‘You will not return to your manor yet, my lord?’ Catchpoll questioned, but in a way that showed he was sure of the answer.
‘No, not yet. I do not see that we have much chance with this, but we must try—’
A servant entered, a little nervously, with the information that the sub-prior of St Mary’s sought to speak urgently with the lord Sheriff upon the matter of a missing man. Having been upon the point of leaving William de Beauchamp to his hunting preparations, the others remained to listen. It might be something that meant that Walkelin might have to remain in Worcester.
Brother Matthias came swiftly to the point.
‘My lord, Abbot Robert of Alcester has sent a message to Prior David, requesting that we ask for your aid on his behalf. A tenant of Alcester Abbey, one Frewin, has failed to return home to Alcester town. He departed northward to Beoley, your own holding, a week past. He was visiting his sister, who was ailing, but was expected back the next day. When he did not return as expected, his wife thought perhaps the sister’s illness had proved fatal and he was staying to see her buried. However, after another two days she sent their eldest son to discover what had happened. The news he brought back was that the sister was recovering, but Frewin had waved them farewell on the second day after his arrival and set off for home. That means he ought to have been back in Alcester four days ago. In desperation the wife went to Abbot Robert, who sent the message to us.’
William de Beauchamp was frowning, working out who was travelling where and when. Then Brother Matthias made the immediate future of the sheriff’s men almost certain.
‘My lord, perhaps the man was taken by the wolves?’
Catchpoll groaned out loud. The rumour of a wolf pack had not just reached Worcester, but even entered the portals of the priory, divorced as it was from the world.
‘More likely that he met with robbers upon the Ridge Way, and the idea of a wolf pack marauding the southern part of Feckenham Forest is madness. However, I am myself leading a hunting party as soon as possible to see out any lone wolf that just might be lurking, and I will send the lord Bradecote and Serjeant Catchpoll to ask questions along the way he must have taken.’ No mention was made that they would be close by in Feckenham anyway. ‘Was any description given of the man?’
‘Only that he was not over tall, about five and forty years, and he carried a blackthorn staff with the knob shaped like a damson.’
‘Not much to ask after, but the asking will be done.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Father Prior will send that information back to Abbot Robert, who will be very grateful and put you in his prayers.’
William de Beauchamp gave a small smile, and inclined his head in acceptance and also dismissal, but the moment the door closed behind the cleric the smile became a grimace.
‘We are prayed for, or at least I am. Let that set you joyously upon the road to Feckenham, and whilst I will give you one day’s grace if tomorrow is as today, after that you go, whether it is dry, wet or threatening a blizzard. Even tonsured monks behind thick walls are whispering of wolves. Holy Virgin save us from wolf-words!’
‘Amen to that, my lord.’ Catchpoll sighed. ‘So now we have a missing man who might have nothing to do with the killing of Durand Wuduweard, but a-taking up of our time. Just what we wanted.’
Chapter Four
The castle bailey was a hive of activity the next morning, which, although cold, was blessedly neither wet nor snowy. Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin set off early, rather glad to be away from a very short-tempered sheriff, and a confusion of men-at-arms, a soulful-looking, floppy-eared lymer who looked as bored as the man holding its collar, and half a dozen large, excited hounds that sensed the tension of the men about them. For the first few miles they rode in silence except for Walkelin’s frequent imprecations as he kicked his reluctant steed.
‘I was thinking about everything we know, Catchpoll, and however many ways I tried to put things together, I am not hopeful that we will succeed in this. I agree with what you have said about it being a murder killing, not the natural attack of a wild beast, but I cannot fit the way it was made so easy to discover with Durand Wuduweard as a planned victim.’ Bradecote shook his head.
‘My lord, perhaps that discovery was just bad luck for the killer? William Swicol said he had argued with his father, and was returning to make up the quarrel,’ Walkelin offered, in a hopeful tone. ‘Since most of Feckenham did not like to as much as pass a “Good morrow” with Durand, and he was not seen that often in the village, why would anyone have bothered to knock upon his door and—’
‘The door was open, according to William,’ Catchpoll interrupted his serjeanting apprentice, for apprentice he still thought him, but without making his suggestion sound foolish. ‘If – and it cannot be proven – that is true, then a curious neighbour would have entered that morning, even if the son had not been visiting. What gets me is why make it a death to frighten folk for miles about? What good does it do? If a man wanted Durand Wuduweard dead, why did he not just find him when he was out on his own in the forest and kill him with an arrow, a knife or even a stone? This death will be hearthside talk for years in Feckenham, you can be sure of that.’
‘Mmm.’ Bradecote sniffed to stop a dewdrop forming at the end of his cold nose. ‘Let us look at another part of this. The manner of death involved a very big and vicious hound or possibly wolf. Very few men other than lords possess hounds, and even feeding one for a week would take more meat than a villager sees in a year. The only other men with a possible good supply of meat would be hunters and forest-keepers like Durand himself. Also, to find a wolf whelp must have been chance, and how many would think to train it rather than kill it? How many wuduweards are there for Feckenham Forest, Catchpoll?’
‘Just the two, from what I recall. There was one up in Tutnall, the one who did bring in wolf pelts, but he was getting on in years fifteen years past, and I suppose another holds his place now. The lord Sheriff would have his name, but I have not met with him.’
‘Could there have been some deep feud between the northern wuduweard and Durand in the south?’ Bradecote was clutching at straws, and he knew it.
‘If there was, it was a close secret, my lord. Mind you, speaking with the Tutnall man might be useful anyway. If there has been a sniff of wolf in the forest these last few years, he would be the one to know of it, and if we heads up that way, we can follow the shire boundary along the Ridge Way for part of it, and ask after our missing man with the blackthorn staff.’
‘Agreed. If we spend the day in Feckenham, finding out all we can about Durand Wuduweard and his comings and goings, we can set off tomorrow and be at Beoley by sunset. Since it is the lord Sheriff’s manor, we will not be turned away.’ Bradecote sounded as positive as possible. ‘Kick that snail of yours harder, Walkelin.’
The sheriff’s men splashed through the ford of the Bow Brook on the western side of Feckenham about mid morning. Even for a cold November day there was a lack of activity that felt eerie. A well-muscled lad stood with an axe in hand, clearly guarding his father as he chopped logs for the hearth, and seeing the quality of Bradecote’s horse, and the garb of its rider, he gave a respectful nod as they passed. Catchpoll pointed out the home of Edgar the Reeve, although it was with the priest that they were likely to speak first.
‘What about the horses, Catchpoll?’
‘Last time they was taken to the stable next to the bailiff’s, where his donkey and the plough oxen is kept, my lord. They was so close their flanks nigh on touched, and there would be no room for three.’
‘What about the stables of the huntin’ lodge, Serjeant?’ Walkelin suggested. ‘We are upon the lord King’s business.’
‘There is that,’ Catchpoll conceded.
‘And I doubt King Stephen is likely to throw them out. Yes, good idea, Walkelin. We shall go there first, rather than to the priest.’ Bradecote was too cold to dither. The location of the hunting lodge was obvious enough for him
not to need directions, and it was he who stepped first across the little bridge that crossed the moat ditch and thumped hard upon the oaken gates. After far too long, in Bradecote’s view, the wicket gate opened a few inches, and an elderly man with stooping shoulders and rheumy eyes stared up at him.
‘I am Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of Worcestershire, and the King’s man.’ Bradecote sounded confident, and did not add ‘indirectly’. ‘I am here upon a matter of his justice, and demand the stabling of my horse and two others overnight.’
The stooping man stooped further, in an obeisance so slow that Bradecote wondered at one point if he might just carry on to the ground and lie crumpled upon it.
‘If you would enter, my lord, the King’s Steward will see you at once.’ There was just a hint that the man felt that his master was of more importance than the undersheriff of the shire.
Walkelin would have remained with the horses, but a firm shove in the back from Catchpoll pushed him in.
‘More we sees and hears, more we learns,’ muttered Catchpoll, under his breath, ‘and I never set foot in here before. Bring ’em in.’
They stepped into a courtyard with a lofty hall set across the far side, timber-framed and thatched, but far more imposing than any normal village dwelling, and with tall, shuttered windows. On one side, abutting the hall, was a chapel, its purpose evident from the wooden cross above its door. A little apart stood what Bradecote assumed would be a kitchen, and on the other side of the hall was a range that would house servants at the hall end and horses at the gateward end. It was tidy, but lifeless.
The stooping servant led Bradecote and Catchpoll to the left of the gate and into a chamber, which was itself a hall on a reduced scale. It made sense that the steward’s hall would have provided space for those who were not the King’s hunting companions but, like the steward himself, held positions in his service. A hearth in the middle gave off more heat than smoke, and drawn near to it was a well-wrapped man, hunched in a chair with arms upon which he leaned. He raised his head at the opening of the door, sho wing a lined face, though his beard was far from full grey. He did not look a man in good health.
‘Lord, here is the lord Undersheriff to speak with you.’ The servant gave his master the elevated title, and invested it with a devotion and subservience more appropriate to King Stephen himself, not the steward of one of his hunting lodges.
The steward’s eyes were the liveliest part of him, though there was a shadow, perhaps of pain, lurking in their depths. ‘I am Cedric, steward of this royal lodge.’ There was a dry, rasping quality to the voice, and effort just to make it strong. The man’s chest rose and fell as if he had run into the chamber.
‘Then I ask of you permission to stable my horse, and those of the lord Sheriff’s serjeant and his apprentice. We are here further investigating the death of Durand Wuduweard.’
‘Well, the stables are empty, since I no longer ride. I can offer you lodging also, though the fare is basic. I eat but little, and Osric here cooks for us both.’
Bradecote was about to refuse, politely, when Catchpoll spoke up.
‘That would be generous, Master Steward. Young Walkelin and myself will be more ’n enough extra mouths for Edgar the Reeve and the good Father Hildebert.’
Bradecote had anticipated that they would have ridden the few miles to Cookhill at dusk, and stayed in the manor, his manor since marrying Christina, and with no sign of any other heir reappearing. It would at least provide comfortable lodging. On the point of turning his head and giving Catchpoll a scowl, Bradecote instead hid a smile, though he would be reminding the wily old bastard that he was not the one in command. Ears in three different Feckenham households, if this could be termed one, might provide useful intelligence for the morning. Unfortunately, he expected to fare least well for a meal. Osric did not look an inspired cook, and ‘basic’ was not encouraging.
‘We will leave the horses now, and I shall return by dusk. As Serjeant Catchpoll says, adding more than one mouth to be fed would be unfair on village households. Thank you.’ Bradecote nodded to the steward, and turned to leave.
‘I would wish you good hunting in your task, my lord, but in truth I doubt as any in Feckenham regret the loss of Durand Wuduweard. Only their fear of fangs in the darkness makes you welcome here. I may not leave these walls, but they do not keep me from all knowledge of this village.’
The undersheriff half turned to look at the pain-wearied face of Cedric the Steward.
‘The Law is used to not being welcomed. It does not make us less diligent, just more persistent.’ Bradecote gave a wry smile, and nodded again.
With the horses bestowed in the ample stabling of the hunting lodge, and with Walkelin’s admonition to his mount that if he had his way it would be in the hound’s kennels they had also discovered, and as meat, the trio emerged from the wicket gate and back into the village. It felt like stepping into life from what was but a pale echo of it.
‘If my belly rumbles all tomorrow from lack of food, it is your blame, Catchpoll,’ murmured Bradecote, not entirely in jest. He cast the serjeant a sidelong look. ‘You do remember who is in command, don’t you?’
‘Why yes, my lord, always.’ Catchpoll’s eyes twinkled. ‘You leads, and we follows. That way if we heads into danger it is you who gets the knife or the arrow and we can be prepared good and proper.’
‘Very practical and not at all cheering. However, I would advise you to tread carefully also, Serjeant.’
The twinkle died. Catchpoll knew that when Hugh Bradecote called him ‘Serjeant’ in private, he was not amused.
‘What you came up with in there, spreading us to learn most, was a good idea, but only one step from making me look as useless as Simon Furnaux.’ Bradecote’s expression showed distaste, for his loathing of the ineffectual Constable of Worcester Castle was profound.
‘Now that, my lord, I would not, but also could not, do, and I takes it ill that you would even suggest it.’ Instead of looking chastened, Catchpoll looked affronted. ‘There’s no comparison between the pair of you, and I would cry that from the battlements any day of the week.’
‘For which I suppose I must now show gratitude?’ Bradecote could not help the slight smile dawning on his face.
‘I would not go that far, my lord,’ declared Catchpoll, the voice of the just.
‘Am I to lodge with the priest or the reeve?’ Walkelin asked, having let the interchange between his superiors follow its course as something in which he bore no part.
‘Edgar the Reeve, I reckon, since I would be wantin’ to hit him with the pottage ladle within an hour at his hearthside. You may get more sense from his family than from him, and whatever you do, make sure you keep the werwulf foolishness from rising like bubbles in a broth.’ Catchpoll pulled a face.
It became apparent from the first conversation they had in the village that Catchpoll’s aim to keep superstitious fear out of the equation was a lost cause. They went to the priest’s house, and when the door was opened to Catchpoll’s knocking, it was scarcely opened more than a crack, and by a nervous young woman, angular of face, buck-toothed, and very obviously cross-eyed. The village women who cooked and kept tidy the house of the priest were usually old widows. Clearly this girl had been considered equally unlikely to raise unchaste dreams in a man of God.
‘Show yer hands,’ commanded the girl, in a fierce whisper.
‘Look, I am—,’ began Catchpoll, calmly.
‘Show yer hands. If’n you’s him, the backs of yer hands will be hairy.’
Catchpoll did not argue, and just pulled back the long sleeves of his cotte.
‘Makes not a mite of difference, girl. Some men is hairy and some is babe-smooth, and none of ’em howls at the moon.’
She stared at his hands, and then opened the door a little wider. ‘Father Hildebert is not here.’ She knew nobody would be looking for her, unless it was the werwulf, seeing if she would make a good meal come dark.
‘Wher
e will we find him, then?’
‘He’s gone to Wystan the Bailiff to pray over his wife. Bad time she had of it, even though it was her fifth, and Wystan is afeard ’cos she is pale and weak. Mother says as that is—’
‘Thank you.’ Catchpoll cut her short.
She glanced towards Bradecote, or at least he thought she did, bobbed in a clumsy obeisance, since the man looked lordly, and closed the door upon them.
‘We had best wait until the priest has finished, for it would be wrong to interrupt his prayers for the sick, and none within the house will be thinking of Durand or wolves at this time,’ decided Bradecote, giving up a prayer in his head for the wife of Wystan, and for his Christina in her time of travail yet to come.
‘Aye, my lord, but if Wystan comes outside with Father Hildebert, a little distractin’ of his thoughts might do him good.’
They waited outside the bailiff’s house, leaning against the daub of the front wall to avoid the icy tugging of the wind, and stamping their feet and blowing upon their cupped fingers to keep the chill from their extremities. When Father Hildebert emerged, alone, he gave a small start.
‘We did not mean to startle you, Father,’ apologised Bradecote, straightening. He was a tall man; a man with a sword at his hip. Father Hildebert was rendered even more nervous than usual, since these facts overshadowed the quality of clothing and assured manner. The man also addressed him in English.
‘This is the lord Undersheriff.’ Catchpoll could see the man teetering on panic, and sought to reassure him.
‘Ah!’ It was half exclamation and half exhalation of relief. ‘Mon seigneur, I did not think to see you here, only the vaillant serjant.’
Catchpoll’s face set into lines that showed him not so much ‘doughty’ as ‘not pleased’. He hoped the appellation applied to him was complimentary, but disliked the impression that somehow everything would be better because a more senior officer was in charge. He had spent years finding ‘senior officers’ an irritating impediment rather than an asset, and if that was no longer true with the lord Bradecote as undersheriff, it did not mean that he could not achieve the aim alone. He made a sound that emerged as a muffled grunt, which Bradecote interpreted instantly.
Wolf at the Door Page 5
