Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“Why did you come?” asked a reedy voice.

“Brother Luke talked of you,” said Gervase.

“Do I know Brother Luke?”

“He is one of the novices.”

“There was a Brother Luke here when I first joined the order,”

recalled the old man. “The precentor, no less. He died the year that poor King Harold died.”

“After the Battle of Hastings?”

“Oh, no, young sir,” said John with a throaty chuckle. “I talk of King Harold who followed King Cnut and was himself then succeeded by King Harthacnut.”

“How long have you been a brother here?”

“Through six reigns. King William is my last.”

“Luke tells me that you hail from Burbage.”

“Brother Luke the Precentor?”

“The novice.”

“Burbage was my home until I found God.”

“You have seen many changes during all those reigns,” noted Gervase. “Has it vexed your soul?”

“Profoundly at times, but I have prayed for help.” The old man wheezed and brought a trembling hand up to his mouth as he coughed.

“Who are you, young man? I see by your manner that you are no stranger to these walls.”

“I was a novice myself at Eltham Abbey.”

“Eltham!” Brother John pursed his lips in a weak smile. “I went to Eltham once with gifts from this abbey when it was first raised. The abbot received me himself. What was his name now … Abbot Waleran?”

“Abbot Maurilius,” corrected Gervase, knowing that his word was being tested. “He was still Father Abbot when I wore the cowl. You will also remember Prior Richard?”

“Indeed I do. He showed me much kindness.” He nodded his approval of his visitor’s credentials. “You come from Eltham, a place of blessed memory. How may I help you, my son? My strength is waning and you must ask before I doze off once again.”

“Brother Luke told me …”

“The precentor?”

“The novice.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. The novice.”

“He says you know this stretch of country well. If I wish to hear the history of this part of the shire, you are the person who can best advise me.”

“Use me in any way you may.”

“You must be well acquainted with abbey lands.”

“Bless my soul!” said Brother John, and he went off into such a paroxysm of coughing that Gervase had to pass him a cup of water and hold him up so that he could drink it. The fit finally subsided.

“I am sorry, but you made me laugh.”

“If that was laughter, I will not provoke it again,” said Gervase with sympathy. “Wherein lies the humour?”

“Ask Brother Luke.”

“The novice?”

“The precentor. He would have told you.”

“But he has been dead these forty years or more.”

“He saw my mettle and urged my appointment.” The old man crooked a finger to beckon him closer. “I was born near Burbage and given the name of Brungar. That is no fit title for a Benedictine monk. Brother Brungar murders the mouth, so I took the name of John.” He smiled wistfully at the memory. “My father was a sokeman with many rights.

I was brought up on the land. I am withered now, but I was a lusty fellow then and chosen by the precentor because of that.”

“Chosen, Brother John?”

“You talked of abbey lands.”

“You worked a plough upon them?”

“No, young sir,” replied the other. “I am no Brother Thaddeus who beats the oxen to drive them forward. My furrows went through the purses of our tenants. I was the rent-collector for this abbey.”

Gervase seized on this stroke of luck and plied him with many questions. The rent-collector for the abbey visited every patch of land that housed a subtenant. He knew the size of every holding and could put an accurate figure on its value. Boundaries had changed repeatedly, but Brother John had taken it all in his stride. Six reigns accustom a man to violent alteration. He was philosophical in his reminiscences.

“Who paid the rent for those two hides?” said Gervase.

“It was not owned by the abbey.”

“Can you be certain, Brother John?”

“As certain as I am about anything,” returned the other with mild offence. “I collected rents for almost forty years on abbey lands. Those two hides were held directly from the king by Heregod.”

“Heregod?”

“The father of Alric the Miller.”

“Directly from the king?”

“For services rendered.” The monk shook his head. “I know not what they were, but King Edward showed his gratitude and Heregod held that land. He used it to grow his own corn for the mill. And I will tell you something else.” Gervase was again motioned closer. “It was not two hides but four. King Edward was a man of generous temper.”

“How did they abbey secure the holdings?”

Brother John paused. Happy to wander through his past with his rent-collector’s bag slung round his shoulder, he was now more cautious. The abbey had been his life and he did not wish to show disloyalty. The blue-veined skull was wrinkled with doubt and hesitation. He had said enough. Gervase tried to prompt him over the last important details.

“I will not ask you more,” he said, “but let me put a case to you. That land was held by Alric’s father thirty years ago. The abbey now takes rent from it and disputes that income with Hugh de Brionne. How did this come about? I hazard a guess. Say nothing, Brother John, for I would not put you in that position. Simply hear me out.…”

Gervase spoke quietly and concisely, piecing together all the evidence he had so far gathered, then adding what his keen intelligence told him. The old monk did not need to say a word. His rheumy eyes began to run so freely that his visitor was given all the confirma-tion he needed. He thanked Brother John for his help and stood up to take his leave.

“You should have stayed in Eltham Abbey,” said John. “The order always has need of a sharp brain.”

“I was called elsewhere.”

“That was Eltham’s loss.”

“Good-bye, Brother John.…”

“Give my regards to Brother Luke.”

“The novice?”

“The precentor.…”

Wulfgeat reasoned long and hard with Hilda, but he could not get her to understand the importance of it all. She was still too dazed by the heady passage of events. A week ago, she had been the dutiful wife of a miller and had hopes of bearing his child before another summer came around. Now she was bereft of everything and saddled with a stepson for whom she had learned to care but whom she could never truly love. When Hilda was still reeling from the shock of her husband’s death, Prior Baldwin had come to offer her solace and walked away with the key to the mill. Now Wulfgeat was asking her to prise the whereabouts of the charter from her stepson, but she refused to believe that the boy knew anything, and he himself denied it flatly. Failing with this first, rushed approach, Wulfgeat was now soliciting permission to visit her home to look around for himself.

Hilda was frightened and bemused.

“What must I do, Leofgifu?’ she asked.

“Nothing you do not wish.”

“Your father presses me too hard.”

“I will speak to him to let you both alone.”

“Yet this is his house,” said Hilda. “He has rights.”

“I brought you here and I will tend your needs. Tell me what they are and I will guard you against all anxiety.”

“You have been very kind.”

“I know what it is to lose a husband.”

“And to marry one who has not touched your heart?”

Leofgifu bit her lip. “That, too, Hilda.…”

“Could I hear the story?” Her friend looked around guiltily. “Cild is not here. I let him out to walk. He is a fretful boy penned up in one room. He will come to no harm.”