Nobody was watching, but someone saw. Father Hildebert frowned. Surely that was William Swicol? Why was he helping Sæthryth to the deserted hunting lodge? It had been a long night and a distressing one, and Father Hildebert had never felt more in need of guidance from his Maker to do the best for his parishioners. He had thought about what the lord Undersheriff had said, and forgiven Sæthryth for her outburst, blasphemous as it seemed. He had prayed much and slept a little, and he was still only half awake.
For one brief moment he wondered if William Swicol was taking her somewhere private to ‘console’ her, sinfully. His ears had not been shut to the gossip of the last days.
‘No, she would not leave the boy,’ he murmured, and his frown deepened. The only explanation he could finally reach was that she was not leaving him of her own free will. He paused, aware of the frailty of his physical courage, bolstering it with that of his faith. He had no idea what he would do if the man objected to his presence, but God would arm him with the Armour of Righteousness, and that would protect him. He walked quietly over to the hunting lodge and slipped within.
Man and woman stood lover-close in the King’s hall, though no thought of love was in either of them.
‘Think.’ It was a simple command. William Swicol shook Sæthryth by the shoulders again.
A thought did emerge from the nothingness within her, but it was not about treasure. Slowly, as if pulled from mud, the memory of what little Wig had said came to the surface. He had said the dead man had ridden away on the horse, and he had heard a voice he had heard before but did not know. A man who came to Feckenham but did not live as part of it would be a man heard but not known, and here was William demanding to know the whereabouts of the treasure, while Cedric and Osric had been murdered. The truth, obvious yet reached at snail pace, dawned upon her, and over it hung another possibility, even likelihood: William had never shown any liking for Alf, wanting him out of the way. Sæthryth had thought it just because he wanted to dally with her away from child-eyes but …
‘Did you kill him?’ Sæthryth whispered, trembling.
‘There is nothing you can do for him. Think, you little fool. Where did they say it was?’ William avoided an answer, which was an answer in itself.
The trembling wreck of a woman was transformed in an instant. The lethargy that had overcome her was sloughed off and she was a vengeful animal, as desperate as any mother defending her young even when it is too late.
‘Murderer!’ She screamed, loudly, discordantly, and with every fibre of her being for the moment before all was turned to white-hot fury. She broke his hold upon her and clawed at him, pushing him back so that he tripped over a broken stave from the axe-damaged dais. They fell as one, and rolled, Sæthryth’s skirts tangling about their legs, binding them together.
Father Hildebert halted in the doorway. The cry had been clear enough, but the image before him looked more as if a union and gave him a moment of pause, before the tangle moved and Sæthryth was on top of William and spitting and clawing like a wild cat. He got a hand to her throat and squeezed until her senses dizzied and her onslaught faltered. His other hand enclosed her neck, and he would have throttled her, but for being hit on the arms with that same stave of wood, wielded by the agitated little priest. It was enough to loosen his grip, and he growled at Father Hildebert, his eyes narrowing.
‘Interfering wyrm. Go and pray.’ William threw the coughing Sæthryth off him, and reached to grab a skinny, priestly ankle. He yanked, and Father Hildebert lost his balance. William tried to get up, Sæthryth’s skirts delaying him, but he managed to grab the priest as he sat up, slightly dazed. ‘Better still, pray she remembers.’ William drew his knife and set it to Father Hildebert’s throat. He stood, slowly, bringing the trembling cleric with him, and looked down at Sæthryth. ‘Now, you want me dead, but would you have your priest’s blood on your conscience? Where is it hidden?’
‘I do not know,’ Sæthryth croaked, holding her hand to her bruised neck. ‘I only overheard them the once, when I brought fresh lavender for the Master Cedric’s solar floor. Osric came into the hall and did not know I was there.’
‘What was said?’
‘He told Osric that after his death Osric was to keep the treasure safe until the lord King sent for it. That was all.’
‘But you said “the hall”.’
‘Osric never wanted me in here, even to strew rushes. I … guessed.’ It struck her that if she had not guessed, had not mentioned it at all to this man, her son might still be living. She wept, defeated.
William was in a quandary. He had a hostage he did not want, but letting him go was impossible. Perhaps it was all for a treasure that did not even exist. He swore, and took a breath. He would slit the priest’s throat and go.
That option ceased to exist.
Bradecote and Catchpoll, with Walkelin a little adrift, galloped into Feckenham at a pace far too dangerous for the Salt Way, past reeve and bailiff and all the able-bodied at work, and swerved left into The Strete and to the hunting lodge. The fact that the gate was not shut meant that their quarry was either within or already flown. They dismounted, and Walkelin was told to tether the horses and follow. Bradecote and Catchpoll entered the courtyard slowly, swords drawn. Noise from the King’s hall, and its door half open, gave them their direction, and negated a need for stealth. Bradecote kicked it full wide, and he and Catchpoll stepped within to a strange tableau before them. Sæthryth was upon the floor, weeping, and Father Hildebert, his eyes very wide and his face pale, was standing almost upon tiptoe, as a knife point pricked at his throat. He was held thus by William Swicol, who looked at Catchpoll with a weary acceptance.
‘It would be you. It had to be you, you bastard. Well, what I said to her I say to you. Do you want the priest’s blood on your conscience? If not, lower your weapons and stand aside both of you, by the buttery screen.’
They obeyed, eyes riveted to him, grim of face. Yet William Swicol did not see the expression in those eyes. He moved towards the doorway, keeping the wall at his back as soon as he could, as Father Hildebert whimpered and a thin trickle of blood ran down his neck and into his cowl.
Walkelin was ready. He had positioned himself beside the doorway in case hostage-taker and hostage emerged face first, but as he saw William Swicol step back out of the hall he made his move. If William Swicol was given a chance, the priest would die, and in that moment Walkelin thought of Alf, the curious child with the serious questions, robbed of life. Walkelin moved smartly behind the man, and his left arm went about his neck. He had no compunction as his right hand, with his sword struck up under William Swicol’s ribs from behind, with all the force his arm possessed, hoping no reactive jerk of the man’s arm would end the cleric’s life. The sword was a slashing weapon by design, but encountered nothing to stop its advance. Walkelin’s mouth was by the man’s ear.
‘That is for the boy,’ he whispered, and hoped the last thing William Swicol knew in life was that fact. There was a soft grunt, and everything about William Swicol relaxed in death. He was held up only by Walkelin’s arm about his neck. Father Hildebert, freed from the knife point, collapsed upon all fours, simultaneously crying and thanking God for his deliverance. Walkelin let the body fall to the ground, and faced his superiors.
‘I am sorry, my lord, the lord Sheriff will not have him to hang alive.’ He did not sound at all sorry.
‘No other course was possible without risk of another death.’ Bradecote spoke the truth, but, like Catchpoll, had heard the words. He did not blame him.
Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Walkelin had found his steel edge at last.
‘You did right, and you also did justly. The lord Sheriff cannot fault you for that.’
‘Aid the good Father, Catchpoll, and Walkelin, see to Alf’s mother.’ The appellation told Walkelin that Hugh Bradecote knew what had powered the sword thrust, and also agreed with it. ‘I will get the reeve and bailiff and show them all is ended.’ He stepp
ed over the body. ‘Oh, and there may be keys in the buttery. Bring them, for they must go to the lord Sheriff before a new steward is appointed.’
‘And should the treasure be moved, my lord?’
‘No. If it goes missing, we know it has to be with Serjeant Catchpoll. Nobody else thought of beneath the hearthstones, and I doubt anyone else ever will.’ Bradecote gave a brief smile, and strode towards the gateway. Let this be a case of “let sleeping … wolves … lie”.’
It was late in the afternoon when the sheriff’s men, with William Swicol’s body slung across his stolen horse, entered Worcester. Bradecote knew he would have to return home in the morning, for the gate would soon be shut, and besides, he wanted to know how all the pieces of this broken pot fitted together.
William de Beauchamp sat, relaxed, in his chair. The pressure upon him was relieved, and his duty completed successfully. He was titular forester as well sheriff of the shire, and the wolf pelt would be both fine fur and a talking point. He raised his cup of wine in an unusual act of salutation.
‘So, you come bearing good news?’
‘We come bearing the corpse of William Swicol, my lord, for at the end, there was no choice in the matter without another innocent life lost.’ Bradecote would have left it at that, but de Beauchamp wanted the details. He wanted to know how William Swicol had been cornered and killed. At the end he looked at Walkelin, who was not quite sure how it had been received, for the sheriff’s face was very serious.
‘Making hard decisions under pressure is, Serjeant Catchpoll will tell you, a major part of being a Sheriff’s Serjeant. It is also a major part of being a Sheriff’s Underserjeant, Underserjeant Walkelin.’
Walkelin’s jaw nearly dropped, but he just about managed to reply without gabbling.
‘Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord. I will not fail you, my lord.’
‘If you do, you will know about it, and not just from Serjeant Catchpoll.’ William de Beauchamp smiled, which made the comment more threatening.
‘My lord, did you find out about Hubert de Bradleigh and Durand Wuduweard?’ Bradecote wanted to receive rather than give information now.
‘Indeed I did, though the man’s first comment was that his best horse, his own horse, was not among those returned. I will have that sent to him, but by a man-at-arms, not one of you. That will teach him his place. As for him and Durand, Durand apparently suggested, some years ago, that he was going to be made “Steward of the King’s Hunting Grounds” as though of all England, and would be a suitable husband for de Bradleigh’s eldest daughter. De Bradleigh would have none of it, quite rightly, and told him if he ever stepped within his manor again, he would have him whipped. The girl, who was scarcely a woman, is married now to some minor lord this side of Stratford.’
‘My lady said he was a man who held grudges,’ commented Bradecote, smiling at the thought of his wife, ‘and she was right. It was at the heart of the things that Durand did. But how did it twist to the son?’
‘Ah, now that we have from one of the taken men. It seems the son used the father, and was more than happy for Feckenham to suffer, not liking it much himself. It strikes me he could bear a good grudge too, and one was against Durand. He spoke of Durand finding out too late that all he had done was drive himself into pointless exile, while he, William, would flourish and abandon him. There was no love lost there. Oh, and it was the son’s idea for Durand to “die” because that ensured he could not return to Feckenham.’ De Beauchamp called for more wine. ‘We can send to Abbot Robert at Alcester, and tell him that his lost tenant is buried in the churchyard at Feckenham, so at least he lies in holy ground. All is tidy, though I will have a new box for the royal spices.’
‘My lord, might I take the wrecked box, this evening. I would find out a little about it, for had it been full, it might have been worth more than William Swicol could have guessed.’
‘If you wish, Bradecote.’
So when serjeant and underserjeant went to their homes, the undersheriff went to a certain merchant’s house near the end of Cokenstrete, away from the river. He knocked, and the servant bid him enter with due deference.
Simeon the Jew came from his private chamber, and made obeisance.
‘What brings you to honour my house this day’s end, my lord? Please, be seated if you will.’
Bradecote sat upon a bench, and took from beneath a wrapping the damaged box.
‘Master Simeon, I am curious. This box belongs to King Stephen, and was damaged because a man thought it contained treasure. It had in it remnants of spices. None but you in Worcester deal in such things. I wonder if you might tell me if, had it been full, it would have been a “king’s treasure”?’ He pushed the box towards Simeon, who lifted it and held it near to a branch of candles, and also put his nose to it. The man smiled.
‘Ah, you remembered the limon I gave you, my lord. Yes, if this was full, its worth would have been more than the weight of this box in silver pennies. There was pipor here, and gingibre, which is also much valued by healers for benefits to the stomach, then there is the cinnamone, then nois mugede, which is grated fine and more popular in Normandy and France. In England it is the fleur mugede that is preferred. They are from the same tree and the one protects the other, the fleur giving that reddish stain to the box. I have not any in this house, but of the cinnamone a little. A moment, I beg of you.’ Simeon rose and went back into his private quarters, returning with a small wooden box. He opened it and proffered it for Bradecote to smell.
Bradecote was expecting a powder, but saw within a thin cylinder of chestnut bark. He sniffed it.
‘From a tree also, then.’
‘Indeed, my lord, though where it grows I do not know, only that it comes from beyond the lands of the Fatimids. Such things are of great value.’
‘Thank you.’ Hugh Bradecote closed the box and looked at Simeon. ‘If you wanted a box worthy of such contents, the finest workmanship, whom would you go to in Worcester?’
‘Why to Martin Woodman, my lord. He understands wood as I do trade.’ Simeon smiled.
‘Of course. I thank you for the suggestion and the lesson – and your time, Master Simeon.’ Bradecote rose.
‘My lord, you are always welcome here, and in truth I would not say that of most in Worcester. Peace to you and yours.’
‘Thank you, and to yours. Goodnight.’
Hugh Bradecote returned to the castle, and dreamt of spices and strange trees hung with silver pennies.
Catchpoll and Walkelin bade Bradecote farewell early next morning, promising to pass Simeon’s advice about Martin Woodman to the lord Sheriff, though Catchpoll said he would have suggested the same, with a hint that nobody else need have been asked.
‘And I hopes as we do not see you until after the Nativity, my lord.’
‘Thank you, and I hope that Worcester stays quiet, so that you see your hearths.’ Bradecote smiled, mounted and trotted out under the gate on his steel grey horse.
Catchpoll and Walkelin went up onto the battlements and Catchpoll rubbed his hands together.
‘Nasty one, this, Young Walkelin. Always is when a child is involved.’
‘And I met him, little Alf,’ murmured Walkelin, softly. ‘He saw me hiding out of the way so that William Swicol did not see me when he left the woman, Sæthryth. He asked me if I was a thief.’ Walkelin gave a twisted smile.
‘Do not dwell on it, is what I says. When we works we must leave the ghosts behind.’
‘Yes, Serjeant.’
‘What did your mother say when you told her of your promotion?’ Catchpoll changed the subject.
‘Er, she asked how much more I would be paid, Serjeant.’
‘Did she, indeed. We shall see, we shall see.’ Catchpoll did not turn to look at Walkelin, but smiled his death’s head smile.
Author’s Note
Werewolves existed in myth and folklore long before the twelfth century, and appear in the writings of Marie de France (who spent much of he
r life in England) in her Bisclavret, and by Giraldus Cambrensis (Gerald of Wales) in his Topographia Hibernica during the second half of that century. The word ‘werewolf’ comes from the Old English wer – man, and wulf – wolf, and had the idea arrived with the Normans the word we would have would more likely be garoul or waroul, the Old French terms. Werewolves would also have entered the folklore of England through the influence of Norse myths and sagas with the Danish and Norwegian settlement of what came to be the Danelaw, essentially England north and east of the line of Watling Street. Skin-changers, usually into wolf or bear, exist in Norse sagas, notably later written down in the the Völsunga Saga, and whilst many have heard of the beserkir, there were also the ulfhe∂nar, warriors who ‘became’ as wolves in battle.
It is therefore entirely logical that the folk of Feckenham would have a dread of a werwulf, even more than a wild wolf, for the very reason Catchpoll gives, and which inadvertently leads to the panic – a ‘man-wolf’ could open a door and enter a house, and act like a normal man until he changed into the ravening beast. I admit the phase of the moon was more to enable travel beyond the bounds of dusk than to link with the lycanthropy.
Needless to say, the pragmatic Catchpoll believes in neither werewolves nor goblins, or any other nihtgengan – ‘nightwalkers’.
The initial inspiration for this story came from Records of Feckenham Forest and the activities of Geoffrey du Park in the late thirteenth century, when he and a large gang committed theft, arson and murder about the area. He used the ploy of setting fire to a house to bring out all the neighbours to fight the fire, and then sending in his gang to steal from the empty homes. He was also guilty of the murder of a small boy who was witness to du Park killing the priest of Wolverton. Du Park’s men would not kill the child, but du Park took a knife and did it himself. Little Alf was a nod to the shade of that unknown curious little boy.
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