“I am owed that money by a grasping abbot.”
Canon Hubert bridled. “Abbot Serlo is a saint.”
“I believe it well, sir. Of him and of his prior. Serlo has a belly big enough for a dozen saints, and that scheming Baldwin is the patron saint of robbers. Give him a legal wrangle and he will talk the pizzle off a Pope and make it dance around the room and sing Te Deum.”
“My lord!” exclaimed Hubert with moral outrage.
Ralph Delchard chuckled, Brother Simon hid his reddening face in some documents, and Gervase Bret afforded himself a smile of amusement. This Norman lord did not mince his words in the presence of the clergy. The black wolf was an apt symbol for Hugh de Brionne. He was a scavenger with sharp and deadly fangs. The abbey might have ousted him with argument, but it had earned itself an implacable enemy. If there was the faintest chance of revenge, he would take it.
“Restore those lands to me,” he instructed. “Give me the rent that is due from the subtenants. Fine the abbey for its insolence and bury Prior Baldwin in a dung-heap so that men may know his character as they pass.”
“I will not endure this!” wailed Canon Hubert.
Gervase resumed control. “The situation stands thus. You claim the land. The abbey had use of it and a charter to enforce that use.
But there is now a third voice with a legitimate interest in those fertile acres. And that might disqualify both you and Prior Baldwin.”
“Who is this rogue?”
“We may not say as yet,” explained Gervase, “but he has a charter which may make both yours and that of the abbey as light and insubstantial as air. This is no idle claim, my lord. It is supported by Alfred of Marlborough.”
Hugh de Brionne stiffened. Alfred was an important figure in the shire, with holdings even greater than his own. In wealth and reputation, he exceeded Hugh by far and the jealous lord of Chisbury could not wear this indignity. He and Alfred of Marlborough were wary rivals. If a new claim had such weight behind it, then it was threatening indeed.
“Why did this claimant not emerge before?” he asked.
“He lacked the charter to uphold his right.”
“He has it now?”
“We will come to that,” said Ralph Delchard, taking the reins once more. “We summoned you by way of courtesy to acquaint you with this news. Bring your charter to us again and we will set it against this new claim. And try them both once more against the abbey’s right and title.”
Hugh de Brionne remonstrated afresh, but it was only token bluster. The name of Alfred of Marlborough had sounded a warning note.
He needed to consult with his steward and to make private enquiry of this counter-claim. Rising to his feet, he adjusted his cap and straightened his mantle. The clasp at its corner was a gold-embossed wolf that jogged a memory behind the table.
“You have, I believe,” said Ralph, “hunting privileges in Savernake Forest.”
“Why, so I do. Twice a month I ride.” He curled a lip derisively. “I rid the forest of vermin. I may kill as many monks and novices as I can find, but only the king can hunt down a wily fox of a prior or a great fat bear of an abbot.”
“Heresy!” shouted Canon Hubert.
“God made me the way I am.”
“My question is this,” said Ralph, unruffled. “Do you possess some mastiffs who have not been lawed?”
Hugh was evasive. “My animals are my concern.”
“Do any of them have the freedom of Savernake?”
“My dogs have keepers who know their occupation.”
“I have hunting dogs myself,” said Ralph. “If they are bred for the chase, they may sometimes chase of their own free will. Let such a creature off the leash and he may kill or maim as viciously as any wolf.”
“That is true,” admitted Hugh. “We have had such a case in our pack before now. When a dog runs amok, I order my men to put it down. There is no place for madness in the kennels of Hugh de Brionne.”
He strode away to the door, then paused as he was struck by a final malignant thought. It produced a leer.
“This new claimant of yours,” he said. “Tell him that I will happily cede the land to him if it will serve to spite the abbey. I’d willingly lose two further hides and half another arm to see that sheep-faced villain of a prior put in his place.”
His laughter was like the howl of a wolf.
Monks were human. Though they aspired to the condition of sainthood, they could reach it only by the mundane paths of their pedes-trian abilities. An abbey could not exist simply as a metaphor for God’s purpose. It was a living organism. It had to be fed and watered, clothed and bedded, maintained and improved. An obedientiary might, therefore, have to till fields, cook meals, brew ale, clean plates, fetch rushes, supply hot water, shave heads, provide cowls, change bedding, ring bells, or rehearse the choir to the right sweetness of pitch. Whatever skills a man brought into the enclave were welcomed and employed.
There was labour for all arms and work for all minds. No talents were wasted at Bedwyn Abbey.
Brother Peter still bent over his bench to produce fine silverware.
Brother Thaddeus still handled a plough with the rough-handed zeal he had shown when he was a farmer. Brother Thomas still sewed and embroidered like the tailor he had once been. And Brother Luke, the robust young novice, still toiled in the bakehouse as his father had taught him. Even when monks were promoted within the house, they found it hard to let their old lives slip entirely away.
“We have been summoned, Matthew.”
“When?” asked the lugubrious subprior.
“Tomorrow morning at ten.”
“We will miss Chapter.”
“That cannot be helped,” said Prior Baldwin. “I have spoken with Abbot Serlo and we have leave to go and face these royal commissioners.”
“Do we know their purpose, Prior Baldwin?”
Baldwin smirked. “We know it and we may refute it.”
“That gladdens my heart,” said Matthew, looking even more miserable than ever. “You talked with Brother Simon?”
“He talked with me.”
The subprior came as near to smiling as he had done in the past five years, but be changed his mind at the very last moment and commuted the smile to a lick of his lips. They were in the scriptorium, the library of the abbey, where patient men with gifted hands sat at their desks to produce the beautiful illuminated manuscripts which adorned the shelves or which went to other parts of the country as cherished gifts. Subprior Baldwin was more patient and gifted than any and his work served to guide all other. If the prior wished to find his assistant, he had merely to open the door of the scriptorium.
“There is another claim,” explained Baldwin.
“To which stretch of land?”
“The two hides we disputed with Hugh de Brionne.”
“But that argument is over and settled.”
“It is now, Matthew.”
“Where is this other claimant?”
“Under six feet of earth in the parish graveyard.”
“Alric Longdon?”
“He will trouble us no more.”
“Then why do the commissioners still call us?”
“A mere formality,” said Baldwin airily. “We may swinge them soundly for taking us away from our holy work and then send them on their way to Winchester once more.”
“What of my lord, Hugh de Brionne?”
“The great black wolf has been chased from the forest.”
“Will he contest that holding once more?”
“He may not. We have the charter to prove it is ours.”
The monks nodded in unison with easy satisfaction. The subprior still wore his mask of sorrow, but it was lit around the edges like a dark cloud with a silver trim. He lifted his hand above the parchment and let it work its magic once more.
They dined at Saewold’s house that afternoon. The town reeve had a comfortable dwelling on the edge of Bedwyn, with land at the front and rear to indicate his status and guarantee him privacy. They sat around a long oak table and feasted on beef, mutton, pork pies, ca-pon, fish, cheese, pastry, blancmange, and fruit tarts. Wine and milk were also served. There were even some oysters for those with a discerning palate.