Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  He roused himself, aware of the eyes upon him once more, and, with a jerk of the head towards the castle gate, led the search party out into the town. They ignored the priory, though Bradecote had already spoken to the sub-prior and requested that a search be made of the claustral buildings, in case their suspect had taken shelter without wishing to claim the entitlement of sanctuary. The sub-prior had assented willingly, for using the enclave as a place to evade the law, not claiming sanctuary, defiled the sanctity of the House.

  The men-at-arms fanned out into their allotted positions. The real problem lay in that there would not be enough of them to guarantee the ends of the line covering the full width between the river and the gated wall. Bradecote wished there had been enough to form a second line, just in case, but he had all the men that were available. He looked along the line, and gave the nod to start. The squads took the northward streets and the back alleys behind the burgage plots, with the instruction to halt at the first cross street, and work along that before advancing north again.

  It was a process that took time, and was not greeted with universal approbation. Barely had they begun when an old woman beat a man-at-arms over the head with her broom, haranguing him for creeping into her home, and accusing him of having designs upon her bony person. The man looked more shocked by this than the beating. It caused brief hilarity among his fellows, until Bradecote, stalking between the patrolling men-at-arms, quelled them with sharp words and a hard stare. He was in no mood for jocularity. The men exchanged looks.

  In the castle, Catchpoll was finding Roger difficult to persuade. The man was so terrified that the serjeant could smell the rank fear on him, and was repeating for the third time that if he had ‘mistakenly’ been persuaded to pass forged pennies in his dealings, this would be overlooked if he gave information on the whereabouts of Geoffrey, son of Herluin. The staring eyes gazed at Catchpoll like a fieldmouse mesmerised by a snake.

  In desperation, Catchpoll shook the man.

  ‘Sweet Jesu, are you taking in one word of what I say?’

  Roger blinked.

  ‘Say something, addlebrain.’

  The man did not speak but nodded, repeatedly.

  ‘Then tell me where we find Geoffrey.’

  The alehouse keeper licked dry lips and whispered, so softly Catchpoll could not catch the words.

  ‘No. Tell … me. I don’t want to guess.’

  ‘He has a woman, a woman he uses, off the yard by William Potter’s place, in Gloveres Strete. If he has hidden himself, it is where I would think he would go, though I do not know. ’Tis but my guess.’

  Catchpoll sighed in relief.

  ‘Your guess had better be good, my friend. For if it is, you leave here a free man. However …’

  The sheriff’s serjeant then went on to pass on his superior’s warning, so graphically that Roger felt physically sick, and unconsciously clasped his hands protectively before his manhood. Catchpoll left him, secure in the knowledge that even if Roger did leave the castle a free man, everyone he met would realise you did not want to be brought within its walls for questioning.

  He headed, as fast as his dignity would permit, into the busy streets of Worcester, catching up with the men-at-arms as they reached Cokenstrete, and was pointed in the direction of the undersheriff.

  ‘Any luck with the keeper of the Moon tavern?’

  ‘Aye, my lord, at the last. He says that Geoffrey has a woman off the yard by William Potter’s place in Gloveres Strete.’

  ‘That is near the eastern wall, yes?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, and north of here. With luck, news of the hunt has not reached the woman’s ears yet, but we would be best to make haste.’

  Bradecote raised an arm and beckoned those men he could see, Walkelin among them. He sent a man to warn those guarding the nearest gate, and then the whole party set off at the lope to the yard by William the Potter’s premises, dividing so that the back as well as front were covered. A lank-haired brunette was seated in the doorway of an unobtrusive house in one corner. She was apparently engrossed in rubbing hard skin from one heel, shamelessly revealing one leg to the knee. Catchpoll wondered what Geoffrey saw in the wench. Perhaps she was just cheap, and him unwilling to pay more.

  Some sixth sense clearly alerted her as Catchpoll and Bradecote approached. She got up slowly, smoothing her skirts down, and gazed at them warily, with alert eyes under drooping lids. Bradecote had no time for preamble.

  ‘We are here for Geoffrey, son of Herluin, to take in upon the charge of minting false coin.’

  She looked at him, assessed her chances of lying successfully, shrugged, and stepped aside. Bradecote let Catchpoll take two men within. There was the sound of a scuffle, and shortly after the trio emerged with Geoffrey firmly held between them. One man-at-arms looked as if he had a black eye in the offing. Bradecote stared coldly at the prisoner.

  ‘Hard to find, aren’t you, my friend? Now, we are taking you into custody upon the charge of minting false coin, and falsifying the mark of another moneyer.’

  Bradecote was not sure the second was actually a crime, but it sounded serious, and reasonable. The man had stolen another’s good name, which was a valuable thing, especially to a man making money.

  ‘The woman, my lord?’

  Catchpoll indicated the slovenly brunette. Bradecote stared at her for a moment, sniffed, and shook his head.

  ‘As you wish, my lord.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll got far closer to her than Bradecote would have wished, but then, he had seen such, and worse, often enough.

  ‘We’ve been looking for this man, and all Worcester knows it. You knew, and I know you knew, so best you pick your men more careful in the future, and don’t you come within my suspicioning for as much as stealing a feather from a cock’s tail.’

  The woman gave back stare for stare, but then dropped her gaze and nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Catchpoll smiled, which made one of the men-at-arms whisper to his fellow that he almost felt sorry for the wench.

  Nobody took any notice of a pedlar, a cloaked and hooded figure crouched in the far corner of the yard, attempting to sell kindling; nobody saw that although his clothes were ragged, his boots were remarkably good.

  Chapter Four

  William de Beauchamp greeted their success with barely more pleasure than if they had returned empty-handed, in Bradecote’s view. He nodded when told of the capture, but said only that it made up for their previous failure. Catchpoll was not surprised. Years of working with, and for, the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire had taught him that de Beauchamp was a man who thought praise was better spent on a hound, since it gave men an overinflated idea of their worth and prowess. The glance he gave the undersheriff gathered that Bradecote had expected more. There was a crease between his brows as they went to interrogate the forger.

  ‘You didn’t expect the lord Sheriff to clap his hands and jump for joy, I hope, my lord.’

  The sombre look on the undersheriff’s face was replaced by a wry smile.

  ‘Not exactly, Catchpoll. Hardly his style, I think.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t one to whom praise comes easy. Giving a tongue lashing, now that’s a different matter. It has always been his way, as long as I have known him. We might raise a “well done” if we gets a nice healthy confession from our man, though.’

  Geoffrey, son of Herluin, despite being in the castle cells, was strangely calm, which both Bradecote and Catchpoll found oddly disconcerting. As Catchpoll admitted, putting one’s head in a noose, if he was lucky, and facing a hard death if he was not, would hold a man back from offering a confession at the outset, but Geoffrey had what could almost be described as an arrogance about him, a confidence that his situation should not have given him. He had the odd bruise consequent to resisting arrest, but was otherwise almost cheerful. The answers he gave them were evasive, and he denied any knowledge of forged coin, suggested Roger the alehouse keeper had been imbibing too much of his own ale, and claim
ed Osbern’s journeyman had poured out his troubles to him because his maid was playing hard to get, no more.

  Despite a natural urge to ram Geoffrey’s grinning teeth down his lying throat, Catchpoll suggested that a night of contemplation in the far from salubrious castle cells might loosen his tongue adequately, and that they resume their ‘cosy chat’ next day.

  Father Samson was not lingering on his journey to Lincoln, taking it in easy stages. He regarded the discomfort of a long day in the saddle as good for the soul, if not the body, and took a certain pride in his aches and pains, though he was guaranteed a decent bed at every religious house at which they halted for the night. The words, ‘envoy of Archbishop Theobald’ had worked wonders right across South Wales and into the English shires. They spent the first night after leaving Worcester at the Benedictine abbey of Alcester, which was only eighteen miles distant, but the short winter day and frozen ground meant that they could not guarantee reaching the Austin canons at Kenilworth. That was intended to be their stop for the second night.

  The road from Worcester towards Stratford was, of course, well known to Christina, and the brothers were not only quiet in obedience to the Rule, avoiding chatter, but clearly discomfited by a female presence. She therefore had the oddest sensation of riding alone, whilst being among a group of men. It gave her time to contemplate matters. Part of her thought she owed it to her pilgrim status to think pious and religious thoughts, but that proved impossible, since Hugh Bradecote loomed large in her head as well as her heart. That he had been concerned for her welfare above all, she knew well enough. It had rankled, the manner of his expressing it, but she forgave him so very readily. Her sin, she thought sadly, was having such a temper. She prayed, most devoutly, that she would be given the strength to quell it when married. Hugh Bradecote admired her spirit, that was clear, but what lord would want a wife who ripped up at him, or rebelled against his wishes? She smiled to herself, and hoped the brothers did not see into her mind. The art of being a good wife was to persuade the husband to one’s way of thinking before ever a command was issued, and she thought the task of persuading her new lord would be both exciting, and frequently successful. That thought led naturally to the reason for her journey. If the blessed saint would but smile upon her devotions, she could give Hugh what she longed for, and what he must, as a man, also desire. Marriage was for the bringing forth of children, though for the first time in her life, Christina had realised that the very act of conception need not be a trial, an unpleasant foretaste of the trial that ended in birth. It had always been so for her, and yet now her blood seemed to run the hotter at the mere thought. She reddened. She wanted to feel his child, their child, quicken within her, to see his face when she presented him with another son, to watch the child grow and flourish; she also relished the thought of the pleasures that must precede these things. Such thoughts were truly unsuitable for one upon pilgrimage, and she resolved to wear only the one cloak next day in penance.

  They set off after Prime the following day, with the abbot’s benediction carried after them upon the chill wind, which made Christina shiver, and half regret her previous day’s resolution. The second cloak, however, remained rolled behind her saddle. They were only perhaps a mile or two beyond Stratford itself when they heard the sound of hooves at speed behind them, and drew to the wooded side of the trackway to let pass whoever was in such haste. It sounded as if it must be some body of soldiers, for there were certainly many horses. The idea that there was any risk would have been discounted, for they were humble men of God, without wealth worth the stealing, and protected by their calling. The horsemen were alongside them before any realised they had drawn swords, and were not going to overtake them. The vanguard swung round, blocking any advance, and the undergrowth was too tangled a mass of briars to allow any escape into the trees. A hand was thrust out to grab Father Samson’s bridle. He remonstrated, but was met with a callous laugh, and was struck. Even as he rocked in the saddle, a younger monk tried to manoeuvre his own mount between his superior and the assailant, and so far forgot his calling as to flail a fist at the attacker. The man laughed, avoided the blow, and brought his sword crashing into the side of the Benedictine’s head. It was as much a battering from the crosspiece as a slash from the upper part of the blade, and if it did not kill, then it rendered him unconscious as it struck. The brother toppled from his mule into the undergrowth with a lifeless thud. Father Samson’s eyes bulged in horror at this violence, but even as words rose to his lips, fear froze them in his mouth. As a man of God, he was prepared, far more than most, to meet his Maker, but had a very human inclination to delay that encounter as long as possible. The swordsman smiled, which was not in any way encouraging.

  Christina, confused as much as shocked by what was going on, was not foolish enough to risk injury when her own reins were grabbed, but flashed the rough-looking man whose grimed hand grabbed them from her a look of haughty anger, which he seemed to find amusing. He grinned, baring gapped and discoloured teeth.

  It all seemed to happen so fast that they were being led back and then taking a narrow pathway through the coppicing before they could contemplate fully that they had been abducted. There were perhaps a dozen kidnappers, scarcely many more, but well-armed and easily able to control the seven unarmed Benedictines and the lone woman. Christina knew it was fruitless trying to work out their direction, threading their way as they were through the trees to skirt Stratford, and common sense screamed at her that this was folly, for the only things of value the group possessed were their mounts. She wondered, with concern, if the quality of her own horse might mark her out. Her garb might be that of any reasonably fortuned dame, a merchant’s wife or widow, perhaps, not clearly a lady. Her horse was a tidy beast, and few of the mercantile class would possess such an animal.

  Thinking as calmly as she could, Christina tried to weigh the situation, and decide how best to both preserve her safety, and give her the greatest chance of being freed. Robbery was not the motive, that was obvious. The likeliest alternative was that whoever had taken them had followed the group for some time and knew the importance of Father Samson. There was a chance they also knew her identity, but it was the merest chance. Should she reveal who she was, and hope that fear of bringing the wrath and power of the shrievality down upon them at a personal level would make them let her go? She looked surreptitiously at the man who seemed to be the leader, and decided against it. Better to remain a nobody and hope that she would merely be numbered among the Benedictine brothers, held so as not to reveal the who and why.

  The man she studied had hard eyes, so pale a grey that the black pupils took on a sharp malevolence that made her shudder within. She knew such a face of old: Arnulf de Malfleur, her first husband, had been as cold of visage, and a man in whom kindness was entirely absent, and evil as natural as breathing. Christina FitzPayne had truly thought all the horror of the past could be buried, but her head told her that she must face it again until such time as Hugh found her. He would find her; she no more doubted it than that the sun would rise above the horizon in the morning. How he would do so, she did not know. She did not know where they were, whether they would be held in some hideaway, or moved day by day. At least that way there might be an opportunity to leave some sign to aid pursuers. She prayed, silently but fervently, aware that at this moment only her prayers, and those of the Benedictine brothers, stood between them and an abyss.

  They crossed the salt road along which the clerical party had come to Stratford, and a glimpse of the sun just beginning its descent made Christina think at least one prayer was answered, for heading westward meant being closer to Worcester and Hugh. As the afternoon progressed, she also knew they were still north of the Avon. As the shadows lengthened into eventide, a man was sent ahead to scout out any shelter. He returned with news of a grange, scarcely half a mile ahead. Reynald de Roules lifted a hand, and the men behind him halted. Beckoning his lieutenant to his side, the pair of them reconnoitred the
grange. It looked as if it was poorly tended, and they wondered, briefly, if it might even be uninhabited. There was a single mule in the stable, however, and, upon closer inspection, a thread of light from within behind the heavy wooden shutters at the window of the dwelling. In the near darkness, de Roules grinned at his companion. This would be easy. He nodded, and the other man drew the hood of his cloak over his head, bent to look cold and weary, and knocked upon the door. A wary voice questioned who might be there, and he replied in a tremulous voice at odds with his healthy frame.

  ‘I beg refuge, Brother, on a cold night, for I am lost and assuredly will perish if you do not show me charity.’

  There was the scraping sound from the lifting of a wooden bar, and the door opened a few inches. A lay brother peered out, at a disadvantage looking from comparative light into the gloom.

  ‘Of God’s grace, Brother?’ The voice pleaded.

  The door opened another foot. No more was needed. The hooded figure straightened and stepped forward smartly, the steel of his knife catching the light, but without him doing anything more, de Roules pushed past, sword drawn. He did not so much thrust as slide the blade into the unsuspecting brother so that he died with no more than a widening of the eyes and a hiss. Even as the man crumpled, de Roules pushed past, dragging back the blood-wet sword, and faced the second occupant, who grabbed a staff and brandished it half-heartedly. Reynald de Roules smiled broadly.

  The waiting horsemen heard nothing until called forward, and urged their mounts into the clearing before the ramshackle grange. Their hostages were dragged from their animals, some stumbling where the cold had numbed their feet, and pushed unceremoniously into what was barely more than a cottage. They blinked first in the light, and then with undisguised horror at the cowled forms in the corner like a heap of rags. The wide-eyed stare of the first brother showed from the dead face, and de Roules was wiping his blade on the skirt of the other brother’s habit. The Benedictines crossed themselves.