Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“And that is why we need the charter,” he concluded.

“I do not know where it is.”

“Give him the key to the mill,” urged Leofgifu.

“The charter is not there.”

“I know,” said Gervase, recalling the futile search made by Prior Baldwin, “but it is a starting place. It will tell me something of the character of your husband-and of his father, Heregod. All that may be relevant. I would like to see inside the mill.”

“I will go with you,” volunteered Leofgifu before she could stop herself. “I can show you to the place.”

“Thank you. I would value your help.”

“You will have the key,” said Hilda.

While she crossed to the table to get it, the others let their eyes connect for a moment. Frank admiration flowed freely between them, but it was soon stemmed. Hilda could not find the key to the mill and was deeply disturbed.

“Who has taken it?” she said.

Light rain was falling as Cild ran along the riverbank. He reached the mill and used the key to let himself in, going straight into the storeroom at the back and choosing one of the empty flour sacks. He banged it against a wall and sent up a cloud of white particles, inhaling the familiar smell with a distant pleasure. Then he went out into the rain once more, locked the door, and vanished into the copse at the rear of the property. He threaded his way between the trees until he came to a willow. Beneath its swaying branches was a box. Like his father, he had his own hiding place in woodland, but Cild’s treasure was of a different order.

The box was no more than rough timber nailed hastily together, but it served its grim purpose. Reaching behind it, he pulled out a stick with a forked end. Cild was cautious but unafraid. He lay the sack on the ground and peeled back its top in readiness, then he used the stick to lift the latch on the makeshift door. The moment the latch moved, he jumped behind the box and waited. Nothing happened for minutes, then the snake came out in a determined slither. Two feet of squirming life had been set free, its fangs bared and its tongue darting in and out with random malice.

Cild moved fast. The stick fell, the forked end trapping the snake’s head from behind. The boy’s other hand inched the sack nearer. As the creature writhed and spat, he put a foot under its body and flicked it into the open mouth of the sack, closing the neck tightly and using a piece of twine to secure it. The operation was over. He was now holding a venomous cargo that threshed wildly around in the sack. A treasured pet had been transformed into a deadly weapon against an enemy.

The forest was patrolled in all weathers, so he used cover wherever he could. Eventually, he came to the stream and followed it up the hill. When Cild finally got to the yew tree, he did not linger. It was the place where his father had been killed and he shuddered at the memory, but one death could be answered by another. The forked stick was used to explore the hollow cavity and he felt the solid object at its base, still wrapped in its sacking. With the snake now flinging itself around inside its prison, he lowered the sack down into the tree, making sure that its neck was uppermost. It was too far down inside the hollow to be seen and a hand would need to grope down to make contact. The trap had been set. Cild shivered with cold joy.

He was suddenly afraid. The enormity of what he was doing seemed to hit him like a huge fist and the hideous significance of the scene pressed down upon him. His father had been savaged on this very spot, his throat torn out by ruthless teeth, his body knocked into the stream to lie there undiscovered for half a day. Cild could almost hear the menacing growl of a wolf. He took to his heels and raced down the hill as fast as he could. His fears had not been imaginary. Two dark and malevolent eyes watched him from the undergrowth.

Heavy rain now hurled itself at the windows and ran in careless rivulets down the panes. As afternoon merged into evening, the force of the storm increased. Ralph Delchard and Ediva did not even hear it. They were still entwined on the bed in languid happiness, their hands now absently caressing where they had grasped and squeezed only minutes before. Ediva was a willing lover and threw off inhibition.

A virile Norman lord was fitter company for her appetite than a fussy, preoccupied, half-hearted man whose work preceded all else. Ralph was strong and urgent. He had brought out her full, rich sensuality and satisfied her with an intensity that she had never known in her marriage. She nestled into him and purred softly. He had reminded her that she was a woman.

“Are you content?” he whispered.

She murmured with pleasure.

“This place is safe?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I would not put a lady in danger.”

“You would and did.” She gave him a teasing kiss. “That is why we are here.”

They were in a small cottage in a wood to the north of the town. It was barely furnished, but the bed was large and soft enough and the place offered all the privacy that they needed. Two of his men were in the trees outside to ward off interruption. It was an ideal choice for a tryst.

“I must ride this way again,” he said.

“My lord will always be welcome.”

“Does your husband often travel from home?”

“Too often,” she said with a slight edge, “and when he is there, I do not get my due of attention.”

“His folly is my gain.”

He kissed her forehead and ran a hand through the long, loose hair whose scent was so enchanting. It was minutes before he picked up the conversation once more.

“Does the reeve own this cottage?”

“No, my lord,” she said, “but we have the use of it.”

“On whose land are we, then?”

She hesitated. “A friend of my husband.”

“A good friend if he lends him such a place to rest.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Who is this man?” He sensed her reluctance and stroked it gently away before pulling her face to his and giving her a long, slow kiss that sucked out all resistance. “Tell me now, Ediva,” he said. “Who is he?”

“Hugh de Brionne.”

Gervase Bret had stayed much longer at the house than he had intended, but he felt no regret. He was sheltering from the rain and quite content to stay there until the key to the mill was found. If Cild had taken it, as now seemed likely, he would return in time. Gervase was happy to loiter in such pleasant company. Leofgifu had brought him back downstairs to leave Hilda alone in her room to rest. As they sat opposite each other at the table, they drank cups of wine and permitted a subtle change to come over their relationship. He was touched by her forlorn beauty, while she was drawn by his easy benevolence. He had learned of her own grief, while she had sensed brutal losses on his side. Both felt the pull of a closer friendship which they knew was beyond their grasp and so they settled for an affectionate togetherness that left them free to explore each other’s minds. He asked about her family and she talked as openly as if she had known him all her life.

“My father hates the Normans,” she said.

“It is to be expected.”

“Do you hate them, Gervase?”

“Sometimes.”

“Yet you are one of them.”

“I am and I am not,” he confessed. “Ralph teases me about it all the time. He calls me an English mongrel and says that I have learned to bark like a Norman but will never have his true breeding.”

“Does that offend you?”

“No, Leofgifu. It comforts me.”

“What of your father?”

“A Breton, and long since dead.”

“He would be proud to see his son rise so high.”

“Not as a clerk of Chancery,” said Gervase. “My father was a soldier and would have wanted a son to fight. Ralph Delchard is the same.