Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“Deeply upset.”

“They were cruel tidings.”

“You were with Leofgifu when she heard,” said the other. “She was grateful. You helped her.”

“I did what I could in her hour of need.”

“It mattered.”

Hilda was now hovering uncertainly and wanting him to leave. It was too much to expect that Leofgifu might receive him and confide in him about her father, but he had hoped for something positive from the visit. He tried a new gambit.

“Has Cild recovered yet?” he asked.

“Cild?”

“From his illness.”

“He is well enough,” she muttered.

“But he collapsed on the floor yesterday.”

“He had been out in foul weather.”

“A hardy young boy like Cild would not be troubled by wind or rain.

That lad could walk through a blizzard without fear. Yet he fainted before us. He went down on this floor as if he had been struck.” He moved closer to her. “Are you sure that your son has not been sick, Hilda?”

She was noncommittal. “He is well enough now.”

“Did he say where he had been?”

“To the mill.”

“Is that why he took the key?”

“Yes.”

“Without asking your permission?”

“Yes.”

“Did that make you angry?”

She took time to think it over. “Yes, it did.”

“Will you punish him?”

“I do not know.”

“What would your husband have done?”

Hilda winced. “He would have beaten Cild.”

“Why did the boy go to the mill?”

“He would not say.”

“Did you ask him?”

“He would not say,” she repeated helplessly.

Hilda was still trying to cope with her own distress and yet she was sharing the sorrow of another woman as well. The effort had drained her to the limit. It would be callous to press her any further and Gervase pulled back. She and Leofgifu were in no fit state to face his enquiries. He could best show his consideration by leaving them alone at this trying time. Mumbling a farewell, he moved to the door.

“Wait,” she said. “I have something for you.”

“For me?”

She crossed to place a strip of iron in his hand. Gervase looked down and his spirits revived at once. Hilda could not tell him anything, but her gesture was eloquent. He was now holding the key to Alric Longdon’s mill.

Gervase Bret went off like a hound that has finally picked up the trail. Reclaiming his horse at once, he mounted swiftly and cantered off to the hunting lodge to collect Ralph Delchard. They were soon riding side by side in the direction of the river. The mill looked grimmer and more derelict than ever now, its silent wheel still buf-feted by water but no longer able to grind out its rough music. The two friends tethered their horses and used the key to let themselves into the premises. Both coughed as they entered the musty atmosphere and they recoiled from the cheerless interior of the miller’s home. They split up to begin their search and went through every part of the building, but they found no more than Prior Baldwin or Wulfgeat had done. Alric had writing materials with his account books, but there was no royal charter. Nor were there any further caches of silver coins. The miller kept his valuables in Savernake Forest.

“Let us look outside,” said Gervase at length.

“For what?”

“Fresh air at least.”

Ralph coughed aloud. “I need that most of all.” He led the way to the door. “Just look at this pigsty, Gervase. Why ever did a respectable woman like Hilda share it with him?”

“She had no choice in the matter.”

They came out of the mill and inhaled lungfuls of air before locking the door behind them. Then they began to walk around the immediate vicinity. Gervase soon found exactly what he had expected. He smacked the wooden box with the flat of his hand.

“Here is it, Ralph. The adder’s home.”

“God in heaven!” exclaimed the other. “What sort of boy would keep a poisonous snake for a pet?”

“The son of a man like Alric Longdon.”

“I had a mouse at his age.”

“You had something more important than that.”

“Did I?”

“A proper childhood.”

They resumed their search, and it was Ralph’s turn to make a discovery. He pointed excitedly up into a tree.

“Do you see it, Gervase?”

“It is only a rope.”

“But it has a hook at the top.”

“Only to make it easier to secure it to the bough.”

“This is where he practised,” said Ralph. “I know it!”

“Did you never swing on a rope as a boy?”

“Not in this way.”

“What is so unusual about it?”

“This, Gervase.”

Ralph took the rope and looped it up before snapping it quickly in his hand. He stepped back as the hook dislodged itself from the bough and fell to the ground. Ralph grabbed it once more and moved to another tree. Aiming at a branch that stood out almost horizontally, he chuckled with glee as the hook settled firmly into place. He tested the rope then held it tight, inching his way upward with his hands as his feet made slow progress up the trunk itself. Ralph was soon ten feet from the ground and laughing his approval. Gervase now understood the purpose of the demonstration.

“The latrine at the mint!”

“Eadmer’s seat of meditation.”

“That is how the boy was taught to climb up it.”

“I must visit the little moneyer again,” said Ralph before dropping heavily to the ground. “He assures me that nothing was stolen from his mint, but Cild did not go up that foul channel simply to view the dwarf’s workplace. He was sent for a purpose.” He punched his friend’s chest. “Come with me, Gervase. Your brain is more acute than mine and you will enjoy meeting Eadmer.”

“I have business elsewhere, Ralph.”

“With whom?”

“A friend.”

He took hold of the rope and jerked it hard so that the hook was lifted off its branch and sent hurtling to the ground. Gathering it up, he coiled the rope carefully, then brandished it in front of him.

“I may need this,” he said.

Piety is its own best advertisement, and Abbot Serlo merely had to appear in the abbey church for his godliness to inspire all around him. He inhabited a higher world but was never patronizing to those of lower station; he was devout but never sanctimonious. The obedientiaries were adoring sons of their Father Abbot. Prior Baldwin could exert a powerful influence, as well. When he appeared at Vespers, he was in a mood of blithe religiosity and the monks read its meaning and rejoiced. The battle had evidently been won. On their behalf, the prior had defended the abbey against the depredations of the commissioners and the day had been his. It put a heartiness into the choral work and mellifluous sound filled the nave before soaring straight up to heaven. Bedwyn Abbey was indeed blessed. Abbot and prior were striking individuals with complementary virtues that served the house superbly well. The combination of holiness from the one and hard bargaining from the other made them invincible.

Serlo was still singing his thanks to the Lord as he returned to his lodgings after Vespers. One of his monks followed him at a discreet distance.

“Excuse me, Father Abbot,” he said deferentially.

“Brother Peter!”

“I crave a brief moment with you.”

“But you will miss your supper,” noted Serlo with paternal interest.

“Bread, fruit, and ale are being served in the refectory. Take your place there and eat.”

“My request has precedence, Father Abbot.”

Serlo invited the sacristan into his lodging and moved across to lower his bulk into the high-backed oak chair. Peter waited until the abbot was properly settled, then he knelt before him and offered up his gift. It was a solid object that was wrapped in cloth and tied with a ribbon.