Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

Ralph studied the sluice-gate that lay ahead and saw its function at once. The miller was clever and far-sighted, though he had probably met the expense of construction from a hoard of forged money.

Unwitting carpenters who had sunk the mighty timbers in the water to take the weight of the gate itself would have spent their silver long ago and put the counterfeit coins into circulation. The fact that they had not yet been detected was proof of their quality. Eadmer provided the currency for Bedwyn. His mint was controlled by the warden of the exchange, who sold him his bullion, then received back the newly struck coins to check them with meticulous care. Only if they were up to standard would they be released for public use. Nothing which left Eadmer’s expert hands was ever rejected.

“Slow down,” ordered Ralph.

“We are being swept along, my lord.”

“Dip your oars and hold them still.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He experimented a few times and finally got a small measure of success. The boat slowed a little and allowed Ralph to take a more leisurely view of the mill that they were about to pass. It was a suitable habitat for Alric Longdon. The ugly shape of the building, the neglect of its exterior, the relentless power of its now-silent wheel, and its isolated position on the river all defined the character and person of the man. He lived on the very fringe of Bedwyn, like a scavenger who skulks in his lair until a prey approaches. As they floated past its massive bulk, Ralph looked up and felt a shiver of distaste. This was no fit home for a family. It was a place of work that had been battered by half a century of constant usage, a cold prison which forced hard labour upon its inmates for the whole of their lives. Happiness had never penetrated its stout walls. It was a monu-ment to the miller’s meanness of spirit. Ralph was glad to drift on by.

“How much farther, my lord?” asked the oarsman.

“Row me back to Winchester.”

“My arms are aching already.”

“When they fall off, I will take my turn.”

“It is no joke, my lord.”

“No,” agreed Ralph, then burst into laughter. “Pull on your oars again. Take me towards the church.”

The man made the fatal mistake of looking over his shoulder, and the small craft went out of control and all but turned in a circle. It took minutes to right it again and to row it along a straighter course.

Ralph Delchard sat back and surveyed the scene with growing admiration. Bedwyn had a pastoral setting of undeniable loveliness and it was hard to believe that the air of serenity it now exuded was hiding a cauldron of rage and dissension. When the church finally climbed into view, he told his man to ship the oars and let the boat drift into the bank. They had come to the end of their voyage.

“Where are we?” asked the man, now panting freely.

“About to lay a siege.”

“A siege, my lord?”

“Of that.”

The boat thudded into the bank and the man grabbed at an overhanging branch to steady it. He was then able to look across the river to the object of Ralph’s curiosity.

“You saw the mint but yesterday,” he complained.

“Only from the inside.”

“My lord?”

“There is a castle. How do we take it?”

The soldier recovered his humour. Fighting was his trade. He was on firm ground now and entered willingly into the game with his master.

“Storm it from the front.”

“It is too well fortified.”

“Approach from the sides.”

“Both have solid walls with tiny windows,” said Ralph. “You would be picked off with arrows by an enemy that you never even saw.”

“Then take it from the river,” rejoined the man. “Scale the walls and enter by force.”

Ralph clicked his tongue. “Ladders could not be used from boats.

They need firm foundation. Ropes could not be thrown to the roof.

There is no place to get a purchase.” He pointed at the windows.

“How would you get past those iron bars if you ever managed to reach them? No, my friend. Stones and boiling oil could be poured onto your boats and a man foolish enough to scale that wall would be exposed to attack from every window. You are no siege-master.”

“I would starve them out.”

“There is an easier way if you but look.”

The soldier studied the building with more attention to the detail of its construction. It was half-timbered but used solid brick where others settled for wattle and daub. Around each window was a protective square of sharp iron spikes. Its roof was thatched and might succumb to fire, but he sensed that Ralph had found an easier mode of entry. He turned back to his lord and shrugged his failure.

“Think of a real castle,” advised Ralph.

“This is but a well-defended mint.”

“Place a motte and bailey on the same spot. Raise your walls and reinforce them at their weakest points. Build your keep so that it uses the river as its moat, just like the mint. Now,” said Ralph with a knowing smirk, “what would you set over the river itself? What use would you make of this convenient water?”

The man realised and laughed coarsely. A garderobe or two would be built at the rear of the keep. The castle inhabitants would relieve themselves into the water below. If a concerted attack could not be made, one stealthy man might gain entrance through a garderobe under cover of darkness and find a means to open the main gate. The soldier grinned his admiration, but he had only learned how to take a mythical castle on that same spot. Ralph Delchard had discovered how to gain access to a royal mint.

“Take me across there now,” he said, “and go in under the building that I may gaze up at Eadmer’s recreation. Silver bullion may go into the place, but I warrant that a baser metal drops out.”

Their raucous laughter skimmed across the water.

“You have a visitor, Brother John. Will you receive him?”

“Gladly. Who is he that calls so early?”

“A young man from the king’s household.”

Slight alarm showed. “I am summoned by his majesty?”

“No, brother. Your visitor only pays you his respects.”

“What is his name?”

“Gervase Bret.”

“Norman or Breton?”

“I vouch the fellow has more Saxon in him.”

“Show him to me.”

“Wait there, Brother John.”

A croak of a laugh. “God leaves with me no choice.”

Gervase Bret reached the abbey before Prime and gained entry through the gatehouse. Monastic architecture obeyed a set pattern, so he needed no direction to the infirmary range. It consisted of a hall, chapel, and kitchen and stood east of the cloister, so it was well away from the noise of the outer court to the west. Sick or ancient monks who could no longer meet the demands of claustral life were cared for here by the infirmarian and his assistant. Gervase had been a regular caller at the infirmary in Eltham Abbey and he knew that even monks of advancing years retained a vestigial discipline whenever possible. Confined to bed, they could still wake when the bell rang for Matins and join in each service of the day with gladsome hearts.

Brother John was such a faithful servant of the order. Approaching seventy and racked with disease, his old bones still rustled at the fixed hours of the day. He lay propped up on his bed, with a rough blanket over his meagre body. His face was gaunt and shrunken, but there was still a glimmer of light in his watery eyes. When he was shown into the hall by the padding infirmarian, Gervase Bret walked past the other patients and gave them each a respectful nod. He was then introduced to Brother John and offered a low stool. The infirmarian warned him that his visit must be short, so that the oldest occupant of the abbey was not tired by the effort of speech and concentration. Gervase was left alone with the remarkable Brother John, looking at the blue-veined skull, which still displayed a silver tonsure, and wondering how such a narrow head could hold in so many long years of prayer and meditation.