Wolf at the Door

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘In the meantime, get you all to Tutnall, and bring me back something that will aid our hunt.’

  Godfrid viewed climbing back upon the mule with resignation, and the hope that his wife, who was good with salves, would have something for aching muscles and a multitude of bruises. He had parted company with his mount twice upon the journey south, and having fumed at its sedate pace, had cause to be thankful that it stopped and stood still within a few yards of where he had been deposited. While it was still not inclined to swiftness, it did want to keep company with the three horses, and so needed marginally less kicking.

  When they had passed through Tutnall, Bradecote and Catchpoll had not asked about William Swicol, being eager only to speak with Hereward. It was most unlikely that the man would be known there even by sight, but Catchpoll did ask about any strangers that might have been seen about the manor. Godfrid reported none.

  ‘And how long has the wuduweard lived where Hereward lived?’ enquired Catchpoll.

  ‘Ah, that is of Hereward’s oldfather’s clearing and building, with permission from the lord Sheriff as the representative of the King’s grace. He built it when he wed, for his father and mother lived closer in, but it was very small and a man needs a bit more space, shall we say, when he takes a bride. Hereward’s father had it after him, and then Hereward. Credit to Hereward that he has kept it well, even after he buried his wife.’

  ‘So anyone who came through Tutnall and asked would have been given his direction, and it would be easily remembered. That is no help to us, then.’ Catchpoll sighed.

  ‘And what do you know of his relations with Durand Wuduweard of Feckenham?’ Bradecote tried another possibility.

  ‘Ha, my lord, even if I did not know the answer to that I would be able to make a fair guess, for I never met anyone as could abide the man, and his reputation is through all the King’s Forest. But I can tell you more than that, though it goes back many years, and I doubts they met even once the last dozen.’ Godfrid, despite his discomfort upon the mule, forgot all about it in the tale of two foresters who had been, on one occasion literally, at each other’s throats.

  ‘It was not that they met often, and I suppose at first it was just natural for each one to think they was the better of the two. Durand was a little older, but came new to it upon his marriage, and took over under a year later, when his wife’s father died. Hereward was born to it and loved the forest for itself as if a … a creature that breathed. He never resented waiting to take over from his father. To Durand it was useful as a way to be important, though I think he grew to like the trees. It came to blows when Durand came up here to “warn” Hereward about encroaching upon his own preserves, though of course all are King Stephen’s when he has time to hunt again. It was nothing, but Durand made it much, and then he tried to make free with Hereward’s wife, because, he said, it would teach Hereward that if he took without right, someone else could do the same.’ Godfrid shook his head. ‘Hereward caught him before any lasting harm came to her, and he would have killed Durand for sure had she not begged him to let him go. She feared what might happen if there was a corpse, though every man in his tithing would have sworn their oath for Hereward and denounced Durand. Hereward said that if ever Durand came into the northern part of the forest, and he found him, he would kill him and hang his corpse from a tree for the crows to peck.’

  Bradecote and Catchpoll listened intently. Hereward had not revealed the depth of his loathing to them, not by a long way, but it was odd that he was dead, almost certainly at the instigation of William Swicol.

  ‘I think, Catchpoll, that William Swicol never knew of this, and it is sheer chance that he killed his father and then a man his father would have delighted to see dead, because they both posed the same threat.’

  ‘I agree, my lord. Wyrd is strange sometimes, mighty strange, and none can change it.’

  Chapter Twelve

  They reached the short track to the assart of Hereward as the gloaming drew the darkness like an enveloping cloak about the forest and its inhabitants, alive and dead. Godfrid, sore, tired, and with absolutely no wish to see what lay within again, offered to go and speak with the priest so that he would be ready for the body. He did not even mention that of the stranger. He would take the mule back to its stable at the same time. Bradecote thanked him, and understood the unspoken reasons.

  Catchpoll opened the door into silence and a smell of death, just losing its immediacy to linger as stale blood and something Walkelin described as ‘a smell of sorrow’, though he feared he was being fanciful. At Catchpoll’s request he went back outside to find some scrap of twig large enough to take a flame and illuminate the chamber and the location of any rushlight. Catchpoll struck a small flicker and the three of them, ignoring the large masses of what had formerly been men, cast about for a more permanent alleviation of the murkiness. It was Walkelin who found a rushlight on a little shelf, and, once it was lit, held it aloft to cast a cone of discernibility below it.

  Catchpoll took one look at Hereward and stepped past him to crouch by the second corpse, bidding Walkelin to hold the light carefully.

  ‘Well, Hereward took one with him before any wolf entered here. Hmm, the oldmother was right. There was a man very like Dodda, though I am fairly sure it is not him. Caught a knife in the guts where it tears a big vessel full of blood, and from that moment he was a dead man. He might as well have had his throat cut. You can see here,’ Catchpoll carefully picked up Hereward’s very ordinary knife from the gore-soaked floor, ‘that it was plucked out and all that did was make this man die the faster. I reckon as how Hereward threw it from where he was sat when we saw him, my lord, though he may have stood up, if the man flung the door open. Most folk would stand up if surprised.’

  ‘So this man looking like Dodda proves that William Swicol was involved in the killing.’ Bradecote liked the confirmation.

  ‘Well, my lord, to us yes, because we knows what links the two deaths with the wolf, but before the Justices I am sure the crafty bastard would play innocent and say that just because he was seen talking to this man in Worcester there is no reason why he should be blamed if the same man commits a crime elsewhere. But he was involved, oh yes. He is the wits and planning even if he did not stand here. The thing is that even the wolf being here is no proof, because when it howls he has been seen somewhere else. Made sure of it too.’

  ‘Could this man be the wolf-keeper himself, Serjeant?’ Walkelin wondered. ‘Why send more than one man and a wolf for the task?’

  ‘Why send the wolf at all?’ Bradecote added. ‘You could say to keep the fear spreading about the forest, but one man could do this.’

  ‘Hereward proved that wrong, though, my lord,’ Walkelin pointed out. ‘Two would always be the safer way.’

  ‘True enough. So what about Hereward himself, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Bring the light over, Young Walkelin.’ Catchpoll moved to study the mortal remains of Hereward. ‘My lord, I thinks the man like Dodda came in first, because Hereward was confident with that knife, and if a wolf filled that doorway – hmm. I think he would have kept the knife to use when the wolf launched itself, rather than risk throwing it at a smaller and more difficult target, just head and paws. His knife was his protection so he used it on the intruder because he knew he could bring him down at once. Then the wolf was let loose, and all he could do was what any man would, and fling an arm before his face and hope he could grapple with it before it tore his throat out. Didn’t work, and he must have known his chances were small.’ Catchpoll got close to the wounds, which Walkelin was sure he could not face, and made cogitating noises, frowning. When he stood up he was still frowning, and it was not because of his knees.

  ‘Something is not right?’ Bradecote could read Catchpoll these days.

  ‘It is just – you did not see the body of Durand, my lord. These wounds all make sense in the way one followed the next. The wolf sprang at him and Hereward flung up his near arm, which the wolf cau
ght and savaged. I am thinking Hereward, fighting for his life might well have clouted the beast hard enough to anger it as well as it doing what comes natural to a wolf. It went for the throat, and the injuries to the upper chest were the next place to bite and rip. This death story works.’

  ‘And Durand’s did not? You said he was not attacked at his hearth because no wolf would enter a house, yet here it did. Surely it is the other way around?’

  ‘I knows I said it, my lord, but I was thinking first of a wild wolf on the prowl. This one has a man behind it and who has quite a lot of control over it. More importantly, look how Hereward lies, pushed away from the door. The wolf could have been in the doorway and just leapt at him without leaping through the hearth as would have had to happen with Durand. I have never seen a death from a wolf savaging before, my lord, and doubts many in all England have. Durand was bitten, and the damage to the throat, the way it was torn, that is the same. The face is in a better state, so I thinks the wolf was dragged off the body.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth, noisily.

  ‘Why, though, Serjeant?’ Walkelin frowned.

  ‘This killin’ was just that, so as Hereward would be silenced, but Durand’s was meant to really frighten Feckenham and keep us from suspecting the son.’ Catchpoll was seeing again the body of Durand, and realised that he had accepted what he had seen because of the bite marks, but not considered the process of the attack. ‘I was right about him being killed and then brought to where he was found, but I read it wrong. If he was not attacked at his hearthside, but was alive, why were there no gashes and tears upon the legs, just the body, head and arms?’

  ‘He was tied up so he could not run away, Serjeant?’ Walkelin opened his eyes, having been trying also to recall a scene, one which he had not wanted to commit to memory very well.

  ‘Mmm, but I think he was strung up by the ankles.’

  ‘Sweet Jesu!’ Bradecote was appalled at the image that came to mind. ‘Alive?’

  ‘I hopes not, and I thinks it less likely. Even if William Swicol had no qualms about killin’ his own father, chances are he put a knife into him, swift and easy, but he wanted the death known without it pointing to him as the killer. If Durand Wuduweard had been found with a knife wound, we would have held William Swicol from the start. This way it would have been hidden by the bites. You ties the feet together, throws the rope over a branch and sets the body swinging, and sets the wolf on it, perhaps tugging the rope to tease the animal. Even that is not something you could watch if they were kin, unless you had a deep grudge against ’em, which is like enough between those two. I cannot think any son would do that to his own blood while still taking breath, but William Swicol is as nasty as they come, and the sort who might enjoy the spectacle once he was dead. I ought to have looked at the ankles for rope-redness, but there was burn marks reaching up from the feet and they distracted me anyways.’ Catchpoll shook his head at his own perceived failing.

  ‘But to have imagined such a thing from the start, Catchpoll, no, that would have been too great a step.’ Bradecote shook his head, ridding himself of the image.

  ‘Good of you to say so, my lord, but there is no gettin’ away from it bein’ a mistake. William Swicol lives and breathes deceit. He would want to make it crafty, the bastard.’ Catchpoll was aggrieved, for he felt the man had stolen a march on him.

  ‘It would not have got us further than we are now, Catchpoll, so put it from you. All we can do for Hereward is bring to justice William Swicol and the rest of his band, and that is what we will tell his son and …’ Bradecote halted, hearing a cough and someone approaching, and then turned, blocking what Walkelin lit.

  ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Robert, son of Hereward.’ The voice was strong, if a little forced in that strength. ‘If you have seen all that must be seen, I have brought a handcart for my father’s body, and his own blanket can cover him to church.’

  ‘We can wrap the body.’

  ‘But I am his son and it should fall to me. I have seen before; I can do so again.’

  Catchpoll, having made silent signals to Walkelin, moved to take up Hereward’s knife, the haft stained with blood that was not Hereward’s, and then stood beside Bradecote.

  ‘Does you credit, lad, but he will be better lifted by two not one. And I would give you back this of his, which did him good service to the last, and took the bastard who entered first.’ He held out the knife, which just caught the light of the moon peering over the trees.

  Robert took it with a mumbled thanks, and Catchpoll stepped back to let him enter.

  Walkelin had grabbed the coverlet from the bed, rolled the body onto it with more speed than reverence, and covered head and chest, though the stiff arm stuck out stubbornly.

  ‘You cover his feet, now, and lift from that end,’ instructed Walkelin, calmly. Robert obeyed, and Bradecote stepped outside and gave them room to bear their burden to the cart. Catchpoll said something softly, and Bradecote nodded in response. Catchpoll went back into the cottage and dragged out the half-curled corpse of the unknown assailant.

  ‘He’s mighty stiff still, my lord,’ murmured Catchpoll, ‘and I doubts we could straighten him to sling across the horse without a lot of swearin’ and effort. I suggests we just leaves him behind the building and tells the priest. None in the village will mind, and he will not get room in the churchyard, however generous the priest. More like the men will dig a hole beside the trackway, outside the village, and if the priest says a few words over him he will do it alone.’

  ‘Fair enough, Catchpoll. I will tell the priest.’

  With some swearing under his breath, Catchpoll pulled the body out of the way, and Bradecote went to untie the horses, though all three men walked behind Robert and the handcart rather than ride the short distance to village and church.

  Godfrid the Reeve was outside the church with the priest, and a little apart a man stood with a woman, her head hidden by the shawl draped about her. Of the four, only the priest entered the church with Robert and the body, and he quietly took charge. When Robert was gently dismissed, he came to the back of the church, where the sheriff’s men stood patiently.

  ‘We will bury him tomorrow,’ said Robert, gravely, and looked Bradecote in the eye, ‘and then I am coming with you. I was born to this forest, and I am now Robert, son of Hereward, northern wuduweard of the King’s Forest of Feckenham. I will see justice for my father, my lord.’

  ‘You doubt us?’ Bradecote’s brow furrowed.

  ‘No, no, my lord, not your will, but your chance of success.’

  ‘The lord Sheriff is bringing his hunter and a lymer so that we may hunt these men, and the wolf.’

  ‘Which will help, my lord, but I knows this forest.’

  ‘The northern part,’ interjected Catchpoll.

  ‘Yes, that to every tree, but I can read this forest as even a hunter cannot. This is not a request, my lord. I am coming, and I will not rest until I see my father’s killer hanged.’ Robert sounded resolute, and Bradecote could hardly blame him.

  ‘We return to Worcester tomorrow, but can delay until after the burial.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. Godfrid says as you is welcome to stay with him tonight, and the horses can be kept at the smithy.’

  ‘It seems everything is all arranged,’ muttered Catchpoll, half to himself.

  Tutnall, to a man, woman and child, filled the church for the funerary rites for Hereward, and the genuine sense of sorrow was in marked contrast to the atmosphere at that of his counterpart in the south of Feckenham Forest. Many of the women wept, and it was clear when the sheriff’s men left, with Robert up behind Walkelin, that his action was seen as the right one. Godfrid had even offered all the men of the village to act like beaters of game to flush out the ‘evil bastards’ if it would help. Bradecote thanked him, but said that there would be sufficient men-at-arms. What he did not say was that he did not want further funerals in Tutnall.

  They set off southward, both Bradecote an
d Catchpoll feeling they had travelled this road far too often in the last week. It was a cold day of a uniform greyness that sucked the world inward so that it extended no further than a hundred paces, and with a sky that lay as a barrier between earth and heaven, rather than an expanse that led ever upwards from one to the other. Walkelin rode in silence for the first few miles, very aware that the young man sat up behind him was clinging on rather than riding, and that his head must be full of grief and anger, swirling together. Eventually that silence became oppressive, and Walkelin, choosing a subject that he hoped would have no morbid connections, tried to engage him in conversation.

  ‘So you are wedding the smith’s daughter. I am thinkin’ of doing the same. I mean,’ he added hastily, ‘not marrying her, but getting married. My maid is called Eluned, out of Wales, and she works in the castle kitchen. Got a bit of a temper on her if you catches her in the wrong mood, but Serjeant Catchpoll says that is just her Welshness, and I have learnt how to avoid her throwing things at my head.’ He exaggerated a little, hoping that it would get Robert to talk about his own intended. There was silence.

  ‘Biggest problem I have is gettin’ Mother to accept her, because I just knows she will find fault with her. She will say I am too young, because she still treats me as if I was a child of seven, not the lord Sheriff’s underserjeant.’ Walkelin was rather warming to his new title, even though he wondered if he would be keeping it after his night in the tree.

  ‘My mother died when I was seven.’ Robert’s voice was a monotone.

  Walkelin cursed himself inwardly.

  ‘My father died when I was nine. I think I was confused more than sad, after the first surprise of it, partly because of the way it changed my mother. It’s not easy, when you are a child.’

  ‘It is never easy.’

  Walkelin gave up.