Wolf at the Door

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Why do you say killing his father was not hard, Bradecote? He had no reason to kill his father at all, since all he needed do was tell him not to lead the Law to his camp?’

  ‘We know Durand Wuduweard was not a man who was liked, and not a single good word has come from anyone.’ Bradecote spoke slowly, as his mind produced answers. ‘His son chose not to follow him, but to go to the towns as soon as he was old enough and follow another path. Since then, they sometimes reconciled but always ended at odds.’ Bradecote had held his own father in respect, though as a small child he had been remote, and there had been little contact during his years in the household of another lord, as was usual. He had returned home at sixteen and the bond had built late, but it had been there. ‘My guess is that he did tell him, when last they met and seemed once again in charity with each other, but that as always it broke down and Durand became a threat. Yes,’ Bradecote warmed to his theme, ‘and that is why the body was in the Feckenham house. He was killed by the wolf, or even killed another way and the wolf encouraged to rip at the corpse, for if he had been strangled, who could tell if there was no throat. Then the body was placed in his house so that William Swicol could “find” him and be the distraught son. If Durand had disappeared and not been seen again, everyone in Feckenham would say that he was last seen with his son, and that they always ended up falling out. We would be looking all over for William Swicol.’

  ‘But this still does not explain the wolf.’ Walkelin, as ever, was listening but letting his own logical processes work upon it all.

  ‘What do you mean? We have the fang marks to prove it.’ De Beauchamp stared at Walkelin.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord. We do know a wolf was involved, yes, but it cannot be William Swicol who found it as a whelp and raised it, because a man would have to spend all his time with it, like its mother, for it to survive, and he has been about the towns, cheating fools of their pennies. So why did the man who found the animal take all that trouble? I grant he may have met with William later, but he had to have a reason from the start. What sort of man plans for – who knows – even a year ahead? How many of us even dare do that, my lord?’

  ‘Mighty few.’ William de Beauchamp was not a very pious man, but he thought looking that far ahead for oneself, as opposed to one’s family, was somehow irreligious.

  ‘It shows not just confidence but a great belief in himself. We saw that in William Swicol.’ Bradecote still liked his theory, though he saw Walkelin’s point.

  ‘And he is a cunning bastard who plans ahead. We knows that from his “games” in Worcester and Evesham and beyond,’ added Catchpoll. ‘If he came across a man who let slip that he was bringing up a wolf, he would wonder how that could be of use to him.’

  ‘But it does not explain the other man. Somehow, what he had planned has mixed with William Swicol, and spun into one thread like two tufts of wool on the distaff.’ Walkelin stuck to his belief, and challenged his superiors to dismiss it.

  ‘So William Swicol is not the only one with confidence.’ Catchpoll looked at Walkelin with a mixture of pride and just a little chagrin. His protégé was no longer just an apprentice, more a journeyman. It did not mean Catchpoll liked to admit that the gap between them was narrowing.

  Walkelin’s self-confidence was not so strong that it could face Serjeant Catchpoll’s stare.

  ‘I -I am sorry, Serjeant.’ He faltered, but rallied. ‘But what I said is true, even if it is only me saying it.’

  Bradecote, equally surprised, but in no way threatened, was moving on.

  ‘Having to wait for the wolf to grow large enough to be dangerous gives us the reason why all this is happening now, but no wolf was involved when the horses were stolen and the attempt made upon Hubert de Bradleigh’s hall, so why would a man who uses deceit, who works alone, bring together a band and turn to horse stealing, and could he have ever met de Bradleigh, let alone know him enough to want to burn him out of his home and kill his family?’

  ‘Now, that, my lord, does have me lost.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth.

  ‘There has to be something more, a greater aim, and what worries me is that we have no idea what that is.’ Bradecote ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘So we call in Hereward from Tutnall and set him to find wherever these men are hiding.’ De Beauchamp wanted to act.

  ‘Aye, my lord, we do, but he knows the northern part of the forest better rather than down by Feckenham and south of the Salt Way. For that reason, I doubts they are in the north. Some sign would have alerted him, or they would have silenced him first.’ Catchpoll did not think it would be easy, and half his mind was still on why William Swicol wanted to harm the lord of Bradleigh.

  ‘Well, he will be able to see things we do not, and will not get us lost, even if he has not every tree in his head.’ De Beauchamp tapped his fingers upon the arms of his chair.

  ‘He is lame at present, my lord. He did not think to be out in the forest until the week’s end,’ cautioned Bradecote.

  ‘We have not time to give him until the week’s end. Walkelin, you ride north to Tutnall in the morning, and take a spare horse.’

  ‘What if Hereward cannot ride, my lord?’ Walkelin asked.

  ‘He will fall off a lot on the way,’ responded the sheriff, without any sympathy.

  ‘And for today, my lord?’ Bradecote was wondering if he might return to his manor and return the following afternoon.

  ‘You remain in Worcester.’ De Beauchamp had read his mind, or at least his face. ‘If a loner like William Swicol finds “friends” among the outlawry, or those ready to step beyond the King’s Justice, how has he done so? I want questions asked in every alehouse and with every person known to have given him shelter this last year.’

  Bradecote groaned. ‘So, Catchpoll, it is not a question I have ever asked myself, but it is a valid one. How do men who ignore the law join together? They cannot stand at street corners and call for accomplices.’

  ‘Be good if they did.’ Catchpoll grinned. ‘The lord Sheriff wants us to ask in every alehouse in Worcester, so we will, but although we found him at the sign of The Gate, had Ketel seen him he would have been thrown out. Most of those who drink there are honest enough townsmen, with a few who gets a bit rough when drunk. Same could be said at the sign of The Goose. We will get nothing there. However, we already knows Roger at the sign of The Moon is as honest as the River Salwarpe is straight, which is not at all, and has not just the men from the wharves and off the boats cross his threshold. Same goes for him as keeps the sign of The Bear. The only thing a little against both is that William Swicol would know those who go there would be swift to draw a knife on a man who cheated them.’

  ‘So he made sure he was very careful, Catchpoll, and did not get caught.’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Might be so, my lord. Thinks enough of himself, he does. And dishonest sees dishonest, but the man who robs, who uses violence by nature, he might not recognise William Swicol, so he would have the advantage.’

  ‘You see dishonest men even before they stretch out their hand to commit the crime, you old bastard. What does that make you?’ Bradecote’s lips twitched.

  ‘Two steps ahead, my lord, and still livin’.’ The death’s head smile stretched slowly across Catchpoll’s grizzle-bearded face.

  ‘Where would a man like him find lodging?’ Walkelin wondered. ‘Since I do not think he would be found in the priory guesthouse, do we think he paid a woman, or persuaded one?’

  ‘Either would do for him, but it would be easier for us if he paid. We knows the street-whores, but they ply their trade in alleys, so we are looking at women who keep a roof over their heads but have no honest trade.’ Catchpoll began to run down a mental list.

  ‘So not like Widow Beomodor then, Serjeant?’ Walkelin smiled.

  ‘Ha! No, not like her.’

  ‘Who? A bee mother?’ Bradecote looked confused.

  ‘Well, my lord, she is really the widow of Owain the Bylda
, out beyond the Foregate, but when he died and she could not, of course, take over his work, she took in the washing for wifeless men. Then one day some bees swarmed down by the drying ground and … well, I does not know how she managed it, but she got them in a basket, and covered them with a wet cloth and Walter Reedman made her a skep, and since then she provides fine wax candles for the lord Sheriff, and honey for the healers. Her oldfather was a beoceorl, so mayhap it is in her blood to charm the king-bees. Thing is, she is soft and calm with the bees, but woe betides any man who annoys her. Worse than the bees’ stings is her chiding. No, William Swicol would not honey-tongue her.’

  ‘What about Mald, that wicked piece as hid Osbern the Moneyer?’ Walkelin had bad memories of her.

  ‘Now there’s a good thought, Young Walkelin. You go and speak with her, and those who live close by. There’s quite a few as would know the look of William Swicol, so you can ask about him as well as describe how he looks. Oh, and try Swift Emma, in Bridelwritte Strete. Since she is none so swift these days, she has been giving lodging to those whose work in Worcester only lasts a week or so.’

  ‘My mother would besom-thrash me for speaking with Swift Emma,’ mumbled Walkelin, embarrassed.

  ‘Then best we does not tell her. Now, off with you.’

  Walkelin, a bit red about the ears, left upon his duties.

  ‘I will not ask why it was “Swift Emma”, Catchpoll.’

  ‘No, my lord. I am sure as your guess hits the mark. I think we will make our way along the quayside and then to the sign of The Moon. Plenty of those who ply the Severn have been duped over the years by William Swicol, and would say if they saw him recent-like.’

  ‘How does he keep going when folk know his reputation?’ Bradecote asked.

  ‘Because as you said before, he is mighty cautious and because men in alehouses drinks ale and their wits cannot swim in it. They suddenly thinks they knows all and cannot lose. He knows they knows nothing and will lose. Simple, really.’

  Undersheriff and serjeant made their way from the castle, past the dominating height of the cathedral, and down to the wharfage that was bustling even on a chill November day. Catchpoll spoke to men on left and right, reminding Bradecote of a bishop giving out blessings, though no bishop ever used the language Catchpoll used to describe William Swicol. There were mostly shaken heads, though a few had news of the man. One had seen him in Tewkesbury at the end of August, and another in Worcester before Michaelmas, which tallied with when Catchpoll knew he had last been within its walls. As they passed one of the warehouses a man, well wrapped in a thick cloak with a beaver pelt cape to the shoulders and fur about his cap, crossed their path.

  ‘Master Simeon, how goes trade?’ Bradecote smiled at the man, who turned and made a graceful obeisance, and smiled back, his watchful brown eyes permitted a twinkle.

  ‘My lord, it goes well enough, though cargoes to Bristow are far from assured with winter storms upon the seas, and we bring up what we can, when we can.’

  ‘And your house?’

  ‘All thrive.’ Simeon’s smile grew, and showed his fine white teeth, ‘even in this chill dampness.’

  ‘I would ask of you, Master Simeon, if you have seen William Swicol, a man known in Worcester, but not for good deeds, in these last months?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I know of him. I would not lend him silver, to be sure, though he accrues enough by swiftness of hand, and the folly of men. Let me see. He passed me, down here, early in September, and had come upriver, for I saw him step ashore. I warned the men who work for me not to drink and play with him, but would they listen?’ Simeon shrugged. ‘Sometimes I had as well tell the clouds.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Alas, it is but little, my lord.’

  ‘Add the littles together and you get much, Master Simeon.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’ Master Simeon laughed as he gave another bow. ‘That is very true, and much as I tell my son about trading.’

  Bradecote and Catchpoll passed on, weaving their way between men carrying sacks, towards the sign of The Moon. It was a dark hole of a place, and could have done with a little moonlight just to make things easier to see. As Catchpoll remarked, it was the perfect place to use sleight of hand or loaded dice. Roger, the alehouse keeper, looked about as pleased to see them as if they had brought pestilence with them.

  ‘I have done nothing,’ he exclaimed, before they said a word.

  ‘I always says, my lord, as a man who offers us denial before any accusation is a man worth asking many questions.’ Catchpoll did not even look at Roger, but at Bradecote.

  ‘Then it is good that we have some already to ask,’ responded Bradecote, and stared at Roger.

  ‘William Swicol. Wh—’

  ‘Who?’ Roger feigned ignorance, badly, and regretted it as Catchpoll grabbed him by the scruff of the neck so that his cotte half choked him.

  ‘Every alehouse keeper in Worcester knows William Swicol, and if you waste the lord Undersheriff’s time with lies, he will let me take over. He is a lord, so he has manners. I am Serjeant Catchpoll, so I do not, and you knows what I can do. Now, listen to the question, and answer swift and true, or it will not be the scruff of your neck I will have in my hand and be twistin’.’

  Roger gulped, once the hold loosened enough for him to do so.

  ‘So we try again.’ Bradecote sounded bored, which he generally judged would best fit with Catchpoll’s description of him as lordly and mannered. Men like Roger were bound to think that the lordly class sat in their halls all day, drinking wine and eating roast boar, and did not actually do anything. Bradecote knew his daily life was not as repetitive or exhausting as that of his peasantry, but he was not an idle man, and when he was upon his duties as undersheriff, he scarcely had a moment to take breath. ‘You know William Swicol. We want you to tell us when he was last here, and about anyone who not only did not want to blacken his eye after drinking with him, but seemed to enjoy his company.’

  ‘Er …’ the hesitation became a cough as Catchpoll’s grip tightened. ‘Just thinkin’, just thinkin’,’croaked Roger.

  ‘Think faster and out loud,’ growled Catchpoll, with a degree of malice that Bradecote knew was magnified for effect.

  ‘He … he was here around Michaelmas feasting, for several evenings. Came in late.’

  ‘Well, he would, because by then your customers would have enough ale inside ’em to forget they hated his guts. And?’ Catchpoll guessed Roger turned a blind eye to the cheating as long as he received a few silver pennies for his blindness.

  ‘There were two men, not Worcester men. I thought they came off the boats, perhaps. They might have been brothers, even, for they had very fair hair and when they asked for ale their accent was strange.’

  ‘Do you mean they spoke English haltingly?’ Bradecote wondered if they were sailors who originated abroad.

  ‘No, my lord, but they said the words different, and the pattern of their voices was up and down, like the Welsh, but it was not Welsh.’

  ‘And they supped ale with William Swicol?’

  ‘They did, my lord, and left with him the second night.’

  ‘So they were with him from choice two nights in a row. Hmm.’ Bradecote gave no indication that this information was useful. ‘Where did he lodge?’

  ‘How would—I mean, I know not, my lord.’

  ‘Does he know Swift Emma?’ Catchpoll whispered, from behind Roger’s left ear.

  ‘Most of Worcester knows Swift Emma,’ replied Roger, instantly. ‘Oldfather Holt even remembers her when she was young and could—’

  ‘William Swicol is not “of Worcester”,’ interrupted Bradecote, hastily. ‘Has he a woman he speaks of, or you know he visits?’

  ‘I have never heard him mention one. But wait, I did see him with Mald.’ Roger looked pleased with himself for remembering this.

  ‘Mald who lives in the yard by William Potter’s?’ Catchpoll pounced.

  ‘Yes, that is her.’r />
  Catchpoll slowly released his hold on Roger of the Moon.

  ‘Not hard, was it, helping the lord Undersheriff. Now, if William Swicol comes in here, even a toe over the threshold, you comes running to the castle and reports it, right?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I will report it.’

  ‘Good. Do we need to be here any longer, my lord?’

  ‘No, Serjeant Catchpoll, we do not.’ Bradecote kept in character.

  ‘Also good, then.’ With which Catchpoll ostentatiously dusted off his hands as if they had been contaminated by Roger’s collar and followed Bradecote outside.

  ‘You know, you plays the undersheriff very well now, my lord,’ murmured Catchpoll.

  ‘I am the undersheriff.’

  ‘Yes, but this job is about being what folk expect you to be, but more so. It is the bit that Walkelin is still lacking. He acts too gentle and kindly.’

  ‘As opposed to being a nasty bastard. Am I sufficiently “nasty”, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, though what makes it is the high-and-mighty arrogance laid on thick. Works a treat.’

  Bradecote laughed softly, but was then serious.

  ‘Have you heard of any fair-haired law-breakers come to Worcester upriver, Catchpoll? Ones not from the shire or Gloucestershire.’

  ‘No, my lord, but using the river to get away when unpopular is not uncommon. I keeps my eyes on arrivals, but if I was upon the lord Sheriff’s business elsewhere when they came, I might have missed them.’ Catchpoll sounded as if he had shown dereliction of duty.

  ‘You cannot be everywhere and know everything all the time, Catchpoll.’