Wolf at the Door

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Wolf at the Door Page 18

by Sarah Hawkswood


  ‘The loyal Osric,’ he whispered very softly in the blackness, but even as he spoke the name a pale hand darted, swift as a serpent’s tongue, from within the greasy wool and grabbed his ankle in a grip of iron and pulled, very hard. He exclaimed as he fell back, and the inert mass was on top of him, clawing at his eyes and screeching in a wild, discordant voice that made Anda want to howl. Beneath Osric, the man spat bits of fleece from his mouth and called her name, urgently. Even as she gathered herself and leapt upon the strange mix of man and sheep that her nose told her was her prey, the pair rolled slightly, so that instead of landing upon Osric’s bent back one forepaw slipped between the two men, and the bite that would have been upon his neck encountered thick sheepskin before it sank into flesh and hit the scapula. The screeching became a scream, but the wolf-wound was not disabling. Osric’s nails were not pared and shapely but long and some were jagged. A new sound was added to the awful noise as a nail caught not just cheek but the corner of an eye and tore the soft flesh where an age-crease would be accentuated by laughter. Wolf-keeper was not laughing. He roared with the pain, even as his other cheek was gouged. In the midst of the searing pain he knew he must not roll Osric right over, because Anda was in killing mode and anything that could be bitten would feel her teeth. He did not want it to be himself. Anda released her grip to bite again, and this time found more muscle. The clawing of Osric’s right arm lost intent and power.

  Morfran, his knife drawn, stood back and watched, though it was aurally more terrifying than visually until a light was cast upon the fight. In all the noise, the opening of the solar door had been lost, and Cedric the Steward, holding a pottery lantern in a wavering hand, and leaning upon his stick, stood at the end of the hall. The pool of light fell short of the hearthside, but the half-light was enough to show all he needed to know.

  ‘Leave him.’ It was a command from a man who had commanded in the past, though the brittleness of the voice made it crack into a cough. Whether it was addressed to Osric, his assailant or the wolf was uncertain, and for one breath-length immaterial. All three seemed to pause, to obey without even thinking, and Osric flung himself back as the wolf loosened its grip, and rolled in the direction of his master.

  ‘Save yourself, hlaford,’ he begged, whimpering.

  Cedric stood still. The man on the floor with the wolf had grabbed its collar with both hands and was half choking it, and yelling ‘No!’ as loudly as he could.

  ‘Get out of this hall.’ Cedric was breathing as if he had run the length of Feckenham. ‘Whoever you are, you have no right to be here.’

  The combination of semi-strangulation and the voice were drawing Anda from the red mist of savagery, and the man felt her muscles lose a little tension. He kept his hold but half rolled to a kneeling position and glared into her eyes, dominating her. Slowly, very slowly, he rose to stand.

  ‘This belongs to the lord King, and I hold it to the death.’ Cedric the Steward did not appear to mind that this event might well be imminent.

  Among the red-stained sheepskins, Osric’s left hand found his eating knife. Before anyone, or anything, reached his lord, his master, it would literally have to get over his dead body.

  Wolf-keeper turned, and even in the low light it was clear that his face was badly cut about. The ragged tear from the corner of the left eye made it look as if he was weeping blood, copious amounts of it. He licked his lips and tasted salt and iron. It was worth it.

  ‘Oh good.’

  William Swicol strode into the courtyard as if he was King Stephen himself, and the brothers his tenants-in-chief. Had he called for meats and wine it would not have sounded out of place. The smile that had been upon his lips thinned into annoyance. He turned to the left, knowing the steward’s hall was there, and what he would find there. He was only partially correct. Thurstan and Uhtred, who entered behind him, one with a torch just lit from his brother’s, were caught off-guard.

  ‘Holy Mary,’ breathed Thurstan, and crossed himself. He had no problem with violence, nor with killing, but seeing Anda raise her head and stare with her hard amber eyes at him when her muzzle was scarlet and she was stood over a body as her ‘kill’ was too much. ‘If she gets a taste for flesh …’ He gulped.

  William Swicol snatched one of the torches and advanced towards her. She bared her teeth. This was hers: it had been allowed. He stared at her, unblinking, growling in his throat, and with the flaming brand before him.

  ‘Anda, down.’

  She wavered, and instinct fought with upbringing and lost. She flattened herself to the ground, ears flat back to her head, and lowered her gaze, submissively. William passed her, still staring at her, and kicked her, hard but not too hard, as he went by, asserting his power. The brothers were not confident that she regarded them in the same light and hung back.

  Sounds of anger came from the solar, and things being thrown. William stepped beyond the body of Cedric the Steward, whose death had clearly been at the hand of man not jaw of wolf, and entered the small chamber, which was barely more than a private place for a bed. The bed itself was wrecked, the palliasse contents strewn about. Two men were upturning everything.

  ‘Fools,’ spat William Swicol. ‘When I said the treasure was in the hall why would I mean this hole? A king’s treasure would be in the King’s hall, not the steward’s chamber. This is not searching, it is just letting out your anger because I guess that the old bastard died too quickly. He was sick. That was bound to be.’

  Wolf-keeper turned round and William grimaced at his face.

  ‘Find a piece of linen and bind that up before Anda looks at you as her next meal.’

  ‘He did die too fast,’ the words were distorted by the injuries to the face, ‘but I made him watch what she did to the snivelling slave.’

  William Swicol looked neither disgusted nor impressed.

  ‘We searches the hall, and sees if there is anything in the chapel worth taking. Where’s her leash?’

  It was tossed to him.

  ‘Come.’ With which William turned and walked out, calling Anda to heel and then tying the rope to her collar. She looked up at him placatingly.

  The five men crossed the courtyard, and Morfran was diverted to the chapel, just in case any treasure was stored beneath the altar, or a thing of worth left there. It had always been said that Cedric the Steward acted as if the King might ride into the courtyard at any moment, and everything had to look ready to receive him.

  Anda was tied to a convenient ring in the wall of the stable, and left. William Swicol, the injured Wolf-keeper and the northern brothers entered the King’s hall.

  It was lofty, cold, and had not been used in a long time, although it was tidy, and the rushes upon the floor were fairly fresh. Benches were placed along one long wall, and trestles and boards ready to be assembled at need. The hearth was long and formed of two slabs of stone, the gap between them blackened faded to grey, since it was years since a fire had burnt upon it. The dais at the solar end, which was nearest to the chapel, was raised higher than normal, and up two steps. A chair of impressive dimensions, and finely carved, was set upon it, with tall stands upon either side for branches of pillar candles to illuminate the magnificence of the royal presence.

  William Swicol gave a tight smile, and kicked at a board.

  ‘Under here. We needs to lever a couple of planks off and look underneath. Find one. I will search the solar.’

  The brothers exchanged a glance, sharing the momentary doubt that if anything was found they would not see all of it and receive a fair share, but upon a repeat of the command, went out.

  ‘Sit down before you falls down,’ instructed William Swicol, and pressed Wolf-keeper to sit upon the edge of the dais. He leant forward, looking rather pallid where he was not bloody, and was clearly not fit to do anything. William went to the solar door and opened it slowly, with an awareness that this was the private chamber of kings, where they had slept, and where none but their closest attendants and most
trusted lords would have entered. In many ways it was unremarkable, but William had never been inside a lord’s solar before and did not know what to expect. He was disappointed. The size was moderate, though the bed frame was substantial, and rods with hooks upon them linked four solid corner posts, so that hangings could be put up for warmth and privacy. There were also hooks in one wall, and William, who had never seen a tapestry, wondered if King Henry, who had visited many times, had brought tapestries showing hunting to adorn his chamber. There were three empty braziers, two candle-stands, a chair with arms and, the things that attracted William, two large chests against one long wall. Both were locked, and William swore. A barrel padlock could be hacked off, but it would take precious time, and even with five men the chests would be too difficult to carry off. They would need a cart to transport them, and it was most unlikely that they were full of treasure. More likely was that they contained linens and fine-quality domestic items, ewers and cups fit for those who came as the King’s hunting companions. The King, he imagined, drank only from gold and it travelled with him. That boxes of treasure might be secreted between linen sheets was, however, perfectly possible. Well, keys there must be, and most likely they were with Cedric’s body, for he would keep them as a lady might at her girdle. He went back into the hall and reached the door as the brothers returned, bearing an axe.

  ‘All we could see, like,’ explained Uhtred, and shrugged.

  ‘Best you start hackin’, then. I need to find the old man’s keys.’

  William did not quite run to the steward’s hall, but his steps were urgent. He rolled Cedric’s body over as if it had been a sack of grain, and fumbled around the waist belt for a hanger and keys. There was nothing. He muttered to himself that he was a fool. Cedric would not have slept with the keys still about him. No doubt they hung beside his bed. He went into the little solar. Nothing hung upon the wall, but on closer inspection there was a nail hammered into the side of the bed near the head end, and from it hung three keys, two for padlocks and one smaller one to turn. He could have whooped for joy.

  He took his prize to the hall, ignored the wood-splintering efforts of the brother wielding the axe, and went back into the solar. The first key did not fit the lock he tried, but the second slid in easily and the lock opened with a satisfying clunk. William then realised he needed two hands to lift the lid, and he was holding a flaming torch. He called for some help, and Wolf-keeper came in, still looking likely to pass out.

  ‘Here, hold the torch, and for Sweet Mary’s sake do not drop it in the chest.’ William thrust the torch at him, and he took it without speaking.

  William lifted the lid. There were items rolled in coarse linen which turned out to be expensive beeswax candles of good girth, and a pile of folded linen, much finer, for the royal bed, with napkins to take the grease from regal fingers. He grabbed one of those and thrust it at Anda’s handler.

  ‘Best wound-cloth you will ever see. Use it.’

  He scrabbled his hands among the linen but found nothing firm, and grunted. He turned his attention to the second chest and discovered blankets of good wool, and a coverlet of coney skins, warm but lightweight, and hangings that would fit the bed, left with now very dried lavender between to keep away the moth.

  ‘Nothing here that could be called treasure,’ grumbled William, ‘but take a linen sheet and wrap the candles in it. I can see a use for those.’ He liked the idea that he could show he was of great importance if he showed off candles of such size and quality when he arrived in London, and a dozen candles were not too large to carry. ‘Let us hope there was something under the platform.’ He did not wait to see if his instruction was obeyed, which irked the older man.

  In the hall there was now a hole in the dais and one of the brothers had his head thrust into it.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Nowt, under here, as I can see.’ The head emerged. ‘But it’s varry dark, and if as I put the brand down the hole, man, I’ll burn me face.’

  ‘Make the hole bigger then.’ William went to the other end of the chamber, the buttery end, where a wooden screen hid an area where there would be barrels of wine and tuns of ale as well as other stored food when the hunting lodge was in use, but it was several years since King Stephen had visited, and it was largely empty, except for some good-quality wine jugs upon a board and with cloth stuffed in the tops to keep out dirt and dust, and a couple of barrels in a corner. Then William noticed a box, no longer than from his wrist to elbow, and his palm span in depth. It was mostly concealed by a folded sack, and it had a lock hole. His heart beat faster. It was smaller than he had expected, and when he lifted it, he was even more disappointed that it was not heavier. In his mind a ‘great treasure’ would be boxes of gold and silver heavier than a single man might carry. He shook it, and it rattled as if small things were within. Whatever was inside might not have the weight of gold, but was valuable enough to keep under an expensive lock and key, and if you wanted to hide a thing of kingly value, why not conceal it in the least likely place. He conveniently forgot berating the others for searching in the steward’s hall. What might rattle? Pearls? Small but precious gems? The third key upon the iron ring was too small for the lock, and he cast it aside, but William assumed that the King himself would hold the key to a personal treasure. Besides, this wooden box could be broken open more easily than a large chest. He smiled. The old steward had thought himself clever, but he was not as clever as William Swicol.

  Morfran’s head appeared round the screen.

  ‘Nothing but a silver chalice and paten in the chapel. I looked in the kitchen and found bread, see?’ He sounded more delighted by the latter find. ‘I looked out of the gate too, for there was noise, and they have sent anyone of no use in fighting fires to the church. We are lucky nobody looked down the lane and saw the horses.’

  ‘We will not linger. We takes what we have found back and opens the treasure there.’ William was confident. ‘Was there a cross?’

  ‘Yes, but it was only wood.’ Morfran hoped that William would not check, for although stealing anything from a chapel was a great sin, the man could not steal the little silver cross from the altar. He felt he would burn in the depths of Hell if he did.

  William instructed Morfran to go first, cautiously, and untie the horses, then stepping back into the hall, told the other three to follow and the injured wolf-keeper to take Anda. He looked groggy, and had to be told twice. William followed, a little behind, and at the gateway he peered out, and paused for a moment, watching the injured man sway as he mounted, pulling his horse’s bit so that it circled. The other three were already in the saddle, and Morfran was holding the last horse in readiness.

  Then something made the horse jib a little, and William Swicol frowned as something pale caught his eye.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Edgar the Reeve was sat by his own hearth, and its smoulder-glow was not enough to keep him from his bed. He needed a haven of peace at present, though a bed with a wife and four children huddled in it was not very peaceful. Feckenham had been far from tranquil this last week, and although the loss of Durand Wuduweard was really no loss at all, the manner of his death and the proximity of a wolf, or worse, a werwulf, had put everyone upon edge. Both had disturbed his dreams, and by daylight there were questions being whispered about whether he was fit to be the reeve at all. He did not know what else he could have done, or could do now, and his sleepy brain was running in circles. He sighed, yawned and stood up. It was then that he heard the cry of ‘Fire!’, and he actually jumped, sleep and wolves both forgotten. He knocked over his stool as he stumbled in the near-dark to the door and opened it. It ought to be very dark outside, and it was not. A flame-glow gave a hellish light. Opposite to him, the smith was in his doorway, and staring.

  ‘Your thatch is catchin’, Edgar!’ He pointed, and Edgar stepped out and looked up.

  ‘Holy Mary, preserve us!’ He dashed indoors to shake wife and children into wakefulness, and grabbed the
water pail. ‘Get up! Get up! The house is afire!’ He half pushed his wife from the bed, and she in turn bundled the youngest child, an infant of not yet two, into her arms, and stumbled out into the mayhem, the older children in her wake. Edgar threw the contents of the pail at his roof and knew it did nothing. By now the Salt Way was filling with figures, barely distinguishable in the distortion of darkness and flame-shadow.

  ‘The wuduweard’s is burnin’,’ he heard from a female voice.

  ‘Let it burn,’ cried a man, ‘and aid me, for mine will follow.’ He recognised the turner. Edgar had so many thoughts racing in his head. How could several homes be alight at once? There had been no sounds of thunder and cracks of lightning. Was Feckenham cursed?

  ‘What does we do?’ screamed a woman, and Edgar pulled himself together. He was the reeve and he would show it.

  ‘Form a chain to the well,’ he cried, ‘and get the too old and too young to the church.’

  ‘To pray?’ The voice was confused.

  ‘No, because its walls are stone and it is away from all others. And ring the church bell. We must waken everyone.’

  ‘Do as the reeve says,’ a male voice declared.

  Those words gave him strength. Two fires could be put out if they all worked together.

  ‘Look! T’other end!’

  He turned to the source of the cry and saw an arm pointing along to the Alcester end of the village. A roof was burning, and smoke came from its neighbour. He had to think, and fast. His eldest, a lad near to tithing age, was at his elbow.

  ‘Son, see that everyone on The Strete is up and brings pails, anything that holds water. East side to help towards,’ he squinted along the road, ‘Agar’s, I think, and west side this way.’

  ‘The Strete’ was the part of the village that ran up to the church and hunting lodge and the mill lane, at an angle to the Salt Way. The villagers were still in disarray, running in various directions, through panic or in the belief that they were being useful. Some were now running towards him, and then there were horsemen, several, charging through the throng, and it made no sense and … His brain reeled. Keep calm, keep calm, he told himself. The smith, perhaps the most at ease with heat and flame of all the villagers, definitely looked calm, and Edgar delegated the saving of the turner’s to him, and called for rakes to drag off thatch that smouldered, but nothing burning that might spread the blaze further.

 

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