Walkelin went home to his mother, via a detour to the castle kitchens and a few minutes with Eluned, who fussed over his chilled face with warm hands, which worked wonders, and slipped him a fresh-baked honeycake, which drew a gentle chiding in Welsh from Nesta, who had baked them.
Catchpoll went straight to his own hearth and the wife of his bosom, who took one look at him, pursed her lips, and decided that telling him what she had heard about a falling out of two brothers in Gosethrote Lone could wait for another day. He had the expression that came to him when something niggled him, and many years of marriage had taught her that neither blandishments nor nagging would get him out of it. So she added an extra herb dumpling to the pease and pig’s cheek stew, and hoped he might just notice her generosity.
Catchpoll stared at the cooking pot, aware at a purely olfactory level of the enticing smell of his wife’s good cooking, but without the anticipation that would normally accompany it. There was something in all of the wolf and William Swicol ‘broken pot’ that did not work, or rather several elements that had to be forced to fit, by knocking bits off, and a small but insistent serjeanting voice in the depths of his brain was muttering that he was missing something that lay within his vision, even if it was at the edge.
Outside of Worcester he often dealt with crimes where he had no previous knowledge of the culprit, knew not even their name for much of the investigation, but this involved William Swicol, who had been known to him some years. He tried to think of all that knowledge of the man prior to this.
William Swicol was crafty, clever, a little less inclined to physical violence than many Catchpoll could name, and one who trusted, and indeed rejoiced in, his own wits. He was not the man to do something simply if there was a way to do it by craft. Catchpoll castigated himself for asking out loud why the man had not aimed straight for the big prize. That was his own common sense clouding his view of the criminal’s view. The lord Bradecote was right. If he stole whatever it was and went away, William Swicol would not have the chance to smirk at the efforts of the Law to find him, and he could not resist. But for years the man had travelled from town to town, and what he would learn of riches to be stolen would have been in towns. Had there been an attempt to rob the home of Simeon the Jew, or Robert Mercet, Catchpoll would have placed him high on his list of suspects. Even if it needed several men to accomplish it, keeping them within a town, not all staying together, would be easy where strangers were the norm. So the whole forest aspect was odd.
‘Why have the wolf at all?’ Catchpoll mumbled out loud enough for Mistress Catchpoll to register surprise. She did not make the error of thinking he expected her to respond. ‘And what prize is worth waitin’ a year to win, and how can you be sure as it will still be there after so long? It makes no sense at all!’
Mistress Catchpoll resigned herself to a poor night’s sleep and a very restless husband.
William Swicol rubbed the wolf’s ear absent-mindedly.
‘I still think Hereward should have been dealt with afterwards. Whilst I agree it is very good to send the sheriff’s bastards chasing their tails and never knowing where they will be called from one morn to the next, the Tutnall killing and burning down the hall at Bradleigh will mean that de Beauchamp must come after us without delay.’
He sat at one end of the rough hall, with the wolf between him and Wolf-keeper.
‘Hereward would have been too good, and would find us here. He had to be got rid of.’ Wolf-keeper tried to sound assertive, but there was a defensive edge to his voice, despite that.
‘Not this way.’ William glanced down at the she-wolf. ‘A man with a—’
‘A man with a knife failed miserably, before you say anything more. I thought you said he was good.’ Wolf-keeper’s confidence was ebbing.
‘Two then, and he was good, but Hereward was better.’ William did not care particularly that the man was dead, since there remained enough for his purpose. ‘A killing in the north of the shire is just a killing, and not linked to us and the plan until Anda is involved.’
‘Ha. That serjeant would still have seen one as kin of the other.’
‘Not as clearly.’ Suddenly, William changed his tone, which became brisk. ‘But enough of what cannot be changed. I have let you have your way thus far, but I bows to your “experience” no longer. I had a plan, have a plan, and while I was happy to have things done to leave Serjeant Catchpoll wondering, they have become too big and important, and it has all become the completion of your plan, not mine. Well, your plan ends. We leaves tonight. I wants everything over and to be gone before they knows even what it was that I wanted.’
‘You mean what we wanted.’ Wolf-keeper sounded a little taken aback, disconcerted.
‘No, I mean me. The end of what you wanted is now just a happy result of what I will do. I will not stop you taking the last step in your twisted game as long as it does not interfere with mine, but it is not important.’ There was a hint of steel in William Swicol’s tone that Anda could sense.
‘It is important to me.’
‘I do not care.’ William sneered.
‘But I—’ Wolf-keeper tensed.
‘No longer command here. These men are men I gathered, not you. They will look to me for their share, not you. You bring no treasure, old man.’ William’s sneer saw him bare his teeth as a wolf might in a snarl. ‘It was ever the first rule – be a treasure-giver and men will follow you.’
Anda was disquieted, and the hackles on the back of her neck rose a little. She whined, smelling fear and anger. Here were the leaders of her pack, and she had understood the order, but that was being challenged, and a fight for dominance seemed just one leap away. Being right between them was not a good place for a young wolf to be.
Along the hall, Thurstan and Uhtred had been casually rolling dice and chatting in low tones, but like the she-wolf they sensed the flickers of antagonism that might flare into violence in moments. In one way it mattered not to them who led, but they had greater faith in William Swicol to provide the rewards that had been their inducement. They listened, though the rattle of the dice continued.
‘You are a town man, with town tricks. You cannot understand the power of simple violence. Is it too messy for you?’ There were now two men ‘snarling’ and Wolf-keeper’s voice mocked.
‘Oh, I learnt about the power of “simple violence” very early in life. I felt it, and it hurt. It has its uses, but is not everything. The men of power in London do not have underlings with mail coats to make them so, but wit and craft and an understanding of the power of silver pennies over any loyalty of blood or forefathers. When the Empress looked so likely to become queen it was not King Stephen’s lords and their fighting men that stopped her, it was the men of London, the merchants and makers, who denied her Westminster and her crowning. They shut the kingdom to her by shutting London to her.’
‘That means nothing here.’ Wolf-keeper shrugged.
‘No, but it should. Why do you think we are not a band of twenty men?’
‘Too many to hide; too many to feed; too many to share the spoils.’
‘You could say those things, but the real answer is that we needs no more to do what is planned. We does not need an army of men because I am clever, and our “army” to strike fear is at your knee as at mine.’ William ran his hand back over Anda’s head and pressed down, with just sufficient force to indicate control, on the back of her neck.
‘You could not have raised her, kept her living even, without me, without my knowledge.’ Wolf-keeper sounded less self-assured.
‘True. You were useful for that, at least.’ William’s barb struck home, and the other man tensed.
‘“At least”? Why, you—’ Wolf-Keeper stood up suddenly, the stool toppling over behind him. William Swicol rose also, but laughing, and stepped back, arms outstretched. Anda growled, very uncertain.
‘Go on, try me.’
The older man paused, and William could read his thoughts.
‘Yes, there is doubt. Am I faster, fitter, better? Here is your chance to find out, but it is one chance only, remember.’
‘Where did you learn to be such a cocky bastard?’
‘At my father’s knee, where else?’ The unpleasant smile on William’s face remained. ‘Now, you can make ready to leave with us once we have eaten, and end what you set out to do, or you can choke on your own blood right here and fail. Your choice.’
Wolf-keeper stared at William Swicol as if seeing him for the first time. His anger turned to puzzlement, and then he sat down, slowly.
Chapter Fourteen
Morfran the Welshman grumbled as he tripped over a tree root for the third time, and his mount, which he was leading, threw up its head and whinnied, but as he grumbled in Welsh, nobody listened. William Swicol swore at him in a loud undervoice. The night was dark, for thick clouds were scudding across the darkness of the heavens like ships crossing the seas in a stiff wind, and at present the moon, beginning to wane, was totally obscured. Weaving a path among the trees would be madness on horseback, and was not easy on foot. When the five men emerged onto the Salt Way, all but one mounted up. There was a sense of relief, though even there it was wise to take a steady pace, for some of the ancient stone of the Roman road surface lingered, stone that could break a man’s bones if he fell with force. Uhtred muttered about only fools riding on moonless nights, but was told to shut up, and the moon itself peeped, smirking, from behind the clouds, as if it had hidden on purpose. Wolf-keeper, whose horse was being led by William Swicol, remained at the head of the file, with Anda on a leash at his side. The horses were not so much to speed their arrival as to add to the mayhem, make them seem more numerous and assist their escape. It would also show power, for groups of horsemen were usually well-armed and an expression of authority. Peasants did not challenge authority.
With Morfran silenced, they crossed the ford at the Bow Brook with no more than the sound of the horses’ shoes upon the stony bed of the watercourse, and a jingle of a bit as a horse mouthed it. Then William Swicol dismounted, handed his reins to one of the blonde brothers, and took two torches from a sack tied to his saddle. A flame was struck and the first torch coaxed from hesitancy into a strong flame, from whose kiss its companion woke to converse in crackles and flickers. One was handed to Anda’s handler, and the she-wolf pulled a little away upon her leash, distrustful of the heat and light, which illumined his face and showed a smile. More torches were lit until each man had one aflame and another ready to hand. William Swicol walked ahead and then turned to the low outline of a house. It was Durand the Wuduweard’s house, and he pushed open the creaking door in the knowledge that there would be nobody within. The smile remained, for there were no nightmarish memories for him, at least none under two decades old. He went to the bed, where the straw in the palliasse would catch swiftly, and anointed it with flame that licked, tasted, and then consumed it with relish. A nest of mice fled in all directions from one corner of it, as the fire spread to the rushes on the floor. William Swicol laughed, and threw the stool upon the burning bed, turning it into a corpseless pyre. The flames were high enough to stroke the thatch of the roof, and William, seeing no need to leave his flambeau within, backed to the doorway and stood for a few moments, enjoying the warmth as much as the destruction. This was a place he did not need, and was glad to see turn to ash, and one house in Feckenham upon which nobody would cast water.
The horses were fidgeting now, with the smell of the smoke in their nostrils, but making a noise was going to be part of the plan. William left the door wide to allow a good access of air, and his face was grinning. A whoosh behind him signalled that a section of thatch above the bed had fallen in, and then the exulting flames reached up to the heavens and danced in their liberation. William nodded to the horse-faced Morfran, and pointed a little further along the road and upon the other side, where the turner’s workshop abutted his house. The shavings from the lathe made decent kindling, and were stuffed into sacks. The turner, a good man, gave flame-fodder to the oldest and poorest among his fellow villagers as his act of charity, but there were the past two days’ shavings in a sack in the corner, and they rustled into vibrant reds and yellows and spread the tongues of fire to the hazel-hurdle walls. The men now split up, with Wolf-keeper leading Anda behind Durand’s house to cut across towards the hunting lodge, and being followed by Morfran with the spare horse. William Swicol sent the tallow-haired brothers to skirt the side of the houses beside the Salt Way, with the instruction to set at least one torch to anything that looked an easy target, and to meet him at the far end of the village, beyond where the main track that ran northward to church, hunting lodge and mill lane joined the Salt Way. He himself remounted, kicked his snorting horse hard in the ribs and cried ‘Fire! Fire!’ at the top of his lungs as he surged forward. It took a few moments for any response, but then a few doors opened, and mouths opened also and took up the urgent cry. The shouting horseman was registered for but an instant and then forgotten. He thrust a burning torch as if upon a whim into the roof thatch of the home of Edgar the Reeve and sped on to his rendezvous point, where he wheeled his horse about and looked back along the road, to watch the villagers scrambling out of their homes, most of them barefoot and bare-headed. A woman screamed, and this seemed to be the signal for shouting and yelling from everyone. William Swicol was reminded of kicking open wood ants’ nests when he was a boy, except that the ants did not rush about without purpose.
Everyone was at least heading in the direction of the flames, once they had dashed to fetch pails and pissing-pots and anything that could hold water. It also meant that nobody was paying any regard to the eastern end of the village. The two other torch-bearers appeared round the side of the last cott and one raised a torch in his hand. William Swicol felt a wave of pure mischief flood over him. Yet again he was making folk look one way when everything was really happening in the other direction, and this was Feckenham where he had been treated as a virtual outcast by many, too many. Perhaps revenge was worth having. He pointed towards a house.
‘That one. Make sure of that one.’
The two men nodded and one dismounted and went to kick in the door. William Swicol opened his mouth to shout that he meant the cott next door, but then shrugged. Perhaps it might even remove an encumbrance for him. As the man raised his foot, the door opened so that his impetus made him fall forward. A woman kicked him in the face as he toppled to his knees and the torch rolled into the rushes of the floor. She screeched unintelligible curses at him, then grabbed at something and emerged from the doorway with a child, dragging it behind her. She ran towards the safety of her neighbours. William Swicol shrugged and lit his own second torch, then stuck it into the thatch of the next building, and encouraged the second blonde brother to do the same.
‘Now to the hall,’ he cried, since it was obvious that some of the villagers would now attempt to fight the fires at this end. In the distance, the wuduweard’s thatch was a golden light that made the moonlight pale into insignificance, and the moon, ashamed or appalled, hid once more behind a shielding cloud. He wheeled his horse about and urged it at speed to cut up towards the church and then left into the mill lane, where he knew of branches strong enough to take the tethering of several horses. The fallen man was grabbed by the arm by his brother and pushed onto his horse. Then they followed, yelling like fiends and nearly running over the vanguard sent to try and save the east end of Feckenham.
William Swicol would have been disappointed to see a family and two animals emerge, coughing, from the cott with the torched thatch, but his focus was now entirely upon the great prize.
Anda trembled, her nose bringing her myriad smells not just of burning and smoke but excitement and then writhing trails of fear. The two horses were tied to a post where the hunting lodge wall turned down the mill lane, and the men advanced across the wooden bridge, but not quite to the gate. Morfran the Welshman took a coil of rope with a heavy hook tied to the end an
d cast it up onto the roof, where it caught somewhere beyond the ridge. He tugged experimentally, then sat back with all his weight upon it, looked to Wolf-keeper and nodded. He was a tall man, but without the rope he could not have raised himself high enough to scrabble his feet onto the slope of the roof thatch, which was also steep. He climbed the rope as it lay upon the thatch until he could straddle the ridge, and then hauled up the length behind him, reattached the hook, and let himself down the far side. Moments later the wicket gate was opened and Anda and Wolf-keeper slipped within. The wicket gate was then left ajar.
Anda’s leash was slipped. She was a weapon of attack but also defence, and the man who gave her head a pat as he did so, found that reassuring, though Morfran the Welshman wondered whether the wolf was a weapon that might just attack the first thing its fangs encountered, and determined to stay behind the beast if he could. Besides which, he did not know the layout of these buildings and Wolf-keeper clearly knew where he wanted to go. Man and wolf turned to the left to the door of the chamber that abutted the gateway. Wolf-keeper opened the door carefully. It was almost pitch-black within, with the red embers of a fire glowing in the hearth, but no other light. Yet this was enough for him to discern what looked no more than a lumpen heap lying a little beyond the hearthstones, wrapped in a couple of old sheepskins. The sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing came from the heap and he approached, smiling to himself in the darkness.
Wolf at the Door Page 17