I could never envisage taking the cowl again.”
“Supposing that you had never met Alys.”
“I would still have escaped the order.”
“How?”
“By meeting you.”
It was such an innocent and natural expression of affection that she was lit by a glow of uncomplicated delight. Years suddenly fell away as she recaptured, for an instant, another time with another man when this same feeling had infused her. Leofgifu and Gervase stared at each other for a long while before they realised that they were still holding hands. Self-consciousness made them loosen their grasp and sit apart.
It was only then they became aware that they were no longer alone.
Standing in the open doorway was a sorry figure with the rain beating at his back. Cild was drenched. He was panting with his exertions and bent double by his woes. But it was his face that caused real alarm. It had turned to such a ghastly whiteness that he looked positively ill and his mouth was agape with frozen terror. Gervase and Leofgifu rose at once and moved across to him with concern.
The boy collapsed in a heap before them.
Bedwyn was drowned in a sea of hysteria. The first wave had come with the death of Alric Longdon, but this, it now appeared, had merely lapped at the communal fears of the town. When the news of Wulfgeat’s grisly end spread, it was a tidal surge that swept all before it. Every man, woman, and child gibbered helplessly as gushing water claimed them. Bedwyn was doomed. The whole community was at the mercy of some supernatural creature which could take its prey at will and with complete impunity. There was nowhere to hide. The wolf of Savernake would eat its way through the entire town.
A forester had heard the scream from half a mile away and ran to the spot where the faceless Wulfgeat was splattered upon the ground.
Nobody else was in sight, but the shadow of the animal still seemed to lie across its victim. The forester raced madly to the town to summon help and he set off the typhoon which now engulfed them. Only the monks from the abbey had courage enough to venture into the danger area to rescue the fallen man. The brutalised remains of Wulfgeat were borne back to the mortuary chapel with all due haste. Those who were charged to clean the body had never been given a more repellent task. As they tentatively bathed the mutilated torso, they were convinced that they were dealing with the work of the Devil.
The Witch of Crofton came quickly back into fashion as the most likely suspect. It was Wulfgeat who had first pointed to her as the author of the first outrage. This was plainly Emma’s revenge. She had killed Alric because he had beaten her and she had murdered Wulfgeat because he had instigated the raid upon her. Nothing could be clearer. Her dog was the agent of her heinous crimes. Transformed by a spell into a giant wolf, it patrolled the forest and lured its victims to an isolated spot so that it could savage them to death. It then resumed its form as the black dog which kept the witch company as her familiar. Hatred of Emma reached new heights, but it was moder-ated by naked fear of repercussions. Those who wished to ride off again to slay her and her hound now thought about possible consequences. Alric and Wulfgeat had both offended her and both had died as a result. Even from beyond the grave, her potent charms could mean damnation. Her destruction had to be plotted with great care.
Ralph Delchard did not even consider the name of Emma. Witchcraft did not intrude upon his common sense and he was still grateful for the basket of wild fruit which Emma had picked for him. Such a gesture could not have come from the cold-blooded monster created by common report. When the news of Wulfgeat’s death was brought to him at the hunting lodge, he called for his horse to be saddled and galloped to the abbey, arriving in time to see the body while it was being washed and to scrutinise its wounds without revulsion. He then spoke with the forester who had discovered the corpse. The man had just given a full account to Abbot Serlo of what he had seen and hazy impressions had already hardened into solid fact. A sturdy fellow of middle years, he trembled as he went through the details again.
“Wulfgeat was mauled by a huge wolf,” he said.
Ralph was unpersuaded. “Did you see the animal?”
“No, my lord, but I heard it.”
“That distinctive howl?”
“It was more like a scream of triumph.”
“Wolves do not scream.”
“This one did, my lord.”
“Then it was no wolf. A fox might make such a noise. Or at least, a vixen might during mating. But foxes would never attack a man in that way. Was that the sound you thought you heard? A high-pitched cry?”
“I did hear it, my lord. Clear as a bell.”
“Shriek or howl?”
“A scream.”
“Animal or human?”
“I took it to be animal.”
“You are a forester, man. You should know.”
“It frighted me out of my wits,” said the forester as he rubbed his rough beard. “I thought it was the beast, but it might have been Wulfgeat himself, calling out for help.”
“How would he do that with his throat bitten away?” said Ralph irritably. “If Wulfgeat had time enough to yell out, then he had time to draw his weapon; yet his sword was still in its scabbard when you found him.”
“That is so, my lord.”
“You saw nobody else?”
“Nobody.”
“And no sign of a sudden departure?”
“Some fur caught on the brambles, that is all.”
“How was he lying?”
“Upon the bare earth.”
“But at what angle? Facing what direction? How close to those brambles? How near to that yew tree?” Ralph put a hand on his shoulder. “Steady your nerves and tell me the truth. Much may depend on it. Give me no more talk of huge wolves and wicked witches.
Speak only of what you saw. Now, you came rushing upon him by that stream. Describe how he lay.”
Ralph Delchard slowly dragged the details out of him and gained an approximate knowledge of what had taken place. The man was still far too scared to give an objective report, but he no longer slid into assumptions about a phantom wolf which had been conjured up by the black arts of the Witch of Crofton. Something had killed Wulfgeat and the forester was the first on the scene. His garbled account yielded a number of valuable facts.
Their discussion took place near the abbey gatehouse and so they were on hand to hear the mild commotion that ensued as eager visitors arrived. A distraught Leofgifu was demanding to be admitted to the mortuary chapel to view the body of her father and to confirm the terrible news which had just reached her. Hilda was trying to hold her friend back and Gervase Bret was doing all he could to persuade the stricken daughter against such a course of action. The porter attempted to calm them down, but Leofgifu insisted on her rights as next of kin. Ralph Delchard stepped in to introduce himself and to add his voice to that of the others.
“Lady, you have my deepest sympathy,” he said quietly.
“Where is my father?”
“Beyond recall. Let him rest in peace.”
“I must see him.”
“It is not a sight fit for your young eyes.”
“I am his only child.”
“Then remember him for his goodness and do not vex his poor body now. There is nothing you may do to bring him back and the manner of his death will haunt you forever if you persist in looking upon him once more. Spare yourself that agony.”
“Come away, Leofgifu,” said Gervase gently. “This is no place for you.”
She was adamant. “I wish to see my father.”
“Let Gervase take you home,” advised Ralph. “You will live to thank me for this wise counsel. I have seen the body and it is no longer that of the man you once knew. Your father’s soul is in heaven. Pray for him.”