“I agree,” said Matthew.
“And so do we,” added Hubert, speaking for Brother Simon without even consulting him. “Three identical coins. What is the point of this demonstration?”
“To show how easily we can be deceived,” said Gervase. “The two coins on the outside are genuine, but the one in the middle-on the abbey charter-is counterfeit.”
“How do you know?” said Baldwin.
“Eadmer confirmed it,” explained Ralph, relishing the chance to join in. “He knows his coinage as well as a mother knows her own children, and our moneyer rejected the one in the middle at once. It is a clever forgery.”
“Like the charter,” continued Gervase, moving the coins aside. “See here, if you will. Two documents bear the work of Drogo so manifestly that it cannot be denied. Watch how he loops this letter and turns that and note that flourish on his capitals. Now compare them with your abbey charter. It is so close to Drogo that it could be him and yet, I fear, it is not.” He beckoned them forward. “You see this tiny upward stroke of the quill at each sentence’s end? It is so small a defect in the hand of Drogo that it is hardly worth notice except that it does not occur in the abbey charter. Nor do his ligatures-look here, and here and here. And one thing more, this Drogo was a scribe and not a scholar. His Latin falters briefly in both the genuine documents and he makes neat alteration.” He sat back in his chair. “I spend my whole life sifting through such charters and scribes are all my friends. Drogo’s work has only trifling blemishes, but they single him out. The abbey document is too perfect to be his.”
There was stunned silence as the two prelates stared first at the abbey charter, then at the others, then at each other, then back at Gervase. He couched his accusation in the softest terms.
“A scribe is a scribe,” he said gently, “who writes but as directed.
We must not expect more of him. But the hand which framed this abbey charter has a keener edge and a higher intelligence. It cannot bear to make even the most paltry mistakes. My guess would be that this is no scribe at all but a master of the illuminated manuscript.” He smiled benignly at Matthew. “The subprior will know that errors may not be tolerated in a scriptorium. Drogo would not have gained acceptance there.”
Baldwin and Matthew had been struck dumb yet again. They dared not look at each other and neither lowered his eyes to the abbey charter. It had been torn to shreds. Gervase addressed himself to Prior Baldwin.
“How many other of your charters are the work of Drogo?” he enquired. “We shall need to see them all to pick out any more that are as false as this. Drogo may be dead, but he can speak to us from beyond the grave.”
Ralph Delchard was determined to have the last word. Scooping up the coins, he shook them in his hands, then opened his palm, pointing to each in turn.
“True-false-true.” An expansive grin. “But do not take my word for it. Eadmer the Moneyer may be brought here at your request. He is one witness who has not yet vanished below ground.” A ripe chuckle followed. “Though he seems to be on his way in that direction.”
Wulfgeat’s quieter persuasion finally achieved its aim. He talked with Cild for almost two hours before the success. Reason made no headway. The boy was too stubborn to listen and too young to understand the meaning of the lost charter. It was pointless telling him how much he and his stepmother would gain from it all. Why should he trust the word of his father’s enemy? Alric would never have done so and Cild was like him in every way. It was this fact which eventually told. Wulfgeat appealed directly to the boy’s self-interest.
“I will give you money, Cild.”
A defiant shake of the head.
“You may have it now, if you wish.”
“No!”
“We all need money. Your father taught you that.”
“No!”
“You are a clever boy to hold out for it. I admire that. Put a price on all things, Cild. As your father did.” He regarded the boy with interest.
“What would you like to buy? What do you need? Have you ever had money of your own to spend before?”
Cild had not and the flame of curiosity was ignited. Wulfgeat did not rush. He fanned it gently until it leapt and danced. His method of approach had been completely wrong until now. Logic had failed and bullying had produced only a deeper resistance and resentment. An offer of money put an end to the long negotiation at last.
“Show me where the charter is,” said Wulfgeat, “and I will give you more money than you have ever seen before.”
Cild glared at him stonily for a couple of minutes.
“How much?” he grunted.
The afternoon released them from their deliberations. Lesser witnesses were due to give statements, and Canon Hubert was more than capable of collecting the evidence alone and ordering anything of value to be recorded by Brother Simon. It had been a productive day so far. Hugh de Brionne had been effectively quashed and the abbey representa-tives had been more or less demolished. Four hides in the Bedwyn returns were spreading utter chaos.
Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret mounted their horses. It was a dull afternoon, with dark clouds trying to shoulder the town into submission. Ralph looked up.
“This is a day to stay within-doors,” he said. “Where do you go now, Gervase?”
“To visit the widow.”
“I visit a wife.”
“Ralph!”
“She sent me word. I cannot disappoint her.”
“Think of her husband.”
“He is my chiefest reason for going. That self-serving reeve deserves to be cuckolded. It is my bounden duty.”
“Consider the lady.”
“I have considered nothing else since we met.”
“Pull back before it is too late.”
“Did I obstruct you when you courted Alys?”
“Well, no, but that is different. We are betrothed.”
“So are Ediva and I.” He beamed. “For today.”
He rode away before Gervase could offer more protest. Two of his men followed, but the others remained in the shire hall to act as ushers and guards. Ralph and his escort kept up a steady canter until they reached the hunting lodge. He went inside to wash and to change his attire, glad to shake off the day’s business in favour of pleasure. Ediva was awaiting him. All else paled beside that promise.
One of his men knocked on the door of his chamber.
“She is here, my lord.”
“Here!” The tryst had been arranged elsewhere.
“She waits in the stable.”
“Stable!” He would not roll in the hay with a woman of her quality.
“What does she say?”
“Only that we must fetch you instantly.”
“No more?”
“She became unruly.”
Ralph liked nothing that he had heard and he hurried downstairs with some apprehension. The soldier was at his heels. They came into the stable-yard and looked around. Ralph could see nothing but a huge pile of rags in one corner. Only when it moved did he realise that he was looking at Emma of Crofton. It was her message that had been relayed and which had brought him down so speedily. He grimaced at the thought of a rendezvous with her. The hirsute face emerged from the bundle and she dragged herself up. Something lay on the ground like a nest of eggs on which a hen has been sitting.
Emma reached down to pick it up and offer it to him. It was a basket of wild fruit.
“For me?” said Ralph, pleased.
“I picked them.”
“Thank you, Emma.”
“No, my lord”-she gave him the basket-“thank you.”
“Where did you pick all this?”
But she was already gone. A bark showed that her dog was waiting for her in the trees. Ralph was both moved and delighted. Emma had walked all the way from Crofton to deliver her gift and taken severe risks to get to him. This was a rare act of gratitude for the help he had given.
He looked down at the fruit and selected a red berry.
“No, my lord!” exclaimed the soldier. “The woman is a witch. That may be poisoned.”