Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

Fighting is in his blood. He mocks me for my love of a peaceful life.

Had he been my father, he often says, he would have strangled me at birth to escape the humiliation of raising such a son.”

“A man of peace is worth a hundred soldiers.”

“If he can manage to stay alive.”

He studied her face and her quiet dignity once more and saw the marks of Wulfgeat clearly imprinted. She had his self-possession and his fearless eye. She had the strength of character he had seen on display in the shire hall.

“We met your father with the other burgesses.”

“He told me of the encounter.”

“I would like to meet him again.”

“His manner would not flatter you.”

“I would not seek for praise. Where is he now?”

“He had business in the town but would not tell me what.” Her lips tightened. “My father thinks that women may not understand. We are here only to adorn the life of a man and not to share it with him.”

“Did your husband take that view as well?”

“He worshipped me.”

“But did he treat you as an equal?”

“No.”

“Did you choose him for yourself?”

“No.”

“Why, then, did you marry?”

“My father has a strong will. I was forced to obey.”

“Did you not resist?”

“For several weeks, but I was overwhelmed. It was my duty to follow his wishes.” She glanced upwards. “You know how Hilda was given in marriage to the miller. It was not exactly so with me, for my husband was kind and loving, but there was the same contract. The marriage was made between two men and not between two lovers.”

“Did you resent your husband?”

“I came to respect him.”

“You mourn and miss him now?”

“Greatly.”

Gervase could see that she wanted him to ask the next question.

“Did you love him?” he said.

“I cherished his goodness.”

“That is not what I mean, Leofgifu.”

“I honoured and obeyed him as I vowed.”

“No more than that?”

“It was all that I could offer him.”

“Why?”

“I loved another.”

“Did your father know this?”

Her face puckered. “He despised the man.”

Gervase took her hand to offer consolation. Wulfgeat had been cruel to name her Leofgifu. This beautiful Love-Giver had so much love to give, but it was callously stifled. Thrust into a marriage she did not want, she was grieving for a husband she could never admit into her heart. What made her plight even more pitiable was that she had been forced to live once again with the very man who ground the hope and passion out of her between the mill-wheels of his ambition.

“Are you happy with your father?”

“No,” she confessed. “Life here is an oppression.”

Wulfgeat trudged along with a cloak over his head and shoulders.

The rain had eased to a drizzle now, but the great black sky was a blanket that pressed down on Savernake to smother it to death.

Birds and animals were muffled. Insects were suffocated into silence.

Even the trees were hushed. The only sound that came from the forest was the swift rushing of its intersecting network of streams as they raced with swollen rage to join the river below and speed its wild current.

Cild met him at the mill and led the way. The gloom served them well, but the boy still moved with caution. He was fearful of being seen with Wulfgeat in case a witness guessed at the dark nature of his purpose. It hung so heavily around his neck that he dared not even look up at his companion. Guilt was tempered with remorse. As soon as he thought of his father and the hatred daily heaped upon the miller, his intent was reaffirmed. Wulfgeat was not just one of the most powerful enemies whose spite had to be endured; he epitomised the attitude of the whole town. In Wulfgeat’s unrelenting acrimony, the boy saw the vindictive face of Bedwyn itself.

“How much farther?” said Wulfgeat.

“Not far.”

“Are you certain you know the way?”

“Yes.”

“And the charter is there?”

“Yes.”

“Safe from this weather?”

“The chest is wrapped and hidden.”

“Did you tell your mother?”

“My mother is dead.”

“Hilda takes her place now,” he said brusquely. “Look to her for comfort. Does she know of this?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You told nobody else?”

The boy shook his head.

“Good.”

They pressed on side by side. Wulfgeat was conscious of the irony of the situation. Nothing in creation would have made him stroll companionably with Alric of Longdon, yet he was now accompanying the boy eagerly along the riverbank. He had no pity or liking for the child. Cild was simply a means to an end and Wulfgeat had bought his cooperation. He did not regret that. The charter would repay him generously.

“Why have you stopped?” he complained.

“I may go no farther.”

“You must take me there.”

“No.”

“I paid you, boy.”

“No.”

“Lead on!”

Wulfgeat grabbed him roughly to shake him into obedience, but the boy’s tears made him stay his hand. Cild was terrified to go farther.

He sobbed his excuses until Wulfgeat came to see his refusal in a more sympathetic way. They had reached the junction of river and stream. Light woodland covered the hill before them. They were patently close to the hiding place itself, but the boy could not bring himself to approach closer. His father had been killed and the spot harboured memories too awful for Cild to confront. Nothing would make him venture one step farther and Wulfgeat had been unwise to resort to force. The boy had his father’s mulish stubbornness. Threaten him again and he might renege on the bargain that had been struck.

“Teach me the way,” said Wulfgeat.

“Follow the line of this stream.”

“How far?”

“Till it goes from sight. Higher up.”

“What do I look for?”

“A yew tree.”

“I see a dozen already from where I stand. How will I know I have the right one?”

“It is by the stream where the water comes out from under the ground. It is split in two.”

“By lightning?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Reach deep into the hollow.”

“That is the hiding place?”

“Your hand will touch a sack.” Cild’s heart was pumping as he rehearsed the execution, but his voice did not betray him. “Untie the cord and thrust your hand right in.”

“The box is there?”

“Box and charter. My father showed me.”

“You have earned your money, Cild.”

“I know.”

“But if you have lied to me …” warned Wulfgeat.

“No, no, I swear it! The sack is in that tree!”

The man could see the boy was speaking the truth. He adjusted his cloak on his shoulders, then followed the trail as he had been directed.

Cild was still shivering with fear when Wulfgeat left him, but it was soon replaced by an evil smirk of anticipation. He had planned it all with care. Only he and his father would ever know what had happened.

Wulfgeat climbed on with awkward steps, cursing the slippery incline and grabbing at roots and branches to steady his ascent. The stream soon vanished, but he could see no yew tree. Had the boy deceived him, after all? But farther up the hill, the water broke through the chalk once more and he was reassured. He grunted on upwards through the dark.

He was out of breath when he reached the yew tree and he rested hard against it for support. Alric Longdon had died here at this hiding-place, but the memory only served to curl his lip. The boy was rightly afraid, but Wulfgeat felt no fear. Where the loathsome miller fell was consecrated ground to him. Wulfgeat peered into the hollow of the tree, then put an inquisitive hand inside. He felt the sack and smiled.