At the point where they left the Salt Way, William de Beauchamp halted briefly, and sent the hounds back to Worcester. He had no doubt they would find their quarry without a chase, at least not the sort that hounds were used to, and he felt they would be in the way in what he intended to be, if a battle, short and bloody. Baying hounds would just cause confusion, and the dogs were valuable. As for the wolf, he trusted his sword arm.
The lymer disliked the waiting, and was pulling hard upon its leash, eager to dive into the forest. The path was not suited to horsemen riding abreast, and de Beauchamp placed himself in the vanguard, followed by Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin with Robert clinging on, and very relieved that they were now not going faster than a trot. He was the only one of the riders who could have retraced their steps with any certainty, but de Beauchamp and his men knew that getting them home was not going to be their problem.
‘It makes sense, of course.’ Catchpoll was still annoyed with himself for not guessing that Durand still lived. He had been too focused upon the duplicity of the son. ‘Who would be more likely to find a wolf in the forest than a wuduweard? Their hideaway will be of his devising as well. If this has been long planned, my lords, it will not be woven hazel withies and oilcloth shelters, you can be sure.’
‘But we outnumber them and have the element of surprise, if that hound does not announce our arrival as though with blowing horns.’ De Beauchamp was looking forward to dealing physically with these men who had not only disturbed the King’s Peace, but his own. He wanted men to try and to hang, but if they arrived in Worcester in poor condition it would not worry him, and the folk of Feckenham would cheer at the news.
The lymer’s handler halted, and held up a hand in warning. De Beauchamp copied the action.
‘Catchpoll, go ahead on foot, and report what you find.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ There followed a grunt and grumble, and Catchpoll, with surprising light-footedness for a man of his years and with his knees, went to the lymer and then disappeared among the undergrowth. He returned a few minutes later, and Bradecote squeezed his mount alongside the sheriff’s to listen to what was said in a whisper.
‘My lord, it would be hard to attack, if the bastards had not left the gates open.’
‘Gates?’ De Beauchamp registered surprise.
‘Yes, my lord. There is a palisade a mite taller than a man, and I would guess that within is some shelter for the horses, and a better one for the men.’
‘Are the gates open because they have gone, and perhaps left the wolf?’ Bradecote disliked the idea of seeking men scattering through the forest.
‘Not unless the wolf can talk, my lord. I heard voices.’
‘Then we go in and surprise them. Half the men-at-arms are to remain mounted and cover the gateway so that none escape.’ De Beauchamp saw no problems.
‘And do we ride in or enter on foot, my lord?’ Bradecote thought a mass of horses would just make for utter confusion.
‘Oh, on foot, Bradecote, I think. Tell the men I would like at least some of these bastards still breathing when we drag them back to Worcester, but no need to be gentle.’ He dismounted, and a man came to take his reins. ‘I am going to enjoy this.’ William de Beauchamp drew his sword, and a rare smile lit his face. It was not a pleasant smile, but then his smiles never were.
Uhtred was still muttering about how much he had preferred the horse that William Swicol had ridden away when William de Beauchamp came through the gateway, sword in hand and roaring. Hard on the sheriff’s heels were Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin, likewise armed. Robert, son of Hereward, who had never held a sword in his life, held no more than his knife, but was focused upon vengeance. The addition of four men-at-arms, bundling in behind, meant that the compound felt very crowded within moments. Thurstan, who had just mounted, kicked his horse hard in the ribs and bounded towards the gate, trusting to the fact that he had the advantage of speed, height, and flailing hooves. Catchpoll did indeed leap backwards to avoid being trampled, but knew that the rider would find his path blocked. He paid no attention to the sound of a horse’s neigh and a heavy thud beyond the gateway.
Morfran, who had been attaching a length of rope to his pony’s bridle so that he could lead it behind his horse, dropped the rope end, and stepped back so that the solidity of the wooden palisade protected his back. He drew his knife, and brandished it in an arc in front of him.
‘T’yd laen ta, os meiddi di,’ he spat at them, daring them to attack.
The three men-at-arms closing in upon him guessed some form of challenge from his tone, but just grinned, which was disconcerting. Not only did they outnumber him, but their swords had a longer reach than his knife hand. One to his left lunged, half-heartedly, but with enough impulsion to require a parry, and as he did so, exposing his right side, the second man-at-arms stepped forward and pressed the tip of his sword into his ribs, just enough to scrape on bone. Morfran dropped the knife.
Catchpoll, seeing de Beauchamp already at the doorway of the building, yelled at Walkelin.
‘You stay here. These are yours.’
Walkelin, who had Uhtred at his sword’s point, did not need to respond.
Durand did not need Anda’s pricked-up ears and growl to alert him. He stood, and her head pressed into the side of his knee. He waited, for there was nowhere he could go. He was not quite sure what he expected to come through the door, but it was not a young man with a knife in his hand.
Robert, son of Hereward, had seen no wolf within the palisade, and it was important to him that it was he who found it and its keeper. He had no interest in the other men, and went straight to the door, flinging it open and taking two bold strides within, hoping to make the adjustment between daylight and interior gloom before anyone, or anything, launched themselves at him. A man stood beyond the hearth, and at his side was an amber-eyed wolf. This, then, was the killer of Hereward but, before the blood-debt was paid, there was something Robert needed to know.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Durand Wuduweard, though the world has counted me as dead these last ten days or more, so mayhap I am but his shade.’ Durand smiled, a smile twisted by discomfort and warped by the injuries to his face. The young man was well-built but did not look used to violence. He would hesitate, and in hesitation lay death.
‘I am Robert, son of Hereward, and I found my father.’ It was explanation enough, and Durand’s confidence wavered for a moment. The voice was even, but there was passion within it. He did not say that he would kill him; he did not need to.
‘Then you will die as he died.’ Durand kept his eyes upon Robert, wondering if Hereward had taught his son to throw a knife as well as he did, but laid his hand gently upon Anda’s head. The knife, if thrown, was a single-use weapon, and Anda would be its target. His opponent would then be defenceless. If he held onto it, well, Anda would do enough damage in her first bite that he could be finished off with ease.
These calculations were made in a moment, and yet even as the command left Durand’s lips and set Anda at Robert, they became irrelevant. A big man with a formidable sword and loud voice stepped over the threshold, and as Anda took the three bounds towards Robert and launched herself at him, he too leapt forward with a bull-like roar. He was closer to Robert, and so although slower than the wolf, as Anda’s weight knocked Robert backwards, the sword blade struck down just behind the wolf’s shoulders, biting deep and severing the spine and nearly cleaving it in two.
Durand cried out. He had been quite sanguine about Anda’s expendability, and yet the moment of her death almost winded him.
De Beauchamp kicked the carcass from on top of Robert, and wiped his blade in the fur, aware of both Bradecote and Catchpoll behind him, and was pleased that they had witnessed him slay a wolf. Bradecote looked at Durand.
‘Where is your son?’ The question was simple.
‘Seek him if you will. I do not know, and I would not tell you anyway.’
‘Then you just ma
de what’s left of your life the harder,’ growled Catchpoll, pulling a shaken and half-winded Robert up from the ground.
‘Because I do not know where he is?’
‘No, because you would not tell us if you did.’
Robert, gathering his breath and his wits, and casting the image of a wolf’s fangs closing to his throat into the furthest recess of his mind, latched onto one phrase.
‘What is left of his life is nothing. You saw what it did at his command. A death is owed.’ His chest heaved, and he glared at Durand.
‘And will be paid, lad.’ Catchpoll’s voice was calming, and the hand upon the young man’s shoulder not so much a restraint as reassuring. Catchpoll could be fatherly when needed.
Robert, to the surprise of not just Catchpoll, but both sheriff and undersheriff, was neither reassured nor calmed. He let out a yell and charged towards Durand, not even thinking about the knife he had held, and which the force of being knocked over had thrown from his hand. What was in his head was the sensation of the wolf’s breath, and the power of it, and what his father had gone through at the will of this man.
There was no more than about twenty feet between them, but Durand had time to draw his own knife. Bradecote cried a warning and ran forward, though his sword tip was never going to reach Durand first.
Robert launched himself in a bizarre parody of the wolf, but lower, and Durand had expected him to close with him. He was caught unawares, and thus the knife, held to thrust upward, was of little use against being caught around the hips and thrown back. He managed to retain a grip upon it, but Robert rolled him over and sat astride his chest and hit him very hard, in the face. The grip loosened, and Bradecote, now level with them, kicked the knife away. The sheriff and his men did not stop Robert until Durand was clearly unconscious, his face a bloody mess where the wounds had opened and his nose broken. Then Bradecote and Catchpoll hauled him off.
‘That’s enough, lad. No good breaking your hands on him when he cannot feel it. Your father deserves that a living man hangs, not that a corpse be displayed. You had the right to this, now leave him to the Law.’ Catchpoll still sounded reasonable, and this time it worked. Robert blinked at him, as though he had appeared from nowhere.
‘Well, I am glad he breathes,’ agreed de Beauchamp, briskly, ‘but can we now decide what we do about William Swicol? If there is nothing of his for the lymer to follow …’
‘I think he has gone to Feckenham, my lord.’ It was Walkelin, in the doorway. De Beauchamp turned about.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because the Welshman says all they took from the hall was some candles and a locked box that William Swicol found in the buttery. The keys he held would not open it and he thought it the treasure but it turned out to be a box that had held pipor and such. He was very angry and said the word “bitch”. Now, when I went to fetch my snaegl from the hunting lodge stables, the woman with the fingertip missing was there. I do not know what she did there, but since she and he share a hearth if not a bed, I would guess he seeks her, to find out exactly what the treasure might be, and where it is hidden.’
De Beauchamp nodded, and Bradecote, seeing the splintered box against a wall, went to pick it up and sniff it.
‘Spices, my lord. Expensive no doubt, but not gold or gems.’
‘Bring it. If it can be mended, it should be, as it is the property of the King.’
‘Then he needs new silver for his chapel, my lord,’ added Walkelin. ‘Chalice and paten are hacked.’
De Beauchamp swore.
‘My lord, you have the horses of the lord of Bradleigh, and the killer of Hereward the wuduweard, and the wolf is dead.’ Catchpoll was still calm reason. ‘It will not take many men to find William Swicol. Let us go to Feckenham, and you return to Worcester with the proof of success. Only we know there is more. If he simply rode away, none are the wiser, but I doubts he would leave this unfinished. It would hurt his self-belief.’
‘And let us not delay.’ Bradecote was in agreement with Catchpoll.
‘Very well. I will deliver the horses to Hubert de Bradleigh, and perhaps find out what lay between him and this,’ he pointed at the now groaning mess of Durand.
Walkelin called in men to drag Durand to a horse and take the broken box, and then the three sheriff’s officers went swiftly to their horses.
‘You know,’ remarked Catchpoll as they mounted, ‘that thinkin’ is good serjeant thinkin’. I was very right to pick you, Young Walkelin.’
‘You were, Serjeant.’ Walkelin grinned, and kicked his heels into Snaegl’s shaggy flanks.
Chapter Eighteen
William Swicol never had any intention of going north, because he was going to Feckenham to find the treasure. He had no doubt that word would be sent to Worcester in the aftermath of their attack, so he would be cautious, but since the villagers had spent a night fighting fires they would be tired, and thinking even less clearly than normal. It was unlikely that anyone had been dispatched at first light, and it would take several hours to reach Worcester. Therefore, it would be unlikely that the sheriff’s men would arrive before noontide. He could not afford to linger, but then he was not going to be getting information from Sæthryth with honeyed words and gentle persuasion.
He had known of his father’s hideaway in the forest for some years. Durand had built his cott in the clearing because, he said, he was sick and tired of Feckenham. In William’s view, he had spent too long in it, mulling over old insults and becoming obsessed with the idea of taking revenge upon those who had not treated him as he felt he deserved. They had just been the rantings of a man becoming some malign forest hermit, until he had stumbled across the she-wolf’s den. Such a thing should be dangerous, but the wolf was badly injured, and Durand had his axe. What a stag had started, he finished. The whelps were small, but Durand did not want a pack in his forest. If only the male remained it would likely move on.
It had been, Durand told William during their next period of reconciliation, a sudden idea that he could tame a wolf and make it his creature, and so a whelp was spared. William had not intended to get involved in his father’s plans, not least because he saw them ending in a noose, which he would not mind. But then Sæthryth, with a woman’s need to tease with knowledge, had mentioned ‘a king’s treasure’ within the hunting lodge. He had laughed at her, determined not to take the bait and show interest, and she had hunched a shoulder and told him women knew more than men ever guessed. Given pause for thought, he had spent the rest of the evening being attentive and thoughtful, and had drawn from her that Cedric and Osric obsessed about the safety of something very valuable in the hall, something of King Stephen’s, hidden away. What it was she did not know.
And then it was that William saw how his father’s paying off of old grudges could work in his favour, distracting while he, the son with intelligence, found a great prize. From then on he spent more time with Durand, as much as he could without falling out with him, joined in the training of Anda, which was both pleasing and ensured he felt secure she could not be used against him, and persuaded Durand that he needed more men, and a stronger ‘lair’. Setting his father to cut trees and build a stockade while he gathered suitable men increased William’s sense of superiority. Durand was a ‘little’ man, but he was far greater.
He was not going to leave with a few candles and a new horse; this was not a great prize. Sæthryth must know more, even if she was unaware of it.
His first problem would be finding her, if her home was in ashes and her child dead. With luck she would be in the church, and if he was unlucky … No, he would be positive. Until the sheriff arrived, he might be disliked in Feckenham, but he was still the recently bereaved son of Durand, so he could be open.
The hunting lodge and church part of Feckenham were quiet, since everyone was trying to help with the clearing up and, where possible, repairs after the fires. Boldly, William left his horse tethered in the courtyard where he had tied Anda. Then he went
to the church, and not to pray.
Sæthryth was numb. She had no more tears to weep nor feelings left to pour out in raw grief. The only thing that she knew was that she would not leave her child until he was buried beside his father. Women had pleaded with her to come away, to sleep or at least rest, but she would keep vigil, protecting Alf now as she had failed to do in the night. So she sat upon the stone floor of the church, next to the peaceful ‘sleeping’ body of her son, whose face she could not bear to have covered, her chilled hand upon the death-cold hands crossed upon the little chest. She could not pray, and she could not think; she could but ‘be’. She was unaware of the two shrouded bodies that also lay in the nave. She did not even hear the creaking of the church door, nor the firm footsteps. A hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet, yanking the arm half from the socket, since she was a dead weight that did not attempt to stand, and at once began to sink down again.
‘Stand up.’ It was a terse command, and a hand hit her across the face. She just stared at William Swicol, or rather she stared through him. He shook her. ‘Listen to me, woman.’
‘He is dead.’ It was a sigh-breath.
‘So you can do nothing. Come with me.’
‘No. I must stay with him.’
‘You will come with me.’ His hand reached to the coif, for a woman had brought her linen to make her seemly for church, pulled it from her and wound his hand into her hair. She would die rather than abandon her post, but her body was so weakened that she could do nothing but stumble with him to the door. He paused, checking that there was nobody watching, and then put his other arm about her to keep her upright and propelled her towards the hunting lodge gates.
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