“I loved my father. I respected his choice.”
Leofgifu shot Wulfgeat a rueful glance that made him sigh with regret. He concentrated on their visitor.
“Where is that charter now?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Is it at the mill?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Where did your husband keep his valuables?”
“We had none, sir.”
“His money, his accounts. Where are they locked?”
“I do not know, sir.”
Wulfgeat lowered his voice to a persuasive whisper.
“That document could help you,” he explained. “It may not bring your husband back, but it may offer compensation of another kind.
Commissioners are in the town. They need to see that charter. Help to find it and we may all benefit.” He managed a smile. “Now, Hilda-
where is it?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“You must have some idea.”
“I do not know, sir.”
“She is telling the truth, Father,” said Leofgifu. “She has been kept in ignorance of the affairs of men. Duty to her husband was all she knew. Do not press her.”
Wulfgeat nodded his disappointment. The significance of the charter was clear. Royal commissioners would not travel to Bedwyn unless they had good cause. Alric Longdon must somehow have convinced them that some gross abuse of rights had taken place, but only the charter could support him in his argument. It might still be at the mill, but Wulfgeat doubted it. Alric Longdon was known for being secretive. He would have hidden such an important article in a place where no one else could find it.
Leofgifu touched his shoulder to indicate that they should withdraw. Hilda was plainly tired and needed all the recuperation that sleep could bring. Wulfgeat made to leave. He thanked the woman for her help, then flicked a glance at the boy. Cild was watching him intently. It was eerie. Wulfgeat found himself looking straight into the eyes of Alric Longdon once again. There was bitterness and envy and hatred in the boy’s gaze, but there was something else as well. It was a sense of quiet triumph. His father’s death had snatched everything away from him except one last precious possession. It gave him a power that he never looked to have and it might be used to hurt.
Cild knew where the charter was.
Chapter Seven
Night enticed new sounds from Savernake Forest. Owls hooted from their perches, badgers snuffled in their dingles, and strutting wildcats screeched their furious messages at the moon. Deep in thick woodland, a rutting stag mounted its doe with noisy love-play. Other creatures came out to hear and swell the nocturnal discord. The whole forest was an echo chamber. Two pairs of heavy feet added to the mild uproar of the night as they scrunched over grass and twig and bracken. The verderers were returning to Bedwyn from their patrol on the northern margin. Poachers had been their quarry, but they had also searched yet again for the mystery wolf. Daylight and long staves made them brave enough to take on any beast that walked, but darkness ambushed their courage and left them fearful. When an anonymous yowl rose high above the cacophony, they lengthened their stride and quickened their pace. Savernake was no place in which to be caught at night. Other beings ruled its rough domain.
They came over a hill and saw light in the distant town to revive their spirit. If they skirted the wood and cut down towards the river, they would be home and safe in less than half an hour. It made them jocular and they discovered tongues that had been lost in the heart of the forest. Oak and elm rose up on their right with a reassuring solidity to provide a defensive wall against any dangers that might lurk in the undergrowth. Good ale and good wives awaited them in Bedwyn. A long day’s work would end in restful ease.
“Stay!”
“Why?”
“Listen!”
It was the bigger of the two men who heard it first and who made his companion halt. The latter grew impatient.
“I hear nothing.”
“Listen!”
“Let us get on.”
The bigger man hissed him into silence and pulled him close.
They peered into the darkness of the trees, then ventured in a few yards. Both had their ears pricked and their staves at the ready, but they detected nothing untoward until they were about to move on once more. Then the voices of the night fell silent for a moment and a different sound came through, a long, loud, slow dragging noise, accompanied by a grunt of pain. Was it a wild boar dragging its prey? A wounded fox pulling itself along? Some larger beast lumbering blindly across the ground?
Stifling the urge to run, they communicated with a glance and knew their duty. With a concerted yell, they used their staves to thresh the undergrowth as they stumbled towards the sound. The grunt became a strange, high-pitched cry and the bushes ahead of them shook violently. All they could see in the moonlight was a sight so weird and unexpected that they refused to believe it.
“A sheep?” said one.
“It cannot be.”
“A goat?”
“Not here in the forest.”
“Was it, then, a pig?”
“A pig does not have fleece.”
“What did we see?”
“Who knows?” said the other. “The wolf of Savernake?”
Whatever the creature had been, it had been frightened away, and that gave them some comfort. The bigger man used his stave to prod his way forward, then almost tripped over a large object on the ground.
He regained his balance, then looked down. It was a rock, a big, smooth piece of sandstone which had been towed across the floor of the forest with such effort that it had left a channel gouged in the earth behind it. No wolf could pull a boulder such as that. Only a bear would cope. Wooden staves would not hold off such an animal. If it attacked, their chances would be slim.
A loud and unexplained roar came from the distance.
They took to their heels and ran all the way home.
Gervase Bret and Ralph Delchard had much to discuss that night as they compared their findings and speculated afresh. Both were pleased with their researches. Gervase felt quite at home within the confines of the abbey walls and Ralph had found his natural milieu of strife and action at Crofton. The one could look forward to a talk with an ancient monk, while the other could dream of more intimate conference with the wife of the town reeve. Before they retired for the night, Ralph first yawned, then rehearsed their findings.
“This miller was a hoarder of forged coins,” he said reflectively. “He hid them in a chest within that yew tree. When he took a fresh haul to put it with the rest, he was attacked by wolf or dog or some such sharp-toothed cur. His treasure was removed. When and by whom?”
“Know that and we know where to find the charter.”
“Find the charter and we set the abbey in a turmoil.”
“No,” said Gervase, “it already has turmoil enough beneath that placid surface. Monks are men and all men have their failings.”
“Start again with the miller,” suggested Ralph. “His widow may know of the coins as well as of the charter.”
“I think not. A man as close as Alric Longdon would not take a woman into his confidence. He married her for other reasons and they have been man and wife too short a time to grow together.
Queenhill is a lengthy ride to find himself a bride. He needed a charter to make him go so far afield. The silver may have helped to buy the girl.” Gervase shook his head. “No, his widow will know little. We must not expect too much from her. The miller worked alone.”