“Of course, my lord. Of course.”
“Do not breathe a word to anyone or the outcry will be raised and the damned miscreant will make a run for it.”
“Miscreant?”
“You have a forger in the town.”
Saewold was shocked. “Here in Bedwyn?”
“Eadmer confirmed it.”
“When?”
“While you were away in Salisbury.” He saw a means to ensure the reeve’s collusion. “It is another reason why we did not disclose the crime. You would have been embarrassed in front of Edward if he had known that so much counterfeit money had been allowed to circulate within your town.”
“So much?”
“We believe so.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“For some time.”
“It must be rooted out at once!” said Saewold. “I will not have Bedwyn tainted with false coin.”
“The time to announce the deception is when it has been fully uncovered,” advised Ralph. “You may gain some credit then instead of the criticism you may incur if your town is seen to be awash with counterfeit currency. You understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Be ruled by me.”
“To the letter.”
“One of the culprits has been identified, but you must help to name his accomplice. Alric Longdon was one party to this dreadful crime.”
“Alric!”
His surprise was short-lived. Once he weighed up the intelligence, he saw how it explained both the miller’s behaviour and his rising wealth at a time when some of his rivals were struggling to make even small profits on their labour. Alric certainly had the craftiness to be involved in such a scheme, but he could never be more than the aide of a subtler mind.
“Who were his friends?” asked Ralph.
“He had none.”
“Who were his relatives, his associates, his customers? Give me a list and we will scour it until we find the likeliest men. Eadmer has praised the forgery for its accuracy, so we look for very skilful hands.
Who in this town could be capable of such intricate work?”
Saewold thought hard. “There are several with fingers nimble enough,” he said, “but none with such diseased minds. Bedwyn has its share of poachers and thieves and drunken fools, but we do not harbour malefactors of this order. Someone who would work hand in glove with Alric? I cannot imagine such a man.”
“He lives here, nevertheless,” insisted Ralph, “and you must point him out to me. Fetch paper and pen to set down every name that comes to mind. Start with men in allied trades. Be quick about it, Saewold, and we may stop the rot before it spreads. Now, sir, who is your most likely moneyer? Where is your second Eadmer of the Short Stride?”
The reeve flinched as a name suddenly hit him.
“A second Eadmer,” he said. “A second Eadmer.”
“There is such a person?”
“Dermon-but, no, it could never be him.”
“Who is this Dermon?”
“He was Eadmer’s assistant at one time, but they fell out and parted.
Dermon does not work in a mint anymore. He keeps accounts.”
“Put his name at the top of the list,” ordered Ralph. “Why did Eadmer not mention the man himself?”
“The bitterness between them was deep.”
“Dermon has cause for revenge?”
“Perhaps, my lord. But cause is not means. Cause is not opportunity.
Dermon is forbidden to go near the mint. He rarely comes to Bedwyn at all. I will not suspect him.”
“Suspect everyone. Where does the fellow live?”
“Chisbury,” said Saewold. “Dermon is now in the employ of Hugh de Brionne.”
It was the third time in a row that Emma had taken her doctoring to a lowly place and been rewarded with silver. Who had left the money outside the doors of these hovels? What benefactor had taken pity on the poorest people in the area? Why had she been singled out for her share of the coins? Emma was still preoccupied with the mystery as she set off that morning to gather herbs and replenish her stocks.
She skirted Bedwyn, then made her way along the river, her dog sniffing along ahead of her. When she came to Alric’s mill, she stopped to throw silent imprecations at it. The beating which he had given her had scarred her soul for life. Alric might be dead, but his mill was still there to remind her of their dealings.
Emma hurried on until she reached the stream that branched off to the left. Using the cover of the wooded slope, she browsed in safety and picked herbs for her basket. The dog went on patrol. Herbs were plentiful and she threw in a scattering of wildflowers as well to decorate her home. She was bent double in the undergrowth when she heard the tell-tale growl. Her dog had scented menace. Emma rose cautiously and pricked her ears. A hissed command brought the dog to her side. The animal continued to emit a low growl, but she could neither see nor hear any movement in the forest. It was only when the growl turned to a whine of fear that she knew they had company.
“Where are you?” she called. “Show yourself.”
Foresters would have come out to harry her. Poachers would have tried to scare her off. Enemies would have hurled something at her and at the dog.
“We are doing no harm.”
She sensed where the danger was lurking now and turned to aim her words at the massive oak behind which it hid.
“Come no closer,” she warned. “I have my dog.”
But the animal was in no mood to fight on behalf of its mistress. It was crouched at her feet in an attitude of submission, as if begging for her protection against some unseen foe. Whatever skulked behind the tree had frightened the dog into immobility. Its whine intensified.
“Leave us alone!” she called out with defiance. “I have only taken herbs to cure sickness. I am a healer.”
There was a grunting noise from behind the tree that made both her and the dog back away slightly, then a large head came round the trunk to appraise her. The hermit had an unsightly face that was made even more revolting by the long, straggly hair, the thick beard, and the accumulated filth. Deep-set eyes glared from beneath shaggy brows. Now that Emma could see him, she was no longer afraid.
Indeed, when he stepped out from behind the oak and stood before her, she felt a vague sensation of pity glide through her. Being the Witch of Crofton condemned her to a joyless existence, but here was someone in a far worse condition than she. His sheepskin garments were soiled and torn; his bare arms and legs were blackened and grazed. He had a powerful frame and a fierce stare, but there was no real hostility in him. Instead, Emma sensed a kinship.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He remained motionless and watched her intently.
“Where have you come from?”
The dog had lost its fear as well. It wagged its tail.
“Do you understand me?”
The great face was scrunched up with bewilderment. Emma tried to make contact another way. She reached into her basket for the wildflowers and held them out to him. He looked faintly pleased but refused with a shake of his head. Emma scooped up a handful of herbs instead, but he did not want those either. She had only one thing left to offer him and she searched in the folds of her cloak to find it. Taking a few friendly steps towards him, she offered the silver coins on her palm.
He peered at them for a second, then a craggy smile cut through the overgrown beard. There was even the ghost of a laugh. The man fished inside his own garment and brought out some matching coins to show her. With a flick of his hand, he threw them to the ground in front of her and indicated that she should have them. Comprehen-sion dawned. Emma had met her benefactor. This strange inhabitant of Savernake Forest had distributed the money among the needy. Where it had come from, she did not know, but it was obvious that he had no need of it. There was abstract kindness in this man. He lived quite alone in self-imposed exile, but he could show care for others. His generous impulse had relieved misery in a number of distressed families.