Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

Another thought twisted a knife within her. Supposing that both woman and animal were subsequently cleared of blame when the real culprit was caught? Leofgifu and her father would be chained by guilt for the rest of their days.

“How can I make amends?” asked Wulfgeat.

“Speak to Hilda yourself.”

“No,” he refused. “That is asking too much. To give them shelter is one thing. But you promised me that I would never have to see either of them. Stand by your word.”

“Things have changed,” said Leofgifu. “See her, Father.”

“What purpose is served?”

“A form of reconciliation. It is bad enough to lose a husband without being spurned by everyone who hated him. We are the only place who would take her in, save the abbey.” She moved across to clutch his arm. “Listen to her for my sake. She rambles in her speech, but you will have a clearer understanding of it than I. It is not just his death that she talks about but the land that is now disputed before the commission.”

“What land?” he said.

“Two hides alongside the river. Their mill stands on part of it. The abbey claims the holding.”

“And so does Hugh de Brionne.”

“There is a new voice raised,” said Leofgifu. “She tried to tell me why but lost her way in tears. All I did gather was this. It was Alric who summoned the commissioners by letter. He started this debate.”

Wulfgeat pondered. Fierce arguments over land were part of normal life in a town like Bedwyn. Boundary disputes had enlivened its temper for hundreds of years. Each time they were settled, they were redrawn; each time a new disposition was accepted, along would come Viking or Dane or rebel Saxon to redefine it again. Edward the Confessor’s reign saw yet another shift in property, confirmed during the brief reign of Harold, but the whole process was started once again by the Normans. Ownership was at times a lottery. After the Conquest, when the invaders shared out the spoils of war, Wulfgeat had lost holdings of his own to the abbey and to Hugh de Brionne. It was a wound that had festered ever since. He had been dispossessed.

If Hilda knew anything that might challenge the rights of a Norman abbot and a Norman lord, he was very anxious to hear it. There might be personal advantage for him as well as deep satisfaction. He assessed the implications of the new situation. Undying hatred of the miller fought with bald self-interest.

“I will see her,” he decided.

They came out of the half-darkness at a mad gallop and descended the hill with reckless abandon. Emma heard them when they were half a mile away and she came out of her hovel to see what produced the frightening noise. Forty or more horsemen were swarming towards her and they had surrounded the whole property before she could even guess at their purpose. As they reined in their mounts, they formed a menacing circle that slowly began to close. The dog stood protectively in front of its mistress and growled its defiance. A spear sank into the ground only inches away from the animal and Emma recoiled in alarm.

“What do you want?” she cried.

“The killer,” answered a spokesman.

“There is no killer here.”

“That dog of yours was sent to murder Alric Longdon.”

“He never leaves my side.”

“You put a curse on the miller.”

“He beat me till I bled,” she retorted.

“And so will we,” shouted another voice that was met with a rousing cheer. “Why do we stay our hands?”

It was a signal for the ring of hatred to tighten around them at a faster pace. A second spear all but hit the dog and a third grazed Emma’s fat arm as it passed. The men began to chant, the dog began to bark, and the whole night seemed to fill with pandemonium. The Witch of Crofton and her miserable cur would be put down without mercy. A first sword was lifted to strike.

“Hold!”

Ralph Delchard’s cry cut through the din as he came charging down the hill with his two men riding behind him. His appearance was so sudden and unexpected that some of the men thought that he and his knights were devils from hell who had been summoned to help the witch. Yells of fear went up. A few took flight at once.

Others backed away out of caution. Horses bucked and neighed to add to the general chaos and the dog barked on with renewed frenzy.

Ralph’s destrier cleared a path through the angry mob and came to a halt beside Emma. His men joined him and the three formed a triangle around her.

“Who speaks for you?” demanded Ralph sternly.

“I,” said a voice in the gloom.

“Show your face if you have courage to do so.”

“Keep out of this,” ordered the man, remaining in the shadows.

“You have no quarrel here.”

“Forty men against a solitary woman is not a quarrel. It is a cow-ardly massacre and I will not allow it.”

“Stand aside!” roared another voice.

“Yes!” supported a third, drawing strength from the overwhelming odds. “You will not save this witch. Stand aside or Norman blood will run.”

This threat produced an ear-splitting shout of agreement. Ralph Delchard answered it immediately. His sword jumped into his hand, his horse reared up on its hind legs, and his challenge rang out across the field.

“If any man dare try me, here I am!”

Several riders inched their horses forward to take a closer look at him, then changed their minds at once. Here was no common towns-man who wielded a sword or spear perhaps once in six months.

Ralph was a seasoned warlord with twenty years of action behind him. He had killed his way into England with the rest of the Norman invaders and he thrived on battle. There were enough of them to overpower him, but he would reduce their numbers drastically in the process. His men were trained soldiers, too, and they kept their horses prancing on their hooves and ready for any encounter.

Three men around a shivering woman and a barking dog. Who would strike the first blow or show the first sign of weakness? Both sides glared at each other for a long time.

“Give up this woman to us,” called the spokesman.

“She has my arm to guard her.”

“The woman is a witch.”

“Even witches must stand trial in courts of law.”

“ We are a court of law!” he attested.

But the supportive yell was patchy and half-hearted. Ralph took his destrier in a circle so that he could taunt them and put them to shame.

“Go home to your wives,” he advised. “Tell them what heroes you have been tonight. Boast about the woman you almost killed and the dog you all but slaughtered. Away with you all! Tell them how three Normans got the better of forty Saxons. Yes, you sturdy warriors, you have done noble work this day. Begone!”

There were token protests, but the heat and impetus had been taken out of the raid. Emma and the dog were an easy target on their own.

Protected by Ralph and his men-at-arms, they were a different propo-sition, and however much the Saxons loathed the Norman usurpers, they had been taught to respect their military supremacy and the mer-ciless swiftness of any reprisals. If a royal commissioner was cut down in cold blood with his men, a whole army would sally forth from Winchester to exact the most damning revenge. King William would not rest until every one of them had been hunted down and hanged.

“Well?” roared Ralph. “Will you fight or flee?”

There were some token jibes from the men, but they gradually drifted away and set off at a trot back towards Bedwyn. Ralph had savoured the excitement. Sheathing his sword, he jumped down from the saddle to introduce himself to Emma of Crofton. She was suffused with gratitude and the dog added a whining note of thanks.

Danger was over for a while. Ralph could take a closer look at this supposed witch. He grinned amiably, then saw the trickle of blood upon her arm. Gallantry and concern now prompted him.