“How much farther?” said Wulfgeat.
“Not far.”
“Are you certain you know the way?”
“Yes.”
“And the charter is there?”
“Yes.”
“Safe from this weather?”
“The chest is wrapped and hidden.”
“Did you tell your mother?”
“My mother is dead.”
“Hilda takes her place now,” he said brusquely. “Look to her for comfort. Does she know of this?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You told nobody else?”
The boy shook his head.
“Good.”
They pressed on side by side. Wulfgeat was conscious of the irony of the situation. Nothing in creation would have made him stroll companionably with Alric of Longdon, yet he was now accompanying the boy eagerly along the riverbank. He had no pity or liking for the child. Cild was simply a means to an end and Wulfgeat had bought his cooperation. He did not regret that. The charter would repay him generously.
“Why have you stopped?” he complained.
“I may go no farther.”
“You must take me there.”
“No.”
“I paid you, boy.”
“No.”
“Lead on!”
Wulfgeat grabbed him roughly to shake him into obedience, but the boy’s tears made him stay his hand. Cild was terrified to go farther.
He sobbed his excuses until Wulfgeat came to see his refusal in a more sympathetic way. They had reached the junction of river and stream. Light woodland covered the hill before them. They were patently close to the hiding place itself, but the boy could not bring himself to approach closer. His father had been killed and the spot harboured memories too awful for Cild to confront. Nothing would make him venture one step farther and Wulfgeat had been unwise to resort to force. The boy had his father’s mulish stubbornness. Threaten him again and he might renege on the bargain that had been struck.
“Teach me the way,” said Wulfgeat.
“Follow the line of this stream.”
“How far?”
“Till it goes from sight. Higher up.”
“What do I look for?”
“A yew tree.”
“I see a dozen already from where I stand. How will I know I have the right one?”
“It is by the stream where the water comes out from under the ground. It is split in two.”
“By lightning?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“Reach deep into the hollow.”
“That is the hiding place?”
“Your hand will touch a sack.” Cild’s heart was pumping as he rehearsed the execution, but his voice did not betray him. “Untie the cord and thrust your hand right in.”
“The box is there?”
“Box and charter. My father showed me.”
“You have earned your money, Cild.”
“I know.”
“But if you have lied to me …” warned Wulfgeat.
“No, no, I swear it! The sack is in that tree!”
The man could see the boy was speaking the truth. He adjusted his cloak on his shoulders, then followed the trail as he had been directed.
Cild was still shivering with fear when Wulfgeat left him, but it was soon replaced by an evil smirk of anticipation. He had planned it all with care. Only he and his father would ever know what had happened.
Wulfgeat climbed on with awkward steps, cursing the slippery incline and grabbing at roots and branches to steady his ascent. The stream soon vanished, but he could see no yew tree. Had the boy deceived him, after all? But farther up the hill, the water broke through the chalk once more and he was reassured. He grunted on upwards through the dark.
He was out of breath when he reached the yew tree and he rested hard against it for support. Alric Longdon had died here at this hiding-place, but the memory only served to curl his lip. The boy was rightly afraid, but Wulfgeat felt no fear. Where the loathsome miller fell was consecrated ground to him. Wulfgeat peered into the hollow of the tree, then put an inquisitive hand inside. He felt the sack and smiled.
All was as the boy had explained.
He flung off his cloak so that he could untie the sack unencum-bered, but his hands never even reached the twine. As he stretched upwards to fling back the garment, a creature of fur and teeth and claws came leaping from the bushes to bowl him over and snap at his unguarded throat. Wulfgeat was strong, but the force of the attack overpowered him within seconds. His neck and face were eaten vora-ciously away and his twitching carcass soon lay still in a pool of gouting blood.
When Cild crept up on him twenty minutes later, he did not even recognise the man. Nose and eyes had both gone and the head was almost severed from the body. Wulfgeat’s clothing had been ripped apart by claws and one of his hands had been bitten half-away. The boy screamed out in horror.
The wolf of Savernake had another victim.
Chapter Nine
Gervase Bret was needed elsewhere, but he was quite unable to leave.
Conversation with Leofgifu was so interesting and so pleasur-able that an hour slipped past with the speed of a minute. She was indeed an unusual young woman with qualities that reminded him of his dear Alys back in Winchester-thus causing him a twinge of guilt-but these were offset by characteristics that were entirely her own. What astounded him was her complete lack of bitterness. Most daughters who had been through her ordeal would have been alien-ated from their fathers, consumed by self-pity and animated by deep resentment at the severity of their fate. Leofgifu, by contrast, was an image of acceptance. She was honest about her unhappiness, but she did not thrust it upon all around her. She had learned how to suffer in silence and to find relief in helping others whose predicament was worse than her own. Gervase was entranced. He felt that he was watching true heroism on display and it moved him.
By the same token, Leofgifu was increasingly attracted to him. His youthful candour was underpinned by a restraint and discretion that were uncommon in someone of his age. Because Gervase was so unthreatening, she was able to relax with him and to talk openly in a way that she had not done for years. Leofgifu had never been short of male attention. As soon as she was widowed, she sensed lecher-ous eyes falling upon her once more and it was not long before lonely and desperate men were whispering in corners with her father about the possibility of a second marriage. The very notion of tying herself to another man appalled her and she treated all approaches with an icy contempt that her father’s entreaties had been unable to melt.
Leofgifu had earned and now cherished her independence. Yet all those emotions which had once made her want to yield totally and uncritically to a man came flooding back as she talked with Gervase.
He was not for her, but she could share briefly in the joy of his life.
“Are you betrothed?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
“What is her name?”
“Alys.”
“She is most fortunate.”
He smiled. “Alys does not always think so.”
“When will you marry?”
“When we may find the time.” He hid his frustration in a sigh. “My work must come first and it keeps me away from Winchester too often and too long. Ralph tells me that a man can understand real love only when he is separated from his beloved, but it makes for much suffering as well.”
“I know.” Wistfulness descended. She studied him for a moment before speaking. “You said earlier that you entered the abbey at Eltham.
Why did you leave?”
“Alys.”
“Was she the sole reason?”
“No.”
“What else drove you out?”
“I was too weak to withstand the monastic discipline.”
“Too weak or too worldly?”
“Both,” he said. “I failed the test. Self-denial was too high a price for me to pay.”
“How do you look at monastic life now?”
“With admiration.”
“And with regrets?”
“No, Leofgifu. With fear. I am in two minds about this assignment of ours in Bedwyn. Part of me is still drawn to the beautiful simplicity of life within the cloister, but another part of me shudders whenever I see the abbey. It is too demanding, too searching, too overwhelming.