“I rescued her,” said Ralph, popping the berry into his mouth without hesitation. “Even witches do not poison their saviours.” He offered the basket. “Try one….”
Hilda’s anxieties were soon put to rest by Gervase Bret. He was young and personable and spoke in her own language. He was not there to accuse or interrogate; indeed, he told her much more than he asked and his questions were merely gentle enquiries. Sensitive to her distressed condition, he was tender and unhurried. Hilda was so used to hearing bad opinions of her husband that it was refreshing to be with a man who accorded him the respect due to all the dead. She let him win her over and slowly dropped her guard.
If Hilda was reassured by their visitor, Leofgifu was greatly impressed. Her father had spoken slightingly of the commissioners and she had a Saxon’s wariness of any Norman, but Gervase did not conform at all to her idea of a member of the king’s household. He was altogether too honest and considerate and unjudging. The mixed parentage so obvious in his appearance gave him an insight into the heart and temperament of the Saxons. Though he was there on a serious errand, she found herself hoping that she could detain him later with an offer of refreshment.
Absorbed with Hilda and her predicament, Gervase was not unaware of his attraction to the daughter of the house. It was mutual. He could see her quality at a glance and sensed the total dependence of the other woman on her. Leofgifu was an act of compassion in herself and truly personified her name of “love-giver.” They provided a stark contrast. Both were beautiful women who had suffered a bereavement.
Sadness rested upon them with almost tangible force, but the resemblance ended there. Hilda’s looks had been extinguished by her ordeal and only the remnants of her handsomeness remained. Leofgifu was different. The pain of loss had somehow enhanced her charms and given her whole face a wistful glow that was quite enchanting. Gervase was reminded of his first meeting with Alys.
The information he had to impart was private, but Hilda insisted that her friend remain to hear it. Leofgifu could be trusted. Neither she nor Gervase even questioned the widow’s wishes. All three stayed sitting where they were.
“We need that charter,” Gervase said with soft emphasis. “It tells the truth about the contested land and puts your future in a kinder light.”
“My future?” Hilda was lost.
“The document names you.”
Alarm flickered. “Me?”
“Your father or his heir, to be precise,” he resumed. “And since your father is now deceased, the holding passes to the next in line.
Women may inherit just as men.”
“But not as often,” said Leofgifu with asperity.
“Thus it is,” he said, taking it stage by stage so that she would not be too confused. “Heregod of Longdon was given that land by royal grant. King Edward the Confessor gave him four hides adjoining Savernake Forest.”
“Why there and not in Worcestershire?” asked Leofgifu.
“We do not know for certain, but the king was fond of hunting.
Even piety likes to chase a deer through a wood.” The remark left Hilda baffled, but Leofgifu smiled. “King Edward knew and liked this shire. He came to Bedwyn with his retinue and stayed at the hunting lodge where we now rest our heads. His gift was land that stands nearby. Heregod of Longdon brought his family to a new home in Bedwyn.” He gave a sigh. “It was not a happy move.…”
Hilda was entranced. Facts which had been kept from her by her father now tumbled out in profusion. Impressions she had gathered as a child and as a wife now took on substance. The detail confused her and the interplay between events and the passage of time left her further bewildered, but a vague sense came through to her of what she stood to gain. Another thing became clear. Gervase Bret was on her side. This only served to increase Leofgifu’s admiration. A blunter recital of the facts could cause Hilda great pain. Gervase chose his words with utmost care, gliding over the courtship that had taken place in Queenhill in such a way as to conceal its essence. Alric Longdon had not married her out of love and his clumsy wooing had been crude pretence. He bought his wife from a dying man so that he could regain the holdings that his father had lost. Hilda was no more than an agreeable factor in a financial transaction.
“And that is why we need the charter,” he concluded.
“I do not know where it is.”
“Give him the key to the mill,” urged Leofgifu.
“The charter is not there.”
“I know,” said Gervase, recalling the futile search made by Prior Baldwin, “but it is a starting place. It will tell me something of the character of your husband-and of his father, Heregod. All that may be relevant. I would like to see inside the mill.”
“I will go with you,” volunteered Leofgifu before she could stop herself. “I can show you to the place.”
“Thank you. I would value your help.”
“You will have the key,” said Hilda.
While she crossed to the table to get it, the others let their eyes connect for a moment. Frank admiration flowed freely between them, but it was soon stemmed. Hilda could not find the key to the mill and was deeply disturbed.
“Who has taken it?” she said.
Light rain was falling as Cild ran along the riverbank. He reached the mill and used the key to let himself in, going straight into the storeroom at the back and choosing one of the empty flour sacks. He banged it against a wall and sent up a cloud of white particles, inhaling the familiar smell with a distant pleasure. Then he went out into the rain once more, locked the door, and vanished into the copse at the rear of the property. He threaded his way between the trees until he came to a willow. Beneath its swaying branches was a box. Like his father, he had his own hiding place in woodland, but Cild’s treasure was of a different order.
The box was no more than rough timber nailed hastily together, but it served its grim purpose. Reaching behind it, he pulled out a stick with a forked end. Cild was cautious but unafraid. He lay the sack on the ground and peeled back its top in readiness, then he used the stick to lift the latch on the makeshift door. The moment the latch moved, he jumped behind the box and waited. Nothing happened for minutes, then the snake came out in a determined slither. Two feet of squirming life had been set free, its fangs bared and its tongue darting in and out with random malice.
Cild moved fast. The stick fell, the forked end trapping the snake’s head from behind. The boy’s other hand inched the sack nearer. As the creature writhed and spat, he put a foot under its body and flicked it into the open mouth of the sack, closing the neck tightly and using a piece of twine to secure it. The operation was over. He was now holding a venomous cargo that threshed wildly around in the sack. A treasured pet had been transformed into a deadly weapon against an enemy.
The forest was patrolled in all weathers, so he used cover wherever he could. Eventually, he came to the stream and followed it up the hill. When Cild finally got to the yew tree, he did not linger. It was the place where his father had been killed and he shuddered at the memory, but one death could be answered by another. The forked stick was used to explore the hollow cavity and he felt the solid object at its base, still wrapped in its sacking. With the snake now flinging itself around inside its prison, he lowered the sack down into the tree, making sure that its neck was uppermost. It was too far down inside the hollow to be seen and a hand would need to grope down to make contact. The trap had been set. Cild shivered with cold joy.
He was suddenly afraid. The enormity of what he was doing seemed to hit him like a huge fist and the hideous significance of the scene pressed down upon him. His father had been savaged on this very spot, his throat torn out by ruthless teeth, his body knocked into the stream to lie there undiscovered for half a day. Cild could almost hear the menacing growl of a wolf. He took to his heels and raced down the hill as fast as he could. His fears had not been imaginary. Two dark and malevolent eyes watched him from the undergrowth.