Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’

  Thus it was that Father Samson was waylaid upon his departure from the shrieval presence. If at first he frowned and shook his head, it was clear that he was persuaded to change his opinion. All Christina need do now was inform her betrothed, and she pulled a face at the thought.

  Bradecote was contemplating how to create the impression that the patrols and searches were not just a random and desperate effort to find their culprit, when Christina found him. He smiled, but it was perfunctory, and then ‘confessed’ the morning’s failure.

  ‘But is the lord Sheriff not pleased that you know which moneyer is responsible?’

  She sounded perplexed, and he pulled a wry face.

  ‘He does not see things in your charitable light.’ He sighed. ‘Until this matter is settled, I cannot escort you back to Cookhill, my lady. I am sorry for the delay.’

  ‘I was not intending to return there straightaway. I …’ Her voice became uncertain, for she did not relish the reaction she knew her words would elicit from this man, this man whom she loved. ‘I am going on pilgrimage.’

  ‘You are what?’ His voice was raised in surprise and disapproval, all thought of Geoffrey the fugitive cast aside.

  ‘I want to go to the shrine of St Eadgyth at Polesworth, before we wed, my lord. I need to, don’t you see? No child of my body has lived to full age, and I am afraid.’ She came very close, looking up at him, her eyes pleading, taking his hand and placing it below the girdle at her waist. ‘Holding Gilbert, seeing you in him, I want your child, our child, and I want it to live. If I go on pilgrimage, the blessed saint may intercede for me. My grandmother ended her days there, and prayed to the blessed Eadgyth for my mother to have a son after she had produced but four daughters. My brother was the result. This is important to me. Can you not understand?’

  ‘And cannot you see that I am marrying you because you are you, not to bear me sons?’ He stroked her cheek. He saw the worry gnawing within her, but he had worry of his own. ‘Wait until I can accompany you. You know I will be free as soon as we have the forger. It is midwinter, Christina, the roads are treacherous, even without the risk from outlaws and lordless men in these times.’

  ‘My dear lord, I would not wish you to accompany me. No, do not look like that. If you were with me, what hardship would there be, however harsh the weather?’ She smiled tremulously. ‘It would be a pleasure to me. And if there is no hardship, or risk, how have I proved myself worthy of the saint’s blessing?’

  Her eyes pleaded, but he saw only the hazards.

  ‘You do not comprehend the risks, and would put yourself in harm’s way for a whim,’ he said softly, though she took his tenderness as patronising, and then he made an even greater blunder. ‘It is not as though the case were desperate. I have an heir. I love you. I really do not care—’

  ‘You do not care for me to carry your child? Is it because I carried Arnulf de Malfleur’s? There, I said his name.’

  She was losing her temper. She stiffened, and her eyes glittered.

  ‘Don’t be foolish.’ He scowled. ‘That chapter of your life is closed to you, and as if it had never been to me. Those things were not of your choosing and I do not − could not − think you “sullied” by them. Of course I want children with you. I keep telling you that I love you, don’t I? But I love you so much I do not want to lose you, and needlessly.’

  ‘I have to go, Hugh.’

  He shook his head, and spoke with finality.

  ‘It is simply too far and too dangerous. I forbid it.’

  The stiffness became rigidity, and her pretty mouth set in an uncompromising line.

  ‘You forbid? Well, since I am not yet your possession, you cannot forbid, my lord Bradecote. Father Samson’s party departs in the morning, bound for Lincoln, and I have already obtained his permission to travel with them. You see, I am not foolish.’ She tossed her head. ‘I have thought this through and I shall be perfectly safe. Who would threaten men of God?’

  She pulled away from him and stormed from the room. He swore beneath his breath at the mule-headedness of women, and sighed heavily. He considered going to the churchman and asking him to refuse Christina’s request, but deep down knew that if he did, a black chasm would always thereafter exist between him and the woman he loved, and he wanted nothing between them at all. To keep her close, he had to let her go, however much it fretted him.

  Chapter Three

  Hugh Bradecote did not spend a good night. Christina had been in a brittle mood at dinner, showing herself the demure and pious widow before the churchman, but casting him defiant, and almost petulant, glances. She had excused herself early from the meal, upon the perfectly reasonable premise that she should get a good night’s rest before the commencement of her arduous journey. There had been no opportunity for him to catch her alone, to make his case with soft words and apologies, though he had rehearsed them well enough beforehand. Then, to cap it all, de Beauchamp had decided that a full search of Worcester would take place on the morrow, overriding his instructions to Catchpoll. He had therefore tossed and turned, frustration, anxiety and anger jostling in his mind for pre-eminence. When he awoke with the dawn, he was heavy-eyed. He went to her chamber, but was greeted with the news that she had already left it to break her fast in the hall, and he found her there, simply garbed and coifed. Unadorned, she still had a beauty that took his breath away, and that very beauty made him fear the more for her, travelling without guard, in the company of men whose only defence was their calling. His disquiet made him frown.

  ‘You have not changed your mind, then? Have not seen reason?’ His disapproval remained.

  It was an unfortunate choice of words, and the smile in her eyes faded.

  ‘I am unreasonable?’ There was an edge to her voice, though she did not raise it. ‘Because I want to do this or because I do not submit to your command?’

  ‘It is not a matter of submission. Sweet Jesu, Christina, I am thinking of you, of your safety and well-being. I do not say you must not go, but not go now. I will send for my own men-at-arms, as soon as it looks less likely that the weather will be foul, and if you will not have me at your side, then you shall the security of men I trust to protect you. All I see is a mad determination to prove your independence by taking unnecessary risk. Do you doubt my judgement?’

  She made no reply. His fingers gripped the edge of the trestle table so that the knuckles showed white. He had meant to cajole and he had fallen into the trap of sounding self-important. He looked down at his hands and shook his head.

  ‘I cannot stop you, not without putting between us a wound that would fester. Why do you have to make this so hard for me?’

  She reached out a pale hand and touched his larger one, tentatively.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord. Truly I am. But this … This has to be. I did not plan it so. The idea came as a revelation, a compulsion that I dare not disobey, even if it costs me your displeasure. I will be an obedient wife, I swear it. I want us to be happy, to be blessed. All will go well, you will see, and afterwards you will laugh at your concern.’ Her voice had softened, and unconsciously he laid his other hand over hers. ‘I must go, Hugh. I was to meet Father Samson’s party at the Sutheburi Gate just after the bell for Prime.’

  ‘I will escort you that far at least. You will not deny me that?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ She shook her head. ‘In my heart, I would deny you nothing.’ She moved her hand from his hold and went to collect the few things she was taking upon her pilgrimage. He was concerned that she gave her fur-lined cloak and hood into his keeping, and took a simple woollen one.

  ‘Need you risk the cold so?’

  ‘I am a pilgrim, my lord. The trappings of wealth, the comforts of privilege, have no place upon such a journey.’

  ‘But must you be a pilgrim who catches her death of cold? There is snow in the clouds. They are heavy with it.’

  ‘I have a second cloak. I may place it over the fir
st at need. Two thin layers will do well.’

  They descended to the bailey. The bell of the Cathedral Priory rang for Prime. Little as he relished it, she must go. He assisted her into the saddle, helped her arrange her skirts decorously, surreptitiously kissing her hand. Then he walked at her side as she left the castle and clip-clopped to the Sutheburi Gate. As they drew up, the dark-clad Benedictines were approaching from the priory, most of them mounted on mules. They reminded Bradecote of crows, and he was filled with an inexplicable foreboding. He looked up at Christina.

  ‘I will not be easy until your return. Come to Bradecote, not on to here. Christina, my heart …’

  ‘You have kept the hour well, my lady.’ Father Samson hailed them and nodded at the undersheriff. ‘I admit to some surprise.’

  There was no time for more private words. Bradecote gave her a speaking look.

  ‘I will pray for your safe return.’

  It sounded so trite, so formal, and yet was so heartfelt. She smiled back at him, though her lip trembled, and she nodded, wheeling her horse to take station in the middle of the party.

  Bradecote watched the group long after it had gone through the gate and was making its way up the hill on the road towards Stratford, and it was a grim-faced, tight-lipped undersheriff who strode back into the castle yard a few minutes later, and snapped at the men-at-arms guarding the gate.

  Serjeant Catchpoll had enjoyed removing the keeper of the tavern with the sign of the moon from his business in full view of his customers, and then making much of exhibiting him through the streets to the castle. His initial interview with the man, whose name was Roger, was of limited use in the hunt for the evasive Geoffrey. Roger was weighing the misery of interviews with the serjeant against the misery of being hanged if he confessed to knowingly passing false coin. Trying to steer between the two evils was not easy, being helpful without revealing that he had any involvement with the man other than as a customer, and his replies were muddled and even contradictory. Catchpoll spent a very frustrating couple of hours and then reported back to de Beauchamp, who was anticipating how best to both placate the burgesses and yet still sound perfectly in control, more as something to while away the time than achieve anything useful.

  ‘Trouble is, my lord, the snivelling nithing is confusing himself now. I don’t say as how he should go without punishment if he is guilty of a crime, but …’

  ‘The alehouse keeper?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. If these coins have got into Worcester, well it cannot be through the usual exchange of new for old. It would be too obvious. I reckon as Geoffrey would want to try out how easy it was to filter them into circulation. The amount that has turned up is significant enough in number of pennies to have caused the burgesses to panic, but not so much if you add it together in worth. If he and Roger are on such good terms that Roger warns him of our interest, I would not be surprised if it was through the alehouse that the coin was passed. He only had to pay for any tuns not of his own brewing with the odd forged coin among the good. What doesn’t sit well with me, is that the coin that has turned up would pass a first glance but is not that good. Geoffrey has always minted perfect coin, certainly good enough never to call down complaints from the King’s Exchequer. These are just plain poor standard.’

  Bradecote, who had walked in as Catchpoll finished, was frowning. Serjeant Catchpoll was not sure whether this was from general ill humour, or concentration upon his pronouncement.

  ‘What advantage could there be from producing forged pennies so easy to spot? Once the authorities are alerted it could only be a matter of time before the net closes around the forger, and that would limit how much he could make. Sounds too risky an enterprise by half, unless …’ Hugh Bradecote paused, thinking through the logic of what had occurred to him. ‘If you do not wish to make a profit from the coins, there must be another motive.’

  ‘What other motive could there be?’ William de Beauchamp snorted, but Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘What is it you’re thinking, my lord?’

  ‘Well, to whose advantage is it if there is a loss of faith in the coinage?’

  ‘Not the moneyers, nor the burgesses either.’ The lord Sheriff shook his head. ‘Nobody profits by it.’

  ‘But whoever the moneyer might be, one thing is on all the pennies, and that is the King’s head. Devalue the coin, you devalue the kingship. There are coins in the Empress’s image aplenty in Gloucestershire. Would it not aid her to have all the western shires prefer her head upon their coinage?’

  ‘I pray you are wrong,’ William de Beauchamp groaned.

  It put him in a difficult position if true. He had supported the Empress Maud these two years past, but still held the shrievality in the King’s name, clinging on by a mixture of the claim that it was inherited through his grandfather Urse d’Abitot, and because he did nothing in his sheriff’s role to give King Stephen cause to hunt for a replacement. De Beauchamp was no fool, and the shrievality was profitable. He collected the King’s taxes, from which he was entitled to a percentage, and it gave him power in the shire that he would not wish to lose. If pressed, he argued that the ‘King’s Peace’ was to be upheld whoever the king, or there would be mayhem. He was quite straightforward about it, and the thought of undermining a king by creating distrust of the coinage was underhand and ignoble. If true, however, it would put him in a position where both Stephen and Maud would expect his support.

  Bradecote grimaced, but Catchpoll was clearly thinking. His face worked, the muscles twisting the features.

  ‘It might be so, my lords, it can’t be denied. Yet it is not the only answer. Look at it this way. Geoffrey puts out coin in another moneyer’s name, poor coin that attracts attention. Folk will look to a man they can trust if they bring hacksilver to exchange for pennies, enabling him to produce even more forgeries of a better finish.’

  ‘Seems a bit complicated,’ mumbled de Beauchamp, scratching his chin, ‘but I would prefer it as an option. Have another go at the alehouse keeper.’

  ‘Well, whatever the answers he may give, we are more likely to get to the bottom of it once we have Geoffrey in our charge, so we sweep the streets for any report or sign of him.’ Bradecote sounded morose. ‘Catchpoll, as far as I am concerned, it is information on Geoffrey’s likely hiding places I want most. Have you set the men-at-arms into parties and given them areas to search?’

  ‘No, my lord, seeing as I was with Roger of the Moon, but I did tell Walkelin to do so, upon your authority, him being no higher than them and like to receive short shrift from many of his fellows. He will be awaiting your final commands by now, I should imagine. He’s Worcester born and bred, and should have a nose for rat holes. I will join you if I get anything of use from the prisoner, my lord.’ Catchpoll pulled a wry face. ‘And though it goes against the grain, my lord Sheriff, can I offer to look the other way over the passing of any false coin he was dealing?’

  ‘By rights he should lose a hand at the least, if charged,’ de Beauchamp growled.

  ‘Aye, and the fear of that keeps his mouth either shut or gabbling like one moon mad, which is almost funny, with the name of his alehouse. We need the answers he may have in his cringing skull, sooner rather than later. I could get them the hard way, but it might be slow.’

  ‘Fair enough, though you can tell him from me, if he ever so much as waters his ale and comes to my attention, I’ll have the contents of his codd for earrings for my lady.’

  Bradecote, turning to leave, bit his lip. How the sheriff’s wife might react to being given a man’s testicles as jewellery was hard to imagine. Somehow, he did not think she would be delighted.

  Walkelin was flustered. As Catchpoll had surmised, he had received a considerable amount of ribald response from the men-at-arms, who knew he was essentially still one of their number, and lacked any official seniority. ‘Apprentice in Serjeanting’ gave neither an increase in pay nor power. He was in the uncomfortable position of having to use his superio
r’s rank to get order out of the chaos, and by the time Bradecote arrived on the scene, Walkelin was flushed of cheek and looking harassed. Complaining to the undersheriff, however, would smack of running to Mother with tales, so he kept his own counsel.

  The men-at-arms themselves had stiffened into more alert and bellicose poses at Bradecote’s arrival. The whisper had already run round the garrison that the undersheriff, who was known as a reasonable individual, was like a man with the toothache this morning, and had best not be crossed.

  Bradecote assessed the situation in a glance. He would not make Walkelin’s position worse. He therefore spoke to him in the same tone he would have used to Catchpoll, and let Walkelin show that he had used his initiative.

  ‘Are the men aware of what we need to do?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I have divided them into groups of five men, so that, as they go through an alley, one man stays in the street while a pair searches the building either side. If we keep a steady pace, then if our quarry makes a bolt from the rear of any building he will bump into the next search team to the side.’

  ‘Very good, Walkelin.’ He spoke clearly so that all could hear his approbation. It certainly sounded as if it would work, though the reality would be far more muddied, and opportunities for Geoffrey, son of Herluin, to evade capture would present themselves. ‘We commence before the castle itself. Oh, and if he does run for it, try and ensure he does not claim sanctuary in any of the churches. We need this man in our custody, and able to answer questions, so do not worry about causing him injury, as long as it is not life-threatening or prevents speech.’

  Bradecote gave a twisted smile, which impressed the men-at-arms with his toughness, but which was in fact his recognition that he had sounded as much a hardened and cynical bastard as Serjeant Catchpoll. Being the sheriff’s officer was eroding his morality. Six months ago he would not have suggested being rough with a man not yet found guilty of a crime.