Wolf at the Door

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Sæthryth was already weeping, half supported by women at her elbows, but as she looked up at the door’s opening her breath caught mid-sob. What followed was a scream that was piercing and eldritch, and seemed to linger in the air even after she collapsed in a dead faint.

  Chapter Sixteen

  William de Beauchamp disliked many things, and inaction and being made to look a fool came very near the top of the list. He rose early and in ebullient mood, certain that with the combination of dog and man he would have William Swicol and his band of murderous thieves, with the wolf, taken in short order. If his men did not look quite as much as though in for a treat, it mattered not.

  As before, they gathered at first light, before the sun might peer over the horizon, and de Beauchamp had the lymer’s handler mounted up behind the hunter, on the grounds that the hound could trot along faster and further than the man, who would hold them up. The lugubrious handler moaned about his hound’s paws all the way.

  The lord Sheriff of the shire led his men out of the Sutheberi gate, having demanded that it be opened before the normal hour of sunrise, and up over the hill. Hugh Bradecote felt frustrated, for this route would take them within half a mile of Bradecote, and he was not quite as sanguine about the success of the hunt. They might search the forest for several days if unlucky. Feckenham Forest covered a large area, though its boundaries had changed over time, and certainly not all of it was forested any more, as assart had become hamlet and hamlet had become village, like Feckenham itself.

  They were south of Bradleigh and the junction of the trackway with the Salt Way when a man was seen riding towards them with urgency, though little aptitude. He was flailing about a lot, and the mule beneath him seemed to be expending less energy than he was. As he drew close enough for his face to be recognisable, Catchpoll hauled his own mount to a halt.

  ‘My lord, that is the reeve of Feckenham.’

  ‘Is it? He looks run ragged.’ De Beauchamp frowned.

  Edgar the Reeve was concentrating so much upon riding as fast as he could that for a moment he did not register the sheriff and his men. When he did so he forgot all protocol and his words tumbled from his lips.

  ‘My village has burnt and a child lies murdered. Where is the Law?’ There was anguish in his voice. De Beauchamp would normally have withdrawn into outraged aristocratic aloofness, but the reeve looked dirty of face, with black smudges over pale skin, and as if he had not slept. This was very nearly true, although his wife had persuaded him that trying to ride in the dark without any sleep was madness, and he had grabbed a couple of hours of exhausted repose in the smith’s house, which had been saved through swift action. The man was beyond anything but raw feeling.

  ‘The Law, Master Reeve, is here.’ It was Catchpoll who responded, slowly and calmly.

  ‘But too late!’ It was a wail.

  ‘Pull yourself together, man.’ De Beauchamp had had enough. ‘We were already on our way to Feckenham. We will return with you. Here, you!’ He pointed at a man-at-arms. ‘Take the reeve up behind you, and another can lead the mule. That way we will not be delayed.’

  The man-at-arms, shaken by being directly addressed by the lord Sheriff, nodded and drew up beside the mule, but Edgar the Reeve could not transfer from one mount to the other without dismounting first, and when he did so his legs folded and he sat upon the ground. He was dragged up unceremoniously, and bundled up behind the man-at-arms.

  The horsemen went at a faster pace, cantering where possible, with the hounds loping along, tongues hanging out, beside the hunter’s horse. They passed through Bradleigh without seeing its lord, though there was plenty of evidence of repair and rebuilding among the cluster of village homes.

  When they arrived in Feckenham, a while afterwards, they were greeted with tired faces and looks of resentment. Whilst de Beauchamp was not familiar with who owned which hovel, as he saw them, his subordinates were, and noted the damage.

  Where the wuduweard’s cott had stood there was nothing but a few charred timbers and oily blackness. The turner, whose neighbours had fought valiantly for his property, had his home intact, though his lathe was no more, and the open-sided workshop had disappeared. He and two other men were already digging new post holes for the supports, and looked up briefly as they passed.

  ‘My own house, my lord, has lost half the roof and our flitch of bacon for the winter.’ The reeve pointed out the damage to William de Beauchamp. ‘All because of my position.’ It was clearly aimed at gaining shrieval assistance on behalf of the King, but fell upon at least temporarily deaf ears.

  ‘Which others?’ Bradecote spoke up, looking along the straggling line of low dwellings.

  ‘Arnulf Sawyer’s roof has a little loss, but the flaming brands as were tossed upon it slid off and it caught but at an edge, but Agar’s is beyond repair, and the Widow of Beocca’s is gone, not that it is her woe right now.’

  Walkelin felt his stomach tighten.

  ‘Is it her son who is dead?’ He remembered the curious tow-haired little boy, serious in his questions.

  ‘Yes. What evil is there that kills a child?’ At this point the reeve’s voice cracked.

  ‘An evil that will be glad of the hanging rope,’ growled Catchpoll. Of all killings, the worst to deal with, the ones that haunted longest, were the killings of children. Other than the occasional woman who went mad and killed herself and her new babe, which was a tragedy but not evil, there had been thankfully few incidents in Catchpoll’s service as serjeant. He could remember every one of them.

  Hugh Bradecote crossed himself, and William de Beauchamp’s face was stony.

  ‘This takes precedence,’ he muttered.

  Robert, son of Hereward, as before up behind Walkelin, did not raise complaint.

  ‘He is in the church?’ Bradecote could think of no other place, especially if his home was burnt down.

  Edgar the Reeve sniffed and nodded.

  ‘Bring all involved, anyone who saw something, to the church.’ Bradecote took control and only then realised he ought to defer to William de Beauchamp. As the reeve slid from behind Walkelin and hurried away, undersheriff looked to sheriff.

  ‘My lord, I am sorry. I ought to—’

  ‘No, Bradecote. I am not a fool. Me asking questions of frightened and weeping peasants will not get the most answers, or not the best ones.’

  ‘You could take the hounds and your men to the hunting lodge, my lord. It would be proper and easiest also,’ suggested Walkelin. ‘Master Cedric will attend your needs.’

  ‘A good thought. Meet me there when you have gathered all you can, Bradecote.’

  The shrieval party divided at the churchyard gate, though Bradecote sent the three horses with the sheriff’s men-at-arms. In silence, he walked ahead of Catchpoll and Walkelin to the church door, fought off the urge to pause, and opened it slowly. It creaked slowly. Father Hildebert was on his knees before the altar, and the only other persons in the church were at the west end. Three elderly women turned at the noise, and closed ranks to hide whoever was behind them. Their faces accused, for of a certainty a man had done what had been done, and all unknown men in that moment shared the guilt.

  ‘I am Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of the shire, and we are come to discover and take the killer of the son of Beocca.’ His voice was deeper than usual, made a little thick by the emotion he needed to hide.

  The shield wall of matrons parted. Lying on a folded blanket upon the floor was a small boy, as if asleep, and half over him the rocking form of a woman in whom tears had ceased because all had been expended. She did not move, even when an elderly female hand touched upon her shoulder.

  ‘I am sorry, Sæthryth.’ There seemed nothing else Bradecote could say to begin.

  Very slowly she turned, and Bradecote was shocked to see a woman drowned by grief. Her face was nearly as pale as that of her dead child, her eyes huge and red of rim, the sclera deep pink. Her hair was wild as if she had torn at it, and she stared as t
hough she was looking right through him.

  ‘Sorry.’ She repeated the word in a flat, hoarse voice. ‘You are sorry. You lie!’ She suddenly rose to her feet, swayed and clenched her fists, swaying a little. ‘You do not care. Nobody cares.’

  ‘God cares, my daughter.’ Father Hildebert, who was used to deaths, but not one where the bereaved was so raw in her grief that her normal self had been flayed from her, came from the east end. He had at first held back, helped clear the church, and then sought comfort in the office, since he had no idea how to deal with a hysterical woman. ‘Remember that our Lord said “Suffer the little children to come unto me”. Your son has God’s love, is in his care. It is God’s will.’ He sounded calm, reasonable, and Sæthryth rounded upon him.

  ‘God’s will? God’s will that my son is taken from me by a man of violence? Was it His will he did it?’

  ‘No, no, but—’

  ‘He should be in my care, in my arms, not with God, not yet. I am his mother.’ The last word was a cry that tore from her.

  ‘God is with you also. Be eased. Your grief—’

  ‘My grief is something you cannot know.’ Sæthryth was panting, her breath so shallow it was barely breath at all. ‘You have no child, you cannot understand. I have no husband, no child, no life. God cares not for me.’

  ‘That is not so.’ Father Hildebert felt suddenly on firmer theological ground and would have argued his point, but Hugh Bradecote put a hand upon his arm, and spoke in a low voice and a language only he would comprehend.

  ‘Not now, mon père. Show sense, man. She is right, you cannot understand at this time, and your words will sound hollow to her, for she is beyond understanding also. Wait until the first agony is past, and think on how Our Lady must have felt at the foot of the Cross. Go, and pray.’

  The priest, rather shocked, nodded and withdrew.

  The creaking of the door announced the arrival of the reeve, with Wystan the Bailiff, and a woman with another small boy. Bradecote wanted to tell them it was no fit sight for an infant, but heard the old dames behind him close together, as one also put her arm about Sæthryth, and made hushing noises.

  ‘My lord,’ Edgar the Reeve, spoke in a near whisper, ‘here is Wystan the Bailiff, who found … and Wig, who … I am not sure, my lord.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘He told his mother somethin’ Alf said to him, out there.’ The reeve jerked his head to indicate the churchyard.

  ‘What did he say?’ Bradecote looked at the woman, who seemed both upset and protective, as well she might be, he thought.

  ‘He-he said he had just seen a dead man get upon a horse and ride away. But you cannot give it credit, for it was a child’s foolishness, and my poor lamb is not thinkin’ clear.’ The woman rushed her words, and wrung her hands.

  Catchpoll groaned audibly, and cast a swift look at Bradecote, who gave an almost imperceptible nod and then looked down at the little boy, his face smudged with ash rubbed into tears, for clouds of soot and ash puffed about Feckenham this morning upon the whim of gusts of wind. He eased himself down so he was sat upon his heels, and spoke very quietly.

  ‘Is that so, Wig?’ Bradecote did not look at the mother, but at the child, from whom part of the innocence of childhood had been ripped, leaving a wound of knowledge that the world was a bad place. ‘He said the man had ridden away?’

  Wig bit a trembling lip, and then whispered very softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My lord,’ added the mother, hastily, but Bradecote waved the deference away.

  ‘Alf went out, my lord, to sit by his father’s grave. He did that, oftentimes.’ Wystan the Bailiff sighed. ‘Young Wig here was his little shadow, his playmate, and followed.’

  ‘And did you see the horses, Wig?’ Bradecote did not mention men.

  ‘Just a bit. Heard them.’

  ‘And were there voices too?’

  Wig nodded.

  ‘Were any strange?’

  ‘I …’ Wig frowned, ‘I heard one before.’

  Reeve and bailiff gasped.

  ‘A village man! No, sure—’ Edgar was halted by Bradecote’s raised hand.

  ‘Just once before Wig?’

  ‘Just – sometimes.’

  ‘Did he say something you remember?’

  ‘He-he grabbed Alf and said he was not the colour of a fox cub. I kept very still. Then—’ Wig’s trembling lip got the better of him and he turned and buried his face in his mother’s skirts.

  ‘Of God’s love, no more, my lord,’ she begged, and Bradecote nodded and rose, solemn of face.

  ‘Master Bailiff, will you show us – everything?’

  Wystan nodded, and Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin followed, with Edgar the Reeve accompanying them and leaving the women together. When the door closed, Wystan spoke.

  ‘I doubts he heard too much, my lord, or I prays so.’

  He led them across the churchyard, pointing to the low mound where Beocca was buried and then on to the hedge thinning, and pointed. Catchpoll went to peer at the ground, and reeve and bailiff watched him with interest.

  ‘Small feet here, my lord. And another set, most like Young Wig. I think he crouched down small as you like. His hair is dark too, and that may well have saved him. If Alf was grabbed, and comment made about his colouring, best guess is he looked through the hedge a mite too far and was seen. That pale hair in moonlight would show.’

  ‘That makes sense, Catchpoll. Did you find him the other side of the hedge?’ Bradecote looked at Wystan.

  ‘No, my lord. I checked there first, but found him just along and across the lane, on the near back of the hunting lodge moat. Just crumpled up he was, discarded.’

  ‘I could not see the body, not with the mother there as she was,’ murmured Catchpoll. ‘Do you know how he died?’

  ‘Oh aye, and it was quick, small mercy as that is. His neck was broke, snapped easy, I should say. And if I gets the bastard, I’ll snap him, God’s truth I will.’ Wystan ground his teeth.

  ‘You do not think it one of us, a Feckenham man, do you, my lord?’ Edgar the Reeve was still reeling at the possibility.

  ‘No, not one who lives here, but certainly one who has used this road. Now, show us the bank.’ Bradecote did not want to say what he, and he was sure also Catchpoll, now believed.

  Wystan took them back, out of the churchyard and to the spot, warning the undersheriff the ground was slippery.

  ‘How was he lyin’?’ Catchpoll was seeing it in his mind’s eye.

  ‘Like a bundle. Sort of curled up and collapsed. I could not be sure it was him until I turned him over a bit and saw the poor little face.’

  Walkelin was very quiet, and very, very angry.

  William de Beauchamp was not used to being kept waiting. His hunter knocked three times, hard, upon the gate of the hunting lodge, and nothing happened. There was not even a cry to wait.

  ‘Try the gate,’ he commanded, frowning.

  Crocc lifted the latch and pushed, expecting resistance, but it swung open. He entered, his hunter’s sense warning him all was not right.

  ‘Let us in, man,’ cried de Beauchamp, impatiently.

  The main gate was opened, and de Beauchamp rode into the empty courtyard. It was silent.

  ‘There is nobody here, my lord,’ declared Crocc.

  ‘Nobody alive here, you mean,’ muttered de Beauchamp, and dismounted, handing his reins to the hunter. He looked about, remembering the last time he had been in the courtyard, when it was all bustle and the King had come for the hunting. The steward’s hall was, he recalled, to the left of the gate. The steward would most likely be there.

  ‘Wait here.’ De Beauchamp did not see any risk to himself, since whoever, and whatever, had been there in the night would be long gone, but he did not want many eyes seeing things that would become inflated gossip in Worcester and reflect badly upon his control of the shire. He opened the door and stepped into the dimness, and his nose told him before any o
ther sense that he would see death. There was the smell of stale woodsmoke, but over that a hint of meat, raw meat.

  His eyes grew accustomed, and he saw the two bodies. He went to look, and wrinkled his nose in distaste at the remains of Osric, but saw no need to investigate them further. Cedric the Steward had fallen forward, and de Beauchamp turned over the stiffened body. The dulled eyes stared but did not bulge, so most likely there would be a wound, and Catchpoll could discover that.

  ‘But no fire,’ murmured de Beauchamp to himself, and wondered. He abandoned the body and looked within the solar. Someone had been looking for something. Perhaps here was the answer to Bradecote’s question about the ultimate aim, but what was it that had been sought, and had it been found? What concerned the sheriff was that if it was worth all the effort and planning it was something very valuable and belonged to the King.

  It was a grim-faced sheriff who strode across the courtyard, with horsemen and hound-handlers parting before him. He went straight to the King’s hall and disappeared from view. His men milled about, unsure what to do next, especially when an angry roar came from within the building he had entered.

  The damaged dais and the opened chests in the solar, with linens cast upon the floor, proved that William de Beauchamp was correct in his guess, but it pleased him not at all.

  Hugh Bradecote’s mind was full of a dead child, and Catchpoll and Walkelin looked as sombre as he did. A few brief words between them showed none of them had any doubt over what had happened, and they were beyond angry. When they entered the courtyard of the hunting lodge it took some moments before it registered that everyone was standing about looking uncertain.