Time alone also meant time away from Ralph Delchard. The close-ness of their friendship became an aggravation whenever Ralph found a new woman to court and conquer. Apart from scandalising the faithful Gervase, it drew attention to the exigencies in his own romance and increased his sense of yearning. If he could do nothing to stop Ralph’s pursuit of Ediva, the wife of the town reeve, he would not encourage it by letting his friend talk interminably about his carnal ambitions.
On this issue, if on no other, they neither thought nor acted as one.
Gervase mixed seclusion with curiosity. Instead of walking aimlessly near the hunting lodge, he headed for the river and strolled along its bank towards the disputed land which had brought them down on Bedwyn. It was a most pleasant walk in the warm evening air and his eyes remained alert to take in every change and beauty of the landscape. His mind, however, shifted to other things. Bidding farewell to Alys, his thoughts turned back to the bizarre experience on Salisbury Plain when he had looked on Stonehenge for the first time. It affected his whole perception of himself and the world in which he lived and he was exercised by the notion, if not the certainty, that the circle of stones on the plain was the work of an intelligence and a faith that went back thousands of years to the dawn of time. He was still trying to divine its mysteries and to pluck some meaning from its fractured magnificence when he saw the mill.
He knew that it had belonged to Alric Longdon, because its wheel had been stopped. It was a low, squat, ramshackle construction, with the cottage leaning against it for support like a child clutching the skirts of its mother. Yet it was well situated to catch the best of the current and its wheel gained further advantage from a primitive sluice-gate which had been installed a little farther upstream. In times of drought, when the river level dropped, the gate could be partially closed to restrict the channel and quicken the surge. Alric Longdon was an astute miller who knew how to exploit nature to the full. His sluice-gate was the only one in Bedwyn because his rivals were deterred from following his example by the heavy cost of the enterprise.
Gervase Bret was mesmerised. What had made a lovely young woman like Hilda share her life with an unpopular man in the deafening roar of his mill? How had the ugly creature he had seen in the mortuary chapel met and married such a wife? What did they talk about in the isolation of their home? How did they pass their days and spend their nights? These and other questions crowded into his mind, to be expelled at once and replaced by a much more immediate query: Who was this?
For the mill was not as neglected and uninhabited as it appeared.
Someone was at the window. The figure disappeared from view, then emerged again from the door. He turned to slam it shut and lock it with a key, testing it to make sure that it was sound. The key vanished into the man’s scrip and his tonsured head vanished into his hood. With swift and sandalled feet, he hurried off in the direction of the abbey and was soon blending with the shadow of the trees.
Gervase watched it all with surprised interest. There was something about the man’s manner which suggested defeat and annoyance, as if he had entered the building in search of an object which he never found. While Gervase could only speculate on his purpose, he was certain of his identity. He had met this man before. Gervase was too far away to recognise the face but close enough to observe the stance and gait of the visitor. Those years spent in Eltham Abbey had taught him how to distinguish monk from monk even when they were hooded and bowed. Each man moved in a different way, knelt in a different way, and prayed in a different way. This tall and long-striding prelate declared himself as clearly as if he had yelled out his own name.
It was Prior Baldwin.
Chapter Five
Cold fear tightened its grip slowly but inexorably on the town of Bedwyn.
A man had been savaged by a wolf, but the animal had neither been tracked nor caught. Something had been sighted in Savernake Forest by the warden’s huntsmen, and one of the venders also claimed to have caught a glimpse of a peculiar creature that flitted through the trees. Rumours now came from the abbey of Brother Thaddeus’s encounter with this nameless beast. Bedwyn locked its doors and slept uneasily. Something was out there in the forest which could elude all attempt at capture. It concentrated the mind of the whole community. When would it strike again?
The longer it remained at large, the more hysterical became the theories about its true identity. Some claimed it was a giant fox, quicker and more cunning than a wolf, able to deceive and outrun its pursuers with ease. Others believed it to be a bear, long thought extinct in Savernake, hiding in safety in some tall tree and descending only to search for food. More exotic animals were also numbered in the catalogue of horrific possibilities. Lions and tigers were the favoured species, even though neither were native to England. Leopards were also invented to explain the nimble feet with which the predator could so swiftly vanish. Those most in terror fled into the realms of myth and decided that Savernake was haunted by a gryphon, a dragon, or a minotaur and that it would descend upon the town at any moment to wreak its havoc.
Wulfgeat did not surrender to the general frenzy, but he nevertheless supplied an idea which acted as its focus. An early visitor to the market that morning, he found the hubbub unabated on the subject of Alric Longdon’s death. Scoffing at the wilder suggestions, he produced a much more telling one.
“The widow and the boy stay at my house,” he said, and immediately set off a murmur of surprise. “Leogifu is able to bring comfort and that is our Christian duty. My daughter has talked at length with the poor woman. What she has found may kill off wolf, fox, and bear.”
“Hilda can name the creature?” asked a listener.
“No,” said Wulfgeat, “but she can point to a sworn enemy of her husband.”
“Then she can point in any direction!” came a cynical retort. “We were all sworn enemies of that man. You as much as anyone, Wulfgeat. We bear witness to that.”
“I may have wished him dead but would not do the deed myself.
This other foe would seek his life. In her own malicious way.” Wulfgeat lowered his voice. “I speak of Emma.”
The name turned the expectant buzz into a torrent of abuse. They seized upon it with ferocious glee.
“Emma!”
“The Witch of Crofton!”
“A foul slut with a wild dog!”
“An evil sorceress!”
“A slimey hag!”
“Blood-sucker!”
“Devil-worshipper!”
“Poisoner!”
“Whore!”
Wulfgeat raised his hands. “Calm yourselves and hear the argument,” he told them. “I do not accuse Emma, but I do avow she had both cause and means. Or so the widow claims.”
“What did Hilda say?”
“That her husband fell out with Emma.” Wulfgeat spoke on over the mocking laughter. “Yes, yes, everyone fell out with Alric sooner or later, but not in this manner. He bought a potion from her-for what, I do not know. When it did not work, he demanded his money back.
When Emma would not pay, he beat her black-and-blue.”
“Serves the witch right!” sneered a voice.
“She put a curse on him,” explained Wulfgeat. “Alric looked to have another son by his new wife, but Emma said her womb would henceforth be barren. When the miller beat her again, she screamed that he’d be dead within the month.”