Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

They answered his questions directly and did not obstruct or evade.

Gervase now sought his own supply of information.

“Brother Peter is surely not your only kind face in the abbey,” he began. “What of the other novices?”

“They are too serious or too stupid for my liking.”

“Abbot Serlo?”

“A blessed man, but he has no dealings with me.”

“Prior Baldwin?”

“I fear him the most after Brother Thaddeus.”

“Why?”

Luke talked freely about life within the confines of the abbey and described, without realising it, the whole political structure of the house. His comments on both prior and subprior had a youthful raw-ness to them, but their spirit accorded with Gervase’s own observa-tions. He eased the boy along until the latter was reminded of some happier incidents during his novitiate, talking himself into an appreciation of the values of the monastic life. Gervase heard him out until the bell for Vespers chimed. Brother Luke started. After the punishment meted out to Brother Peter, he did not want to be found wanting.

Gervase strolled back towards the church with him so that he could put a last few questions.

“Who is the oldest monk at the abbey?”

“The oldest?” Luke shrugged. “Brother John.”

“Was he born in this area?”

“Not far from Burbage, I believe.”

“What age would he be?”

“Oh, ancient,” said the other. “I could not guess at his exact years, but he is weak and bedridden. The infirmarian sees Brother John the most. Seek of him.”

“Have you met this reverend old gentleman yourself?”

“Yes, master. All the novices are presented to him when they join the house. Brother John tells us of the joys of the Benedictine rule and is living proof of its goodness. His body may be broken, but his mind is as clear as ever.”

“Thank you, Brother Luke,” said Gervase. “Go in to Vespers. Say a prayer for Brother Peter and meditate on your own confusion of heart.”

The novice squeezed his arm in gratitude, then broke into a run as the last few monks converged on the church.

Gervase now had the information he needed.

Having escorted Ediva back to her home, Ralph Delchard and his two knights were still in the town when the commotion started. Men who had been given a name by Wulfgeat had now had a whole day to brood on it. Some had taken ale; some were intoxicated with revenge.

All of them could wait no longer to bring the malefactor to justice.

Arming themselves and gathering more people as they went along, they met in the market square at Bedwyn before riding off into the twilight.

“What’s afoot?” Ralph asked of a passer-by.

“They know the killer of Alric Longdon,” said the man.

“A wolf?”

“No, my lord. A dog that can savage like a wolf.”

“Who owns it?”

“The Witch of Crofton.”

“ Who? ”

“Emma is her name. She can weave spells.”

“Can you be sure her dog was responsible?”

“No question of it, my lord.”

“What proof do you have?”

“A stranger rode into the town this afternoon. He met Emma on the road and stopped to speak to her. He says the beast attacked him and would have torn his throat out if he had not run away.” The man pointed after the horsemen. “They ride to Crofton to put an end to this terror we all feel.”

Ralph had seen an enraged mob before and he knew how easily it could get out of hand. Though there was a number of respectable burgesses in the pack, it also contained more headstrong and violent characters. Whatever this Emma had done or not done, her chances of a fair hearing were nonexistent. The best Ralph could do was to prevent bloodshed. He barked an order to his men and the three of them were soon leaping into their own saddles. It was not difficult to pick up the trail of the fury that thundered ahead of them.

Wulfgeat took no part in the communal vengeance and he was distressed to be its author. Emma’s dog might well have been the killer, but that did not necessarily mean that she had set it on to do the deed. It was often seen roaming on the edges of Savernake and was dispatched with a loud curse or a hurled stone. If the dog had strayed into the forest on the evening in question, its attack on the miller might have been a random act of madness or even provoked by his antagonism to the beast. A man who can beat a woman black-and-blue would not hold back his foot from kicking her dog.

There was another element in the situation which made Wulfgeat pause and showed him again how little he really knew and understood his only child. Leofgifu was alarmed when she heard how the other men had reacted that morning to the possibility-no more than that at this stage-that Emma of Crofton was implicated here, and she confessed for the first time that she had turned in extremity to the fearsome woman whom everyone called a witch. When her husband was slowly dying from a wasting disease, no doctor could find a medicine to soften his pain. It became so unbearable that he was ready to try anything, and Leofgifu sent to Crofton. Emma was quick to come and quicker still to prescribe a special potion for Leofgifu’s husband. His condition did not improve, but the pain faded away completely.

“If that is witchcraft,” Leofgifu had said, “then I welcome it, Father.

My husband had suffered so much.”

Those words were spoken at the start of the day. As it drew to its close, Wulfgeat and his daughter stood at the window and watched the horses ride past. The dog would be hacked down before its mistress was even allowed to defend it. Emma of Crofton was an eccentric and unappealing woman who eked out a life that disgusted God-fearing folk, but she did have someone to share her squalid and lonely life.

That partner was about to be cruelly taken from her and she herself not spared.

“Stop them, Father,” begged Leofgifu.

“It is too late, child.”

“Go after them and turn them back.”

“They would not listen to me.”

“Emma of Crofton may not be guilty,” she urged. “And even if she is, this is no civilised way to deal with her. Why does it take all those men to converse with an unarmed woman and her dog? That is bravery indeed!”

“They fear her witchcraft.”

“My husband did not.”

“Alric Longdon was killed,” he reminded her.

“Yes,” she retorted, cheeks aflame, “and there is not a man who gallops in that party who is not pleased with the death. They hated the miller and showed it in ways that beggar description. His widow has told me all.”

“She also told you that Emma had put a curse on him.”

“Would you not curse a man who beat you soundly?”

“A witch’s spell can murder any man.”

“Then why has she not murdered fifty or more who have reviled her these past years? Emma may be innocent.”

“The widow does not think so.”

“She speaks in sorrow and anger,” said Leofgifu. “Hilda and the boy are in despair. Their man has been taken away. She named Emma, but she has no proof.”

“Nor will they try to find it when they reach Crofton.”

“Her appearance alone will condemn her.”

Wulfgeat nodded and plucked nervously at his beard. He had been too swift to throw the name to the others. More evidence should first have been gathered against her and in a more discreet way. Wulfgeat was a hard man, but he prided himself on being a fair one. Setting a crazed mob on a lonely woman could not be construed as an act of fairness. He raised his shoulders in apology, but Leofgifu would not be appeased by that. If Emma and the dog were destroyed by the self-appointed posse, then she herself would be partly to blame for entrusting her father with what she had heard from the miller’s widow.