Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

She turned to thank him, but he had stolen away minutes before and run back to his clearing in the valley. While Emma waddled off with her dog and her basket, the man was sitting in the clearing with the new piece of sandstone between his knees, using primitive tools to chisel it to shape and holding it up from time to time to catch the sun. When the final stone had been properly dressed and sunk into position, his circle would be complete.

Gervase Bret flicked through the documents until he found those that had a bearing on the case. He read the Latin with consummate ease and nodded his approval. Leofgifu watched him without any regrets about what she had done. When her father was alive, she was excluded from all knowledge of his business dealings and had to pick up what she could from casual remarks and inferences. Now that she had inherited his property and his wealth, she could do as she wished with all that had been his. Wulfgeat would have been disgusted to see a member of the king’s household searching freely through his papers. His Saxon blood would have curdled. But Gervase was no typical Chancery clerk and his affinities with the English were just as great as his loyalties to the Normans. When Leofgifu stumbled on charters that referred to land disputes around Bedwyn, she only dimly appreciated their import, but she was happy to show them to someone who might make more profitable use of them. As he read his way avidly through the terms of a document, Gervase came to see why Wulfgeat had spoken up so bravely for the vanquished King Harold. He gathered together a small pile of charters.

“May I borrow these?” he asked.

“What are they?”

“Weapons.”

“Against whom?”

“Vultures.”

“Take them,” she said. “I know they will be safe.”

Gervase gave her a smile of gratitude. Her request had surprised but delighted him and he had rushed to the house to see her again.

Pleased to find her so self-possessed once more, he was thrilled when she gave him unlimited access to her father’s papers. Wulfgeat’s history and motives were now much clearer in his mind.

“How else may I help?” she offered.

“By speaking to Hilda.”

“She wishes to see you on her own account.”

“It is the boy I need to question.”

“Cild?”

“Persuade her to send him alone to me.”

“Hilda will not do that.”

“She may if you ask her, Leofgifu.”

“The boy is her stepson. She must protect him.”

“Remind her that he stole the key to the mill.”

“Can she not be present while you interview him?”

“I ask you as a favour.”

“What do you want from him?”

“A name.”

Leofgifu nodded, then went out. He could hear her ascend the creaking stairs and enter the room above her head. There was a discussion with Hilda that became quite heated for a while, but it produced a result. Footsteps came down the stairs and Hilda walked into the room, her hands firmly on the shoulders of Cild. She stood him in front of Gervase, then hesitated. The boy turned to plead silently with her, but she steeled herself to walk away. Gervase waited until he heard the door open and close, then he spoke.

“I will not hurt you, Cild. I am trying to find out how and why your father was killed. Will you help me?”

The boy glowered at him but said nothing.

“Let me be frank,” said Gervase softly. “We have been to the mill and found your rope. We have been to the mint and found your way in. We have been to the yew tree and found your snake. We know a lot about you already, Cild.”

The boy’s cheeks flushed with guilt and he lowered his head.

Gervase used gentle words that slashed like knives. Cild was in pain. He had thought he was safe, but Gervase Bret was dragging him back into a past that was littered with horror for him. The sight of the gory Wulfgeat came up to fill his mind and his stomach heaved.

Gervase did not browbeat. “You have done wrong,” he said calmly,

“but only because you were too young to know any better. You were led cruelly astray. Help yourself by telling the truth. It is the only way forward, Cild. If you lie to me, I will know. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” muttered the boy.

“Did you break into the mint?” Cild shifted uneasily and Gervase applied more pressure. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take an impression of the die?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give it to your father?”

“Yes.”

“Did he pass it on to someone else?”

“Yes.”

“What was his name?”

The boy lapsed back into a watchful silence. Gervase saw the insolence in his gaze and hardened his voice.

“We know about Wulfgeat,” he stressed. “You put that snake in the sack so that it would bite him. He was your father’s enemy and you wanted him dead. Murder is the most serious crime of all, even when it is only plotted. Can you hear what I am saying to you, Cild?”

“Yes.”

“You must hold nothing back.”

“Yes.”

“Did your father have an accomplice?”

“Yes.”

“Did they share the money between them?”

“They did.”

“Was it someone from Bedwyn?”

“It was.”

“Who?” The boy moved from foot to foot again as Gervase gave him no respite. “Who was the man, Cild? Tell me.”

“I do not know.”

“Who?”

“I do not know.”

“Who!” demanded Gervase. “Who!”

“My father would not say!” he cried out in despair.

The boy’s defences cracked and he burst into tears as the real horror of what he had done was borne in upon him. His youth was no excuse. Cild was old enough to know that theft and forgery and attempted murder were serious crimes that carried serious penalties.

His father had made it seem exciting to break into the mint and he had loved the secret journeys the two of them had made to the hiding-place in the yew tree. Everything had cartwheeled out of control now. He was willing to tell Gervase Bret all he knew in the hope of gaining merciful treatment, but he could not supply a name that his father had kept from him.

Gervase saw the boy’s predicament only too clearly. He was at once an accomplice and victim of his father. There was no point in questioning Cild further, because it would only sharpen his anguish. He would need to be interrogated at a later date by other authorities. The one thing Gervase needed to know was the one thing that the boy had not been told. He took pity on the whimpering Cild and moved across to him, but comforting arms had already encircled the child. Hilda slipped quietly into the room to pull him to her bosom and pat him soothingly on the back.

When Gervase looked into her face, he saw the change that had taken place. Innocence had now fled. The tears that had been shed for a brutal man had now dried up. A plaintive expression had hardened into a scowl. Her voice was clipped.

“ I can give you a name.”

The shire hall was full to capacity that afternoon for the final confrontation. All four commissioners were installed behind the table.

Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew appeared for the abbey once more and sat upright in their seats with an arrogant humility. Hugh de Brionne lounged in a chair beside them, still basking in his fame as the putative saviour of Bedwyn and confident that this would elevate him above any petty squabbles over land. Saewold’s rank also entitled him to a chair and Ediva had come along with her husband as an interested observer. The rows of benches were occupied by the burgesses, Leofgifu sitting proudly among them in her father’s place, with Hilda at her side. Their presence at any time in such a place would have been arresting, but during a period of mourning it was doubly startling. Minor town officials stood at the rear. Those of lesser sort found what space they could. Tall and forbidding in their chain mail, the four men-at-arms took up their positions just inside the door of the hall. There was an audible throb of expectation throughout the building.