Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

“He may help us with that search, as well.”

“How?” said Ralph impatiently. “What did he tell you?”

“Enough.”

Gervase was satisfied that progress had been made, but his friend wanted more positive proof of the fact. His own visit had yielded one important clue.

“Keep your gabbling Welshman,” he said scornfully. “I prefer Eadmer the Moneyer. At least, he can instruct us.”

“What did you learn from him?”

“This.”

Ralph lifted up the large tallow candle that stood before him in its holder. Tilting it slightly, he poured hot wax onto the table, then produced a coin from his purse. He dropped the coin into the wax and banged it with his fist.

“Instead of a coin, use one of Eadmer’s dies.”

“When the wax hardens, the imprint would be perfect.”

“ That is what the boy stole from the mint,” said Ralph. “All he had to do was to climb up that stinking hole, melt some wax and push a die into it, wait until it was ready, then clean the die and replace it exactly as it was found. Then back down the shaft with him to the boat where his father was waiting. Poor little Eadmer was none the wiser.” He rubbed a hand across his chin in contemplation. “I have solved the mystery of how the die was stolen, but to whom was it then given? Alric was no moneyer. Who was the miller’s accomplice in this conspiracy?”

“We shall soon know.”

“How? Will your Welsh hermit send us his name?”

“Do not scoff at him, Ralph.”

“What can that savage offer?”

“A sharp pair of eyes in Savernake Forest.”

“With a sharp set of teeth to match. You are deceived by him, Gervase.

He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

They argued on for another hour without resolution, then went off to their separate beds. Both were tired, but neither could sleep. The wine had freshened Ralph Delchard’s lust and he began to muse about the beauteous Ediva once more and wish that she was beside him. She had brightened his visit to Bedwyn and offered him a refuge from the tedious litigation on which his colleagues seemed to thrive.

Ediva had given him both love and priceless information. There was no more satisfying way to serve his king than between the thighs of such a woman. He was about to take her in his arms again when he at last fell into a deep slumber.

In the adjoining chamber, Gervase Bret tried to direct his imagination to Alys, but she was, for once, an inadequate occupant of his thoughts. Whenever she smiled, he saw the bearded face of the recluse; whenever she talked, he heard the rough Welsh voice in the bushes.

He went through each detail of his encounter with the solitary creature in the forest and wished that he had learned enough to comprehend the man’s universe. He recalled vague snatches of travellers’ tales from the days when he had studied at Eltham Abbey. They talked of weird religions in distant lands and put the fear of death into his young mind as they recounted the barbaric rites that were involved.

One man had spoken of mysteries nearer home and Gervase now wished that he had paid more attention to his words. The stories were about the ancient religion of Wales when a mystic order of Druids flourished. Could the hermit of Savernake be the heir to such a culture?

Had he been driven out of his native land by the spread of Christianity to seek a place where he could practice the old faith? Gervase cudgelled his brain to extract what meagre knowledge he had on the subject, but all that came was an unsatisfactory mixture of fact and conjecture. He did remember that oak trees were sacred to the Druids, and the clearing in the valley had been ringed by oaks. He also recalled the paramount importance of the sun and wondered whether the oval site had been chosen to trap its rays. But it was the most stark feature of the religion which had impressed itself upon him at the time and which now changed his whole attitude to his meeting in the forest.

Druids were said to use human sacrifices. They spilled blood in the cause of their religion. If the hermit was still practising the ancient rites with full vigour, Alric Longdon and Wulfgeat might well have been his victims. They were not attacked by any wolf. Their deaths had served a profounder purpose. Slain by the hermit, they had been necessary sacrifices on the altar of his belief. Gervase himself was lucky not to have followed them to the grave. It was not until well into the night that his demons relented and allowed his troubled mind a modicum of rest.

“Wake up, Gervase!”

“What?” He only half-heard the call.

“Come here, man. At once!”

“Why?”

“Look, Gervase! Just look.”

“Do not pound my head so, Ralph.”

But his friend was only banging on the door of his chamber. When Gervase forced himself to sit up and open his eyes, he saw that dawn was pushing the first spears of light in through the casement. He scrambled up and pulled back the bolt on the door before flinging it open. Ralph Delchard had been torn from his own bed, but he was in a state of great excitement. He was holding something in both hands and he came in to set it down on the floor. It was a wooden chest that was ribbed with stout metal clasps.

“Where did you find it?” asked Gervase.

“Outside the front door.”

“Who left it there?”

“I do not know, but one of the servants heard him. When he went to see what the noise was, he found this.”

“Is it Alric’s treasure chest?”

“What else could it be?”

“Have you opened the lid?”

“No, Gervase. I wanted you to be with me when I did.” Ralph had brought the key which he had found in the stream near the blasted yew. “This moment belongs to both of us.”

He inserted the key into the lock with anticipatory delight, but it soon became dismay. They key did not fit.

“It is the wrong chest!” he cursed.

“Or the right chest but the wrong key.”

“It must fit!” insisted Ralph, trying again. “It must.”

But the key still jammed in the lock. Gervase had now come fully awake. He picked up the chest and took it across to the window to get the best of the light.

“Someone has forced this chest open,” he noted.

“But it is locked tight.”

“The catch must have been wrenched free.”

“Then the contents will have been taken.”

“I think not, Ralph. This was left here by design. What value would there be in an empty chest?”

He set it down once more and removed the key, reaching instead for his dagger. Inserting it in the lock, he twisted away until there was a sharp click. One flick of its point sent the lid of the chest up and back.

Ralph plunged a hand into the hoard of silver coins that lay within, but Gervase had already snatched out the most valuable item. He unrolled the parchment in the half-dark and took one glance at it.

“We have our charter,” he said.

Leofgifu slept soundly in the house of mourning and woke to curse herself for passing the night in such comfort. It was unseemly and uncaring, yet no matter how hard she tried to find fresh tears for her father, they would not come. True sorrow had not really touched her.

She had been horrified by the way he had died rather than shaken by the fact of his death. Now that she had had time to take stock, she came to see just how unhappy she had been sharing the home with him. The loss of Wulfgeat was also a gain for her. Instead of depressing her spirit, it filled her with an odd sense of freedom and it was this which activated her guilt. Leofgifu feared that she was an unnatural daughter. Wulfgeat’s death meant that she was now expected to grieve for a man she had come to hate, as well as for another whom she had never managed to love. Father and husband chained her to the grave.