Edward Marston - The Wolves of Savernake

Ralph Delchard called the assembly to order, then gave Canon Hubert his head. The commissioners’ terms of reference were set out for all to hear.

“Earlier this year,” recited Hubert, “our predecessors visited this county to assess the disposition of its wealth. The returns from that visit were set alongside similar details from other parts of the country so that a complete description of England could be built up. The largest holder of land in this county is-as is right and proper-King William himself, who not only took over, in 1066, the royal estates, which include the boroughs of Bedwyn, Calne, Tilshead, and Warminster, but also reserved for himself the extensive personal holdings of the families of King Edward and the usurper, Harold.” There were murmurings of discontent from the benches. “The estates of King William now account for almost one-fifth of the area of this county.”

The discontent became more vocal and Ralph had to curb it with his most belligerent glare before Hubert could continue. The litany rolled on.

“Next in order of wealth come four great ecclesiastical persons who built up their estates by gift and purchase well before the Conquest.

They are the Bishop of Salisbury, the Bishop of Winchester, the Abbot of Glastonbury, and the Abbot of Malmesbury. Substantial holdings have also accrued to another monastic house and it is this circumstance which has brought us all here today. I speak of Bedwyn Abbey.”

Prior Baldwin was unafraid. The prefatory remarks served only to inflate his confidence. Canon Hubert rumbled on with sententious fluency while Brother Simon nodded his agreement to almost every syllable that was uttered. Ralph let his colleague proceed for another five minutes before he leaned across to Gervase Bret and whispered in his ear.

“Hubert has bored them into submission. We may start.”

When the speaker next paused for breath, the leader of the commissioners stepped in smartly to take over the reins.

“Thank you, Canon Hubert,” he said with exaggerated graciousness.

“That was a most lucid account of our presence here today. We may now move on. Like you, I will be brief.”

Laughter rocked the benches at Hubert’s expense. There were muted jeers from the rear of the hall. Everyone knew how rich the monastic foundations were and how pervasive their influence in the county, and they did not wish to be reminded of the power of the Church by a pompous churchman. The four ecclesiastics cited owned between them almost a quarter of all the land in Wiltshire, and there were other holy fingers in the pie. The bishops of Bayeux, Coutances, and Lisieux-all friends or relations of the king-had combined holdings of over five hundred acres and they were not the only Norman prelates who acted as absentee landlords over prime English estates. Bedwyn was a God-fearing town, but it could still resent the yoke of His ministers.

“Our enquiry,” said Ralph, “related to two small hides of land. Those two quickly became four; those four multiplied still further. We were forced to broaden the scope of our investigations as the catalogue of fraud and deception grew in length.” He held a long pause, then flashed a brilliant smile. “There are guilty men in this hall.”

One of them was on his feet immediately.

“I will not stay and listen to these vile accusations,” said Hugh de Brionne. “I have a rightful claim to all four hides but am left with two.

And now you dare to try to rob me of those. It is intolerable!”

“Sit down, my lord,” invited Ralph.

“Do you now know who I am-and what I am!”

“We certainly know what you are,” said Ralph levelly. “And if you will not resume your seat and listen, the king will hear personally of your misconduct.”

Hugh de Brionne issued a torrent of abuse, then sank back into his chair and smouldered. His status as the wolf-killer counted for nothing before the commissioners, who instead were treating him as a quarry to be hunted. Ralph Delchard turned to Prior Baldwin and his assistant.

“Let us start with the two hides that provoked this boundary dispute. State the abbey’s position, please.”

“It remains what it has been from the start,” said Baldwin without bothering to rise. “We hold that land and we have a charter to enforce our claim. It was seen and accepted by your predecessors. The abbey has the law on its side.”

“My lord?” said Ralph. “What can you add to that?”

Hugh was direct. “Only that the abbot is a grasping monster who will steal every acre of land on which he can get his fat and greedy hands!”

“Insult!” howled Baldwin.

“Truth!” yelled Hugh.

“Sacrilege!”

“Theft!”

“I demand an apology!”

“You will get it through my arse!”

The onlookers roared with amusement at the sight of two Normans shouting wildly at each other. Ralph Delchard was enjoying it all too much himself to interrupt at first, but he eventually asserted his authority and delivered a joint reprimand. Now that the two major combatants had both drawn blood, it was time to bring in Gervase Bret.

He waited for complete silence before he spoke.

“I crave your indulgence,” he began. “What I have to say reaches back in time, but it has a bearing on the present and affects many of you here in this hall. There has been wilful deceit. Restitution must be made.”

Gervase had the full attention of the audience. If it was a case of restitution, then someone stood to gain and someone else to lose.

Gervase indicated a colleague.

“Canon Hubert has told you of the royal estates and listed all the tenants-in-chief in this part of the county. King William took that land into his possession after the Conquest in 1066, but much else was spared. He respected the dispositions made by his predecessor and ratified them at his succession.” Disagreement festered in the hall, but nobody gave it voice. “That predecessor was King Edward the Confessor, a good friend to Normandy, where he spent so many years in exile. But England had another king after Edward.”

There was a buzz of astonishment. The Normans had tried to oblit-erate the memory of King Harold from the public mind and to consign him to history as a renegade, yet here was a senior member of the king’s household daring to recognise the existence of the last Saxon ruler of the island. Prior Baldwin was scandalised, Subprior Matthew was outraged, and Hugh de Brionne was seething with fury. Both Canon Hubert and Brother Simon tried to signal their disapproval and even Ralph Delchard was discomfited.

Gervase ignored the hubbub and moved steadily on.

“Grants of land under King Edward were acknowledged. I have such a document before me. Grants of land under King Harold were void. I have an example of that here as well.” Gervase held up a charter in each hand. “On the right, you see a grant of land to Heregod of Longdon, father of the miller Alric. It is a royal charter issued by King Edward. On the left, you see a grant of land to Wulfgeat, lately a burgess of this town. It is a royal charter issued by King Harold. One of these charters is still valid; one is not. They are linked, however, in a more sinister way.” Gervase put the charters side by side on the table. “Because of these same documents, two men died in Savernake Forest.”

The ripple of noise burst into a surge of speculation and Ralph had to thump the table and yell before he brought it under control again.

Gervase was brisk with detail.

“As you all know,” he said, “King Edward loved hunting. While riding in the royal forest at Queenhill, in the county of Worcestershire, he was thrown from his horse and knocked senseless. They carried him to a house on the outskirts of the village of Longdon where he rested and recovered. He showed his gratitude to his host by granting him four hides of land near one of his favourite hunting lodges. It was here in Bedwyn.” Gervase had learned the whole story now.