Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“Thank you,” said Baldwin pleasantly. “You are right as usual, Canon Hubert, but the burden of proof lies with you.”

Gervase Bret lifted up the abbey charter to peruse it.

“It is false,” he said quietly.

“How do you know?” challenged Baldwin.

“Intuition.”

“Really!” said Matthew, stirred from his mourning. “Are we to decide the fate of two hundred acres or more by the intuition of a callow youth?”

“I may be callow, Brother Matthew, but I am not blind.”

“Substantiate your allegation,” said Baldwin. “If the document has been falsely drawn up-prove it.”

“Prove it,” echoed Matthew somnolently.

Their confidence had clearly been revived by their long discussions back at the abbey and they had returned with more composure.

If they could discredit the word of Gervase Bret, they had won the day for the abbey. Baldwin had already manipulated the Bishop of Durham and his co-commissioners to good effect. He now carried the fight to a mere clerk of Chancery with every hope of success. Instead of his earlier red-faced bluster, he used a patronising gaze that could quell most opposition by its concentrated power.

All eyes were on Gervase Bret as he fingered the charter before him. He seemed uncertain. Ralph looked worried, Canon Hubert shifted in his chair, and Brother Simon developed a nervous sniff.

The abbey delegation grew more complacent.

“We are waiting, Master Bret,” said Baldwin.

“Waiting in vain, it seems,” added Matthew.

“Will you speak or may we have leave to go?”

“Prove it!” hissed Canon Hubert.

There was an even longer and more stressful pause. It was finally broken by Ralph Delchard, who pounded the table.

“God’s tits!” he yelled. “Prove it, Gervase.”

“Very well,” said the other calmly.

He set the charter before him and put two others beside it. Chairs grated as everyone pulled in closer to view the evidence. The visitors were still supremely assured. Prior Baldwin’s smile now had a touch of studious arrogance.

“Before you are three charters,” said Gervase evenly. “All are reput-edly the work of the same scribe, one Drogo of Wilton, much employed by Osmund, Bishop of Salisbury. You will recognise his hand. It is most distinctive.”

“We know it well,” said Baldwin. “Drogo was a friend to our abbey.

His handiwork adorns many of our charters. He was only a scribe, but we appreciate quality in any man. If he were here, he would own that he had written all three charters.” More arrogance came into the smile. “But he is not here, Master Bret. The poor man is buried in the parish churchyard in Wilton.”

“You seem to have a problem with your witnesses,” said Matthew with a rare flash of humour. “When you wish to call them to your aid, you find that God has issued his summons before you. That is Drogo’s work in all three cases.”

“How can you be so certain?” asked Gervase.

“Because we know ,” said Matthew.

A wry eyebrow was raised. “Intuition?”

“We still require your proof,” muttered Canon Hubert.

“Ralph has loaned it to me.”

Gervase slipped a hand into the purse at his belt and took out three silver coins. He put one on each document, then invited the others to examine them as closely as they wished. The prelates were irritated by what they saw as a pointless game, but they consented. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon took longer to inspect the coins, while Ralph Delchard sat back and pretended he had no idea what was going on.

“Well?” said Gervase at length.

“They are the same,” said Baldwin. “Minted here in Bedwyn by Eadmer. They bear his name and mark.”

“I agree,” said Matthew.

“And so do we,” added Hubert, speaking for Brother Simon without even consulting him. “Three identical coins. What is the point of this demonstration?”

“To show how easily we can be deceived,” said Gervase. “The two coins on the outside are genuine, but the one in the middle-on the abbey charter-is counterfeit.”

“How do you know?” said Baldwin.

“Eadmer confirmed it,” explained Ralph, relishing the chance to join in. “He knows his coinage as well as a mother knows her own children, and our moneyer rejected the one in the middle at once. It is a clever forgery.”

“Like the charter,” continued Gervase, moving the coins aside. “See here, if you will. Two documents bear the work of Drogo so manifestly that it cannot be denied. Watch how he loops this letter and turns that and note that flourish on his capitals. Now compare them with your abbey charter. It is so close to Drogo that it could be him and yet, I fear, it is not.” He beckoned them forward. “You see this tiny upward stroke of the quill at each sentence’s end? It is so small a defect in the hand of Drogo that it is hardly worth notice except that it does not occur in the abbey charter. Nor do his ligatures-look here, and here and here. And one thing more, this Drogo was a scribe and not a scholar. His Latin falters briefly in both the genuine documents and he makes neat alteration.” He sat back in his chair. “I spend my whole life sifting through such charters and scribes are all my friends. Drogo’s work has only trifling blemishes, but they single him out. The abbey document is too perfect to be his.”

There was stunned silence as the two prelates stared first at the abbey charter, then at the others, then at each other, then back at Gervase. He couched his accusation in the softest terms.

“A scribe is a scribe,” he said gently, “who writes but as directed.

We must not expect more of him. But the hand which framed this abbey charter has a keener edge and a higher intelligence. It cannot bear to make even the most paltry mistakes. My guess would be that this is no scribe at all but a master of the illuminated manuscript.” He smiled benignly at Matthew. “The subprior will know that errors may not be tolerated in a scriptorium. Drogo would not have gained acceptance there.”

Baldwin and Matthew had been struck dumb yet again. They dared not look at each other and neither lowered his eyes to the abbey charter. It had been torn to shreds. Gervase addressed himself to Prior Baldwin.

“How many other of your charters are the work of Drogo?” he enquired. “We shall need to see them all to pick out any more that are as false as this. Drogo may be dead, but he can speak to us from beyond the grave.”

Ralph Delchard was determined to have the last word. Scooping up the coins, he shook them in his hands, then opened his palm, pointing to each in turn.

“True-false-true.” An expansive grin. “But do not take my word for it. Eadmer the Moneyer may be brought here at your request. He is one witness who has not yet vanished below ground.” A ripe chuckle followed. “Though he seems to be on his way in that direction.”

Wulfgeat’s quieter persuasion finally achieved its aim. He talked with Cild for almost two hours before the success. Reason made no headway. The boy was too stubborn to listen and too young to understand the meaning of the lost charter. It was pointless telling him how much he and his stepmother would gain from it all. Why should he trust the word of his father’s enemy? Alric would never have done so and Cild was like him in every way. It was this fact which eventually told. Wulfgeat appealed directly to the boy’s self-interest.

“I will give you money, Cild.”

A defiant shake of the head.

“You may have it now, if you wish.”

“No!”

“We all need money. Your father taught you that.”

“No!”

“You are a clever boy to hold out for it. I admire that. Put a price on all things, Cild. As your father did.” He regarded the boy with interest.