Wolf at the Door

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘What does that matter, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Well, my lord, if Durand was attacked right there, the beast would have had to leap the fire to throw him onto his back, and the feet were burnt. I grant that if he had been knocked off his stool and been sittin’ close they might have shot forwards, but it looks very odd. Besides which, the stool was knocked over but much further towards the west wall, a very long way from the body. To my mind it looked as if it was put there to show a struggle that never was. The whole chamber seemed wrong.’

  ‘So you are saying the body was placed there.’ De Beauchamp’s expression became ruminative. ‘That fits.’

  ‘’Tis the only way it fits, my lord. And as the final proof, the door to the dwelling creaked real loud, so Durand could not have been surprised by anyone opening the door unexpected. Now, a beast did for Durand, I do not deny that, and it had sharp fangs, but a mastiff has big teeth. It might just have been a very large dog trained to bring down game. Certainly, it did its work elsewhere. There was little blood among the floor rushes, and nobody thought of how much blood might be there, not with what happened to the face, and …’ Catchpoll paused for a moment, and then murmured, mostly to himself, ‘why would a wolf bite the face of a man, all bone and no meat to it?’ He sighed, and resumed, more loudly. ‘It follows that someone, some man or men, put the body where we found it. Nobody would do that if they found a man dead by an accident, so this is a murder killing.’

  ‘Which leaves us to work out not just why, and by whom, but how we pacify the Feckenham “sheep”.’

  ‘Lords like hunting.’ Catchpoll’s face was deadpan.

  ‘Not hunting that gives no meat for the table and excitement to the chase. Hunting a fear is pointless,’ grumbled de Beauchamp.

  ‘Not quite so, my lord, because while you does that chasing about, we tries to find out our why and who.’

  ‘Hmm. I shall send for my hounds from Elmley, and look to parading them about the forest the day after tomorrow, if it is not so foul weather that we will just catch our own deaths in the wet and cold. Is the “we” just you and Walkelin here, or do you want to go to Bradecote?’

  ‘I do not want to go, my lord, but I do want to send Walkelin to fetch my lord Bradecote. An extra head on this, and him being one as ordinary folk naturally obey, would help.’

  ‘Fair enough. Send for him, and I will gather my hunting party on the morrow, to hunt thereafter, but I will not get wet and chilled for all the peasantry of Feckenham.’

  ‘Very good, my lord.’ Catchpoll made an obeisance, which Walkelin hastily copied, and turned to leave the hall.

  ‘By the way, Catchpoll, I take it you are not “ordinary”?’ There was a wry tone to de Beauchamp’s voice.

  Catchpoll did not turn back, but made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a guffaw.

  ‘I thought not.’ William de Beauchamp smiled.

  The manor of Bradecote was set to winter life. There were children playing chase between the low-eaved thatched dwellings, keeping warm by exercise and expending the energy of youth where they did not get under the feet, and upon the nerves, of their older kin. They halted briefly at the sound of a horse’s hooves, but Walkelin was a known figure to them, and they resumed their game without much pause.

  In truth they recognised Walkelin’s reluctant and shaggy horse more than Walkelin, so well wrapped up was he against the cold. Catchpoll had told him that the beast was perfect for winter riding, because urging it to move kept Walkelin moving and warm. Walkelin felt he was simply kept heated by annoyance.

  He rode through the gateway set in the wooden palisade that surrounded the manor hall itself, and dismounted, rather pleased that a man-at-arms came forward quickly to take the horse from him, and with a slight show of deference, as to a senior among the soldiery. Perhaps, thought Walkelin, a little of Serjeant Catchpoll was rubbing off on him at last. He gave a nod of thanks, and climbed the steps to the hall. In the cross-passage within, a maidservant stood aside and he turned right, beyond the screen, into the main chamber, where a good fire crackled in the central hearth, and woodsmoke rose like a supplicant’s prayers heavenwards to the roof trusses. Hugh Bradecote was by the hearth, with two men, one of whom Walkelin recognised as the steward. He turned at the sound of booted feet, and smiled at Walkelin, who was, despite his wrappings, pink of cheek and nose, which clashed with the strands of fiery hair that had escaped from beneath his woollen cap.

  ‘Has Serjeant Catchpoll decided he does not need exercise?’ Bradecote asked, his lips twitching.

  ‘More like he thinks I do, my lord,’ responded Walkelin, snatching the cap from his head to reveal the rest of his hair at odd angles, like a half-dismantled hayrick. He made an obeisance, respectful but not in any way servile.

  ‘So, tell me why you are here, and warm yourself as you do so.’ Bradecote extended a hand to indicate the fire. Walkelin drew closer with an expression of thanks, and Bradecote dismissed the man Walkelin did not recognise.

  ‘Serjeant Ca—the lord Sheriff,’ Walkelin corrected himself swiftly, but clumsily, and his cheeks reddened further, ‘would have you come into Worcester, and perhaps on to Feckenham. There has been a death, a murder, but it is all knots, and the lord Sheriff is going hunting even though he won’t find anything, and …’ He sighed. ‘Sorry, my lord. The cold has got to my brains, though Serjeant Catchpoll would say I do not have any.’

  ‘Ale might help you, warm ale.’ Bradecote looked to his steward, who nodded and withdrew, and was heard speaking with the maid. Bradecote picked up a stool, and indicated Walkelin do the same.

  The serjeanting apprentice sat, composed himself, and began to explain the previous day, from the arrival of the Feckenham men before William de Beauchamp to Catchpoll’s thoughts upon how Durand Wuduweard met his grisly death.

  ‘I would have liked to see the lord Sheriff’s face when Catchpoll “told” him he ought to hunt an invisible wolf,’ Bradecote grinned.

  ‘I am sure you can imagine it very well, my lord, and anyways, Serjeant Catchpoll only said as lords likes hunting.’

  ‘Even better!’ Bradecote laughed at that, but then grew more serious. ‘I follow Catchpoll’s trail of thought, but I am left with the same questions both he and you must have. Who wanted Durand dead, and why, and why did they move his body to where it was bound to be discovered at some point, rather than leaving it in the depths of the forest to be lost until Judgement Day?’

  ‘I reckon as Serjeant Catchpoll will say the son, William, is part of it. He knows him from Worcester, though he has never had a name there beyond William Swicol, which says all you need to know, really. He seemed angry-aggrieved, the way some folk are when their kin is killed, but if you are swicollic, pretending is easy.’

  The maid came with the ale, steaming from the introduction of a hot poker, though a flake of ash floated upon its surface.

  ‘I will take leave of my lady, Walkelin. You enjoy the ale.’ Bradecote rose, and went to the solar door, hearing the light laughter of his Christina as he opened it. She was sat by a brazier, a fur rug about her legs, and with baby Gilbert astride her knees rather than upon her lap, for her stage of pregnancy meant that the bump was now pronounced.

  ‘My lord, Gilbert just patted me, and the babe within kicked.’ She sounded delighted at this, and he smiled.

  ‘My love, I have Walkelin warming chilled hands about warm ale in the hall. I am called to Worcester. There has been a murder in Feckenham, the wuduweard there, and it is all very muddled. William de Beauchamp is going to have to go on a wolf hunt to quieten the villagers, without any chance of a wolf.’

  ‘The wuduweard? That would be Durand, yes?’

  ‘You know of him?’ Bradecote’s brows drew together.

  ‘A little, by repute, for it is not that far from Cookhill, and the King’s forest runs along our western manor boundary. He is – was – not a man much liked. I heard of him as one who was a grudge-keeper, and disliked his fellow men. That is the
ladylike way to describe him, anyway.’

  ‘Well, your impression is worth having, for you have no reason to twist it, and some in Feckenham may do so, if Catchpoll is ferreting about.’ Hugh Bradecote sighed. ‘I am sorry to have to leave you, heart’s-lady, but my duty calls.’

  ‘And I shall wait your return calmly, my lord, and in both good health and humour, I promise you. I shall not put myself at any risk, and will indeed sit with my needle and linens, and my young swain Gilbert here.’ She rubbed the infant’s nose and smiled, and he laughed at her. ‘Pack your roll, Hugh, kiss me, and be away. I shall not fret.’

  She did have a remarkable serenity about her these days, he thought, as he bundled a spare undershirt and braies into a blanket, and took his thickest cloak from the chest at the bed end. He wished he shared that, not least because he knew that it irked her. Yet there lay a cold, slithering serpent of fear in his viscera, coiled, but flexing itself, waiting to strike. When he was busy it slept, but in the depths of the night, as Christina lay close beside him, it stretched and reminded him it was there. In response he prayed, both for the wife he feared to lose, and for Ela, mother of his son, whose loss he had not even considered until it lay suddenly before him, a cold reality framed in scarlet. She had possessed this same serenity, alien to her nature, in the last months. He told himself that it must be so with all women, and it was not a portent of doom.

  So he kissed his wife, kissed his son, and left the solar, calling Walkelin, with a slightly forced cheerfulness, to drain his beaker and leave the warmth for the ride back to Worcester.

  They arrived at the castle mid afternoon, though the sunless grey meant that only the priory bell announcing None gave any indication of the hour beyond it being still full light. The gate was opened by a guard who blew upon chilled, cloth-wrapped hands, and underserjeant and undersheriff headed for the hall. A servant told them the lord Sheriff was in the solar with the lord Castellan, and if the latter information made Hugh Bradecote groan, at least he knew that where de Beauchamp was, there would be heat. As he knocked upon the oak, he could hear raised voices within, and the command to enter was yelled in an aggressive voice.

  William de Beauchamp was standing, hands to the heat as if drawing it forth from the red glow. A capelet of beaver pelts lay about his shoulders, and his cloak was long and thick. Wealth kept you warm, thought Walkelin, whose only fur was a strip of stoat that his mother stitched inside the neck of his cloak each October, in the belief that a warm neck would keep away chills. He thought the fur just attracted fleas. De Beauchamp was red of cheek, but that owed more to his choler than the brazier. His brows were drawn into an angry line, and a muscle in his cheek was working.

  Simon Furnaux caught his breath, swallowing whatever he was in the midst of saying to de Beauchamp, and glared at Bradecote.

  ‘Ha!’ It was a derisive snort. ‘We can all rest easy in our beds now. The Undersheriff of Worcestershire is among us.’ Furnaux sneered. It was one of the few things he did rather well.

  ‘My lord Castellan.’ Bradecote was intentionally formal and correct, and even accorded him a nod, though it was more cursory acknowledgement than respectful obeisance. He then ignored him and looked straight at William de Beauchamp. ‘I came swiftly upon your command, my lord, and Walkelin has told me about events in Feckenham.’

  ‘Did you bring any hounds to smell out the wolf?’ Furnaux could not resist.

  ‘The only “hounds” I have are Serjeant Catchpoll and Walkelin here, but two good noses for murder are what we need, not dogs to chase about the forest.’ Bradecote did not spare Furnaux as much as a glance as he spoke.

  ‘No, no, for the lord Sheriff has need of half of my men, for just that.’ Furnaux sounded peeved, petulant.

  ‘If I need all of your men, I will take them. Bleat not at me, Furnaux, and leave us to shrieval business.’ De Beauchamp wanted the man gone. It was a curt dismissal, and Furnaux was even less pleased when, as he pulled open the solar door, Serjeant Catchpoll had his hand upon the other side and was in the act of stepping within. Catchpoll did so rather than take a pace back, and passed him with a courteous ‘Thank you, my lord’, which made Furnaux look like a servant. The face Catchpoll presented to his superiors was briefly smiling, for Bradecote was biting his lip and de Beauchamp fighting a rumbling laugh.

  ‘Not going to begin without me, I hope, my lords?’ Catchpoll sounded cheerful, though his face became serious again.

  ‘Begin what, Catchpoll? That is the problem.’ De Beauchamp’s good humour was replaced in an instant. ‘Where do you see this trail going?’

  ‘If it does not lead to William, the son, I will forswear ale for a week, my lord. He’s wrong, is that one, through and through, and the Feckenham priest did not know him, which shows he has not been back in the village much this last year, for the priest is new. Thing is, I knows as William Swicol, as he is known in Worcester, left here just after the feast of St Luke, so I wonders where he has been these last weeks.’

  ‘But if it was him, Serjeant, where was he keeping the huge-fanged hound?’ Walkelin, who would once have feared to open his mouth in the company of his superiors, posed the question thoughtfully.

  ‘Fair point, Young Walkelin, but it might be as he is not working alone.’

  ‘But why would he want his father dead, and even if he did, why on earth kill him in such a way, a way that shouts out “Here is murder”?’ Bradecote’s frown now matched that of Walkelin.

  ‘Ah, you has to remember that only we sees it as a murder, my lord. To Feckenham, it is “Foul deeds among us by a nihtgenga”, and rumour of a nightwalker means the moment darkness falls they will be huddled about their hearths, listening for as much as a mouse’s feet, and fearing evil walkers of the night on two feet and four. News will spread along the salt road, that you can be sure about, and other folk will be afeard also.’

  ‘But once darkness falls, everyone is at home anyway.’ Bradecote’s brows did not relax. ‘There is no gain.’

  ‘None we sees yet, my lord, but it is there, laughing at us in the blackness.’ Catchpoll paused, and wrinkled up his nose before rubbing it. ‘It was interesting, now I thinks on it, that it was William, the grieving son, who put the idea of a werwulf in the minds of the priest and reeve, and kept it there when I was trying to banish it.’

  ‘And since he asked to stay with the priest, he would keep talking about the werwulf all evenin’.’ Walkelin, who had secretly felt just one ice-cold tingle down his spine at the thought of a shape-changing man-wolf, had taken courage from his serjeant’s dismissal of such a creature, and was immeasurably heartened by seeing that it was a mere fear being manipulated.

  ‘I do not doubt you, Catchpoll, but I fail to see how you can take William Whatever-You-Call-Him and get a confession from him or find evidence beyond your serjeant-wit.’ William de Beauchamp did not like things that were vague.

  ‘I will stick with William Swicol, my lord, since a swicol is what he is, and we need to remember that at all times. It goes hard with me, but I thinks as we will have to wait, and see what happens next around Feckenham that shows us what he has gained from all this, other than perhaps a claim to his father’s role as forester of the King’s Park.’

  ‘Well, King Stephen has far more to worry him than that, and as his representative in the shire, and with forest rights, I would deny the son that “inheritance”.’ De Beauchamp, himself the beneficiary of an inherited ‘profession’, would have no qualms about denying it to another. ‘From what you say he has no knowledge of the forest. I have never heard that Durand Wuduweard was unfit for the lord King’s service, or I would have dismissed him.’

  ‘No, my lord. Not being popular, or even being mighty unpopular, is no bar.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘We listened carefully to what the reeve had to say about the man. He kept saying as he did not feel any anger against him, but he knew others did so. Durand kept apart and was not often seen in the village, whether because he disliked folk or despis
ed ’em the reeve did not say, but he made it clear that Feckenham as a whole treated him as an outsider and a miserable bastard who would not give a good word to anyone in passing, and liked to threaten and see fear in others. There will be those gloating tonight that he ended in fear himself, for all the cause scares ’em witless.’

  ‘But we have none beyond the son who might have killed him.’ Bradecote did not make this a question, but rather a statement. ‘My lady had heard of him as one who kept a grudge alive and did not forgive. Cookhill is close enough by.’

  ‘Nobody in the village could have a beast capable of shredding a man’s throat, my lord.’

  ‘No, Catchpoll, I am sure they could not, but they could possibly have one penned in some deserted assart, for not all clearings are known.’

  ‘My lord, to get a beast as dangerous as the one that killed Durand Wuduweard, would the keeper not have had to raise it from small, to make it see them as master?’ Walkelin was thinking along his usual straight course. ‘Which means they would have had to be planning this a long, long time. If they wanted it to kill Durand, that is.’

  ‘A fair point, Walkelin. Yet if there is nothing to be done but wait, why call me in from Bradecote?’

  ‘Because, my lord, Feckenham will listen to you more than to me,’ explained Catchpoll, ‘and we goes back and makes it clear to William Swicol that we are watching every move he makes. The lord Sheriff hunts the invisible wolf, and can then say there was none. Between us we might just stop a winter of wolf sightings and stolen sheep that will be claimed as wolf-taken.’

  As it turned out, neither of these things took place as planned.

  Chapter Three

  It was a little after the bell for Vespers that a man ran to hammer upon the castle gate and called for the sheriff’s serjeant. He was directed to Catchpoll’s home in the castle foregate, since there had seemed little more that could be done that evening, and Catchpoll liked the idea of a warm hearth and his wife’s cooking. He was not best pleased when his name was called from without, and a fist banged upon his door.