Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Their demand is simple enough.’ William de Beauchamp was frowning, thinking out loud. ‘Which makes me wonder just what our man Geoffrey is up to. They would not want a man simply because he can forge coin. All they would need to do is put pressure upon any who possess the dies. Even a good, honest man could be expected to comply if he or his family were at risk. So that means Geoffrey has, or knows, something special.’

  ‘If what he knows means they just wanted him dead, because of what he could reveal, getting someone into the castle wouldn’t be that difficult if nobody was expecting a problem, my lord.’ Catchpoll rubbed his grizzled chin. ‘We have folk in and out all day. One distraction, mayhap one bribe, and there would be access to the cells, and whether he was killed obvious or killed subtle, dead he would be, and the risk of him loosing his tongue would be gone. No, there is more, much more here.’

  Bradecote, catching the end of the serjeant’s comment, looked from one to the other. They were calmly discussing the man in their custody when Christina stood in fear of her life. He wanted to cry out that it did not matter what was special about Geoffrey, unless it was going to help them find her, get her back safely. He ran a hand that was not quite steady through his hair. His voice, when he got control of it, was edged with a fear that Catchpoll could almost touch.

  ‘We have nothing. We don’t know who they are, where they are, only that they have hostages and no compunction about killing them, only that they have Christina.’ Bradecote’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘My lord, it is natural enough that you should feel this way, but it ain’t any use you thinking bleak.’ Catchpoll sounded perfectly calm. ‘Your lady needs you strong right now, thinking straight and clear. And you are wrong. There are things we know: we know what they want, for a start. Since Geoffrey the Moneyer is not honest, you can lay odds that he has some knowledge of the men who want to free him. Criminals know criminals. If any moneyer would do, these men could have simply taken any in the trade, and used them. No, they want Geoffrey for a reason, so sense says he knows about them, even if they have not worked together before or even met face to face, and what he knows, we shall know soon enough. Best leave him to me, my lord.’

  Catchpoll knew his superior was not in favour of extracting information by force. He regarded it as both wrong and liable to provide merely the answers the prisoner thought would be acceptable. Bradecote’s response surprised him.

  ‘Do what you will, but do it fast, and if he holds back, call me.’

  There was a cold ruthlessness in the voice that left the serjeant without words for a moment, and he simply nodded. Bradecote, whose gaze had been blank, looked at him; the eyes were hard, and a bitter half-smile twisted his mouth.

  ‘You think me inconsistent. Well, I am. I don’t care for torture, but if that is the way to get her back safely, then I care not what you do.’

  ‘Not inconsistent, my lord, just normal, and I don’t recall you offering Reginald, de Malfleur’s man, soft words when he tried to keep knowledge of the lady’s whereabouts from us in Wich. You offered him a fair choice: tell or suffer. And if he didn’t believe you, he learnt his mistake fast enough.’

  ‘That was heat of the moment, gut reaction.’

  ‘Aye, my lord, and sometimes we needs to follow our gut reaction. I’ll get what Geoffrey knows, have no doubt about it, and we already know something else as well.’

  ‘What?’ Bradecote sighed.

  ‘They have someone with them who knows his letters, a scribbler, and—’

  ‘Or simply compelling one of Father Samson’s scribes under duress,’ interjected Bradecote, dejectedly.

  ‘Aye, that they could, but they’d be fools if they sent out any message unread. What would be to stop the message saying just where they were and what was toward? No, if that is so, they have someone at least lettered enough to read the message. And if they sent that message in during the night, then they are within a day of Worcester. I know it is perishing cold and that hand would not start to rot fast in such weather, but they are not going to want to wait for days while a message is delivered. My guess is that they have headed back towards Worcester, and are no more than half a night’s ride away this dawning.’

  ‘But will be sure to depart as soon as their messenger returns.’ Bradecote sounded glum.

  ‘Indeed, but haring off across the shire borders keeps them also from their prize. They cannot afford to go too far. If we were to release Geoffrey …’

  Bradecote repeated the serjeant’s words, suddenly considering their merit. He looked at William de Beauchamp, who had been lost in his own thoughts.

  ‘Let the man go as they ask, and follow him to where they meet. You want them; this guarantees you get what you want, my lord Sheriff.’

  William de Beauchamp shook his head, not without regret.

  ‘No. I am sorry, but no.’

  ‘Why not? It would—’

  ‘—not guarantee either the safety of Father Samson, or your betrothed, but it would give the bastards the chance to show that holding to ransom works. What if they manage to elude us? Or fail to come up with their side of the bargain? They are criminals, when all is said and done. I’ll not have that in my shire, for the sake of every free man in its bounds, though it goes hard now. No,’ he held up a hand as Hugh Bradecote made to say more, ‘I will not be swayed on this, Bradecote, there is an end to it. We find these men; we bring them to justice or kill them, and we do the best we can for those they have taken. Every man I possess can be turned to this, and if we do not sleep for a week, so be it.’

  Bradecote knew further remonstrance was pointless, and there was, sadly, truth in what the lord Sheriff said. Had it been any other hostage he would have agreed with him, but this was personal.

  Serjeant Catchpoll sent men about every street to proclaim that the lord Sheriff of Worcester would reward any person with useful information about whosoever had nailed the hand to the castle gate. Their best chances were near the castle itself and at the gates, and it took all Bradecote’s self-control not to go to every dwelling before the castle in person to find out any scrap of information. William de Beauchamp watched him, saw the tumult within and kept his own counsel. His new undersheriff, drafted in, it must be said, upon a whim, had proved remarkably good, and had won the respect of Serjeant Catchpoll. That said a great deal about Hugh Bradecote, but if this all went to the bad, as it could, the sheriff wondered how much use he might be thereafter. Well, time would tell, but when Catchpoll met up with him again, he took him to one side.

  ‘Oh aye, my lord. I’ll watch him like a cat with one kitten. He’ll need a mite of time to come to terms with the situation, but I don’t think he’ll crack under the strain.’ He omitted to add the ‘not quite’ that echoed in his head. ‘And once there is something to be done it will be a lot easier on him, as on us all. No man likes to feel helpless in the face of a threat upon his own.’ He paused. ‘What would you have us do first, my lord, since we are not handing Geoffrey the Forger over?’

  De Beauchamp’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Do I detect a hint that you would do so, Catchpoll?’ His voice had an edge of sneer. ‘I had not thought you soft, in the head or of heart.’

  ‘No, my lord, you do not. You were right; we cannot be weak or there will be no law in the shire.’

  ‘Well, it is my intent to go to Upton and cross with my prisoner, but I want you and Bradecote, and as many men as we can muster, to cross here at dawn and follow the far bank of the Severn to come into Upton from the north, just in case they have decided to do the least expected. They might be stupid enough to turn up for us if they have no experience.’

  Catchpoll sucked his teeth, for that sounded unlikely.

  The word had got around. Small wonder the undersheriff was in a foul mood, with his betrothed held captive by whoever had sent the severed hand, but they wished he would not take it out upon them. He had already bitten the head off a man-at-arms for merely mentioning that there
had been no answer at three premises where he had knocked the door, so the residents were clearly not within. He had been cuffed about the ear, sent to break down the doors, if needs must, to prove that, and not to return until he had either spoken to the householders or proved their absence.

  ‘Not our fault, is it,’ mumbled one, ‘if his wench gets taken.’

  ‘It’s having her “taken” that’s like to be worrying him most.’

  A man chortled, seeing the comment as a clever jest, but was spun round and sent sprawling on the ground. He had not realised the undersheriff had stopped around the corner and was still within earshot. Hugh Bradecote stared down at him with a face so thunderous, the man cowered, his arm protecting his head, fully expecting to hear the sound of steel being drawn.

  ‘You’d best lie there in the dirt, like the foul-mouthed cur you are, for if you rise I will not vouch for my actions.’

  Bradecote spoke softly, through gritted teeth, his hand now clenched upon the hilt of his sword. The other men, thanking Providence it had not been them who had laughed, stepped back and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  ‘And if I hear one word, one single word, insulting the honour of the lady I am to wed,’ and his fierce glance now challenged them all, ‘I will have the man flogged first, and then will deal with him personally. Understood?’

  The men nodded, gazed at their feet, and mumbled their comprehension. Bradecote turned away swiftly, and headed off with a long stride. His breathing was laboured, though not from any exertion, and once away from the men he stopped, closed his eyes, and leant against the side wall of the kitchens. A young woman, emerging to cast the contents of a greasy pail into the dust, glanced at him in concern.

  ‘If you are taken bad, my lord, I can offer you a stool and a beaker within.’

  Her lilting voice was uncertain, her intent generous. He shook his head, and, mastering his voice at last, thanked her for the offer. She bobbed a curtsey, and he carried on to the great hall, where he could consult with the lord Sheriff.

  He was shaken, mentally, though it had found physical expression. He was not a man with a temper on a short leash, not normally. This, he told himself, was not normal, but even as he acknowledged it, he was assailed by the fear that his ability to focus, his chance of doing everything that Christina needed of him now, was imperilled by his emotions. He made a conscious effort to get a grip upon himself, and put the nightmarish thoughts, so presciently voiced by the man-at-arms, firmly from his mind.

  As he walked in upon de Beauchamp and Serjeant Catchpoll there was a sudden silence. It did not take a great intellect to gather that he had been in their minds and on their lips. His lips compressed together, lest he speak unwisely, but his eyes could not hide his anger. Catchpoll was not blind, and tried to ease the tension. A chilling of relations between his superiors would not help matters.

  ‘We were discussing how much information we might gain from Geoffrey, my lord,’ Catchpoll lied, unflinchingly. ‘We do not know whether he had direct contact with these men, or only knew them via an intermediary. To my mind the latter might even be of greater use. He might have been out of Worcester and met them where they are wont to be, but it would be safer for both him and them if he stayed put and someone came to him, either a single member of the gang, or a middle man. If that person can be taken, well they will know details of how many there are, what they plan overall; they will have our vital answers.’

  ‘Then we speak to Geoffrey, right away.’ Bradecote’s crisp tone implied he, for one, would not accept prevarication from the prisoner.

  Catchpoll pulled a face, not one of his ‘thinking’ faces, but one where he knew he was about to give unpalatable information.

  ‘That, my lord, is not possible. I went to the cells when you sent the men out to the Foregate. Truth is, the man must have had some coin about him, secret like, and bribed one of the guards to get him ale, ale enough to get him stone drunk. Either he wanted to blot out his captivity or ensure we could not get sense out of him a while longer.’

  ‘He bribed one of my gaolers?’ growled de Beauchamp, grinding his teeth. ‘I’ll have whoever it was flogged to within an inch of his life.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord, I am going to spend the rest of the day finding out, since there is little more to be done until tomorrow upon the kidnapping.’

  ‘We sluice the man down and sober him up,’ muttered Bradecote.

  ‘Aye, we could, my lord, but what credit could we give to his answers, and at the moment he is unconscious.’

  Bradecote picked up a beaker that stood upon the trestle table, and threw it at the wall, vindictively. The other two men showed no reaction. After all, a man needed to work off his frustration, and Hugh Bradecote was a very frustrated man.

  Chapter Six

  He looked innocent enough, the man waiting for the blacksmith to shoe his horse, and the fact that he was a stranger mattered not. Travellers upon the road needed their horses shod, and so nobody paid him any attention. He stamped his feet and blew upon his chilled hands occasionally, and did not say much, but then, the blacksmith was plying his trade, and not making small-talk on a cold January morning, with the hoarfrost clinging silvery upon the bare branches of the trees, and the ground as hard as iron.

  There was ice upon the Severn, near to the banks, although not enough to prevent the ferryman from breaking it with a stout pole, and taking a shawl-wrapped woman across to be with her daughter at her confinement up over the hill in Croome. He had no expectation of making the return with any passenger, and was only too pleased to be offered coin by the grand lord, dragging behind him a bound man, no doubt some villain guilty of absconding after some misdemeanour. The man’s hood was dragged over his bowed head and his hands looked blue with cold. The ferryman could see why the man appeared so despondent. Looking at the scowling countenance of the fur-cloaked rider, he did not give much for his chances once he was got home.

  On the far side, the prisoner was dragged unceremoniously up the bank behind the big bay horse as the ferryman tied up his craft. Villagers turned their heads, and the traveller did likewise, though none saw the narrowing of his eyes as he studied the figure of the stumbling prisoner. In the centre of the village the horseman halted, dismissing the lad who ran forward to take his horse as if he was swatting away an irksome fly. The horse stamped and blew down its nostrils, its opaque breath hanging in the air. A small child hid its head in its mother’s skirts, and mumbled about a monster. Everyone stood as if waiting for something to happen, though only horseman and prisoner had any inkling what it might be. The blacksmith, having spared the novelty a glance, returned to his work, and the clang of hammer on iron and anvil rang clear in the air.

  William de Beauchamp pursed his lips. His feet were getting cold and he disliked inaction. He waited. The scene remained frozen, like the ice at the Severn’s banks, in anticipation of something unknown. After a while, however, the villagers shrugged and continued about their business. The blacksmith took up the horse’s off hind between his knees, the nails clamped between his thin lips, and began to drive them home, but the horse shied and struggled, and he was forced to let the hoof down as a large number of horsemen clattered into the village, not just upon the road, but from between cottages. They arrived at the canter, purposefully, and with weapons drawn. Their leader trotted forward to the stationary lord, and engaged him in conversation, which none of the villagers would have understood, even had they overheard it, for it was conducted in Norman French.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing, my lord.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘No sign that any group of horses have waited within a half-mile of here in the last day or so, for even if the ground is too hard for imprints of shoes, as Catchpoll says, horse dung is horse dung.’

  ‘Bastards.’ The lord Sheriff swore, not at Bradecote and his men, but at the faithless kidnappers. ‘They never had any intention of letting the hostages free here. I knew as much.’

  The un
dersheriff’s face was pinched, and not just from the cold. He had told himself it was unlikely, but the glimmer of hope that they might resolve this now, today, and he could have Christina safe in his hold, had suffused his mind. That hope now lay cold as the lingering frost.

  By the smithy, the final nail had been clenched, and the smith let the horse put hoof to ground and patted the haunch. The traveller paid him with thanks, mounted and trotted past the lord Sheriff, with a respectful nod in recognition of his obvious status, out on the westward road.

  ‘It was worth the attempt, if only to prove the vermin we are dealing with,’ de Beauchamp admitted, in a low grumble, ‘but now we have to hunt as we hunt vermin, to the death, Bradecote.’

  Hugh Bradecote’s heart sank. De Beauchamp would try to keep so important a churchman as Father Samson alive, and Christina too, but his patience was thin, and if he thought there was even a glimmer of a chance, he would take the kidnappers on, man on man, and hope to Providence that he could rescue the important hostages before they were murdered. Bradecote had little faith in such a tactic.

  Serjeant Catchpoll approached on foot, having dismounted and sought counsel of the village reeve.

  ‘Nothing of note within the village these last two days, my lords, not that they would ride through, not the whole party. A group of armed horsemen and religious would set tongues wagging, sure enough. There haven’t even been strangers, above the man who had his horse shod this …’

  The sentence trailed off, as all three men saw the blindingly obvious.

  ‘They did not specify an exchange here, just that Geoffrey be freed. My God, he was here to see if it was Geoffrey and if he was to be let go.’ Bradecote shut his eyes in horror. ‘And he saw the men-at-arms arrive. He knows we were not going to do as they demanded.’

  ‘Before you start taking birch rods to your own back, Bradecote, remember we have no reason, whatsoever, to assume they were then going to release their hostages. If they have what they want, why let those go who could identify them?’