“Very able.”
“Then they will judge it a trifling matter.”
“Two days at least have been set aside.”
Simon bit his lip as the words trickled out before he could stop them. The prior’s gaze intensified and bore deep into the skull in front of him. The nature and scale of the dispute had now been discovered. It remained only to find out why the process was being instituted.
“The Church has countless enemies,” he intoned. “An abbey is a spiritual fortress against the wiles of the outside world. We must strengthen our defences and repel any siege. Wicked men envy our mean possessions. If an abbey loses its lands, the whole Church is the weaker for it.” He inclined his head until their foreheads were almost meeting. “It is not for my benefit that I ask this, Brother Simon.
I am but a humble servant of the Lord. Father Abbot rules here and he is not long for this world. Will you send him to heaven in distress?
One name will content him. Nobody else but he will hear it, and I myself will forget who told it to me, so we are all absolved of guilt.”
The twitching mouth was his encouragement once more. He struck hard. “One name that brought you here to Bedwyn. One man who hates the Church that we both serve. One foul miscreant who could undo all of Abbot Serlo’s work in this abbey and send that reverend body into a worrisome grave.”
Brother Simon trembled. “I may not name him.”
“Then point him out by other means. Tell me where he dwells, show me what he does, give me something to take with me into my prayers.”
Brother Simon was helpless beneath the piercing gaze. Meekness was no defence against the prior. Nor were all the dire warnings that Canon Hubert had issued. Brother Simon clutched at a straw. The case was altered. The novel and dramatic circumstances changed everything. There was no point now in protecting a man who would never be able to testify before the commissioners. He capitulated.
“Abbot Serlo may be content,” he said. “Your accuser has already met the wrath of God and lies in the mortuary chapel. He was our signpost to the town of Bedwyn.”
Brother Simon closed his eyes to escape the steely glare of his persecutor. He kept them shut tightly and prayed for forgiveness. He had broken an oath in conceding such an important detail of the commissioners’ work, and guilt made his face burn and colour. If Canon Hubert or any of his other colleagues found out what he had done, he would be severely chastised and might even lose his place beside them. Yet he had been helpless in the grip of his guileful inquisitor. When he lifted his lids again, he expected to see the prior towering still over him, but Baldwin was now in the quarters occupied by two of the abbey’s guests.
He was comforting the miller’s grieving widow.
It was market day in Bedwyn and everyone from miles around converged on the town to sell produce, buy food, search for bargains, haggle over prices, or simply catch up on the local gossip. The death of a miller and the arrival of royal commissioners had now merged into one unified disaster and it even displaced the weather as the main topic around the carts and stalls. Saxons smouldered with impotent rage as they endured yet another destructive and unwanted Norman invasion. The usual friendly bustle was replaced by a more fraught atmosphere.
The market was held in the middle of the town on the large, open triangular space at the bottom of the hill. It was a natural meeting place and allowed visitors to stream in from different directions. Had any of the angry men or the fearful women cared to walk fifty yards down the long, narrow street which followed the valley, they would have seen a more sacred transaction taking place. The man whose death was keeping the flames of debate crackling away was now having his soul offered up to heaven. In the tiny church that stood in the middle of a well-filled graveyard, Mass was being sung and prayers were being said for Alric Longdon.
It was a small funeral. Father Edgar, the ancient and hobbling priest, took the service and struggled hard in his address to find kind words to say of the deceased. Apart from the widow, her stepson, and a younger woman who consoled both of them, there were three people from the town and two monks from the abbey. The Saxon church was no more than a stone-built porch, nave, and chancel which clutched each other for support against an ungodly universe and which were further bonded together by arcading which ran entirely round the building. Windows were small and splayed, floors were paved and cold, and the chancel arch with its simple motif cut into the stone was so low and narrow that Father Edgar was partially obscured from sight when he went up to the altar.
The graveyard was sullied with the vulgar noise of the market, but the priest did his best to lend a frail dignity to the proceedings. Alric Longdon was lowered into the ground and the first handfuls of earth tossed down upon him. As the weeping Hilda almost swooned, the young woman moved in quickly to support her with a caring arm. The funeral was soon over and the mourners stood helplessly around the grave. Brother Luke had asked to attend and pay his last respects because he had been the person to find the corpse. Brother Peter had accompanied him and stayed him through the novice’s own turbulent emotions. When the youth recovered enough from the harrowing occasion to take stock of those around him, he saw for the first time the sad beauty of the dark-haired young woman who sustained widow and boy with such compassion. She was soberly dressed, but the fine material of her kirtle and gunna disclosed that she was of good family.
Luke was entranced by the heart-shaped face with its silken complexion, its dark eyes, its long black eyelashes, and its full red lips.
A feeling which had no place whatsoever on consecrated ground brushed against him like a cobweb.
He huddled against his companion to ask his question.
“Who is she, Brother Peter?”
“That is Leofgifu,” said the sacristan.
“She is a member of the miller’s family?”
“No, she is here solely out of kindness. Leofgifu is a true Christian and a rare young woman.”
“Where has she come from?”
“She is the daughter of Wulfgeat.” His voice hardened. “Do not stare at her, Luke. It is unseemly. Lower your eyes and pray for the soul of Alric.”
The novice obeyed, but Peter ignored his own injunction. While every other head in the churchyard was bowed down with grief, his remained only slightly tilted forward so that his eyes could watch and marvel at the tenderness of Leofgifu. Here was unselfishness made manifest and real concern for those in distress. Everyone hated the miller, yet she was somehow able to offer love and sympathy to the widow and her stepson. Brother Peter gazed at Leofgifu as if he were in the presence of a saint.
The Warden of Savernake was thorough. When his huntsmen and foresters returned from a fruitless search, he sent them out again next day at first light. They scoured forest and field once more but found neither wolves nor traces of their depredations. Deer were seen in profusion, wild boar could be heard grunting in the undergrowth, and there was even a glimpse of a badger as it dived into its set, but the wolf which had killed Alric Longdon had fled. In the twelve hours since the body had been discovered, it could have run a very long way.
As the disconsolate posse headed back to report their failure, they began to wonder whether a wolf had indeed been responsible. Other animals were considered, and the balance of opinion swung behind the notion of a mastiff. They were picking their way through woodland not far from where the attack had occurred when they finally sighted something. It was fifty yards away, across a clearing and half-hidden by gorse bushes, but they saw movement and sensed danger. The creature was too large to be a boar and too small to be a stag, but the brown hue of its fur could well be that of a wolf.
Hounds were released and spears held at the ready as the huntsmen goaded their horses in pursuit, beating a way through the undergrowth and fired up by the thrill of action. But it was all to no avail.