It was not a windless night, and if the fire spread to the granary, then Bradleigh would starve even before the Hunger Months of summer. Hubert himself would not starve, but it affected his honour and his purse.
Outside his gates the scene was chaotic, and organising anyone seemed unlikely. Had he seen hell-fiends with tridents Hubert would not have been surprised. Into the inky darkness of a cloudy November night shot shards of scarlet and gold, chaperoned by grey ghosts of smoke as they ascended. There was shouting, and screaming, and the bellowing of beasts. The fires were furthest from his own walls, but Hubert was nevertheless a very worried man. He tried to assert his authority, mostly by bellowing louder than the plough-oxen, coaxed from their stalls by the ploughman, and with the aid of the steward got the old women and young children herded out of the way and every able-bodied adult grabbing a pail and into the hastily assembled chain. Nobody noticed the half-dozen men who slipped within the manor gate. Four headed straight to the stables, whilst the fifth lit a torch and lobbed it up onto the roof of the hall, hoping for it to catch the thatch, but it bounced down harmlessly. He picked it up, opened the door of the hall and threw it within, thinking it was how he ought to have accomplished his task in the first place. Then he joined the other man, who had gone straight to the kitchen and the adjacent store. The pair soon after emerged from the storehouse with a flitch of curing bacon and two hefty sacks. They also left the building with a whispering crackling within it, which grew to a clamour as the fire, finding plenty to fuel it, engulfed it and the kitchen. The men from the stables led out five horses, bridled, and mounted them bareback, letting the bacon thieves leave first, since none would even notice figures on foot in the mayhem. Once they were clear, the riders charged out, their leader laughing as if possessed. They could have swung directly to the right and been out of sight in moments, but the man upon the lead horse set it to gallop right through the melee of bucket-wielding villagers, who scattered before the flailing hooves. Hubert de Bradleigh stood open-mouthed until the smoke made him choke, for the horse that dashed past him was his own, and ridden by a charcoal-faced maniac whose laugh would haunt his dreams for days. He saw, as he was intended to see, for this was a revenge upon Hubert de Bradleigh, even though at this minute he had no idea of it. Only as his horses disappeared into the night was he alerted to the fact that there was fire within his own walls, and hall and family were at risk. If the heat had singed his cheeks, it was the ice cold of fear that now ran down his spine. He prayed, and as he prayed, he ran.
Once at a safe distance from the mayhem, the riders hauled upon the mouths of their mounts and brought them to a jibbing halt, there to await their companions with the stolen victuals. The man upon Hubert de Bradleigh’s horse was breathless from yelling, but turned a blackened face, from which two brown eyes sparkled, to William Swicol.
‘There was a joy in every moment. I am only sorry I did not steal his saddle also. Pity it is that I cannot stay to see his hall burn. Hubert de Bradleigh can walk into Worcester to wail and make complaint to de Beauchamp, and it will be over half the shire in days.’
‘As will be the lord Sheriff and his men, hunting for a gang of brigands.’
‘What care we for that? They will not find us in the forest and, besides, though we rise late on the morrow, we ride north to attend matters there. I have planned this for so long – it feels good, very good. Give me your arm and get up here.’
Chapter Eight
The steward at Beoley was courteous, and the cook capable, both of which pleased Hugh Bradecote. Undersheriff and serjeant agreed that mentioning howling wolves would not be useful, since if a wolf had been heard in the proximity of the village, they could be sure they would be told. They therefore told the other part of their reason for coming north, the disappearance of Frewin, tenant of Alcester Abbey. The steward shook his head over robbers in unruly times, and promised to escort them on the morrow to tell the man’s sister that he was considered to have died by violence.
‘I am sure I am not the only man to shake his head over the pass we’ve come to since the days of King Henry. When kings and empresses come to bloodshed, is it a surprise that lawlessness grows? The lord Bishop’s steward in Alvechurch warned me only a few days after the Feast of St Luke’s that a sack of grain had been stolen from the granary there, and I have had every household here ensure their crock is full, even though they would not normally restock it until the end of Advent, and have brought extra sacks of the lord de Beauchamp’s grain kept in the storehouse here, hoping that our good ratting cat will keep vermin at bay.’ The steward sounded a little anxious. William de Beauchamp was not a forgiving man, and he also liked the sound of silver coin. Bradecote knew that he had the excess grain from his outlying manors brought in to Worcester during the Hunger Months, when it sold for the highest price.
‘It was a good harvest this year, and none should be short.’ Bradecote frowned. He had known squabbles within a community about the harvest, but stealing grain from granaries was rare and a crime where ‘justice’ tended to be meted out without recourse to the law. It was also a crime of desperation in the starving summer months after a bad year, not in November of a good one.
‘Only ones who could be short would be those who did not reap,’ remarked Catchpoll, quietly.
‘Townsfolk?’ The steward had the countryman’s disdain for those who did not directly work the land and eat the produce of their labours.
‘No.’ The response was a sharp bark, but then Catchpoll brought his voice down to a growl. ‘I means them as does not live in a village or a town. I means outlaws.’
‘Outlaws. Holy Mary preserve us!’ The steward crossed himself, imagining hordes of violent and well-armed men descending upon Beoley.
‘Aye, but it might be but a few of ’em, when all is said. If they hides out in the forest they can find meat easy enough, but nothing to grind for bread or put into a pottage to thicken it.’
‘If they hide out in the forest at this season, they must have made some shelter.’ Bradecote was thinking out loud.
‘Indeed so, my lord, which is to our advantage.’ Catchpoll nodded.
‘But the forest is so big.’ The steward still looked worried. ‘How could you find a hiding place?’
‘Not sure as I could, but a wuduweard could do it.’ Catchpoll looked at Bradecote. ‘They know their forest like I knows Worcester.’
‘Fortunate it is then that you say you are for Tutnall today. Hereward the wuduweard is a good man, and sensible, not that he says a lot. Do not try Durand, the wuduweard in the southern part of the forest, for he aids none and turns his shoulder to all kindness.’
The sheriff’s men kept their own counsel, enjoyed the hospitality of Beoley, and discharged the giving of sad news to the sister of Frewin early on the morrow. Only as they rode away did they speak of what was uppermost in both minds.
‘Well then,’ Catchpoll dropped his reins a moment and rubbed his rough hands together, not just from the cold, ‘we have got more’n we could have expected from Beoley, my lord, much more.’
‘Indeed we have, Catchpoll, and I think we stop in Alvechurch upon our way to Hereward Wuduweard in Tutnall, to hear direct from the steward what happened to their wheat. It ought not delay us for long, and the track is good enough for us to go a little faster.’ Bradecote kicked his steel grey horse into a canter.
It was not far to Alvechurch, a village that showed the interest of the bishops of Worcester, who had built a hall there, and used it frequently. The steward was swift to show them the granary, though of itself it told them nothing new.
‘We heard nothing, at least nothing of the theft, and even if we had I doubt any would have opened their door.’ The steward shuddered, and Bradecote and Catchpoll were not surprised by his next words. ‘The howling was so close. There is a wolf in the forest, and that night it must have come close. Pity it is that the thieves must have already got here, but I am sure they took less than they intended when they h
eard the beast.’
The sheriff’s men made vague comments about the rarity of wolves, and left the steward with instruction to send word by any coming towards Worcester if they heard a wolf howl again.
‘The pieces of the pot come together, my lord. William Swicol is a part of this band of outlaws, we can be sure. He has cunning and he has some knowledge of the forest, since he grew up with it. The forest is a good place to hide and only a wuduweard would be able to find them, unless by great good fortune. We wondered why Durand was killed, and now we knows. My thought is that young William went to his father and offered him the chance to join them and he refused.’
‘Why, Catchpoll? He was not a man of virtue.’
‘No, my lord, but I doubts he would like the idea of being part of a band that his son was leading, and most outlaws are not as clever as they think, so William would be their leader. Pride would make him say nay, and then …’
‘What sort of man kills his father, though, Catchpoll, for not agreeing to such a thing? He cannot have believed Durand would betray him.’
‘Yes he could, if the man’s temper rose, and he was a mean sort of bastard by every account. William could not be sure that he was safe, so he did for him, and the savagery upon the body and its being found was all about spreading fear, and perhaps a little vengeance for the past.’
‘That makes sense, Catchpoll, but something pricks me like a burr. William Swicol lives by his wits, yes, but in towns, among people he cheats. Why would he turn to robbery and living in the forest when he can honey-word himself to sit by the hearths, at the least, of women like Sæthryth?’ Bradecote frowned in concentration. ‘Remember also the wolf, or dog-wolf. He cannot have just found one since the summer. This must have been planned from the spring at the latest, assuming he found a wolf whelp by chance, and that is assuming a lot. A she-wolf would not make a den by the trackside. Something does not quite fit in your repaired pot.’
‘You speak true enough, my lord, but mayhap he won a hund-wulf with his cheating dice, a young ’un he could train, or fell in with another as crooked as himself who had one, and they formed a plan to use it as they have. Men who thieve and cheat, aye and kill, well they draws together natural, like sheep in a flock, ’ceptin’ that oftentimes it does not last and they ends at each other’s throats, which makes our lives the easier.’
‘Well, that may be true in this case, if it is the animal that loses its temper.’ Bradecote paused, and his next words made them urge their mounts a little faster. ‘The thing is, Catchpoll, that if Hereward is the only wuduweard remaining hereabouts, he may well be at risk.’
Hereward the wuduweard did not live in Tutnall, as the village reeve told them, but a little outside the village, in a house his oldfather had built in an assart a little off the road that ran through the village and south-west to join the old Roman road. The chances were good that he would be found at home, he said, for he had twisted his ankle a day or so earlier, and was ‘caged’ within his own walls.
‘Not the man to be stuck within, our Hereward. His son, Robert, is a-wooing the smith’s daughter, and has been happier at their hearthside while his father grumbles at his own.’ The reeve laughed, and gave directions to the ‘House of Grumbling’.
It was a well-built, low-eaved house with a small patch of ground to the rear where leek and onion would grow in season, and crab apples of some age grew close, which Catchpoll noted as forethought by the oldkin that had cleared the ground and built upon it.
‘Nice little place if a man can barter meat for wheat and barley, and these forest men can find squirrel and wood pigeon as if plucking them like fruit. I would guess there is home-brewed mead and cider aplenty too.’
They dismounted and secured their horses, then knocked upon the door. A voice charged them to wait, and then, after a few moments, the door opened. The man before them had a stick, but was no oldfather with gnarled hand and white beard. He was older than Bradecote but considerably younger than Catchpoll, his skin weathered like any rural inhabitant, but without furrows, and his hair was still dark. His bushy brows were drawn together and his expression calm. He had taken in Bradecote’s garb in an eye-blink, and was not distrustful.
‘Yes? What it is that you want, my lord?’ A man such as Bradecote, and in company with a specimen like Catchpoll, was clearly worthy of the address.
‘I am Hugh Bradecote, undersheriff of the shire. We would have words with you, Hereward, both that you can give to us in aid, and we to you.’
‘Then come you in, for I does not care to stand long at present.’ Hereward stepped back, cautiously, winced, and let them within. It was tidy, though no woman’s presence showed. The hearth fire was well fed, and although it was still before noontide, a pot hung over it from which an enticing smell emanated. Bradecote sniffed without thinking.
‘Mushrooms, my lord. Good time for them it is up to Advent, and my lad picked plenty yestermorn afore he took some to his maid in the village. Wooing, he is.’ Hereward gave a small smile. ‘If you knows which to pick and puts them with a little barley they makes a fine pottage, and sat about here I has nothing to do but eat, these last days.’
‘We heard that you hurt your ankle. It must irk you to be home-bound.’ Bradecote took the stool that was offered to him and sat, warming chilled hands in the fire-warmth.
‘Indeed, but by week’s end I will be out again, even if not dawn to dusk. Now, what words need you from me, my lord?’
‘We need to know about wolves.’ Bradecote was open with the man. He did not think he would pale at the word, and nor did he. ‘Most of all we need to know if any have been heard or seen up here in the north of the forest, in say the last year, perhaps two.’
‘It was from you or your father that wolf pelts came, years back,’ added Catchpoll, casually.
‘Ah yes, that was my father, the year afore he died. A wolf cares as little for man as man for the wolf, and both avoids the other. I has no doubt the two that were caught back then were not the last in the forest, just old and desperate, and thus seeking easy meat among kept beasts. A few times in a year I comes across a carcass that is not an animal as died and was scavenged by fox and brock, and it is likely a wolf, and I catch a glimpse once or twice, no more. I does not bother them and they does not bother me. They cover many miles, so may not be in my part of the forest at all for months.’
‘So you think Durand in Feckenham knows they are here too?’ Bradecote had no doubt of the answer but wanted to introduce Durand’s name. He also had no doubt that this man had nothing to do with the wolf now prowling the forest with men.
‘Him! Aye, he will know. Only a fool wuduweard would not, and one thing about Durand is he is no fool. Nasty bastard, mind you, and most folk avoids him as much as a lone wolf.’
‘Easy to avoid, now,’ Catchpoll paused and then grinned, ‘since they buried him yesterday and even the earth was reluctant to take him according to the man who dug the grave for him.’
‘Well, if you expect me to say a prayer for his soul you are wide of the mark, because I could pray until the domesday itself and would have changed nothing for him. Nor would I want to. He knew the forest, but he did not love it. He was not born to it, mind, and that makes a difference. When my Robert takes my place, I knows he will care for the forest, not just watch it for the lord King and make much of being the King’s man. Durand did it for the position, and once he had found folk really would not bow and scrape before him as if he were some high and mighty for—er, someone important, he took against the whole world and I suppose the only good word he might ever have had would be for a tree.’ Hereward slapped his knees as if closing all thought of Durand.
‘Durand died by violence, and at some point, possibly after death, he was savaged by a wolf.’ Bradecote spoke without emphasis. ‘He was found by his hearth.’
‘But …’ Hereward’s brows drew so close they became a dark smear above his eyes, ‘No wolf would enter a house.’
‘No, which
is why we thinks that was for show, so to say, and his body put there.’ Catchpoll pulled a face and then added, ‘The face was a mess, and the throat ripped out.’
‘You sure it was a wolf?’ Hereward sounded unsure.
‘Why?’
‘Because the throat, yes, that a wolf would do, but if a wolf takes prey to eat it goes for the legs and body long before the head. More meat and good offal.’
‘The legs were not damaged.’ Catchpoll was watching Hereward. ‘To my mind the beast did what it did to command. That means someone found a she-wolf and killed it for its whelp, and it has become like a dog in seeking to please that man. Could it be done, and—’ Catchpoll halted as Hereward raised a hand.
‘You would have to find the whelp when very small and raise it by hand. That takes time, and luck, and milk too. Even then, I would not trust a wolf full grown. It could decide you were no longer to be obeyed and turn.’
‘And when would that be?’ Bradecote asked.
‘No longer than a year and a half, I would guess, but it is a guess. They are spring born, and would need to be large enough and strong enough to hunt and to survive over the next winter. My oldfather told a tale of a wolf brought up by a man, and not a recent tale even then, and in the end the wolf turned. The moral was that you never trust a wolf, thinking it is a hound. It is always a wolf, and its instincts are a wolf’s. I saw a she-wolf – they are lighter of build and shape – now and again till the Nativity last, and not since. It might just be that she moved on, but the wolf, dark-maned beast he is, I did see in the spring, just after we had a late snowfall in March, and I had thought they must be together. If someone killed her, and she was with her whelps, it would fit. A young wolf now would be big enough and strong enough to do as you suggest.’ He shrugged. ‘More I cannot give you.’
Wolf at the Door Page 10
