Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“What is this, Brother Peter?”

“Proof of my dedication.”

“But we see that every day.”

“I fell from grace and I was justly disciplined,” said Peter, “but I never strayed from the path of righteousness. When my duties were neglected, this is what absorbed my time and my talents. Open it, Father Abbot.”

Serlo obeyed and his eyes strained at their moorings for an instant before running with tears. He was so moved by the beauty of the silver crucifix and by the implications of its existence that he was overcome. It was to produce such a work of art that a master-craftsman had laboured so unremittingly, stealing time wherever he could, even when he knew it might lead to stern reprimand. The crucifix was the latest and finest example of Brother Peter’s skills and it would be given pride of place on the altar. Abbot Serlo rolled his moist eyes over it and stroked the silver with reverential fingers. Like everything else in his life, it was truly a gift from God.

He put a hand on the head of the kneeling sacristan.

“Bless you, my son.”

“I put my poor abilities at the disposal of the Lord.”

“You have made me ashamed.”

“Why, Father Abbot?”

“No man should be punished for this. ”

“It made me wayward in my other duties.”

“You should have spoken up and explained, Peter.”

“That would have ruined the surprise.”

“It would have saved you a beating.”

“Pain brings me nearer to Christ,” said the other. “The hand of Brother Thaddeus nailed me up on the cross. Do not weep for me, Father Abbot. I was content.”

“Can you forgive me, Brother Peter?”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“Can you still love and respect me?”

“More than ever.”

Abbot Serlo set the crucifix on the little table beside him and examined it afresh. Its proportions were perfect, its sheen mesmeric, its enamel figure of Jesus almost lifelike.

“It is a miracle,” he pronounced. “For so much beauty to come out of so much pain. For so much faith to triumph over so much oppression.

This crucifix is a miracle in silver. It tells the whole story of Christianity at a glance.”

Brother Peter wept tears of joy and prostrated himself in front of his abbot. He was in a state of exultation.

Gervase Bret had to ride for a couple of miles before he found what he needed. Leaping from the saddle, he checked the stone for size and shape, then reached for the rope. After tying up his cargo, he clipped the hook around the pommel of his saddle and put a foot in the stirrup once more. His horse made light of the added burden, dragging it along over grass and through bracken as if it were no more than a trailing rein. The sandstone bit and bounced its way along until they reached the wooded slope. Gervase now took over the task of heaving the object on his own, guiding it between the bushes and around the exposed roots of trees and over the recurring undulations of the terrain.

His horse cropped grass beside the stream below while its master sweated and pulled.

Gervase reached the summit and paused to catch his breath. Descent was altogether swifter. Once the sandstone was in motion again, it gathered impetus and chased him down the incline, hacking a shallow trench through the undergrowth and sending birds and animals into dramatic retreat. A stout elm finally halted its passage, but the stone was undamaged. Winding the rope around his shoulders once more, Gervase towed on. The rock seemed heavier than ever now, but he struggled bruisingly on through the denser woodland like a sinner performing an especially onerous penance. Twigs lacerated his face, bushes threshed at his shoulders, and the rope started to eat its way through his skin, yet he did not dare to stop. Only when he finally hauled the sandstone into the clearing did he take note of his aching limbs and his pounding head. Breathing stertorously, he dropped to one knee and let go of the rope. They were still there. The other pieces of sandstone were all hidden beneath their grassy disguise, but they were still in position.

He waited until a semblance of a voice returned. When he was able to call out, he did so in faltering Welsh.

“Are you there!” There was no answer. “I come as a friend!” Still there was no response. “I bring a gift for you!” he cried. “Come and see what it is.”

His voice rang down the valley, but it seemed to reach no human ears. Gervase paused to rest further. He studied the circle of stones again and tried to fathom their meaning. Stonehenge had been vastly larger in scale and set on an open plain. Was that to make its statement loud and clear? Or was it to catch the sun and to use the movements of the heavens? This circle was small and private and hidden away at the heart of a timbered valley. Why had such a secluded spot been chosen? If it was a temple, what was the object of worship?

When he had walked among the sarsens on Salisbury Plain, he had felt the throb of a primitive power that stretched back endlessly in time. The clearing had resonance more than power, the hum of recent activity, the distant echo of a religious service that had been performed there. And yet it was not a religion that Gervase knew or understood. Stonehenge was a place of light and affirmation. This was a darker manifestation of the human soul. He felt like an intruder from another world.

The sky was filming over now and shadows lay across the ground like felled trees. He became aware of the potential danger. Gervase was relying on his own instinct and ignoring that of his friend.

Ralph Delchard had sensed hostility in the clearing and struck at a wild animal. The figure they had seen was certainly big enough and strong enough to overpower men like Alric and Wulfgeat, especially when it had the advantage of surprise. Even a battle-hardened veteran like Ralph had been shocked by its unexpected arrival out of the undergrowth. Two armed men might put the creature to flight, but one tired Chancery clerk might be deemed more easy prey. Gervase looked up at the fading light and the chill hand of fear touched him.

It was time to flee.

“Who are you!”

The voice boomed out in Welsh and seemed to come from behind every tree. Gervase was being watched. He stood in the middle of the clearing and rotated slowly as he tried to work out where the man was standing. It was a deep, rough, and uncultured voice, but it belonged to a human being.

“Who are you!”

The question battered at his ears and he gave answer.

“A friend.”

“What is your name?”

“Gervase.”

“Why are you here?”

“To bring this stone for you.”

“Keep away!”

“It is my gift to you.”

“This place is sacred.”

“Put my stone in your circle.”

There was a long pause, followed by a rustling among the leaves.

Gervase had the impression that the man was circling him to make sure that he was quite alone and did not have any confederates hiding in the undergrowth. Earlier, two armed men had treated him as an enemy. One of them was now claiming to be his friend. He was right to be sceptical.

“I need your help,” Gervase shouted.

“Leave me alone.”

“You dwell in the forest. You know its ways.”

“Go now while you still can.”

“This is your home. Teach me to understand it.”

“My world is not yours.”

“Answer my questions and you will be left in peace.”

“You will come back with others.”

“No!” promised Gervase. “I give you my word. Nobody will hear of this; nobody will search for you and drive you out. You will tell from my voice that I am not Welsh, but neither am I from this place. I will soon leave Bedwyn. You will never see me again.”