Wolf at the Door

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘No, my lord, but I must try.’ Catchpoll shook his head.

  The shrieval pair went to find Mald, and perhaps Walkelin at the same time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Walkelin strode through Worcester looking very serious, unconsciously looking more Catchpoll-like in the process, especially since everyone who knew him saw him as an open and kind-hearted soul. He looked neither at this moment. He was not, however, thinking like Catchpoll. He was telling himself, over and over, that he must be formal and official with Swift Emma and the awful Mald, and above all not let them make him blush. He was the apprentice-sergeant, indeed perhaps ‘Underserjeant Walkelin’ as the lord Sheriff had termed him but a few days past, not Walkelin whose mother still asked if he washed behind his ears and warned about sinful women. This reminded him that in the near future he was going to have to let her know all about Eluned, who was not sinful, but with whom it was increasingly difficult not to sin a lot, and whom he wanted to wed and live with in the family home. His mother would be bound to look askance at any young woman not of her choosing for her son.

  This diversion of thought meant that Walkelin was able to knock upon the door of Swift Emma without presenting a face already suffused pink. The woman who opened it was comely, in a jaded way. Her features were good, but her eyes had no spark to them, and her skin was sallow. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I am Underserjeant Walkelin, Sheriff’s Man, er, mistress.’ He had suddenly realised addressing the woman as ‘Swift Emma’ was not going to sound right. ‘I have been sent by the lord Sheriff to ask if you have had dealings, recently, with William Swicol.’ Walkelin winced. ‘Dealings’ did not sound so good either.

  Swift Emma, who was something over forty years old and felt older, wondered if she ought to offer the lad a cloth to wipe his mother’s milk from his lips, but did not say so.

  ‘That depends. In the way you might be thinkin’, no, because there’s some men even a woman of my experience ought to avoid, and he’s one of ’em. Come along inside.’

  This was unexpected. Walkelin half recoiled, which made the woman laugh.

  ‘I won’t eat you, not even a little bit of you,’ she gurgled, enjoying the horrified reaction, and stepped back from the doorway. He followed a little nervously. The chamber was sparsely furnished, as would be expected in a small home in this part of Worcester, but it was tidy and it was clean. A palliasse on a rough frame was pushed against the far wall, with a stool beside it; there was a swept hearthstone with a small fire burning; a few utensils lay on a bench, and there was a second palliasse upon the floor to the right of the door.

  ‘That’s my bed,’ she offered, seeing him look about him. ‘Safer near the door, and if my neighbours heard me scream they would come to my aid. These days a man pays for the good bed and the pottage, and there’s no extras. I got too old and no woman wants to end like Ricolde, God have mercy upon her dear soul,’ she crossed herself, ‘and her a good few years younger. There’s not so much coin made, but enough. Now, let us ignore the lord Sheriff, and you tell me exactly what that crafty bastard, Serjeant Catchpoll, wants to know. I have seen you following him about often enough, and in truth would have hoped he would have come to me himself.’

  ‘Serjeant Catchpoll is with the lord Undersheriff, mistress, and asking at the alehouses.’

  ‘Ah, and the lord Undersheriff would not want to visit me. I will not hold that against him, for he saw us all safe again after what happened to Ricolde and Berta.’

  ‘And my mother’s sister also,’ Walkelin reminded her. The deaths of women in the early summer had cast a long shadow over Worcester.

  ‘Her also. Now, tell me what Catchpoll wants.’

  ‘We seek to find out where William Swicol stayed when he was last in Worcester, for perhaps a week or more around Michaelmas, and if he met with men or left with them.’

  ‘I would not give that wyrm anything other than the back of my hand, and more fool any woman who listens to his forked tongue. He did come here, for Roger of The Moon told him my lodging was cheaper than the priory and with fewer prayers. What he wanted, of course, was free lodging. Silver words he had, but no intention of spending a single silver penny, so I sent him away. He found somewhere to put his head, for I passed him in the Bocherewe about a week later, but he ignored me for he was talking with a tallow-haired man. You can tell Catchpoll and your lord Undersheriff that the man was a stranger to me, but I overheard him speaking and he sounded like Thorkell the Earless. Before your time he was, but Catchpoll will remember him.’

  ‘Thank you, mistress.’ Walkelin was grateful. Swift Emma was actually not as difficult to speak with as he had imagined, not by a long way.

  ‘And my advice to you, young “Underserjeant” is not to sound as if you wants to add “please” when you asks for information. Make it more of a demand, and do not take a deep breath first. Now, off you run.’

  She almost shooed him out and then shook her head.

  ‘God help me, I sounded like his mother. What have you come to, Emma?’

  The yard by William the Potter’s was a corner of Worcester if not half forgotten then best forgotten, being dingy and uncared for, and Mald’s home was the worst part of it. She had been a bad wife, and a relieved widow, who liked mead, men and money, in that order. Most of the women who sold themselves in Worcester had little choice, at least when they started, but a few saw it as easier than the usual toil of women, and Mald had the advantage of a permanent roof over her head and the chance to be the mistress of just a very few men, and get more from them than a street whore, whose life was less comfortable and far more dangerous. The men who were used to entering Mald’s door without knocking were not fastidious, or else, thought Walkelin, remembering the last time he had entered, Mald had some amazing hidden talents. Eventually the men moved on, but she always found another to replace them.

  This cold morning her door was shut tight, and a thread of smoke snaked out above the bedraggled thatch, which looked like the hair of a woman who had slept badly and not picked up a comb. Walkelin, mindful of Swift Emma’s gem of advice, waited a moment at the door, taking his deep breath and setting back his shoulders before he was seen. He knocked, and knocked a second time. The smoke showed occupancy. He knocked a third time, and announced in a loud and, he hoped, demanding voice, that he was ‘the lord Sheriff’s Underserjeant’, and would have words with the woman Mald. There was definitely no ‘please’ in his tone, but nor did the door open.

  Walkelin lifted the latch, wondering if there was a bar the other side, but it gave a little, so he thrust it open firmly and stepped into the stale gloom. Something was thrown at him, which he ducked at the last moment, though something wet ran down his right cheek and into the wool of his hood, and he heard the smash of a pot against the doorpost. A stream of invective was also thrown at him, but so intent was he upon being ‘serjeantly’ he minded it not at all. His eyes grew accustomed to the half-light. Mald was sat up in the bed, hair dishevelled, her pale bosom an unconscious focus for his eyes, while another form, of whom only the knuckles pulling the coverlet over their head could be seen, formed a lumpen mass beside her.

  ‘We can speak here, while your “protector” guards you,’ declared Walkelin, scathingly, ‘or you can get out of that bed and we talks outside. I do not mind which, but I think you will, and so might he.’ Had Serjeant Catchpoll heard him he would have cheered.

  ‘You must turn away. I am naked.’ Mald sounded outraged, which was difficult for a woman in her position, but it was a good attempt.

  ‘If I trusted you I might, but I do not, so get up and dress, and I am clearly not the first man to see you unclothed. Get up. Now!’ Had Serjeant Catchpoll heard this his jaw would have dropped.

  Mald scrambled from the bed, and grabbed a linen undershirt, which Walkelin guessed had once been her late husband’s, and threw a gown over it. In November’s chill it was not a foolish thing to do. She glared at him as recognition dawned, though this did n
ot seem the same man as the sheepish, red-haired young man who had hunted for Osbern the Moneyer’s hidden dies. She made much of tying a girdle about her waist and thrusting her feet into her shoes, pulling up the gown to show off her calves, just in case it could reduce him to mumbling incoherence, but not a muscle in his face moved, nor did his skin redden. He jerked his head to the outside and stepped back. For one moment she thought to shut the door and let down the bar, but sense told her all he had to do was wait, either for her or her shy lover. She gave Walkelin a look that dripped poison.

  ‘My, you have grown into a big boy since last we met.’

  ‘I have learnt a lot about women like you.’

  ‘Lucky, too, then.’

  ‘Luckier than you could imagine.’ Walkelin gave up a short and silent prayer for Swift Emma, who had opened his eyes to his own ability to deal with the opposite sex. ‘Now, what can you tell me about William Swicol, who was in Worcester much of September?’

  ‘Nothing. I do not know of a man by that name.’ Mald pursed her lips and folded her arms across her bosom.

  ‘But you see, Mald, you have an ability to snuggle up to gallows-fodder, so I will not ask this time. Tell me what you know about William Swicol or I will drag you through the streets of Worcester to the castle and let Serjeant Catchpoll ask in the quiet dark of the cells.’

  ‘You think that frightens me?’

  ‘It should.’ Catchpoll’s voice was very even, but heavy with unpleasantness. Mald had not been looking beyond Walkelin, and he had his back to his superiors. ‘You see, we know William Swicol laid his head on your pillow, if nothing more, while he was here, so denying knowing him is as believable as you saying you are a maid.’

  A cackle of laughter came from an elderly dame who had come to her door at the commotion. It was providing excellent entertainment.

  ‘When that one was a maid, I still had nearly all my teeth and hair as dark as hers.’

  The sheriff’s men ignored her, but then she said something that had Catchpoll turn his head so fast there was audible click.

  ‘She’s bad at pickin’ men – other than the husband who was no choice of hers. All been thieves and liars and cheats, but what can you expect when she has Dodda, son of Edbald, as kin.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I remembers him well enough, and I knew his mother, poor woman. The hue and cry went through Worcester like wind-fanned flame, but he was fleet of foot, I will give him that.’

  ‘Who was this Dodda?’ Bradecote looked from the old woman to Catchpoll and back again.

  ‘He was a natural killin’ man, my lord, second son of Edbald the Butcher. Took to his father’s trade, but not as others do.’ Catchpoll’s expression was especially grim. ‘He liked the killing and the blood – sort of excited him, it did. Eventually Edbald had had enough. He told young Dodda that he would have to find work elsewhere, and that no butcher in Worcester would take him. We had witnesses who heard him declare it. Next day Edbald and his elder son were found on meathooks, and when I says “butchered” that is what I means. Edbald’s wife had been strangled, but not quite until death. Mind you, it would have been kinder. She said as how Dodda grabbed her, and it was clear he had killed father and brother. A hue and cry was raised, not just in the parish but all through Worcester, but no sign was found barring a hook and a rope on the eastern walls. I was serjeanting then, but new to it. We hunted for Dodda, asking at every assart, every village, but he had disappeared. Many felt he was mad and would have taken his own life, but I doubted it. He was arraigned, and of course never appeared, and then declared outlaw. His mother died a few months later.’

  ‘And why do you mention it, oldmother, when it was so long ago?’ Walkelin’s eyes had been fixed upon the old woman.

  ‘I saw him, that is why, or a man as looked as Dodda must if he has two score years rather than one, and with one of her men.’ The old woman pointed a twisted finger at Mald.

  ‘You are as blind as you are foolish, Shrivelled One,’ spat Mald. ‘Dodda was mad and I doubts not he is long dead, and not even kin would shelter him if he lived.’

  ‘And why would he return to Worcester after twenty years?’ Bradecote felt this was drifting from the point of their questioning.

  ‘Well, when I saw the man with the one who had shared her bed the half of September, that is who I thought it was,’ the old woman was a little defensive now, ‘and still thinks it.’

  ‘Did you see any other strangers here with him, oldmother?’ Walkelin’s was a voice of calm.

  ‘A tallow-head came and knocked upon the door once, and they left together, but once only.’

  ‘Thank you. Old eyes may not see as far, but they can still see what needs seeing.’ Walkelin, shifting gently into ‘grandson any dame would be proud to have’ mode, gave the old woman a small smile, and turned to Bradecote. ‘My lord, I have spoken with another who saw William Swicol with a man with “tallow” hair, and she said to tell Serjeant Catchpoll he had a voice like Thorkell the Earless.’

  ‘So does this man have a name, Mald?’ Bradecote glared at the woman.

  ‘None I knows of. Will spoke of him only as one of “the Northern brothers”.’ It was pointless for her to deny knowledge of William Swicol any longer. ‘He left with them after Michaelmas.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘I do not know, but he said I would not see him again in Worcester because he would be rich and go to London.’ Mald looked as if she resented that he had not offered to take her with him.

  ‘I thinks we have enough, my lord,’ murmured Catchpoll.

  ‘Indeed.’ Bradecote dismissed Mald with a look, but gave the old woman a small smile, and she made a shaky attempt at an obeisance. ‘You have my thanks also, oldmother.’ That would give her something to crow about to any acquaintance who would listen.

  The sheriff’s men headed back to the castle to discuss their findings with William de Beauchamp, though Catchpoll told Walkelin to keep well back because he smelt of piss.

  ‘You recall Thorkell the Earless, my lord?’ Catchpoll asked de Beauchamp. ‘He plied the Severn a good fifteen years, and was considered a fine steersman.’

  ‘I do, Catchpoll. He was fairly memorable.’ De Beauchamp saw Bradecote’s raised eyebrow. ‘And it was not just his lack of an ear. A big man with cream-white hair and a plait to his beard, he was. Claimed he lost the ear in a fight with a Danish pirate in his youth, but I heard a healer say he looked as if he was born without it.’

  ‘The thing is, my lords, he came all the way from Northumbria, and that gave him the voice that went up and down. So it would seem these “brothers” are also far from their birthplace.’ Catchpoll wanted to move on. ‘The words of both the woman Mald and Swift Emma make it definite that they are with William Swicol, but all we can say about the other man is that if he is not Dodda, then we are looking for a man very like.’

  ‘Which aids you, Catchpoll, but not me or Walkelin.’ Bradecote rubbed his chin. ‘However, we now have three men linked to William Swicol and the interesting news that he thinks he is going to be so wealthy he will go to London.’

  ‘Not “go to London and make his fortune”?’ De Beauchamp queried. ‘It is not the same thing.’

  ‘No, my lord, it is not, and whilst it might have been a mistake, Mald said it very firmly.’

  ‘And, my lord, it would be more common for someone to say they were going to a big place such as Winchester or London to make their fortune. To say they will be wealthy and then go, well that has to have been said that way,’ Walkelin added. ‘Mald cannot be trusted, but this was not a thing that lying about would change, and she came out with it quick.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ De Beauchamp sat back in his chair.

  A servant entered the chamber, with a tired and dusty-looking man behind him.

  ‘My lord, here is Godfrid, the reeve of Tutnall, with urgent news for you.’ The servant stepped aside, and both the sheriff and
his men knew in that moment that Hereward would be of no use to them.

  Godfrid’s tale was not long in the telling and his grim-faced auditors did not interrupt him. When he finished, de Beauchamp sent him away to be given warmed ale and bread, knowing that he was shortly to be sent back at as good a pace as he came. The man looked done in, but considering the indolence of the mule and his own lack of riding experience, he had made good time, for it was a little before noon.

  ‘Whilst the mystery of what will make William Swicol rich concerns me, we have a clear course here. The reeve did right to come straight away so that what happened can be seen, but then Godfrid was ever a sensible man. Go north and see exactly what happened. Return here tomorrow with what you glean, and then we set about deciding what next this bastard will do. In the meantime, I will send back to Elmley for my hunter. He may not know the forest as the wuduweards do, but he can track even better than you, Catchpoll.’

  ‘That I doesn’t deny, my lord.’

  ‘And the lymer, my lord?’ Walkelin suggested. ‘The hound can seek a deer or a boar so a man would not be so hard. There might be something at Sæthryth’s he used a lot, or even better, something dropped in Tutnall, and that could be given as the scent to follow. The lymer and the hunter together would give us an even better chance of tracing him.’

  ‘A good thought.’ De Beauchamp acknowledged, and then glanced at Catchpoll. ‘He will have your position from you, one day, Catchpoll.’

  ‘He will, my lord, and it worries me not, because he will have it when I no longer has need of it. A serjeant should be judged upon his success, and part of that is who he has brought on to succeed him. My predecessor was a very good serjeant.’

  ‘Because he picked you?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Catchpoll did not smile, for in this he was genuine and serious. ‘And I picked Young Walkelin, who will be, at a time to come, a good serjeant for Worcester.’