Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“A sheep?” said one.

“It cannot be.”

“A goat?”

“Not here in the forest.”

“Was it, then, a pig?”

“A pig does not have fleece.”

“What did we see?”

“Who knows?” said the other. “The wolf of Savernake?”

Whatever the creature had been, it had been frightened away, and that gave them some comfort. The bigger man used his stave to prod his way forward, then almost tripped over a large object on the ground.

He regained his balance, then looked down. It was a rock, a big, smooth piece of sandstone which had been towed across the floor of the forest with such effort that it had left a channel gouged in the earth behind it. No wolf could pull a boulder such as that. Only a bear would cope. Wooden staves would not hold off such an animal. If it attacked, their chances would be slim.

A loud and unexplained roar came from the distance.

They took to their heels and ran all the way home.

Gervase Bret and Ralph Delchard had much to discuss that night as they compared their findings and speculated afresh. Both were pleased with their researches. Gervase felt quite at home within the confines of the abbey walls and Ralph had found his natural milieu of strife and action at Crofton. The one could look forward to a talk with an ancient monk, while the other could dream of more intimate conference with the wife of the town reeve. Before they retired for the night, Ralph first yawned, then rehearsed their findings.

“This miller was a hoarder of forged coins,” he said reflectively. “He hid them in a chest within that yew tree. When he took a fresh haul to put it with the rest, he was attacked by wolf or dog or some such sharp-toothed cur. His treasure was removed. When and by whom?”

“Know that and we know where to find the charter.”

“Find the charter and we set the abbey in a turmoil.”

“No,” said Gervase, “it already has turmoil enough beneath that placid surface. Monks are men and all men have their failings.”

“Start again with the miller,” suggested Ralph. “His widow may know of the coins as well as of the charter.”

“I think not. A man as close as Alric Longdon would not take a woman into his confidence. He married her for other reasons and they have been man and wife too short a time to grow together.

Queenhill is a lengthy ride to find himself a bride. He needed a charter to make him go so far afield. The silver may have helped to buy the girl.” Gervase shook his head. “No, his widow will know little. We must not expect too much from her. The miller worked alone.”

“I disagree, Gervase.” Another yawn surfaced. “My bed calls me, so I will not delay. I say but this. The dead man was no forger. Those brutish hands could shift great sacks of flour but not take on the subtle task of minting silver coins. That needs Eadmer’s skill. You see my mind?”

“He has an accomplice. Who stole the hoard himself.”

“We shall see, we shall see.” He winked a farewell and rolled towards the staircase. “In the morning.”

“Will the widow be called before us?”

Ralph turned. “One of us will speak privily with her.”

“You?”

“A quieter voice will get more from her. Good night.”

“God bless!”

While Ralph hauled himself upstairs, Gervase went back to the satchel of documents on the table and took them out. He studied one by the light of the candle and ran his finger along the neat calligraphy.

Ralph Delchard had a practised eye that could weigh up a man at a glance, but Gervase worked by other means. He could read between the lines of a charter and extract its hidden secrets. The parchment before him was the one from the abbey, which claimed rights to the disputed holding of two hides. Couched in legal terms, it was so clear and persuasive that his predecessors waved it through as a binding document, but he had serious doubts. As soon as he had handled it, he felt a vague unease that was well founded. When Gervase stamped the charter a forgery, Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew protested so long and so vigorously that he knew his instinct was right, but that instinct now had to be buttressed with proof so that deception could be both rectified and punished.

He took two other charters from the satchel and laid them beside the first. All were from Bedwyn, all were dated the same, and all were allegedly the work of the same scribe. Gervase went through each one with painstaking care to catch the trick of the man’s quill and the hint of his character. It was a steady hand that flowed fast and smooth without losing definition, but there were quirks to be discerned. His head went from one to the other as he compared each detail of the scribe’s handiwork. Something was wrong with the abbey charter, but he could not yet tell what it was. He scrutinised the parchments for almost two hours before he got his proof. It was worth a chuckle of triumph. Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew would rant and rave once more, but he now had the full measure of them.

One tiny squiggle of ink had left the pair of them impaled upon the point of a quill.

Gervase was still smiling as he fell asleep in bed.

Word of the latest sighting in the forest had permeated the whole town by early morning. Verderers were men who knew the native denizens by sight, sound, and smell, but they could not place the creature they had glimpsed in the dark. Their report sent new tremors through the community and produced a fresh crop of breathless invention. Most people inclined to the idea of a bear that had escaped captivity and returned to the wild, but they could not account for the absence of any spoor. When the verderers and others went back at first light to the scene of their unnerving encounter, the stone had gone completely and left no further indentations in the ground. A scattering of red flakes suggested that the creature had smashed it into smaller and more manageable lumps before carrying them off. Hounds picked up a scent, but it died when they reached a stream.

The latest discovery did not exonerate Emma and her dog. Some still believed she had caused the miller’s death and a few were even heard to argue that the witch had transformed her familiar into a bear so that it could forage in the woodland. Why the bear should be shifting a boulder of sandstone in the darkness was not explained and the more just townsfolk came round to the view that Emma might not, after all, be culpable. They still argued that the dog should be caught and destroyed on the grounds that it was a danger to others, and the evidence of the traveller who had accosted Emma was repeated time and again. His version of events had been carefully shaped to present himself as an innocent victim rather than as a red-blooded man who was driven by an impulse of abstract lust.

The link between catastrophe and the commissioners was further strengthened. Since the visitors arrived, Bedwyn had been plagued with tragedy and mishap, and Ralph Delchard’s heroics in Crofton on the previous night had exacerbated the general animosity. If they could rid themselves of the Norman interlopers, it was thought, they would regain the safety of their streets and the contented rhythm of their lives. Ralph Delchard symbolised the horrors of the Conquest.

It was his name that was spat with contempt in the marketplace.

Ralph was blithely unaware of his growing notoriety.

“Row me downstream,” he said.

“But we could ride there much faster, my lord.”

“I wish to take to the water.”

“I am no boatman,” admitted the man. “Your legs would take you quicker than my arms.”

“There is no hurry. Row on.”

The river was no distance from the hunting lodge and they could see the boat that was moored to a post. Ralph commandeered it and ordered one of his knights to strike off downstream towards the mill of Alric Longdon and beyond. He sat in the stern and trailed a lazy hand in the water while the other man struggled to come to terms with oars. There was more splashing than forward movement, but at least they moved in the right direction. When they reached the middle of the river, the current helped to speed them up.