Gervase did all he could to talk his friend around, but no headway had been made by the time they reached the lodge. He should have known better. Once Ralph Delchard committed himself to a course of action, whatever its nature, he never diverged from it. Grooms took their horses to stable them while the two commissioners went indoors.
One last question remained unanswered for Ralph.
“How did you know that the charter was forged?”
“I did not,” admitted Gervase. “But I do now.”
The peasant woman was typical of so many who lived on the fringes of Bedwyn. Her husband was a cottar, part of a small and wretched underclass who were given a hovel and a thin slice of land in return for their labour. The man worked hard, but the good earth did not reward him well. The bad harvest of the previous year was followed by a famine that struck those at the lower end of society most keenly.
When the man’s sufferings were compounded by an injury to his arm while using the plough in which he had quarter share, he was unable to do his full quota of work. His wife and small children grew thin and sickly. Desperation drove him to slip into Savernake Forest one night. Two hares and some wood pigeons kept them fed for a week or more, but their good fortune was noted by envious eyes. Information was laid against the cottar and the warden’s officers arrived in time to find the wife making a stew with the bones.
“He has been locked up for a month,” wailed the woman.
“Forest law is cruel,” said Emma with rough sympathy.
“He must wait for the shire court to sit and hear his case. If they find him guilty, he may lose his sight or worse. What condition will we be in then?”
“Think on yourself and the children,” advised the visitor. “Your husband’s ordeal is the worse for worrying about you. If we can make you better, we take one small load off his mind.”
The woman nodded. Starvation had pushed her to extremes and she had seized on the rotting carcass of a squirrel she had found. It had filled their bellies but emptied them almost as quickly. Both she and her children were crying with such pain that Emma of Crofton had to be sent for as a last resort. While her dog sat outside the hovel, Emma reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of liquid.
“Mix three drops of this with a little water,” she prescribed. “Take it morning, noon, and night. Your pains will soon abate.”
“We have no money,” said the patient hopelessly, “but you may look around this room and take whatever you wish.”
Emma threw a glance around the mean abode and patted the woman reassuringly on the shoulder. No payment was needed. The relief of such pain and desolation was a reward in itself and her chubby face bunched itself into a kind smile. She turned to leave, but the woman clutched at her.
“Will you pray for us?” she begged.
“Not to God,” said Emma sharply, “but I will offer up a plea that something will come soon to ease your distress.”
The woman thanked her profusely and watched her saunter off along the road to Crofton. Witch or not, the visitor had provided the first crumbs of comfort in weeks. The woman mixed the potion as directed and gave some to the children before she drank it down herself. Relief was immediate. They felt much better but very drowsy and dropped off into a restorative sleep. Emma of Crofton had worked her wonders.
There was more welfare at hand. When the woman opened her front door that evening, something lay shining on her doorstep. It was minutes before she overcame the shock enough to bend down and pick up the six silver coins.
Abbot Serlo did not believe in the power of public disgrace. He had seen monks in other abbeys take their beatings in front of the whole house and it was an unedifying spectacle in every way. The fact of punishment was a sufficient deterrent in itself. When one brother felt the severity of his judgement, the others would take eager note and mend their ways accordingly. Brother Peter’s fate would keep the abbey free from misdemeanour for several weeks. The only witness to his agony, however, would be his abbot, his fellow-monk with the mighty arm, and his God.
“Do you understand your fault, Brother Peter?”
“I understand and repent, Father Abbot.”
“We must scourge the weakness out of you.”
“I submit myself wholly to your will.”
“Do not hold back, Brother Thaddeus,” instructed Serlo.
“I will not, Father Abbot,” said the eager brother as he swished the birch twigs through the air. “I will break the flesh until you tell me to cease.”
They were in a room behind the chapter-house. The abbot sat in the one chair and Peter stood beside a long bench. Brother Thaddeus had been looking forward to doing his duty and his fondness for the sacristan was no bar to his patent readiness to wield the fresh birch twigs.
Abbot Serlo widened his eyes recklessly and raised his hands as if to catch them when they fell out. He sent a short prayer up to heaven and the monks bowed their heads. When he was prepared, the abbot settled back in his chair and gave a curt nod to Brother Thaddeus.
“Proceed.”
“Yes, Father Abbot.”
“Make yourself ready, Peter.”
“I do, Father Abbot.”
“Fit both mind and body to what approaches.”
“I have done so.”
Brother Peter crouched down to take the hem of his cowl and lift it right up to his shoulders. He then straddled the bench and lay face-down, with his naked body exposed to the view and mercy of Brother Thaddeus. The back and buttocks had already been chafed by the coarse-ness of the material, but its stark whiteness would now be striped indelibly with red. Brother Thaddeus took another practice swing, then stepped forward into position. The birch twigs came down with such force on the defenceless body that Brother Peter convulsed with pain. Yet he did not cry out. Buried in the folds of his cowl, he was biting on a bunched fist to stem his cries. Each time the twigs flashed through the air on their cruel journey, his teeth sank deeper and deeper until they drew blood and threatened to sever the fingers.
Brother Thaddeus might have been threshing corn. He took an uncomplicated joy in his handiwork and built up a steady rhythm with his searing strokes. The body beneath him was now inflamed with horror and streaked with blood. By shifting his feet and altering his angle, Thaddeus could spread his misery across a wider area. He was a careful ploughman who dug his furrows straight and deep.
Only when the whole of the torso was thoroughly flayed did the hideous ordeal come to an end.
“Enough,” said Abbot Serlo.
“Yes, Father Abbot,” said Thaddeus with muted dismay.
“You have discharged your duty well.” He stood up and walked across to the prostrate figure which was still heaving and twitching on the bench. “God bless you, my son.”
Brother Peter was too exhausted to reply, but he felt no bitterness at his punishment. If abbot or monk could have seen his face at that moment, they would have been amazed, because it was covered with a beatific smile. With aching slowness, Peter stretched his arms wide so that he resembled the enamel figure of Christ on his own crucifix.
An imaginary crown of thorns encircled his throbbing head. He was wounded beyond endurance and yet he was strangely content.
His sins had now been expiated.
Chapter Six
Ralph Delchard knew the value of letting a romance find its own pace.
Hasty wooing could frighten a lady away and a protracted period of courtship could mean that desire waned long before its object was achieved. Wide experience of women had given him an intuition that rarely failed him and it was now encouraging him to believe that Ediva, wife of the town reeve, did not wish to waste too much time on the preliminaries. Her husband was away, she was alone, and Ralph was in the town of Bedwyn for only one week in his entire life. This combination of factors dictated a certain speed. Ralph was delighted with this state of affairs.