Walkelin was not expecting to see Drogo and his lad enter the hall, and when de Beauchamp himself did walk in, a minute later, he frowned at the presence of the cook. He wanted words alone with Walkelin. Before he could dismiss the man and the brat tucked in close beside him, Walkelin stepped forward, a piece of folded vellum and something, cloth-wrapped, in his hand.
‘My lord, there is another message from the kidnappers, and it comes with an ear.’ Walkelin glanced briefly at Huw in case this upset the child, but the little boy was too overawed by the sight of William de Beauchamp looking at him.
‘Call a clerk,’ yelled de Beauchamp, coming forward to take what Walkelin held.
‘My lord, before you find out the contents, you should know that the messenger used young Huw here as the go-between, and has Mistress Catchpoll as a hostage.’
‘Hostage? But—’
‘I imagine once he saw Huw enter the castle he would make off, my lord, but if we are swift …’
William de Beauchamp was a big man, but could move with surprising speed.
Kenelm groaned, and opened his eyes. It was like the hangover again, but worse. A very angry face appeared upside down above him, and an equally angry female voice threatened to remove his manhood with a hatchet if he moved an inch. He did not move.
Mistress Catchpoll did not like being threatened in her own home, and took a dim view of men who frightened small children, unless of course the children were their own and in need of a good frightening. A good frightening was an important weapon in the arsenal of parenthood, and had saved many a child from foolhardy and potentially fatal acts. This nasty piece of work had scared her, and if one thing was worse than Mistress Catchpoll annoyed, it was Mistress Catchpoll frightened and annoyed. When the intruder had leant out the door to get a better view of Huw’s arrival at the castle gate, and had for a moment forgotten ‘Oldmother’, she had taken up the pestle with which she had earlier been pounding fennel seeds, and hit him sharply above the ear. He had dropped like a stone.
The arrival on her doorstep of the lord Sheriff, Walkelin and two men-at-arms, she greeted in far from the manner they had expected, thinking they might find her injured and abandoned, or still held captive. Her outrage still at a high level, her first instruction, before seeing the illustrious nature of at least one of her visitors, was for them to stamp the snow off their boots before they set foot in her home. It said much for her air of authority that they all, including William de Beauchamp, did so.
His delight at the capture of a gang member totally outweighed any wrath at being addressed as a nobody by the wife of his serjeant, and once she realised fully what was happening, Mistress Catchpoll bobbed a very fair curtsey, and was as meek as a novice in a nunnery.
The men-at-arms dragged the prisoner, still incapable of walking unaided, back to the castle, the lord Sheriff and Walkelin following on behind. De Beauchamp wanted to hear what was in the demand before interrogating the man, and went straight to his chamber, while Walkelin made a swift detour via the kitchens to assure Drogo and Huw all was well, and arrived just in time to hear Huw asking whether you could make soup with ears.
Walkelin arrived in the shrieval chamber, still smiling, and barely out of breath, in time to hear the clerk who had been perusing the spidery writing of the cold and nervous Benedictine, clear his throat, and read out the demand. De Beauchamp ground his teeth. As far as he was concerned, he knew his enemy, and this was a calculated insult like the rest.
‘If he thinks I will give him anything but my sword blade in his gullet, he has another thing coming,’ growled the sheriff.
‘That, my lord, is what strikes me as odd, in a way. I mean, he knows you, he must know you are not a man to give in to threats. Is it just some strange game he plays? And yet, the forger would be of use to him, so perhaps …’ Walkelin paused. ‘We cannot reach Tibberton by noon, my lord, not with the snow this deep.’
‘I wasn’t going there anyway.’
‘It says a “final” demand for Geoffrey,’ offered Walkelin, cautiously.
‘Well, he isn’t getting him.’
‘Understood, my lord. So …’
‘So we find out what our man with the headache from Mistress Catchpoll can tell us. Let us visit the prisoner.’
It was a grim-looking sheriff and his man who appeared before Kenelm.
‘Right,’ de Beauchamp sounded suitably brisk, ‘tell us what we want and you’ll die the easy way, keep anything from us and you die hard.’
Walkelin blinked. This was direct, even for the sheriff. Kenelm, whose head still thumped, looked up with resignation on his face. Unlike Geoffrey, he did not think he was clever. Unlike Geoffrey, he did not think any would rescue him. Life had always been precarious, and now he teetered at the edge of the precipice, looking into the nothingness below.
‘What is it you want to know?’ He thought about adding ‘my lord’, but was too weary of spirit to bother over much.
‘You were sent with the message, but where were you to meet the other men afterwards?’ Walkelin knew it would not be the sheriff’s first question, but it was the most important.
‘At the tithe barn that belongs to the monks of Evesham, just north of Bradecote. Sunset tonight. But he might have said that just to cast me off. I was never sure with him.’
This was the obvious point for de Beauchamp to pounce with what was uppermost in his mind.
‘De Roules?’
‘You know?’
‘We surmised.’
Kenelm was not sure what surmised meant, but took it as an affirmative.
‘Are Father Samson and the lady FitzPayne safe?’ De Beauchamp had only minor interest in the others held.
‘The father and who? The widow woman? Is she a lady? Suppose she was, now you think. She had soft hands, and was a very careful cook.’
‘Cook? Are they safe? That is all I need to know.’ The sheriff wondered if the man’s brain was addled from the blow he had received.
‘They were safe when I left them. I can say no more, but if the lord Reynald means to let them go, then it is more than he has ever done since I have known him.’
‘And how long is that?’ asked Walkelin.
‘Years. Not sure how many.’
‘Will he be at the meeting point at noon?’ De Beauchamp was thinking.
‘Not him, himself. He’d send Guy to watch, perhaps.’
‘The bearded one?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how many are there, in the gang?’
‘A dozen, more or less. I don’t count everyone.’
The sheriff looked at Walkelin.
‘I have all I need. Let us get going.’
He strode away, and Walkelin followed. Walkelin wondered what the sheriff was planning. He remembered Serjeant Catchpoll’s injunction to keep the lord Sheriff from charging about like a wild boar. Having reached a point where he felt he was almost comfortable in the sheriff’s company, but not quite, he now realised how difficult his position might be.
‘My lord, what is it we are to do? We cannot reach Tibberton in time …’
‘Do? Tibberton? Why go there for one man? No, we get to the tithe barn a little before sunset, and we take back our hostages, by force. We creep around no more.’
‘What about my lord Bradecote?’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, if he is also heading for the same place …’
‘I think we can tell friend from foe.’ De Beauchamp was feeling buoyed by the thought of action, of getting his hands on Reynald de Roules’s throat.
Walkelin, by contrast, was a worried man.
Chapter Nineteen
Hugh Bradecote broke his fast in his own hall, caught between hunger and a feeling of nausea that stemmed from the adrenalin coursing through his system. He forced himself to eat upon the grounds that the kidnappers might not turn up until sunset itself. This morning he had to think clearly, put aside the urge to be ‘doing’, and plan. Not that Cat
chpoll could not do it, but he was aware that he had been ‘carried’ for much of the last few days, and he wanted to prove he was back in command and capable. He looked towards Catchpoll, and saw he was being regarded in turn. The serjeant gave a smile. Bradecote pushed back his seat, stood and, on impulse, went to the solar. Gilbert was being patted for wind, over his nurse’s shoulder. He gazed at his father and blew a milky bubble. Bradecote held out a finger for the baby hand to grasp. He smiled down at the wide eyes and snub nose, and whispered, ‘I will bring her home to you.’ He dropped a kiss on the fine, silky hair, and went out, thinking of battle.
Reynald kicked one of his men, whose snoring had woken him. It felt too late to go back to sleep, though there was only a faint grey light through the small windows. He contemplated the day, with pleasure. He did not intend to depart until just before Matins, when he could surprise the bucolic peasants by emerging from the church at speed. It was a showy gesture, no more, but it pleased him.
There would be no exchange of captives, he knew, and it did not bother him any more. This dance was done. If by some chance de Beauchamp, or more likely a minion, did come, he would find a bruised and outraged parish priest complaining about horse dung in his church and foul desecrations, and slack-jawed parishioners. Guy would no doubt report back all that occurred. He pondered. Guy was better out of it today. He feared that Guy was getting ‘soft’ in England, and what he was planning for the barn would not appeal to him. He smiled. When it was all over he would leave a corpse there, and perhaps another, yes, as a gift for his mother, in Bushlea. Father Samson would be most appropriate. Then he would head back to Anjou, where there were feuds enough to keep him busy. He did not want England any more. It had been a good scheme, but even the best were prone to the unexpected. He yawned, and kicked out again, simply out of malice. If he was awake, why should not others be also.
‘Wake up, you pathetic heap. We have an interesting day before us.’
Christina, who was already awake, did not like the sound of that, but fought the desire to look towards Guy for reassurance. There must be no sign of collusion, or even connection, between them.
William de Beauchamp was regretting the number of men-at-arms he had left under Bradecote. As Sheriff of Worcestershire he left the majority of law enforcement to his undersheriff and serjeant for the investigating, while he concentrated on the tax collecting and the politics, but when a gesture needed to be made, and there was a good fight in the offing, which would remind folk of his power, he liked to be at the forefront. Bradecote had not brought his own retainers when he had come to the castle, so all that he commanded were sheriff’s men, and de Furnaux was already bleating about not having enough for the castle guard rota. Well, today the castellan would have to put up with barely more than a man on the gate for a few hours, until this was over. Donning mail and helm, he strode out to what force Walkelin could gather together. It was not as impressive as he wanted, but would surely be enough.
Reynald de Roules wanted his moment. Waiting in the church had been boring, but not as cold as being outside. He freed the priest’s hands so that he might ring the bell for Matins, and had everyone mounted, bar one man peering out from the door. When he confirmed the villagers approaching, de Roules grinned. He looked to the priest, who was still gagged uncomfortably.
‘Thank you for your Christian hospitality, Father. The horses are especially grateful − you might say relieved.’ The smile grew even broader, as he took in the state of the floor. ‘I know you must regret our leaving, but it really is time we made our departure. Open the doors, nice and wide.’
The priest obeyed, and had to step back smartly, as de Roules kicked his mount to bound outside, followed by the clatter of hoof on stone that reverberated through the little church. The villagers fell back in stunned alarm as the horsemen, led by a laughing man wielding a sword, bundled out of their church and set their mounts, snorting and jibbing, into the ridged fields that lay awaiting spring wakening.
Once into the cover of trees, Reynald slewed his horse round, and brought it to a halt. He was still laughing. His captives, who had feared his anger and his morose silences, now realised that there was something worse. His eyes were very bright and wild, as if drunk, but he could be nothing but sober. He spoke to Guy.
‘Skirt round the fields, watch and listen. There is as much chance of the forger being brought as there is of me finding religion, but wait until after noon and then come to the barn. We will be there. Off you go, and give your charge to Bertrand.’
He nodded at one of the men, who came forward to take the rope that bound Christina’s hands, and which Guy had casually taken as the party mounted up. Guy tossed the end to him without glancing at Christina, but she had felt the slight tug he had given it first. He was telling her she was on her own, but he had not forgotten his promise.
‘Don’t let her tie you in knots, Bertrand,’ he said, jeeringly. ‘You know what women are.’ Then he turned to Reynald. ‘The barn, this afternoon.’
With which he turned away and began weaving his path through the edge of the woodland. Christina felt less brave for a moment. Her message to Hugh had indicated sunset. Would it be all over for her before then?
It was odd, thought Guy, that obedience was so much a thing of habit. When Reynald gave him his instructions, he set off to obey them without thinking, but even before he drew near the village again, he knew he was going to ignore them, once there was time for a gap between himself and the main party to be set and safe. Reynald was in a mad mood. He had seen it but once before, and that had been before a fight. He had admired the bravado, the laughing at fear, as he thought, but been ashamed and disgusted with what followed their victory. Today he had not even the excuse of a battle. The barn, he had little doubt, would become a place of torture and death, and though he could not save all, he would secure the life of the lady. Then he surprised himself. Without thinking, he drew his sword, held it hilt uppermost like a cross, kissed the crosspiece, and prayed.
The tithe barn stood in a clearing. It was really part of a grange, but the Abbot of Evesham had decided that there was no good reason to keep brothers there in the worst of the weather with little to do, and when their bodies as well as their souls would be the better for being among their brethren within the abbey walls. Hugh Bradecote would sometimes ride out with a hare or a brace of pigeon to augment the diet of those there in the warmer months, for it was both a charitable thing and kept him in quiet good favour with Evesham, which held several manors in the vicinity. He judged that the kidnappers would approach from the north, so placing men on the south side was not difficult, except for the problem of cover, which was much reduced by the bareness of tree and shrub. If he kept the horses well back and out of sight, it could be done, but the men would chill if crouching or standing for long, and would have the disadvantage of advancing on foot. The archers would be in good position, though. He set them first and then went to the rear of the barn where the trees grew closest.
‘I do not think they would see tracks here. I am wondering, Catchpoll, if we could lever planks off the rear here, at least for men to climb in. It would be even better if the hole were big enough for horses, then we would not leave any tracks in the snow in view, and could ambush them from the least expected direction. I would keep a few men outside, on the western side of the clearing. They will come from the north, to be sure, and once we have them on three sides and they are near to the barn, we spring.’
Catchpoll sucked his teeth.
‘Good enough as a plan, my lord, but breaking into the barn might not be so easy. Depends how full it is for a start. Might be no room to get a horse in even if the hole were big enough, and without axes …’
‘I had thought of this. You did not see I had my steward provide a couple to two of the men.’
‘Very forward-thinking of you, my lord,’ declared Catchpoll, solemnly, but with twitching lips. ‘And how will you explain the hole to the abbot?’
‘Mice?’
Catchpoll choked.
‘I will send to have it repaired afterwards, never fear, and if we save Father Samson, I doubt the abbot will begrudge us some planks.’
‘Then we had best get a move on, since breaking in will not be a quiet job.’
Catchpoll supervised the men with axes, while Bradecote, skirting carefully round the clear white space, set men as best he could to the west, with a line of mounted men further back ready to charge in as the trap was sprung. He returned to Catchpoll a short while later.
‘Well?’
‘There were enough planks cut away or prised off for a man to get in without trouble.’
‘Quite full within, my lord. Can’t see horses being practical,’ volunteered the man who had been within.
‘Pity. It means taking on mounted men at a disadvantage.’
‘Not if you strike the horse first and avoid the first downstroke.’ Catchpoll held up his hand. ‘Oh, I don’t like to waste a good animal, but if it is me or the horse, there is no contest. We also outnumber them, and if there is confusion, plenty of yelling, there will be horses jibbing anyway.’
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