“Two woodlands,” he continued, “which are two leagues long by one league wide. There are two hundred acres of woodland, and pasture twelve furlongs long by six furlongs wide. To this manor belong twenty-five burgesses. This town pays one night’s revenue with all the customary dues. In this manor in the reign of King Edward, there was a wood one-half league long and three furlongs wide; it was in the king’s lordship. Now it is held by Henry de Ferrers.…”
“I hear no mention of good King Harold,” challenged a Saxon voice at the rear. “Why do you have no place for him and his worth in your calculation?”
“Peace, Wulfgeat,” advised a neighbour.
“I asked the question of the other commissioners and they gave me no worthy answer.” Wulfgeat stood up from his bench to stare at the quartet behind the table one by one. “I ask again. Where is King Harold of blessed memory?”
“He was no king,” said Canon Hubert briskly, “and no blessing attaches to his person or his memory. We recongnise only King Edward, he that was called the Confessor.”
Wulfgeat was unappeased. “The noble Edward, as holy a man as any that may be found in church or abbey, bequeathed the crown to Harold on his deathbed. Will you gainsay the sacred word of the Confessor? And that same King Harold made grants of land in Bedwyn that need to be acknowledged and restored. Write down the name of Harold in-”
“Sit down and be silent,” interrupted Ralph brusquely.
“I have just cause.”
“You will be heard at a time of our choosing.”
“King Harold was a-”
“Usurper,” snapped Ralph irritably. “The crown of England was promised to Duke William of Normandy by that same Confessor that you talk about. We’ll have no more discussion of the matter.”
He snapped his fingers and the four men-at-arms, who had been standing near the back wall, took a meaningful pace forward. Wulfgeat’s neighbour pulled him quickly back down on to his bench and hissed a warning. The incident was closed and Canon Hubert took up his recitation once more.
It was afternoon and the commissioners were opening their investigation in the shire hall, a long, low structure with sagging beams and an uneven floor. Bright sunlight was beating a way in through the small windows to take its share in the proceedings and to gild the tonsures in the assembly. The visitors began by explaining to the tenants, burgesses, and other interested parties the nature of their assignment. Prior Baldwin sat in a chair in the front row with Brother Matthew, the melancholic subprior, at his elbow to represent the abbey with a show of spiritual force. Ralph Delchard presided over the meeting, Canon Hubert and Gervase Bret dealt with documents and charters, and the meek Brother Simon used a skeletal hand to act as clerk to the whole business.
As the canon’s voice rolled monotonously on, Ralph took time off to study the man who had dared to raise the name of a disgraced Saxon king. Such an interruption was foolhardy, but it took courage, and Ralph would always admire that. The bearing and attire of the man showed him to be a burgess of some wealth and standing. Approaching middle age, his beard was flecked with grey but there was no hint of declining years in the fierce eyes and the burly frame. Here was a proud, fearless, virile fellow, headstrong maybe, but that was a fault that Ralph himself shared. He was called Wulfgeat and he deserved a grudging respect.
“Thus concludes the enquiry,” said Canon Hubert, lifting his heavy jowls from the parchment in front of him and gazing around with smug self-importance. “All matters that pertain to Bedwyn and the land adjoining have now been read to you as is right and proper. As you will agree, those first commissioners who traversed the county of Wiltshire were conscientious men who set about their task with meticulous care.” Audible groans emerged from the body of the hall.
“They were charged,” said Hubert, riding over the sound, “to record all information concerning the lands thrice. To wit, as it was in the time of King Edward; as it was when King William gave the estate; and as it is now.” He produced a flabby smile, then jabbed with a knife at their purses. “And it was also noted whether more could be taken from the estate than is now taken.”
The groans were much louder this time, swelled by verbal protest and given real edge by the contemptuous laughter of Wulfgeat. So this was why Bedwyn had been singled out for a second visit. The commissioners had been empowered to impose more onerous taxes. When the first returns were searched by greedy eyes in the Treasury at Winchester, they were seen as ripe for further exploitation. Far too much was already squeezed out of Bedwyn in rent and tax. Additional burdens would break the back of some of its inhabitants. The dis-affection built into a roar until Ralph quelled it by banging the table with his fist.
“Cease this noise!” he ordered. “We are commissioners by royal warrant and have the right to call whom we wish and when we wish to face interrogation.” His gaze shifted to Prior Baldwin, who was sitting serenely in front of him and remaining aloof from the general hubbub. “Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, we begin our enquiry into the land of the Abbey of Bedwyn. Witnesses will appear to give evidence as directed.” Having discomfited the prior comprehensively, he beamed around the hall. “Our business is ended for the day. We thank you for your help and your indulgence.”
Benches grated as the gathering rose to disperse. Abbey lands were rich and extensive. It might take days to peruse all the relevant charters again. That gave other people a breathing space, and their discontent was tempered with relief as they muttered their way out of the hall. A cluster formed around Wulfgeat, who was clearly a spokesman for many in the town. His voice was still booming away mutinously as he led them out into the street.
Prior Baldwin waited for a modicum of calm to return before he directed his question at Ralph Delchard.
“Why must the abbey be called to account?” he said.
“That will become apparent tomorrow.”
“Am I to have no warning of what lies ahead?”
“It has been given.”
“The fact of your enquiry has been announced,” argued the prior pedantically, “but not its inherent nature. Is our land to be subject to new taxation?”
“Be patient until tomorrow.”
“What am I to tell Abbot Serlo?”
Ralph grinned. “The truth.”
Prior Baldwin fumed quietly and looked to Gervase for some eluci-dation. When none came, the prelate turned to the Church, but Canon Hubert was not ready to divulge anything further. The prior was put at a distinct disadvantage and that was not a position in which he often found himself. Brother Simon was his only hope. If he could catch him at an unguarded moment in the abbey, he might be able to worm some intelligence out of that wasted body. Summoning all of his dignity, he rose from his chair, with a sharp nudge, compelled Brother Matthew to join him, then delivered a parting boast.
“The abbey has nothing to hide.”
“Then it is not like any abbey that I have ever known!” said Ralph with a chortle. “They usually have secrets as dark as their black cowls.”
But Prior Baldwin and Subprior Matthew were already marching side by side down the hall to return to their home. All the papers had now been gathered up from the table and put back into their satchels.
Brother Simon bore the largest, but Gervase kept a substantial number of documents himself. He needed to study them again before confronting the abbey delegation on the morrow. It was his knowledge of legalities that would be crucial in what promised to be a ferocious debate.
Ralph Delchard was about to lead the others out when he noticed a figure hovering inside the far door. He was a stout man of middle height, close to Ralph’s own age but with none of the latter’s vigour.
Washing his hands nervously, he was trying to compose his features into a state somewhere between gravity and ingratiation. Clearly a person of some consequence, his rich tunic was covered by a mantle that was held at the shoulder by a gold brooch. His belt, too, was that of an affluent man and his cap was trimmed with fur. Ralph despised the gartered trousers of the old Saxons almost as much as their fondness for beards. The stranger had neither of these defects of his nation.