Hugh de Brionne chose his moment well, riding into Bedwyn at the break of day on his destrier, with his huntsmen in support, bringing a pack of baying hounds to wake anyone still abed and to announce his bold purpose. Where the Warden of Savernake’s men had failed, Hugh de Brionne would succeed. He would sift through the forest until the wolf was tracked down and caught. Bedwyn might still be immobilised by terror, but a Norman lord was determined to take action.
He was also grateful of anything which diverted attention away from the land dispute in which he had become embroiled. Success in Savernake would make him a hero in the locality. A man who was usually despised for his arrogance would now be praised for his bravery and there would be none of the usual complaints about the damage done to farming land over which he and his huntsmen had to ride to reach the forest. If he could kill the wolf, he could rid the town of a menace that banished all sleep and he would also impress the leader of the commissioners who sat in judgement upon him. A keen huntsman himself, Ralph Delchard would be the first to commend a successful sortie in the forest. Hugh de Brionne had everything to gain.
His horse pranced in a circle around the marketplace while its master waved his stump of an arm to keen onlookers and collected their good wishes.
“Fortune attend you, my lord!”
“Kill the wolf!”
“Run it to ground!”
“Show it no mercy!”
“Unleash your hounds!”
“Bring it back dead!”
“Destroy it!”
The shouts brought more and more heads out of windows and the whole town was soon urging Hugh de Brionne to remove the bane of their existence. He was an unpopular man who could yet turn out to be their saviour, and even the most loyal Saxon was ready to applaud a Norman if he could catch the wolf of Savernake. The name of Emma was hurled into the air, but Hugh de Brionne did not deign to hear it.
Witchcraft did not murder Wulfgeat. Only feeble minds could believe such nonsense. In the opinion of Hugh de Brionne, the burgess was brought down by the angry fangs of a lone wolf. His job was to find it before it could strike again.
“Sound the horn!” he ordered.
The blast reverberated around the town and set off a frenzy among the hounds. With Hugh in the lead, they scurried off eagerly in the direction of the forest, borne along by the cheers of the people and by an overweening confidence. Men with weapons and trained dogs might prove to be their salvation. Bedwyn was certainly able to face the new day with more fortitude than had hitherto been the case.
It soon evaporated. An hour passed and the sounds of the hunt could no longer be heard. The wolf had evidently outrun its pursuers.
A second hour rolled by and the Witch of Crofton was resurrected once more as the culprit. Hugh de Brionne was searching in the wrong direction. There was no wolf in the forest, because it was now a black dog that guarded its mistress. Reality succumbed to superstition as the anxieties of the long night took hold on minds once more.
Nobody could hunt down a wolf that existed only when it was called into being by black magic. Hugh de Brionne and his men were chasing shadows in the forest.
The passage of a third hour reinforced the feeling that the whole venture was a waste of time. Those who had trusted in a Norman lord now reviled him for his false promises and they also noted the recurring link between invasion and affliction. When the commissioners came, Alric Longdon died; while they stayed, the town was being rent apart by boundary disputes and their evil influence had culmi-nated in a second gruesome death. The Normans were not simply there to enforce the king’s business. They were a curse on the community. This thought made people recall the Saxon spirit which had inflamed Wulfgeat throughout his life.
“Down with the Normans!” someone dared to shout.
“Wulfgeat was right! Never surrender!”
“Drive them out!”
“Grind them under the heel!”
“Save a Saxon town for true Saxons!”
“Normans are a plague upon us!”
“Remember Wulfgeat! Resist them!”
“Be true to his memory!”
“Who will stand against them?”
A great cheer went up, but it was marketplace valour. They knew in their hearts that they did not have the skill or the numbers to defeat their Norman overlords and their morning rebellion was, in any case, misjudged. One blast on a hunting horn dispelled it completely.
“They’re coming back!”
“I see Hugh de Brionne.”
“The riders are all scattered.”
“But they are bringing something.”
“They have a kill.”
Speculation grew to bursting point as they watched the huntsmen canter down the hill and into the town. Hugh de Brionne was at the head of his entourage, a smile of satisfaction on his scarred face. His armour glinted in the sunshine and his mantle streamed behind him in the breeze. As he opened up an avenue in the busy marketplace, two of his men came forward. Each held the end of a long branch of wood from which a dead carcass dangled. The animal was hacked into shreds and dripping with blood, its great mouth open to reveal its murderous teeth, its tongue drooping uselessly. On their master’s command, they let their quarry drop to the floor and it spewed out even more blood in front of the awe-struck townsfolk.
Hugh de Brionne pointed with his stump of an arm.
“Behold the wolf of Savernake!”
Abbot Serlo was omniscient. Although there were things that he chose not to know because they interfered with the higher matters to which his life was dedicated, he nevertheless had an instinctive grasp on them. When Prior Baldwin called on him that morning after Prime, the abbot did not need to ask about the latest development in the battle of wits with the commissioners. He sensed at once that there had been setback and threat and relegated the matter to the end of their discussion. Of much more immediate concern to him was the grotesque corpse which lay on a bier in the mortuary chapel. His eyes protruded beyond their customary danger point.
“Should we not send for the sheriff, Prior Baldwin?”
“No, Father Abbot.”
“This is a second tragedy within days.”
“But not brought about by human agency,” said the prior. “A wolf struck down both men. We cannot call on the sheriff to do our hunting for us, especially when there is no work left for him to do.”
Serlo was pleased. “The animal has been caught?”
“Caught and killed, Father Abbot.”
“By whom?”
“Hugh de Brionne and his men.”
The eyes wobbled upwards as the portly abbot mixed gratitude with regret, offering up a prayer of thanks for the removal of the troublesome beast while wishing that someone else could claim the credit for its death. Hugh de Brionne was a thorn in the side of the abbey at the best of times. With something of this order to boast about, he would become even more insufferable.
Prior Baldwin took a more expedient view of it all.
“Set a wolf to catch a wolf,” he said.
“One danger at least is past.”
“Hugh de Brionne will be famous for a week.”
“And notorious for the rest of his days.”
“Let us forget the noble lord,” said Baldwin, anxious to move away from the subject of a man who was still implicated in the boundary dispute with the abbey. “Our thoughts must be with Wulfgeat.”
“Prayers have been said for him at every service.” Abbot Serlo turned his bulging eyes once more upon his guest. “No man deserves to die in such a hideous way, but one is bound to look for purpose in the nature of his demise. Christ went into the wilderness for forty days and forty nights and emerged untouched by the snarling denizens of that place. Goodness is its own protection. Brothers from this house go into the forest every day and come to no harm. Yet Alric and Wulfgeat met with evil among the trees.” He spread his palms questionably.