Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  The monk’s voice was thready, but not uncertain, his Norman French, so difficult for Robert of Fulbrook, easy enough for de Beauchamp to comprehend.

  ‘I recall but little, mon seigneur. We were still some miles short of Warwick. At first, we thought these men were simply going to pass us upon some important journey, then they surrounded us on three sides, against the thick undergrowth.’

  ‘How many would you say?’

  ‘A dozen, mon seigneur, as I would guess, but I was struck down early, when a man threatened violence upon Father Samson. Certainly, there were not many more.’

  ‘Were they like thieves or soldiers?’

  ‘They were no rabble, mon seigneur. They carried swords, as my head will vouch, though they wore little mail, excepting the one I glimpsed and saw as a leader, a close-bearded man.’

  ‘Ah, our close-bearded “friend” again. I wonder if he is the lord’s minion, or the lord himself, then, pretending to a lesser role to our forger?’

  The monk frowned, and grimaced at the ensuing pain.

  ‘I do not understand you. I saw this man but for a few moments and he seemed in a position of some power. That is all that I can tell you.’

  ‘You heard no names?’ The chances were small that the brother would have done so, but de Beauchamp asked anyway. ‘Nothing that would tell us an identity?’

  Brother Bernard shut his eyes and sighed. After a minute he shook his head, gingerly. Brother Hubert, catching sight of this, glided back down his domain, and informed the lord Sheriff that the patient could do no more today. Brother Bernard opened his eyes briefly, and took my lord Fulbrook’s hand, thanking him for his care. Fulbrook blushed and demurred. De Beauchamp thought the lord pleasant enough but too soft, and for a moment imagined how Catchpoll would react to having such a man as his superior. A sly smile crossed the sheriff’s features. There would be much foul language, at the very least, and Catchpoll would grind his teeth to stumps in short order.

  Walkelin was enjoying himself. He had picked two men-at-arms junior to himself in service, who accepted his leadership without any grumbling or joshing him at his elevation. Whilst in the lord Sheriff’s presence, Walkelin had been nervous, but now out on de Beauchamp’s business, and reporting direct to that august personage, he even imagined what it would be like to wield the power of Serjeant Catchpoll.

  The details of the hiding places had been clear enough; Geoffrey did not want the sheriff’s men to return entirely empty-handed or he would surely suffer for it. The first was, not entirely surprisingly, in the dwelling of his leman. Walkelin was a young man whose dealings with the weaker sex had been more anticipatory than real, and limited to giggling clandestine encounters with young women who were nearly as inexperienced as he was himself. He found the lank-haired whore, with her hard eyes and casual manner, intimidating.

  Mald, for her part, knew men well enough to see the nervousness in the sheriff’s man, and was in no good humour, since the trio’s arrival ended what had looked a promising negotiation of terms with a man whose purse, if as well filled as his fat belly, must have provided her with two days’ food at the least. He had suddenly thanked her, very loudly, for ‘her directions’, and bustled away.

  She stood, arms folded, lips pursed, and then, very deliberately, raised one foot onto the stool that she had placed before her doorway, drawing up the grubby kirtle over her knee as both a challenge and a tease. Walkelin blushed, one man-at-arms blinked, and the other’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Well, lads, I’m not above a frolic, but if you think I can manage all three of you at once …’ She laughed out loud at their horrified and embarrassed faces. They scarce had mother’s milk dry on their lips, to her mind. The smile turned to a sneer. ‘Besides, I’d as likely have to teach you what to do.’

  Walkelin, desperate to assert his authority over the situation, scowled at the woman.

  ‘We are here upon the lord Sheriff’s business.’

  ‘Really? I thought the noble lord would do that sort of thing for himself. Not that he’s had the pleasure of me before. Perhaps my fame has spread. Let’s say one at a time. Who’s first?’

  Mald was enjoying this. One of the men-at-arms was now opening and closing his mouth like a landed fish.

  Walkelin stepped forward, took her by the elbow, and moved her to one side.

  ‘We are here to search for things hidden by Geoffrey, son of Herluin.’ He pointedly ignored her last remark, and stepped over the threshold into the dimness beyond. The state of Mald’s abode, he thought, would have horrified his mother, who swept her dirt floor so often he was surprised there was any surface left, and kept what possessions she had neat and tidy. Mald was clearly no housewife. The front chamber was tiny, with a plank table on which the remnants of food and ale remained, and behind a ragged curtain the rear chamber contained little more than a wide box bed and lumpy palliasse, over which a grimy blanket was half drawn. He lifted the corner of the palliasse with distaste. A nest of mice scattered, but in one corner was a small sack that was heavy when he lifted it. He peered inside, and even in the gloom could recognise the piles and trussels, the two dies that were struck to form the patterns on a coin. He smiled, and went out to where Mald now watched the men-at-arms with undisguised dislike.

  ‘Thank you, Mistress,’ grinned Walkelin, giving the stress of the word a far less polite meaning than normal, ‘you can resume your trade now, but know that whatever you earn in that bed of yours will never match what Geoffrey, son of Herluin, hid beneath it.’

  The angry glint in her eyes seemed a sweet revenge for the embarrassment she had caused him. He jerked his head at the two men-at-arms, and they went on their way to hunt the second cache. For this they went to Geoffrey’s workshop in Meal Cheaping. He certainly knew how to keep his precious items from prying eyes. Even though he had departed in a hurry, he had placed his supply of silver, already prepared as blanks, and his dies, both his own and the stolen ones, beneath the stone threshold between workshop and living area. It was scuffed over with dirt so as to be hardly visible, but yielded up its treasures once the men-at-arms levered it up with the aid of a wood axe they found in a corner.

  It was a highly satisfied Walkelin who returned to the castle to report his success to the lord Sheriff.

  Chapter Ten

  Only dire necessity had sent the man out into the January cold. The store of wood, which he had planned to augment as soon as the weather improved, had been raided sometime after he had shut himself up with his family the afternoon before, and at this rate there would be nothing left in a day or two. The skies again did not bode well, and he feared being snowed in without means to keep his wife and children warm, or a fire on which to cook. He wrapped sacking round his legs, put on as many layers of clothing as he could, topped with a grimy fleece about his shoulders, and set out into the woodland proper with a small sled on which to pile his gatherings. He saw nobody, which was what he would have expected, and kept his eyes groundward, hunting the dry, fallen limbs and twigs that would provide his heat. His mind wandered, and he looked forward to spring, when his sow would farrow, and his own family would increase by one. Well, there would be more mouths to feed, but his eldest lad was strong and, at eleven, fit to take his mother’s place when she was too full-bellied to work the land, and by the time the child was weaned, if the Almighty was gracious, would be able to take on a man’s work.

  He bent to take up an ash stick, and as his hand grasped it, heard horses’ hooves. He stayed very still, some sixth sense making his hackles rise. There was no track here, and why should decent folk be out riding through the woods with an iron ground and bone-freezing wind? They were certainly not hunting, not that it was the weather for it. He turned his head very cautiously to the sound, and saw, from his sideways view, a large number of heavily cloaked figures on horseback. The wind whipped back the hood of a man upon a mule, and the peasant saw the pale tonsure of a priest. Then his heart missed a beat, for he would have sworn a gaze was t
urned upon him, and he expected to hear a shout as he was discovered. For no reason beyond instinct, he knew this would be a bad thing. The figure, smaller than most of the others, inclined their head, but so subtly that he wondered if the acknowledgement was his imagining, and looked away. He held his breath until the beat of his heart was pounding in his ears, and the party were beyond him and all with their backs to him. Then he breathed, very slowly, and only resumed his foraging when they were lost to his sight among the skeletal trees.

  That the grange at Knightwick was empty only made the difference that Reynald did not get the pleasure of killing. Kenelm had hoped for praise for remembering its location and leading them to it unerringly, but felt that his leader did not appreciate his efforts. Safely out of earshot he grumbled at his companion. He could not be said to be grumbling ‘to’ him, since ‘Pigface’ was French, and so dull-witted he seemed to have little comprehension of even his native tongue, let alone good solid English. Reynald de Roules had added him to his entourage as he made his way back across France from the southern coast, where he had been employed in other people’s feuds. He was in no rush to return to England, and felt the rest of France would offer ‘opportunities’ that a swifter sea voyage would not. He had been right, but then he often was. Attaching himself to whoever paid the best as a soldier of fortune, and with men who held other human life as cheaply as he did, had added to the considerable sum he had ‘acquired’ in Cyprus, though he did it as much for entertainment as remuneration. They had been travelling from a siege, which had become boring, so they had left, when they came across a crowd about to enjoy a good hanging. For some perverse reason, that day de Roules considered watching a hanging boring too. The man, big, bemused, and with very small eyes that looked confused, just stood with the noose about his neck, waiting. He did not look like he would rant or struggle.

  De Roules asked his crime. He did not look a vengeful man, indeed he looked unnaturally placid. The answer was that a neighbour had thrown a stone at him, because he was ‘in the way, as usual’. This act, which the villagers considered perfectly acceptable, had resulted in him grabbing the neighbour by the throat, lifting him off the ground and shaking him so that his neck broke.

  Reynald de Roules had no interest in justice, and even less in the law, but he saw a large battering ram that could be manipulated until it had no further use. He made it clear to the villagers that there would be no deaths that day except their own, had cut down the condemned man and told Kenelm he was in charge of him, rather as if he was in charge of a hound.

  Kenelm spoke nothing but English and a few words, mostly obscene, picked up on his travels. His method of communication with his charge was largely visual. He had no idea of his name, and, since the man would not understand him anyway, christened him ‘Pigface’, to which he learnt to respond with a nod and grin. The man’s intellect was weak, but he did what he was told, without question, as long as it was made clear, and his strength had come in useful. He had come to follow Kenelm about, like a dumb beast, thought his ‘keeper’ savagely, when he proved very off-putting during Kenelm’s forays into wenching.

  It was not a large grange. The accommodation for the brothers was merely a lean-to at the end of the barn, and there was no chance of everyone fitting within it. Their humble dwelling would serve for de Roules himself to sleep in, in lordly isolation. The rest would find what rest they could within the barn itself.

  Mauger, who was in charge of the wood they had stolen the day before, requested permission to get a fire going out of the wind, not just a cook fire but one to warm them all for the evening. The grange was not close enough to the few homes that made up the hamlet that a fire on the far side of the river would be noticed if anyone should set foot outside their door tonight, not that it was likely. Once it was got going, Christina was set to make what she could of the rations remaining, which were dwindling. There were handfuls of barley, a few onions, and a wood pigeon that an enterprising man had knocked from a bough with a sling. She had never plucked a bird herself, and gripping the tough quills hurt her chapped hands. She had seen it done often enough to make a decent job of it, whilst dreading the task of drawing it, but Guy appeared, out of the gloaming, and took it from her unexpectedly, saying he would not trust her with a larger knife, and removed head, feet and entrails, before tossing it into the pot. Christina glanced at him, but it was too gloomy to make out his expression, and she could not decide whether it had been a charitable act or simply that he really did not trust her. There was stale bread, not enough for more than a chunk the size of Christina’s palm for each of them, which they soaked in the thin soupy stew, in which the flavour of pigeon was more apparent than its meat. Those that got a morsel to chew counted themselves fortunate.

  Brother Augustine, laid within the barn, near to the door, did not eat, though Christina tried to get a little nutrition into him, filling a beaker with just the warm liquid and pressing it to his lips. He took but little. His eyes, which seemed to focus most of the time upon the far distance, rested for a minute upon her worried face.

  ‘I never thought an angel would worry over me,’ he whispered, his voice dreamy.

  ‘No angel, Brother, just another lost soul,’ she replied, and there was a catch in her voice.

  ‘You will be found.’

  There was an assurance in his tone, a confidence that for a moment gave her a spark of hope, before it faltered and failed. After all, these were but the words of a fevered brain, a dying man.

  The soup trickled down his chin. She laid him back down, and wiped the residue away with her sleeve, which was all she had to hand. The monk sighed, and the remaining hand grew agitated, thumb and index finger rubbing together in some half-remembered gesture. He spoke in mumbles, half-words that made no sense, but she sat with him, hoping he knew of another’s presence, even in his delirium. Silently, in her own head, she told him of herself, of old things put away, of hopes that now seemed impossible. She talked of Hugh Bradecote, and even as her heart ached, and she felt she would never know what it was to be his, a calm washed over her. There was another voice in her head, and it told her he would not abandon her, would not rest until she was safe, that all would be well, that she would be found.

  With a start, she looked down into Brother Augustine’s weak blue eyes, though the dimness made them just darkness in the pale face, and thought he regarded her intently. Had he ‘heard’ her thoughts, by some divine communication? It was fanciful, but felt true.

  ‘May you be blessed.’ His words were faint.

  ‘Brother, I …’

  His good hand fumbled for hers.

  ‘Thank you. By their deeds shall you know them. God sees your kindness. He will bless you.’

  Words choked in her throat.

  ‘I am not afraid,’ he said, quite strongly, then drifted into muttering again.

  Dimly, she wondered why it was she and not one of his own brothers that was close to him now, when his life was ebbing. The smell from the stump was almost enough to make her gag, but if she could bear it, had half got used to it, could they not do so also?

  Father Samson sat some way away, an upright figure in the gloom, hands folded as if he sat in contemplation within the claustral walls of Bec, not some cold and draughty barn in Worcestershire. He seemed to regard the events of which he was now a part as divorced from him, happening to another. The remaining monks looked at his austere aloofness, and saw it as a sign that he was truly spiritual.

  Reynald de Roules entered the barn, speaking with Guy. At the sound of his voice, the Benedictine looked up. He pursed his lips, and frowned, not in anger, but as if perplexed.

  ‘Why do you not just let us go, my son?’ he asked, gently.

  De Roules spun round towards the sound.

  ‘I am no son of your siring, monk. I told you before, and you’ll be pleased to remember that.’

  ‘What have I − we − done to raise such anger within you, m—’ wisely, Father Samson halted.


  ‘What have I done, that you think you can treat me like a fool who will listen to your sanctimonious lies?’ de Roules threw back at him.

  ‘Lies?’

  ‘You sit there, with your oh-so-reasonable tone, so calm, so sure, so … holy,’ he spat the word as if it were an insult, ‘but it is nothing but an illusion to give you power over weak and fearful minds. You hide behind the trappings, the tonsure, the habit, and use them to make you seem strong, bigger than the men you really are.’

  ‘It is faith that makes us strong,’ Father Samson averred, his voice less measured than usual. ‘God gives us—’

  ‘Oh yes, if all else fails, hide behind God, then nobody can assail you. But you see, I have seen through it, the deception, the Great Lie. The god you prate about is strong by being honest and humble, so you pretend such things are “virtues”, you preach them to the masses whilst you are dishonest and vain beneath the cowl, using your god as a talisman, the throw of the dice against which even kings cannot win. And you denounce “the sins of the flesh” so loudly, so often, you pretend you are above thinking about such things, and “blame” women for “tempting”. I see it here, where you try and pretend the woman is invisible, try and avoid looking, or even thinking about her, huddle together as if you were sheep and she the slavering wolf. Some of you even believe it and emasculate yourselves by thought, cease to be men, actually fear the frailer sex, and I promise you, they break so easily.’ His voice became a hiss. ‘And then there are the other sort, who just pretend in public, and in private enjoy the very thing they declaim in others. Does that give it an extra spice, I wonder? Which are you, eunuch or secret lecher?’

  ‘I will pray for you.’