“Let us go,” he decided.
“Shall I search around the vicinity?”
“There is no point. Alric was too wily. His hiding place might be a mile or more away.” He looked up. “Did you leave the window as we found it?”
“Yes. And each room in the house.”
“Hilda will never guess that we have been here.”
Wulfgeat led the way back along the path. They had gone fifty yards before there was a splashing noise in the river and a figure came to the surface beside the mill-wheel. He had been there throughout their visit and watched them every time he came up for air. Looking sadly up at the home they had violated, he made a grisly promise to himself and to his father, then he turned to push himself off from the wheel. He swam powerfully across the river and climbed out on the opposite bank, trotting naked along it until he found the brake where he had left his clothes.
Cild was glad that he had followed Wulfgeat all the way from the house. He now loathed him more than ever. Help from such a man was no help at all. Wulfgeat had taken them into his home but not to offer consolation. He plainly resented them and he had driven the boy’s stepmother to tears by the force of his questioning. Being under the roof of such a man was an insult to his dead father. Cild knew his duty. He had to avenge that stinging insult and repay the other countless acts of malice which Wulfgeat had committed against his father. He had much to brood upon as he headed back towards the town.
The abbey delegation had been called to the shire hall that morning at ten o’clock, but it was Hugh de Brionne, lord of the manor of Chisbury, who first came striding through the door. He brought no escort of knights this time, but his entry still caused a mild sensation. Marching up to the table where the four commissioners sat, he snarled a greeting and flung down a parcel of documents in front of them with such contemptuous force that he sent a dozen other charters flapping in the air like startled doves. Brother Simon tried to pluck them to his breast in midflight, while Canon Hubert issued an astringent rebuke. Gervase Bret immediately undid the ribbon which held the new submission together and unrolled its yellowing contents. Ralph Delchard remained calmly authoritative.
“Respect is due to royal officers,” he warned. “The writ of King William runs here in Bedwyn. He has a low opinion of lords who seek to flout him.”
“Read my charters,” insisted Hugh. “Discharge me from this enquiry and let me go about my business.”
“What is the hurry?” said Ralph.
“Matters of greater weight require my presence.”
“Nothing can outweigh the substance of our findings here. You are a soldier and understand a soldier’s needs. William has to muster an army to repel a promised invasion from the Danes. He needs a precise inventory of the holdings of his feudal lords, including your good self. When he can see exactly what lands his vassals have, he can raise his revenue accordingly.”
Hugh stamped a foot. “Give me no lectures on war. I know how armies march. The king is entitled to his levy, but it must be fairly taken and not forced unequally upon us. But this enquiry-this Domesday Book of yours-has a second and a larger purpose.”
“Who gives the lectures now?” mocked Ralph.
“It legalises all the changes that took place when Norman feet trampled first on English soil.” He pointed to his documents. “See what your predecessors saw. Behave as they did. Ratify my claims.
And trespass no more upon my indulgence.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Gervase. He rolled up the documents and tied them once more with a ribbon. “They appear to be in order but refer to holdings that are outside the scope of this examination. Our interest is in two particular hides.”
“Stolen from me by the abbey!”
“No, my lord,” replied Gervase. “Taken into your demesne from one Heregod of Longdon. Four hides in all are thrown in question here, either side of the boundary between the abbey lands and the manor of Chisbury. I see a charter in your parcel to challenge the abbey land but none to enforce the two hides of your own.”
“They are mine by royal grant.”
“Show us the proof and you may go.”
“The document is mislaid.”
“Then maybe the land was mislaid, too.”
“Do you accuse Hugh de Brionne of dishonesty!” howled the other.
“Take care of your manners, young sir, or I will have to teach you some.”
Ralph smiled. “Forgive my colleague’s rudeness. It is but the folly of youth and will improve with time. Let him have his answer and our dealings with you will conclude.”
“That land has always been part of my demesne.”
“But by what right, my lord?” said Gervase.
“Royal grant!”
“We find no record of it back in Winchester.”
“Word of mouth will uphold me,” argued Hugh, trying to hurry the business through. “Call my subtenants from those same hides and let them speak under oath. I’ll wager my ten best horses that each man swears for me.”
“We may all rely on that,” said Ralph, knowing that any subtenant of Hugh de Brionne would be terrified into saying precisely what he wanted him to say. “Filling this hall with the oaths of wretched Saxons will not content us. We need firmer proof.”
“In writing,” said Gervase.
“Find this charter you mislaid,” suggested Canon Hubert with irony.
“Its disappearance has been too convenient.”
Hugh de Brionne seethed with rage and stamped his foot again, but they were unmoved by his show of temper. Flicking his mantle over his shoulder to display the black wolf on his tunic, he emitted a low animal growl.
“I will be back!”
Then he snatched up his documents and stalked out.
Living alone for so long had given Emma of Crofton a fierce independence. Rejected by all and feared by most, she had learned to cope with the sneers and the taunts that came her way each day, and she had also taught herself how to dodge a stone or take an occasional blow. A bloodthirsty mob, however, was a different matter, especially when it descended on her so violently out of the gloom. Ralph Delchard’s intercession had saved her life. There was no doubt that she and the dog would have been torn apart and she was equally certain that nobody would have grieved for either of them. No sheriff would be summoned to investigate her murder, no action taken against the killers. A witch and her familiar had been destroyed. Their remains might not have been found for weeks. The kindest thing that would have happened was for someone to dig a hole and kick them into it.
She and her dog would have shared the same unmarked grave, two dead animals found lying on the ground and tossed with cold indifference into oblivion.
A Norman lord had come to her rescue and bound up her wounded arm, but he could not stand sentry all night. When he left, others might sneak back to finish the execution that he had interrupted.
That fear took her out of the house and up into the wood nearby. She and the dog dug themselves a pit in the soft earth and curled up together in the safety of nature. Exhaustion made her sleep well into the morning.
The journey back to her hovel was made with furtive steps. Enemies might lurk to ambush her again. She sent her dog on ahead and watched from behind a thick hedge as it sniffed its way around their home. Its wagging tail was a signal that bore relief. Emma dared to venture out of cover.
“Wait there, wait there!”
She tensed with apprehension, but it was no threat to her life that came scurrying towards her. It was the same peasant woman to whom she had given the potion for the family’s stomach pains. The ragged newcomer was moving with such freedom that her indisposition was clearly gone. The woman had been waiting for Emma to return.
“I heard about those men,” she sympathised.
“They have gone now.”