The Wolves of Savernake d-1 Read online

  “A lord and a Chancery clerk,” mused Serlo.

  “A brave soldier and a shrewd lawyer.”

  The abbot clapped his hands lightly and pronounced.

  “Let them view the body.”

  “But they have no right, Father Abbot.”

  “I give it to them. Alric Longdon has left us and his soul has gone to heaven. What they see is no more than a whole search party found and saw in Savernake. Brother Luke beheld it and I fancy it brought the boy a step or two nearer full commitment to his Maker. Perhaps it will do the same for this pair at the gatehouse.” The eyes vanished behind huge lids and a dismissive hand sent Prior Baldwin on his way. “Admit them to the mortuary forthwith. But have them accompanied each second they are within the abbey.”

  Prior Baldwin hid his displeasure behind a nod of obedience and left the abbot’s quarters. He had hoped for the command to send the two visitors on their way, but he had been overruled. It made him smart. In his personal joust with the commissioners, he had just taken the first fall because Abbot Serlo had inconsiderably deprived him of his lance. He intended to be fully armed for the next encounter.

  In the dark, dank mortuary chapel, Alric Longdon lay on a stone bier with flickering candles at his head and feet. His body had been washed and prepared for burial, but there was no way to disguise the gruesome nature of his death. Throat and neck and Adam’s apple had been eaten away, leaving the head to loll at an unnatural angle to the body. A rectangular strip of cloth covered the lumpen torso. Herbs and rushes had been scattered to sweeten the atmosphere, but the prevailing stench of decay could not be subdued.

  Brother Peter had been given the task of bringing the visitors into the mortuary. He was a tall, slim man in his thirties whose hunched shoulders and clear intelligence suggested long hours spent in patient study over books and manuscripts. Brother Peter was the sacristan at the abbey and he had proved himself a competent and affable holder of that office. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret liked him at once.

  He had none of the portentousness of a Canon Hubert and none of the cloying mildness of a Brother Simon. Nor was he inclined to the waspishness of a Prior Baldwin. He was there to guide them and he did so with polite confidence. His long, kind face clouded when he saw the corpse and his mouth tightened. Brother Peter had seen the hapless miller when he was first carried into the abbey, but he could still be moved and shaken. He turned away for a second and offered up a silent prayer.

  Gervase recoiled from the sight of the ugly wound, but Ralph stepped in closer to pore over it. At Hastings and at subsequent battles, he had seen far too much death and disfigurement to be appalled any longer. He knew from bitter experience what lance, spear, sword, arrow, and dagger could do to a human body and he had watched that most fearsome weapon of all, the Viking ax, strike off the head of an oncoming horse. Wolves were vicious, but their weaponry was limited.

  It was, however, all on display before him.

  “The teeth took out his neck,” said Brother Peter quietly. “And the claws left their mark upon him.”

  He pulled back the cloth to expose the upper chest of the corpse.

  Two long red sets of parallel lines had been gouged into the flesh.

  Gervase was able to look without too much revulsion this time, and Ralph bent even closer to scrutinise the scars.

  “Where is the novice who found him?” said Ralph.

  “On his knees in prayer,” said the sacristan. “Brother Luke did not get a wink of sleep last night for thinking upon it, nor will he easily forget this horror.”

  “May we speak with him?”

  “Is that needful?”

  “I would like to hear his side of the tale.”

  “It lies before you.”

  “Brother Luke came upon the body after the wolf had left it. Only he will know exactly what state it was in at that moment of discovery.

  It would interest me to hear his opinion.”

  “Then I will seek permission for you to do so.”

  “Thank you, Brother Peter.”

  “We are glad to assist in every way,” said the other, then he shot a last compassionate glance at the tortured creature on the bier. “Have you seen enough here?”

  “One moment longer,” said Gervase.

  He was now accustomed to the grotesque sight of the wound and had transferred his attention to the face. Alric Longdon’s pallid complexion had anticipated death. Its sudden whiteness was the same as it had always been. A night in the river had done less damage to his features than might have been supposed, and Gervase was able to read something of the man’s character in that twisted mouth, that square jaw, that hooked nose, and those eyes that were set at different levels. The forehead was low and sharply lined, the cheekbones high and prominent. Gervase could almost hear the gruff voice that came from the nonexistent throat. The miller was a sly and secretive man, quick to accuse another but truculent in the face of accusation himself. There was a hard, unyielding, and unlovely side to this man. He deserved sympathy, but he was no paragon of virtues.

  “We have seen enough,” said Gervase.

  “So be it.”

  Brother Peter led them out of the mortuary and back up into the clean air of a summer morning. They inhaled deeply to get Alric Longdon out of their nostrils. Ralph Delchard probed for more details.

  “Has the sheriff been informed?”

  “It was not felt necessary.”

  “There was violent death here.”

  “He is not the only victim of the forest,” said Brother Peter sadly.

  “Edward of Salisbury is a busy man. He would not thank us if we dragged him here to examine every dead body that is brought out of Savernake. Last month, one of the foresters was killed by a wild boar.

  In May of this year, a woodman was crushed beneath a tree that he was felling. At Easter last, two boys were drowned in the stretch of river within the forest boundary.” Brother Peter shrugged. “Our sheriff will ride hard to spy on murder, but we do not disturb him for every accident that occurs in Savernake.”

  “What of the dead man’s family?” asked Gervase.

  “His young wife, the lovely Hilda, is distraught. There is a son by his first wife, a boy of nine. This tragedy bonded them together in grief and desperation.”

  “They are cared for?”

  “Here in the abbey. They were received into the guesthouse by Brother Hospitaller and offered private quarters.” Brother Peter gave a wan smile. “We are used to mourning within these walls. Abbot Serlo has taught us how to medicine the troubled mind. Hilda and the boy will be well looked after here. They deserve no less.”

  Ralph and Gervase found plenty more to ask and were satisfied with the candid helpfulness of the replies which they got. They learned all that they could from the amenable Brother Peter without divulging anything themselves. When the sacristan had gone off to seek permission for them to speak with Brother Luke, the two friends were able to compare their reactions to all that they had witnessed.

  “Prior Baldwin is our stumbling-block,” said Ralph with a grimace.

  “We shall hear more of that awkward gentleman when we sit in commission.”

  “Abbot Serlo makes all the decisions. Everyone looks up to him.

  You heard the reverence in Brother Peter’s voice when he talked of Father Abbot.”

  “The sheriff may have to be called in good time.”

  “Why, Ralph?”

  “This is a case that merits his attention.”

  “Edward will not stir from Salisbury for a careless miller who wandered by mistake too far into the forest.”

  “There was nothing careless about this man,” said Ralph thought-fully. “I read his letters before we set out this morning. The man can write and write well, albeit in that crude language you call English.

  How many millers can do that? It is an angry letter and one that is spiced with malice, but I judge it to be the work of a careful man. He was careful in his wording and very c
areful to urge his own part in this business.”

  “You are right,” conceded Gervase. “That is the face of a man who could pen such strong letters. But this takes us no further. Will you summon a sheriff to arrest a wolf?”

  Ralph looked around the cloister garth to make sure that they were not overheard, then he dropped his voice to a whisper to make doubly sure of privacy.

  “Alric Longdon was born and bred next to Savernake. He has run his mill for twenty years at least and made more profit than all his rivals in the trade.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “He would not prosper by carelessness. I believe he went into the forest for a purpose and we can only guess at that purpose when we view the spot where he was killed. There is much more to this miller than his letters reveal.”

  “He summoned us here; he dies.”

  Ralph was grim. “We must find out how-and why.”

  Bedwyn throbbed with unhappiness and dread. News of the wolf attack in Savernake Forest raced through the town and the surround-ing countryside. Shepherds tended their flocks with more concern, swine-herds became more alert, worried parents issued dire warnings to children, and eager lovers, who had hitherto used the forest for their clandestine sport, now took their search for wanton pleasure into barn and stable and shed. One wolf could alter the habits of a whole community.

  Richard Esturmy had come to England in 1066 to fight for Duke William. When the latter became King of England, the former was made Warden of Savernake and took over several holdings in the area. He reacted to the situation with commendable speed and decision, sending out his foresters to hunt the wolf and follow it to its pack. Wolves had been a menace for generations and Esturmy’s house in the parish of Grafton bore testimony to this. It was called Wolf Hall. The royal forest was the preserve of royal deer, shy and retiring creatures who needed ranges that were undisturbed. Any animals which might be harmful to the deer were thus kept down and Esturmy had granted rights of warren to local men to kill foxes, hares, wildcats, and even squirrels. Wolves and boars were controlled by organised hunts with spear and net and mastiff.

  The unkind death of Alric Longdon made people highly superstitious. Few outside the miller’s family spared more than a passing sigh for him and there were several who were content to hear of the demise of such an unpopular man, but the link between an arrival and a sudden departure could not be neglected. As the commissioners fell on Bedwyn, a harsher judgement fell on Alric Longdon. As the Norman wolves came to threaten the town, a lone animal seized its prey in the forest. To the impressionable townsfolk, the two events seemed to be inextricably connected. The miller was simply the first victim of the royal commissioners. Who-they wondered aloud-would be the next?

  “Rex tenuit Bedvinde. Rex Edward tenuit. Nunc geldavit. Nec hidatafuit.…”

  Canon Hubert was in good voice, declaiming the Latin phrases from the inventory made by the first commissioners who visited the area. Seated beside him, Gervase Bret took it upon himself to provide a translation in English for his listeners.

  “The king holds Bedwyn. King Edward held it. It never paid tax and was not assessed by hide. There is land for eighty ploughs less one. In the lordship there are twelve ploughs and eighteen slaves. There are eighty villagers, sixty cottagers and fourteen freemen with sixty-seven ploughs. There are eight mills paying one hundred shillings.…”

  There was a communal intake of breath. Only seven of those mill wheels now turned. The largest had been robbed of its master in the forest. Gervase had a pleasant voice that could be heard distinctly by everyone in the building.

  “Two woodlands,” he continued, “which are two leagues long by one league wide. There are two hundred acres of woodland, and pasture twelve furlongs long by six furlongs wide. To this manor belong twenty-five burgesses. This town pays one night’s revenue with all the customary dues. In this manor in the reign of King Edward, there was a wood one-half league long and three furlongs wide; it was in the king’s lordship. Now it is held by Henry de Ferrers.…”

  “I hear no mention of good King Harold,” challenged a Saxon voice at the rear. “Why do you have no place for him and his worth in your calculation?”

  “Peace, Wulfgeat,” advised a neighbour.

  “I asked the question of the other commissioners and they gave me no worthy answer.” Wulfgeat stood up from his bench to stare at the quartet behind the table one by one. “I ask again. Where is King Harold of blessed memory?”

  “He was no king,” said Canon Hubert briskly, “and no blessing attaches to his person or his memory. We recongnise only King Edward, he that was called the Confessor.”

  Wulfgeat was unappeased. “The noble Edward, as holy a man as any that may be found in church or abbey, bequeathed the crown to Harold on his deathbed. Will you gainsay the sacred word of the Confessor? And that same King Harold made grants of land in Bedwyn that need to be acknowledged and restored. Write down the name of Harold in-”

  “Sit down and be silent,” interrupted Ralph brusquely.

  “I have just cause.”

  “You will be heard at a time of our choosing.”

  “King Harold was a-”

  “Usurper,” snapped Ralph irritably. “The crown of England was promised to Duke William of Normandy by that same Confessor that you talk about. We’ll have no more discussion of the matter.”

  He snapped his fingers and the four men-at-arms, who had been standing near the back wall, took a meaningful pace forward. Wulfgeat’s neighbour pulled him quickly back down on to his bench and hissed a warning. The incident was closed and Canon Hubert took up his recitation once more.

  It was afternoon and the commissioners were opening their investigation in the shire hall, a long, low structure with sagging beams and an uneven floor. Bright sunlight was beating a way in through the small windows to take its share in the proceedings and to gild the tonsures in the assembly. The visitors began by explaining to the tenants, burgesses, and other interested parties the nature of their assignment. Prior Baldwin sat in a chair in the front row with Brother Matthew, the melancholic subprior, at his elbow to represent the abbey with a show of spiritual force. Ralph Delchard presided over the meeting, Canon Hubert and Gervase Bret dealt with documents and charters, and the meek Brother Simon used a skeletal hand to act as clerk to the whole business.

  As the canon’s voice rolled monotonously on, Ralph took time off to study the man who had dared to raise the name of a disgraced Saxon king. Such an interruption was foolhardy, but it took courage, and Ralph would always admire that. The bearing and attire of the man showed him to be a burgess of some wealth and standing. Approaching middle age, his beard was flecked with grey but there was no hint of declining years in the fierce eyes and the burly frame. Here was a proud, fearless, virile fellow, headstrong maybe, but that was a fault that Ralph himself shared. He was called Wulfgeat and he deserved a grudging respect.

  “Thus concludes the enquiry,” said Canon Hubert, lifting his heavy jowls from the parchment in front of him and gazing around with smug self-importance. “All matters that pertain to Bedwyn and the land adjoining have now been read to you as is right and proper. As you will agree, those first commissioners who traversed the county of Wiltshire were conscientious men who set about their task with meticulous care.” Audible groans emerged from the body of the hall.

  “They were charged,” said Hubert, riding over the sound, “to record all information concerning the lands thrice. To wit, as it was in the time of King Edward; as it was when King William gave the estate; and as it is now.” He produced a flabby smile, then jabbed with a knife at their purses. “And it was also noted whether more could be taken from the estate than is now taken.”

  The groans were much louder this time, swelled by verbal protest and given real edge by the contemptuous laughter of Wulfgeat. So this was why Bedwyn had been singled out for a second visit. The commissioners had been empowered to impose more onerous taxes. When the first returns were
searched by greedy eyes in the Treasury at Winchester, they were seen as ripe for further exploitation. Far too much was already squeezed out of Bedwyn in rent and tax. Additional burdens would break the back of some of its inhabitants. The dis-affection built into a roar until Ralph quelled it by banging the table with his fist.

  “Cease this noise!” he ordered. “We are commissioners by royal warrant and have the right to call whom we wish and when we wish to face interrogation.” His gaze shifted to Prior Baldwin, who was sitting serenely in front of him and remaining aloof from the general hubbub. “Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, we begin our enquiry into the land of the Abbey of Bedwyn. Witnesses will appear to give evidence as directed.” Having discomfited the prior comprehensively, he beamed around the hall. “Our business is ended for the day. We thank you for your help and your indulgence.”

  Benches grated as the gathering rose to disperse. Abbey lands were rich and extensive. It might take days to peruse all the relevant charters again. That gave other people a breathing space, and their discontent was tempered with relief as they muttered their way out of the hall. A cluster formed around Wulfgeat, who was clearly a spokesman for many in the town. His voice was still booming away mutinously as he led them out into the street.

  Prior Baldwin waited for a modicum of calm to return before he directed his question at Ralph Delchard.

  “Why must the abbey be called to account?” he said.

  “That will become apparent tomorrow.”

  “Am I to have no warning of what lies ahead?”

  “It has been given.”

  “The fact of your enquiry has been announced,” argued the prior pedantically, “but not its inherent nature. Is our land to be subject to new taxation?”

  “Be patient until tomorrow.”

  “What am I to tell Abbot Serlo?”

  Ralph grinned. “The truth.”

  Prior Baldwin fumed quietly and looked to Gervase for some eluci-dation. When none came, the prelate turned to the Church, but Canon Hubert was not ready to divulge anything further. The prior was put at a distinct disadvantage and that was not a position in which he often found himself. Brother Simon was his only hope. If he could catch him at an unguarded moment in the abbey, he might be able to worm some intelligence out of that wasted body. Summoning all of his dignity, he rose from his chair, with a sharp nudge, compelled Brother Matthew to join him, then delivered a parting boast.