‘But what you give is of use to us. Thank you.’ Bradecote looked very seriously at Hereward. ‘It is possible that Durand was killed because whoever trained the wolf is with outlaws in the forest, and only a wuduweard would know the forest well enough to find any “lair” they have made. We came through Alvechurch on our way, and they had a theft from their granary and heard a wolf howl that kept all safely within their own four walls. You are the only other man who could discover forest-hidden men, so your life may be at risk.’
‘I thank you for the warning, my lord, but there is little more that I can do than be wary of unbarring the door after dark, and more often than not I have my son here. If men broke down the door not all would leave, even if I did not do so either. I will take my chance and pray to Heaven as we all must.’
‘Then we will leave you and return to Worcester, and wish you God’s protection.’
‘If you go that far, my lord, take a little of this mushroom pottage first. It will keep you both warm within as you go.’
‘Thank you. Your hospitality is welcome.’
When they mounted their horses, undersheriff and serjeant felt much better in body, but were troubled in thought.
Walkelin woke very early, not totally convinced he had even slept. He was stiff, cold and very angry. More than this, he was ashamed. The lord Bradecote and Serjeant Catchpoll had entrusted him with this important task and he had failed them. William Swicol had clearly realised that he was being followed and had led his pursuer on a convoluted trail that would end up with his being lost. The only positive thing from it all was that Walkelin was convinced that his hearing the wolf howl had not been a coincidence, and was strong indication that William Swicol really did control the wolf, even if another held its leash.
Until dawn, Walkelin remained in the fork of the tree, and he prayed for a morning where the sunrise was at least discernible. Thick grey mist would not aid him, but if the sky lightened, he could work out which was east, and if he faced that and struck out to the right he would be heading southward and must come across the Salt Way. Having a plan cheered him a little, though that was offset by his rumbling stomach. He yawned, rubbed his stiff limbs and waited impatiently. At long last he saw a pallor to the sky above the trees, who pointed their bare limbs up to the lightening heavens, and descended carefully. The ground felt good beneath his feet, and he turned smartly to the right. At ground level the sky-change was less visible, so he was cautious. He marked a particular tree directly to his front and walked towards it. When he could touch the trunk he turned about to see the distinctive oak that had been his ‘bed’ and made sure that when he turned again his back was almost straight towards it. By working from tree to tree and keeping an eye on the sky through the bare branches, he successfully made his way to the trackway. He did not know the route well enough to say exactly how far along it he had come since leaving it after the Bow Brook, and he pondered whether it was better to head west towards Wich and borrow a pony from the salt packmen, or to head eastward back to Feckenham and reclaim his horse. Just this once the animal, which he normally castigated as the worst horse in the castle stables, was just ‘lazy old Snægl’. Even a snail was better than walking back to Worcester, and since the castle guard knew he had ridden out, there would be much laughter at his expense if he returned on foot. This meant that he turned to the east and walked to Feckenham. He was surprised that the distance was little over a mile, by his reckoning. As he passed the turner, again at his pole-lathe, the man raised a hand, and assured him his mount had been delivered safely to Osric at the hunting lodge.
Walkelin knocked several times upon the oaken gate before it was opened, and to his surprise he found himself facing the woman who lacked a fingertip.
‘I am Walkelin, Sheriff’s Man, come to collect my horse that is stabled here.’ He sounded assured.
‘Are you so?’ She looked him up and down. ‘Did you get lost?’
For a moment Walkelin wondered how she could know this, but then realised that if the undersheriff and serjeant had spoken with her, she would wonder why he was not with them.
‘No, mistress. I was set upon another task. I must now ride back to Worcester and make my report to the lord Sheriff.’ The shameless flaunting of rank ought to end this interrogation. It worked. The woman opened the door and stood aside to let him within.
‘I will fetch Osric,’ she declared, and Walkelin felt she was glad to be rid of him.
He waited beneath the arch of the portal until the stooping form of Osric emerged from a door in what Walkelin assumed was the kitchen. His expression was wary, even peeved.
‘Sæthryth could have escorted you to the stable. I am sorry you have been made to wait. You have waited, yes?’
‘Oh yes, but indeed, it was no great delay.’ Walkelin wondered at the question.
‘Hmm, then come with me and collect your horse. It whinnied much in the night, being alone and without its companions.’
Trust his horse to be a problem even when not moving. Walkelin mumbled an apology. Osric kept glancing at him, which necessitated the man jutting his chin forward and up to overcome the stoop, and Walkelin’s ‘serjeanting sense’, a thing that Catchpoll was encouraging him to develop, prickled. Why would the hunting lodge keeper’s servant be suspicious of a sheriff’s officer? Walkelin could almost hear Catchpoll’s answer to that in his head. Serjeant Catchpoll would say that many were nervous when faced with authority, and being a sheriff’s officer gave authority, but a man who treated them with suspicion was a man with something to hide. He was so lost in his thoughts that when Osric spoke again he had to ask him to repeat what he had said.
‘I said I wondered what sort of task took you out of Feckenham without your horse?’
It was a sensible question, Walkelin admitted to himself, and it might be asked simply through curiosity, but he had no intention of answering it.
‘When you are merely an apprentice, all the least important tasks are yours, especially if they keep you on two feet not four. Many the time I have been sent hither and yon in Worcester to check upon something, only to return and find I need not have gone at all.’ This was not strictly true, but not a wild lie. He looked squarely at Osric, his naturally honest face bearing no indication of falsehood, and yet Osric could read what was there, and it said that what was shrieval business was not shared.
Osric opened the stable door. Snægl greeted Walkelin with mild recognition but looked round resentfully at him when he placed the saddle upon its back. He led it out and across the courtyard, mounting outside the lodge and giving Osric a wave of thanks. Osric watched him ride off, and only shut the gates when he had become hidden from view.
When Walkelin rode back into Worcester it was gone noontide. He knew a strong urge to go to his mother, eat, and then take to his bed and literally lie low. He was, however, an honest and dutiful young man. His duty now required that he inform the lord Sheriff of the small discoveries of the past few days, and what the lord Bradecote and Serjeant Catchpoll were doing in Tutnall. He had also to admit his failure to follow William Swicol. His life might get better, but he had an awful feeling it would get worse first.
Chapter Nine
William de Beauchamp was not pleased to receive a visit from Hubert de Bradleigh, but that was not because he felt the man was overstepping his position in the shire. This time de Bradleigh had cause, good cause, to bring a grievance before him in person, though the man looked exhausted and dishevelled.
‘I know, my lord, that in the turbulent times in which we live, evil has found fertile ground in which to grow, but the King’s Justice is still the King’s Justice. I have lost all my horses, winter stores for my hall, and the kitchen in which to cook them, and two families in Bradleigh are reduced to living with their neighbours, since their homes are blackened shells. It is but by the Grace of God that my wife and children were not killed and my hall reduced to ashes. These murderous outlaws, for I am sure these are men who are outcasts alrea
dy, must be stopped, my lord, and examples made of them before they ravage the shire and others suffer as Bradleigh has suffered. I would offer you my own men-at-arms, but they no longer have mounts.’
De Beauchamp’s frown deepened. He disliked being told his duty, not but that it was blindingly obvious. What with wolf rumours and now a band of brigands, there was too much nervous agitation in his shire, and when folk were nervous and frightened, stability was lost.
‘Have you any thought as to where these men came from, or why it was that they selected your manor above others? Has there been a man you have dismissed this last year who might have fallen in with brigands and spoken of what Bradleigh could offer in prizes?’ De Beauchamp was thinking. He could see that setting a fire as a distraction to get the men out of the manor house itself would be a good way to avoid detection for the horse stealing, but to then attempt to burn the hall and other buildings within the compound drew attention back to it, and felt an act of intent, even of spite. ‘How came it that the attempt to fire your hall failed?’
Hubert de Bradleigh crossed himself, and muttered a prayer. When he had reached the courtyard he had seen only that, although the kitchen and store were ablaze, his hall showed no flame licking up it, and he had made straight for the door. Within, there was the smell of smoke in the passage and hall, and the maid who slept upon a pile of sacks at the passage end was coughing and crying in the darkness. He ignored her. When he reached the solar he found his lady, clothed, but the children still sleeping. She had looked concerned but not scared, thinking she might be called upon to administer salves to burns, but not aware of any risk to the hall. After all, the cry had been of fire among the more distant village cotts.
‘Wake the children! Wake them now and go to the church.’ Hubert was assertive. His wife opened her mouth to speak and then shut it again as he continued. ‘The store burns, and if it spreads here …’
She had stifled a cry, and in moments was plucking a toddler from its sheepskins as de Bradleigh began shaking the shoulders of the older children snuggled together in a curtained bed. Only with his family safe had de Bradleigh paid attention to the firefighting, and at the time had not considered his hall had been a target, only a likely collateral victim of the burning kitchen and storehouse.
‘I saw no sign of fire in the hall, my lord, but then I sought none. My fear was that the flames from the storehouse, which were intense, might set it ablaze, even by just a simple leaping spark. I did not think …’ He halted, closing his eyes as the memory came to the forefront of his mind. ‘I trod upon something as I came out with my sons in my arms, and my foot nearly slipped from under me. I did not think about it then, when all I wanted was to save my family and my home, but afterwards the girl told what had happened. She has no kin since her mother died and is useful with the children, so we let her sleep in a corner in the passage. God has rewarded our generosity. She woke when I was called, and was cowering among her sacks, and she saw a flaming torch cast into the passage. She threw her sacks over it and stamped upon them.’ He paused. ‘Her feet are not badly burnt. The aim was to kill all of us.’
‘If that was the intent, why not have the men simply enter your hall and put all within to the sword?’ William de Beauchamp was not trying to be harsh, merely logical, but Hubert de Bradleigh was at the end of his strength emotionally as well as physically. His shoulders sagged and then shook, and a sob escaped him.
‘Holy Virgin, take a hold of yourself, man. Such an attempt was not made. It is strange, for it fits to a thieving, but as murder it is but half-hearted, unless … Of course, there would be no way that these men could know your hall did not burn down!’ The sheriff sounded triumphant, which the snivelling Hubert found disconcerting. ‘To them both the parts of the raid were successful. None could have guessed that there would be someone within who would put out the flames.’ De Beauchamp looked thoughtful. ‘This may be personal, but then again, some just like killing.’
‘So when word passes round that my hall still stands and my family live, they will return!’ Hubert panicked and de Beauchamp rolled his eyes. ‘You have to find these killers!’
‘As yet they have not killed anyone,’ De Beauchamp noted, with accuracy but lack of feeling. ‘Send your family to the priory at Alcester or bring them here to St Mary’s for safety, if you feel you cannot yourself protect them. You can be assured that I will have the word put out about this, and will hunt them down when even a whisper returns. I will also set my serjeant and Hugh Bradecote upon it as soon as they return from other matters.’
‘But you yourself are doing nothing?’ Hubert flailed his arms about.
‘What would you have me do? Rush about with men-at-arms? Until we have information we are seeking a single grain in a granary. Go home. Make provision for your family and oversee the rebuilding of your kitchen, and give the servant girl a good blanket to replace her sacks. This will be dealt with, for I will not have lawlessness like this in my shire.’
It was de Beauchamp saying ‘my shire’ that convinced Hubert de Bradleigh. If the sheriff took it personally, then woe betide the malefactors when caught. He bowed in both acceptance and obeisance, and departed, only to be replaced in de Beauchamp’s presence by Walkelin, who looked nearly as tired as the lord of Bradleigh, but not likely to burst into tears, quite.
De Beauchamp listened in silence to Walkelin’s report, his face impassive. Walkelin, just about managing to deliver it without a nervous tremor in his voice, did not feel any better for it. As far as he could see, it just meant that the storm, when it broke, would be the more terrible. Little did he know that secretly, part of de Beauchamp found the thought of the apprentice serjeant spending the most uncomfortable night of his life bent at odd angles up a tree, both an entertainment and a just punishment. He was also honest enough to accept that a man who knew the forest would have many advantages over town-bred Walkelin, however hard Walkelin tried. At the same time the sheriff had a reputation to keep up as a man who did not look kindly upon failure. When Walkelin came to the end of his sorry story there was silence. Then, very slowly, de Beauchamp leant forward in his chair, his hands upon the carved arms.
‘You come before me with failure. You do not expect me to be pleased.’ The voice was half growl.
‘No, my lord, I do not.’
‘You have said nothing to excuse your failure.’
‘No, my lord. I failed. That is the end of it.’ Walkelin tried to stand a little taller and straighter, but a cramped night and exhaustion made that almost impossible.
De Beauchamp looked at Walkelin and could read him as a scribe read letters, but faster. If he told him he would be made to stand guard on the castle midden for a week and receive no pay, it would not be unexpected. Charity was not a virtue William de Beauchamp possessed to any marked degree, yet he saw that Walkelin was not a fool, nor was he lazy, and there were many in the castle who were both. Catchpoll had selected him, and Catchpoll, as ever, had been right. In the course of just over a year Walkelin had made great advances as a serjeanting apprentice and as a man who could command others. Calling him ‘Underserjeant’ had not just been to impress others. Crushing him would serve no purpose.
‘I do not commend failure, but I hate excuses, and you spared me those. You are no use to me as you are’ – de Beauchamp paused for one cruel moment, and then continued – ‘so get you to your bed and sleep, once you have eaten, and if you are not in the guardhouse before Serjeant Catchpoll in the morning, remember that he can make your life a misery nearly as much as I can, and by even nastier methods. Now, get out.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ For an instant Walkelin wondered if he ought to thank the lord Sheriff for not yelling at him so loudly his ears might bleed, but decided that it sounded fawning, and William de Beauchamp also disliked fawning. ‘I will be at my duty when the cock has crowed, my lord.’ He then turned about with only a slight wobble, and made his exit, though by the time he reached his home his steps were not steady.
‘There is much to think upon, and the morning for decisions, but I too have news, and not just of no wolf near Bradleigh, at least no four-footed one.’
For a dreadful moment Catchpoll feared the mention of a werwulf again, but de Beauchamp continued smoothly.
‘The night after the hunt I spent at the manor, enjoying the hospitality of Hubert de Bradleigh. However, last night a number of men also came there, but in the depth of darkness. They set fire to two peasant cotts, and in the following mayhem, stole all five of de Bradleigh’s horses and burnt down his kitchen and store. They also tried to burn down his hall, with his family in it, but good fortune and a serving maid prevented that disaster. There were six or seven men, he thinks, and no wolves, seen or heard. I am inclined to think that there was something personal in the choosing of Bradleigh, for why else burn a man’s hall?’ De Beauchamp sniffed and frowned. ‘What I want to know is whether we are hunting one quarry or two, and as yet I cannot tell. The Ridge Way killing we can do nothing about, and we have no corpse for wailing relatives to point at and demand justice. You have always said, Catchpoll, that if a man kills a stranger in a place he has never been before, and is unobserved, it is almost impossible to find him if he does not leave a trail. If there was ever a trail it grew cold long since. We leave that one. Eat, rise fresh, and we will decide what to do come the new day when thought is the clearer. Oh, and Walkelin is back, tail between his legs. William Swicol led him a merry dance in the forest and got him well and truly lost. He spent the night up a tree.’ At this the sheriff could not hide his smile. ‘The realisation that he had failed you, Catchpoll, clearly troubled him even more than failing me. Neither you nor I will tell him, but a townsman in a forest is lost the moment he steps five paces from the trackway.’
Wolf at the Door Page 11