‘No more deaths, dear God,’ he prayed, devoutly, under his breath.
Sæthryth had been awake, conscious of a familiar griping in her guts, and wondering if she could exchange a goose egg for the village healing woman’s usual concoction come morning. She heard a voice, and thought for a moment she was in some half-dream, for the voice was familiar, but it was night and it should not be there. She shook her head to clear it and got up from the bed. The child that had nestled up to her for warmth, whimpered in its sleep. There was noise outside the door, not just a voice, and she went to open it just a little and peer out, cautiously. As she lifted the bar aside, the door was kicked in by a man who had expected it to resist. There was a burning torch in his hand. He tumbled forward onto his knees and, fearing rape and worse, Sæthryth kicked him in the face. The torch was flung from his hand into the dark of the chamber, and found dry rushes. Sæthryth was not thinking, just acting upon instinct. She shouted at the unknown invader, then grabbed the hand of her child, who had woken, confused, and clambered off the bed to seek the security of his mother. She dashed outside, aware of horses and mayhem, but also that the whole village was awake and gathering. She ran, barefoot, pulling the child behind her until it stumbled, and she turned to scoop it up into her arms.
Sæthryth had experienced an unpleasant few days, with rumours of her relationship with William Swicol drawing sharp comments and being openly shunned by some, but in the confusion all was forgotten.
‘All the children are being put in the church for safety,’ cried a woman, pointing up The Strete, and Sæthryth hurried towards it, gasping as horses thundered past her on either side, and disappeared into the moonless dark. She was only focused upon reaching the church without tripping over or cannoning into someone. As she passed the well a chain was forming, and she heard the voice of the bailiff giving instructions. With relief, she reached the sanctuary of the church, where the nursing mothers, oldmothers and infirm were gathering the children together like hens with chicks. Sæthryth told her son to be a good boy, and ran back to help save her home.
Agar was a sound sleeper, who snored. Winefrid had learnt that if she fell asleep before her spouse she could sleep through the noise, but Golde was less fortunate, and was wondering whether she was prepared to face the cold and climb from the bed to go round it and shake her father into moving from lying on his back, yet again. It was Golde who heard the commotion, and then a woman yelling, and it had her sitting bolt upright and urging both her parents to waken, but got merely a ‘Go back to sleep’ mumble from her mother.
‘Mother,’ she shook Winefrid’s arm, hard. ‘Somethin’ bad is goin’ on outside. Wake up!’
Dragged from sleep, Winefrid took some moments to process this, but when she had done so, acted swiftly. She rolled and pushed Agar from the bed and onto the floor, shouting at him to look out of the door. He swore, but obeyed out of habit. The scene before him drove any wisp of sleep from him in an instant. He turned.
‘Jesu! Winefrid, Golde, get everyone out, get out now!’
‘In my shift? Do not—’
‘Now, woman, for the love of Heaven. There is fire.’
The single word worked as haranguing would not, and had Winefrid clambering from the bed, shaking the boys who slept across the foot of it, and Golde, the most awake, grabbing her shoes in her hand as she grabbed the goat with a halter and dragged it to the door. Its companion followed by instinct. At the doorway they pulled from her and fled, leaving Golde hoping they would be found later. Winefrid, clasping her sons’ hands, dreaded what would be said about the fact that her plaited hair was shamelessly uncovered, but once outside one glance showed that every woman in Feckenham was in the same condition.
Golde was reminded of the graphic description that Father Hildebert had given of the gates of Hell, except those with pitchforks were not horned and tailed devils but their neighbours, tugging thatch from the roof of the reeve’s house, and the screaming was a mix of panic and giving directions rather than souls in torment. A bucket was thrust into her hand by someone.
‘Take that to the well and get in the chain, girl.’
She dropped her shoes, got her feet half into them, and hopped and staggered into what was evolving into order from chaos. There were not so many villagers that each fire had one chain, nor that each container of water could be simply passed along. Every yard of gap took steps and spillages, and where The Strete met the Salt Way the chain bifurcated, taking water left or right. At the far end of the village the wuduweard’s house was a beacon of fire where the flames had been allowed to feast unhindered upon it. The woman in front of Golde was saying Ave Marias as water splashed her bare feet, interrupted only when a thread of smoke caught in her throat. She lost sight of both father and mother, but the rhythm of take bucket, stagger to the next person, hand over, take empty bucket and run the few paces back to exchange it for a full one, took over from all thought.
Father Hildebert woke to the sound of his church bell ringing, and for one moment thought he was in the dortoir of his monastery and it was the bell for Lauds. Then he heard the knocking. He was the only villager who was used to being woken in the night by hammering at his door, but it was never for reasons of joy. He hastily threw his scapular over his habit and knotted the rope cord at his waist. It was not, he felt, seemly, that the priest should appear half dressed and tousled when called to God’s work. He was surprised that it was a girl of about twelve who was beating her fist upon the oak.
‘My child, who—’
‘Father, Father, the village is on fire.’ The girl raised an arm and pointed towards the Salt Way. He was totally unprepared for her announcement and his lips formed a silent ‘Oh’ before he gathered his wits. His instant fear for the church was, he realised, unnecessary, since nothing as yet burnt up The Strete.
‘Yes, I see. I come.’
‘And the babes and oldmothers is in the church, Father, to keep safe.’
‘Good.’ Neither physically brave nor strong, Father Hildebert knew a moment when he wished he could join them, but this was a situation where the work of saving homes and perhaps lives as well as livelihoods, was of greater need than devotion before the altar. ‘Laborare est orare,’ he murmured, under his breath.
‘Bring a pail,’ commanded the girl, who would never have normally spoken so to a priest, and he disappeared within to fetch one. Upon his return the maid was gone, and he hurried towards the well and Wystan the Bailiff, who was hauling up the bucket with strong arms.
‘How can I help?’
Wystan’s arms ached, and he would dearly love a replacement for at least a few minutes, but the little priest would be no more use than a stripling.
‘Get into the line, Father, and help the passing of the buckets. Widow Thorn is flagging upaways.’ He indicated with a jerk of his head.
‘Of course.’ Father Hildebert left his empty bucket and hurried up the line of villagers to where a woman was patently struggling with a full pail of water. She was breathing hard, and gasping a little.
‘Now, my daughter, let me take your place and you go to the church. Your prayers are of use and if you pray silently, that bad chest of yours will be eased.’ He took the bucket and her place in the line, and found himself passing it on to Sæthryth, Beocca’s widow.
Things were being said about her, quite openly, over the last couple of days, but Father Hildebert, who had no true understanding of the desires of the flesh, had already given penance to at least two women who had told him he should denounce her as a Jezebel, and refuse her the sacraments until she had made public repentance. They had omitted that thereby they would have the opportunity to gloat openly over her misdeeds, but he knew that ‘casting the first stone’ was always popular in communities with old rivalries and antipathies. Well, at this moment she looked far from wicked, and simply very worried.
‘Have faith, my daughter,’ he offered, as he took an empty bucket back from her.
‘My house burns, Fath
er. At night’s end I may have nothing, and nowhere for my son to rest his head.’
‘Fear not. You will find shelter.’
‘In Feckenham?’ She sounded doubtful.
So she had heard the whisperings. No wonder she looked worried. He reassured her.
‘Yes.’
Her laugh was hollow.
Alf did not have old kin in the church, only in the churchyard, next to his father. His mother had told him that his father had gone to be with God in Heaven, and Alf, at four, had wondered how a hole in the ground could lead to the sky, but if grown-ups said things with serious faces, they were true. Afterwards he would often be found sat beside the newly turned earth, and his answer to the question ‘why’ was that he thought perhaps his father might decide to come home. The passing of three years had shown this was not the case, but Alf still found the spot comforting if he had angered his mother, or been cast from the games of the older boys. He was inclined to be the loner, except for his new friend Wig, two years his junior, and only just allowed out of his mother’s gaze to play for a while with others. Wig would follow loyally when Alf patrolled the village, looking for anything new, anything different, for Alf was always curious.
The church felt strange, because it was filled with people moving from one huddle to another, asking questions and showing fear, not standing still. Gone were the unison of quiet responses and the rhythm of the priest intoning words that were not words, because Alf could not understand them. His mother had been teaching him to say the Ave Maria, and told him what the words were in English, but even then many of them confused him. He felt unwanted, and rather alone, but then saw Wig, sat upon the floor, looking rather sleepy, while his mother, a bundle held to her bosom, and three other children about her skirts, exchanged fears and questions with a white-haired old woman who was three-parts blind. Alf went to sit with Wig, who woke up a bit when spoken to, and Alf told him about his house being on fire, and being carried through the village. Then he noticed that the church door was not quite shut.
‘I wonder if all the houses will catch fire? My father would be sad if our house is gone, but it might be saved. I shall go and tell him.’
Nobody noticed a small boy slip out, nor did Wig’s mother, with babe to breast and worrying about husband and home, see her son follow him a few minutes later.
It was cold. Alf decided that he would sit in his favourite place for a little while and then go back, for at least all the people in the church meant a little warmth. He had his one-way conversation, watching the fire-glow reflect off a low cloud, and then he heard a stamping noise, and a low whicker, somewhere beyond the hedge that marked the churchyard boundary. It sounded like horses. He got up, and a little voice made him jump.
‘What is it?’ Wig was regretting his idea of finding his friend. His hand reached for Alf’s.
‘Horses. It is strange. Let us see.’ Alf led a reluctant Wig to a thinning in the hedge that kept animals from the consecrated ground. Wig did not want to look, and shook his head. Alf, telling himself he was a big boy and thus not afraid, edged forward, and peered through the gap in the hedge. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and he saw several men come from the hunting lodge and untie some horses just beyond the junction with the mill lane. Three were just men, but the other had a hurt face. He climbed slowly onto a horse, circled, and rode away, with a huge dog following him. Alf was suddenly scared, and pulled back, whispering to Wig. Wig’s eyes widened, and Alf, trying to show he was bigger and braver, resumed his vantage point, except this time he slipped and tumbled a little forward. His white-blonde hair caught the light and the sound and movement made a horse prick up its ears.
‘What was that?’ One of the northern brothers called out, in a half-hushed voice.
‘Just a fox.’ Morfran was half into the saddle and eager to leave.
Alf shut his eyes and stayed very still. He did not even hear William Swicol until the hand grabbed the scruff of his neck and yanked him up.
‘Never saw a fox cub this colour,’ the man remarked, coolly.
Wig recognised the voice as someone he had heard before, though he would not have known a name. It was just a grown-up who existed on the fringes of his interest. He pressed his face into the damp earth and hoped no hand grabbed him also.
‘Go. I will deal with it.’
Sæthryth was exhausted. It still lacked some hours to daylight, but the night had been long. Other villagers might return to their homes and rest, but hers was uninhabitable, at least for now. The walls stood, and the thatch that had been dragged off might be replaced, but inside there was nothing but charring and black soot, and all she possessed, except for the half-dozen geese in the goose-house out the back, was gone. Despite what Father Hildebert had said, she had no faith that her neighbours would shelter her. She might walk to Alcester and seek alms from the abbey, but that was but aid for a few days, and even if there was someone who was looking to take on a servant, they would not want one with a small boy at her skirts, too small to be trusted to carry things without dropping them or getting in the way.
She walked back to the church with drooping shoulders. Some mothers and fathers were already carrying weary infants back to their own beds, and she was conscious of jealousy. The church was still crowded enough for her to be unable to see one small fair-headed boy. Her eyes scanned.
‘Alf! Alf! I am here for you,’ she cried, and received no response. She called out again, and a tremor of fear broke through her tiredness. She saw Wig, Alf’s favoured playmate. His mother was on her haunches before him, holding his arms, reassuring him, for the night had frightened him and he was wide-eyed and silent. Sæthryth approached them and tried to smile at him.
‘Wig, child, have you seen Alf?’ Her voice was as gentle as her worry would allow.
‘Leave him be. Can you not see he is frightened so that he will not say a word?’ Wig’s mother, her face tired and haggard, turned on Sæthryth, but Sæthryth did not acknowledge her. She was staring at Wig, who just nodded and nodded as if he would not stop, and tears began to trickle down his cheeks.
Sæthryth could not breathe, and her knees shook. She felt sick. The fear had been swallowed by an enormous, suffocating darkness, unthinkable, unfaceable, and yet, she knew deep within, unavoidable. Not breathing might be the best thing after all. If she did not take another breath she would not have to deal with it: oblivion was solace, but it eluded her.
The misery of woman and child sent out a silent ripple through the church and, without anyone calling for quiet, there was silence. A hand was placed upon her shoulder and squeezed it, gently. Wystan the Bailiff, now a father five times over, looked down at the wet, white cheeks and staring eyes, and asked the little boy what Sæthryth could not.
‘Can you show us, where he went, Wig? Give me your hand. You will be quite safe.’ His voice was gentle, his hand large and work-riven.
‘No,’ breathed Sæthryth, ‘please, no.’ It was a sigh-breath, but every woman within the walls who had held a babe to the breast, heard it and felt its agony, and their hearts were torn. Old women crossed themselves, those with swaddled infants clutched them more tightly, and buried their faces in the soft, warm smell of baby, and bathed them in salty tears.
‘Come, Wig. You will be safe.’ Wystan repeated his words, and Wig, gazing up at him, placed his little hand into the large one that engulfed it, and walked towards the door. Sæthryth tried to move, and managed a shuffled step, but Oldmother Oakes put her arm about her, and bid her stay where she was. It was better so, she said.
Wig led Wystan across the churchyard. It made sense, Wystan thought. Little Alf was known to come and sit upon the mounded grass here. But there was no sign of the child, and Wig did not stop, but carried on to the boundary. Then he halted, and just pointed at the hedge, refusing to go close. Wystan looked. The hedge was thin enough for a small boy to get through, but not a full-grown man. From Wig’s distress, Wystan guessed he had seen, or heard, something a little boy o
ught never to encounter. He picked him up and carried him back towards the church door, handing him over, with few words, to the wife of Edgar the Reeve, whom he met, walking wearily to collect her own progeny. Then he skirted the churchyard to where the hedge was thin. On the outside of the hedge was an old ditch, which was wet at this time of year. Even in darkness, Wystan could see there was nothing in the lane. It was possible Alf had just got lost, he told himself, but he did not believe it. He peered into the ditch, and sighed in relief, There was nothing, at least not close by. He scoured along it until it parted from the mill lane, and began to think that this would be a search by all the men of the village, and at first light. Then he thought of the hunting lodge, and its moat. It was not a huge moat, more a wide ditch, and in summer it was dry, but there was sufficient water in it now for a child to tumble into, or be pushed. He crossed the lane, and looked down. The outward slope was of a steepness that boys rolled down in fun. He had done so himself as a lad when the grass was hay dry, and they would have races to see who could roll to the bottom and scramble up to the top again first. The fickle moon emerged to lighten the scene.
His heart sank. Some yards along was a small heap upon the bank. He drew close, and slid a little as he balanced upon the slope, one foot slipping up to the ankle in the water. He reached down and touched cloth, and cold flesh. He swallowed hard, and lowered himself closer, pulling upon the clothing. The body rolled over and Wystan saw the face of Alf, son of Beocca, who was curious no more. He smoothed the blonde hair from the little forehead, and carefully picked up the child. The head fell back limply. Wystan carried him as tenderly as he would his own son, worn out and asleep after a day of playing. He walked slowly to the church path, the ball of killing-anger enclosed within his chest. Someone was watching from the church door, just ajar, and opened it, standing back to let him pass, and crossing themselves. For a moment Wystan was silhouetted in the doorway with the child, limp, in his arms.
Wolf at the Door Page 19