Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“You trust him, then?”

“I have to trust Cild. He is all I have.” She took Leofgifu by both hands and held them tightly. “Tell me about your husband. Show me that I am not the only one….”

When persuasion failed, it was time to resort to more desperate action.

Wulfgeat was an honourable man with a law-abiding attitude, but the pressure of circumstance can turn a saint to sin and misdemeanour.

Since he could get no key to the mill, he resolved to enter it by other means and took a trusted servant with him along the river. They were grateful that the mill stood in such a secluded spot. Nobody could see them about their stealthy work.

“Shall I break down the door?” asked the servant.

“Find some other way if you can.”

“This lock will be hard to force.”

“Try a window or the roof.”

“Leave it to me, sir.”

The servant was young and nimble. He went quickly round mill and house to look for modes of entry. The one he chose was at the very top of the building, a small window that was slightly ajar but too far from the ground to invite the interest of a passing thief.

“How will you reach it?” asked Wulfgeat.

“I think I have a way.”

“You’ll sprout a pair of wings?”

“I’ll use the miller’s wheel.”

It was a tricky ascent. The huge slats of the wheel were soft with age and slippery with years of accumulated slime, but the servant got a firm grip and pulled himself slowly up towards his target. It took him several minutes before he balanced on top of the wheel and reached for the sill of the window. Hauling himself up, he nudged the window fully open, then slithered straight inside. Wulfgeat rushed to the back door to be let in as it was unbolted.

They were thorough. Wulfgeat did not expect to find the charter, but he hoped the mill might have some clues as to its whereabouts.

The place was cramped and airless and he was retching as soon as he went through the door. The musty atmosphere in which the miller lived attacked their lungs and they held hands to their mouths until they had got used to it. Room by little room, they searched diligently for any letters or maps or written evidence. None could be found and it drove them on to a more frantic search, but it was still to no avail.

An hour later, they gave up.

Wulfgeat left the mill and waited while the servant locked the door from within and then climbed upstairs to the window to leave by the same route as he had entered. There was no charter inside the mill and not even the slightest hint that such document existed. Wulfgeat was beginning to feel ashamed. They had rifled a dead man’s house.

He could justify his behaviour to himself only by remembering the great significance of the charter. It would cause enormous upset to the abbey and to a Norman lord, and it would bring untold benefit to the distressed widow. On behalf of all Saxons who had been dispossessed of land, himself among them, Wulfgeat had to track it down.

“Let us go,” he decided.

“Shall I search around the vicinity?”

“There is no point. Alric was too wily. His hiding place might be a mile or more away.” He looked up. “Did you leave the window as we found it?”

“Yes. And each room in the house.”

“Hilda will never guess that we have been here.”

Wulfgeat led the way back along the path. They had gone fifty yards before there was a splashing noise in the river and a figure came to the surface beside the mill-wheel. He had been there throughout their visit and watched them every time he came up for air. Looking sadly up at the home they had violated, he made a grisly promise to himself and to his father, then he turned to push himself off from the wheel. He swam powerfully across the river and climbed out on the opposite bank, trotting naked along it until he found the brake where he had left his clothes.

Cild was glad that he had followed Wulfgeat all the way from the house. He now loathed him more than ever. Help from such a man was no help at all. Wulfgeat had taken them into his home but not to offer consolation. He plainly resented them and he had driven the boy’s stepmother to tears by the force of his questioning. Being under the roof of such a man was an insult to his dead father. Cild knew his duty. He had to avenge that stinging insult and repay the other countless acts of malice which Wulfgeat had committed against his father. He had much to brood upon as he headed back towards the town.

The abbey delegation had been called to the shire hall that morning at ten o’clock, but it was Hugh de Brionne, lord of the manor of Chisbury, who first came striding through the door. He brought no escort of knights this time, but his entry still caused a mild sensation. Marching up to the table where the four commissioners sat, he snarled a greeting and flung down a parcel of documents in front of them with such contemptuous force that he sent a dozen other charters flapping in the air like startled doves. Brother Simon tried to pluck them to his breast in midflight, while Canon Hubert issued an astringent rebuke. Gervase Bret immediately undid the ribbon which held the new submission together and unrolled its yellowing contents. Ralph Delchard remained calmly authoritative.

“Respect is due to royal officers,” he warned. “The writ of King William runs here in Bedwyn. He has a low opinion of lords who seek to flout him.”

“Read my charters,” insisted Hugh. “Discharge me from this enquiry and let me go about my business.”

“What is the hurry?” said Ralph.

“Matters of greater weight require my presence.”

“Nothing can outweigh the substance of our findings here. You are a soldier and understand a soldier’s needs. William has to muster an army to repel a promised invasion from the Danes. He needs a precise inventory of the holdings of his feudal lords, including your good self. When he can see exactly what lands his vassals have, he can raise his revenue accordingly.”

Hugh stamped a foot. “Give me no lectures on war. I know how armies march. The king is entitled to his levy, but it must be fairly taken and not forced unequally upon us. But this enquiry-this Domesday Book of yours-has a second and a larger purpose.”

“Who gives the lectures now?” mocked Ralph.

“It legalises all the changes that took place when Norman feet trampled first on English soil.” He pointed to his documents. “See what your predecessors saw. Behave as they did. Ratify my claims.

And trespass no more upon my indulgence.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Gervase. He rolled up the documents and tied them once more with a ribbon. “They appear to be in order but refer to holdings that are outside the scope of this examination. Our interest is in two particular hides.”

“Stolen from me by the abbey!”

“No, my lord,” replied Gervase. “Taken into your demesne from one Heregod of Longdon. Four hides in all are thrown in question here, either side of the boundary between the abbey lands and the manor of Chisbury. I see a charter in your parcel to challenge the abbey land but none to enforce the two hides of your own.”

“They are mine by royal grant.”

“Show us the proof and you may go.”

“The document is mislaid.”

“Then maybe the land was mislaid, too.”

“Do you accuse Hugh de Brionne of dishonesty!” howled the other.

“Take care of your manners, young sir, or I will have to teach you some.”

Ralph smiled. “Forgive my colleague’s rudeness. It is but the folly of youth and will improve with time. Let him have his answer and our dealings with you will conclude.”

“That land has always been part of my demesne.”

“But by what right, my lord?” said Gervase.