsh sentencing?” said Gervase. “Even the best horse stumbles. You do not thrash it with your whip for one or two mistakes.”

“There was more beside, master, but I may not tell it. Brother Peter has sworn me to secrecy.”

“Then I will pry no further.” He glanced around. “Is there some place where we may walk in the garden and talk unobserved? I would value conversation.”

“And so would I.”

“Lead on.”

Novices quickly learned the corners of the abbey where they could hide or seek respite. Brother Luke took him to the farthest edge of the garden where a cluster of crab-apple trees grew in the shade of the abbey wall. They would not easily be seen or interrupted there.

“Brother Peter is your closest friend, is he not?”

“My only friend within the enclave.”

“No, Luke,” said Gervase, slipping easily back into the reflex answers of his monastic days, “you have a friend above who looks down from heaven and pities you.” He put an arm on the youth’s shoulder. “Are you still troubled?”

“Mightily.”

“What is Peter’s counsel?”

“Watch and pray.”

“But you still wish to leave?”

“Only to flee my persecutors.”

“That would leave your dearest friend behind.”

“I know,” said the boy, sighing. “If I think of myself and am released from my vows, I lose Peter. If I stay here, I will lose my freedom.”

“To do what?”

Luke shrugged. “I do not know.”

“Consider it well before you decide.”

They heard voices and moved a few yards farther into their hiding place. The voices passed and they could resume.

“Why did you leave Eltham Abbey?”

Gervase looked into the open face of the novice and saw himself.

His dilemma had been exactly that of Brother Luke except in one particular. To win the boy’s confidence and to gain his help, Gervase knew that he would have to tell the truth. Even now, the confession could still touch off the pangs of guilt.

“I loved a woman.”

“While you were still a novice?”

“She lived nearby the abbey. I saw her often.”

“But we take vows of chastity here.”

“I found that commitment too final a one to make.”

Brother Luke looked uncomfortable, as if the same problem was vexing him but he was not able to share it. Instead, he asked for more detail, and Gervase supplied it with some misgivings. To talk of his precious Alys was always a source of immense pleasure, but it was soured a little by the present circumstance. He was not sure whether he was tempting Luke to flee from the order or convincing him that love of a woman was a sinful condition. What was certain was the rapt attention he was given. Luke was taking a first full and unequivocal look into a world to which he had been so far denied entry. Gervase was honest in the way that Brother Peter was honest.