Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘True enough. I want you, me, and a dozen men in the barn.’

  ‘That’ll be cosy.’ Catchpoll grinned.

  ‘Yes, well. Two are to stay back and if they can secure any of the hostages, they drag them in and protect them here. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. The Benedictines would only be in the way, anyway.’

  He did not mention the lady FitzPayne, since it was obvious that she was the undersheriff’s own ‘mark’.

  ‘One thing, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, Serjeant?’

  ‘How do we burst out the front doors of the barn when they are barred?’

  There was silence. Bradecote rubbed his jaw, trying to conceal his anger at himself for not taking this into consideration. A man-at-arms clambered back through the hole. Bradecote gave in, and swore.

  ‘I wanted it pristine to the front, but there. We send a man. You,’ he pointed at the man-at-arms, ‘you look nimble and have not got big feet. You edge round the building as if nailed to it, footprints right up against the wood. You unbar the door without dropping it slap bang in front, and come back with it. They will not be expecting the doors unbarred so will not “see” them unbarred, not until so close it matters not.’

  Catchpoll and the man-at-arms exchanged glances, but the man did as he was told, much to the amusement of his fellows watching him from a distance. He did well reaching the doors, but the bar proved heavy and cumbersome, and Bradecote bit his lip, certain it would mar all. However, after some expletives and pushing back and forth, the man-at-arms succeeded, and made his way to the rear with his ‘prize’. Bradecote clapped him on the shoulder and promised him largesse as a reward.

  Dispositions made, they waited, the men outside blowing on cold fingers and trying to stamp freezing feet without making a noise. Bradecote was peering through a knot hole and was just beginning to worry when he saw movement. He had not heard the chink of a horse’s bit, nor the mule’s cough, but the shapes of men on horses emerged from between the trees on the north side. The leading group were within thirty feet of the barn when one of the concealed archers gave way to an almighty sneeze. Reynald pulled his mount up sharply, looking to the sound and already reaching for his sword. There was not time for delay. With a single glance at Catchpoll, Bradecote shoulder-charged the door open, yelling, and hoping his archers had a clear target on any man threatening Christina. Even as he ran towards Reynald he was conscious of the fact that he could not see her in what would become, within seconds, a dangerous melee. The kidnappers were outnumbered, and would not escape, but the safety of the hostages was very much in doubt.

  Reynald, after a moment of angry surprise, reverted to what he was best, a fighter, and spurred his mount forward even as he brought his sword down with a feral yell. Anticipating the action, Bradecote dropped and rolled sideways in front of the frightened animal, risking flailing hooves to avoid slicing steel. Catchpoll was aiming for Reynald’s offside, but a man got in the way, and took the serjeant’s slice across the thigh that bit deep to the bone. The horseman screamed and fell, but before the horse was clear, Catchpoll was avoiding a blow from another man. He was aware of two men-at-arms dragging a monk from a mule to his left, and a downed man-at-arms frantically trying to fend off blows, but then was fighting for survival.

  Growling, Reynald yanked his horse’s head about, as Bradecote rose from the roll, knees bent for the next move, and with a handful of snow that he threw hard into the horse’s face. It reared, even as the pressure on the bit turned its head, all unbalanced, and Bradecote lunged up on the blind side in a stroke that would have taken a slower man. But Reynald de Roules had been fighting for years, and his reactions were lightning fast. Blade met blade, as he managed to parry to his left, and, slipping boot from stirrup, kicked out viciously, catching Bradecote in the chest and knocking him backwards, to sprawl in the snow. As he tumbled, Bradecote heard a woman’s scream.

  Christina, caught totally unawares by the ambush, though she had been instrumental in its laying, had found herself trapped within a fight, her hands bound and the rope still tied to Bertrand’s pommel. All about her, men were engaged in bloody combat, and yet she could do nothing but hope a stray blow did not strike her. The archers, whose instructions had been to take down any man who threatened her, had their line of sight obscured by friend and foe alike, but Thomas Wood, biding his time, managed to identify the man who held her, and loosed a single arrow that struck true. Bertrand slumped and fell, and his petrified mount darted to the side, dragging Christina from her own horse into the snow, and bounding off in the direction it saw as safety, pulling her behind it. She screamed as she fell, and was winded by the heavy landing.

  Guy heard the sounds of battle enjoined, and did not think to disappear whilst unknown and unseen. He had promised the lady FitzPayne, and it did not occur to him to fail her. He spurred his horse forward to the action, and arrived at the edge of the clearing as Bertrand’s horse bolted, almost directly past him. He reached for the bridle but missed, and pulled his horse about on its hocks so hard it almost fell, and lost valuable seconds in the chase.

  Bradecote’s grip on his sword broke as he hit the ground. Reynald de Roules considered trampling the man to death, but he preferred to feel the tremor as steel bit sinew and cracked bone, and vaulted from the saddle to end it his own way, lips drawn back in a sneer. His ‘victim’ was scrambling to get up, scrabbling for his weapon. He shrugged, and lunged. He expected the man to pull back, though it would avail him nothing, but in fact Bradecote did the opposite and threw himself forward, twisting as he did so, avoiding the steel by a hair’s breadth, and just grabbing de Roules’s ankle, toppling him also. It was not pretty, it was not two lords in combat, it was two men fighting for the right to draw breath. They grappled and tumbled, swords gone, kicking, butting, oblivious to the others fighting about them. De Roules fumbled to draw his dagger, dropped his guard for a fraction of a second, and Bradecote’s blow broke his nose. Blood spattered into the snow, and Bradecote pressed home his advantage, grabbing Reynald’s arm and twisting it so that the half grip on the dagger broke, and driving it up his back until there was an odd cracking sound and Reynald yelled as the shoulder dislocated.

  ‘My lord.’ Catchpoll pulled him off. The serjeant had a bloody nose and was breathing heavily. ‘Let me. The lady.’

  Suddenly all thoughts of de Roules were forgotten.

  ‘What?’ he whispered, catching his breath.

  ‘Dragged off. Horse.’ Catchpoll was leaning, hands braced on knees, words at a premium.

  Bradecote stumbled to his feet, grabbed the first loose horse and followed Catchpoll’s pointing finger. Swinging himself into the saddle he kicked hard, and set off in blind pursuit.

  Guy’s horse was a bigger, better, and fitter animal than Bertrand’s, and floundered less. He caught up with it within a minute, grabbing bridle above bit and hauling it to a wild-eyed halt, then leaping from the saddle to kneel beside the prone form of Christina FitzPayne. The snow had been to her advantage, keeping her from the very worst bumps of the hard ground, but she was dazed and breathless, too breathless even to sob.

  ‘My lady?’

  Guy’s voice penetrated her confusion.

  ‘My lady, can you stand?’ He was untying her burning wrists, cut where the rope had bitten them, and had an arm about her, assisting her to rise.

  Then Christina heard another voice, cold, deadly, and yet immeasurably beloved.

  ‘Let her go.’

  ‘Hugh,’ she murmured, blinking, trying to focus.

  Bradecote looked at the man with his arm about Christina FitzPayne, a man with a close-cropped beard. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, only to find, of course, that he had none.

  ‘That,’ murmured Guy, with a wry smile, ‘might make your fulfilling your intent rather more difficult.’

  ‘Though you have a sword and I do not, I will kill you, none the less, if you do not let her go.’

  ‘Hugh, no. He—’<
br />
  ‘My lord Bradecote, I presume. Then, my lord, I think you should take better care of your lady.’

  Guy raised Christina’s damaged wrist to just brush it with his lips, and pushed her gently towards Bradecote. Then his eyes narrowed, and his hand went to his own sword. Mounted men-at-arms were arriving in numbers, and they did not look like men keen to shake him by the hand.

  ‘Hugh,’ Christina whispered, ‘he saved me, came back to save me. Let him go, please.’

  ‘This man is a criminal. The law …’

  ‘Forget the law, my love. Be just. Now, quickly.’ Her voice trembled, and she sagged against him.

  Hugh Bradecote looked into the eyes of Guy, brown eyes that were those of a man who despised himself, but in whom a flame of hope had been rekindled, the eyes of one who had once been of even nobler birth than his own, and he nodded.

  ‘Go now, with my thanks, but never enter this shire again.’

  Guy drew his sword very slowly, raised it in salute, though whether it was to the lady or her lord was unclear, vaulted nimbly into the saddle, tapped the side of the blade to his horse’s flank, and lolloped away, as fast as was possible in the snow.

  The men-at-arms were forgotten. Guy was forgotten. She was in his hold, safe, alive, and he had so much bubbling up within him, he did not know where to start. Perhaps it was not surprising that, as a parent with a lost child that is found, the first bubble to burst was anger. He held her off from him slightly, looking down at her white face. His voice shook, and he was suddenly shouting.

  ‘I told you not to go; I said it was too dangerous. When will you understand that I—’

  ‘Hugh,’ her voice was a whisper, and her face so tragic that he stopped, and there was a moment of silence.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered back. ‘I’m taking you home.’

  And then he kissed her, desperately, hungrily.

  ‘Right you lot, stop gawping, and do something useful, like getting back to helping our wounded.’

  Catchpoll’s voice broke the spell that seemed to have settled on the men-at-arms, and they turned back. Catchpoll waited, and after a suitable length of time, coughed.

  ‘Prisoners secured, my lord. No fatalities among the hostages, three dead, four wounded among the kidnappers and we have two sword cuts, one man nursing a broken head, and one missing a finger.’ His voice was deadpan. ‘You might care to return and … er, take control of the situation, my lord, officially. Looks good.’

  Bradecote broke away and turned, trying not to grin foolishly.

  ‘And what happened to the man on the brown horse, by the way?’ Catchpoll sounded only vaguely interested.

  ‘He … left.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord, no doubt a pressing reason for his departure. Don’t tell me, lest the lord Sheriff asks me why.’

  He picked up the reins to the loose horse, correctly assuming Bradecote would place his lady up before him. They ambled back to the barn, where things were looking more orderly. The kidnappers were penned against the barn wall by a semicircle of men-at-arms, Reynald slumped and sat upon the snowy ground. He was not a good colour, very pale mixed with smears of blood, which still issued from his nose and spotted the snow and his clothes. He looked up at Bradecote, and something in the way Bradecote held the lady made him screw his pain-filled eyes up even more.

  ‘The widow.’

  She looked down at him, without pity.

  ‘Indeed, my lord Reynald, but not for long. I am the widow of Corbin FitzPayne and about to become the wife of the lord Bradecote.’

  ‘That’s me,’ added Bradecote, dismounting and helping her down. His hands stayed at her waist for a moment, steadying her, then he turned to de Roules. ‘Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of Worcester, and you are my prisoner.’

  ‘Er … not for long, my lord,’ muttered Catchpoll. ‘Here comes the lord Sheriff.’

  Bradecote turned. At another time he might have resented his moment of success being so short, but he had the only prize he coveted, and so greeted the sheriff with a smile. He made his report in similar clipped vein to the one Catchpoll had made to him, but was almost ignored. De Beauchamp was staring at de Roules.

  ‘Pity. I wanted to kill you myself. But there, a hanging is more fitting, and you’ll get a good crowd. I wonder if your mother will attend?’

  The jibe stung, and de Roules, despite his pain, growled and spat on the sheriff’s snowy boot. The sheriff kicked him, and he passed out. De Beauchamp looked surprised.

  ‘He has a dislocated shoulder, my lord,’ Catchpoll volunteered by way of explanation.

  ‘Ah. Oh well. Now, I had best see the archbishop’s envoy. Where is he?’

  ‘In the barn, my lord … leading prayers.’ Catchpoll’s voice was monotone. De Beauchamp stared at him. ‘Exactly, my lord.’

  Bradecote had his arm once again about Christina.

  ‘My lord, I was hoping … You said Candlemas for our wedding, but …’

  ‘She gets into too much trouble without a strong commanding hand, eh?’ De Beauchamp smiled. ‘Best wed her and bed her before she gets into another scrape. I will take Father Samson back to Worcester with my prisoners, but will ride out to Bradecote tomorrow to see your priest give the church’s blessing. She is yours. Keep her on a tight rein, I’d say.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Hugh and Christina rode in silence most of the way to Bradecote, though she mustered the energy to tell him about Guy. Hearing what he had done, and not done, the undersheriff did not regret his actions.

  ‘Will the lord Sheriff be angry, my lord?’ she asked, thinking she might have put him in a difficult position.

  ‘No. He won’t even know.’

  ‘But the men-at-arms, Serjeant Catchpoll?’

  ‘You heard Catchpoll, and the men would not volunteer to speak to the lord Sheriff. He is someone who just shouts at them occasionally. If it was good enough for me, and, to be honest, for Serjeant Catchpoll, they will not question it.’

  ‘I am glad.’

  There was silence again until the welcoming walls of the manor came into view.

  ‘Oh, the thought of bed,’ Christina sighed.

  Hugh Bradecote blinked, and then coloured, for the thought that hit him had nothing to do with sleeping. She was not looking at him, so did not see the blush.

  ‘But first, I must wash.’

  ‘I will have a pitcher of water …’ He was still thinking of the bed.

  ‘No, all over, bathe.’

  ‘What? In January? You’ll catch your death.’ This shattered his imaginings. He was appalled.

  ‘I have spent a week,’ her voice trembled, ‘sleeping on earth, in hay, in straw, with vermin about me, human and rodent, tending a poor man dying of the poison from a rotting stump, and the stench of it lingers on me still. I have eaten raw turnip, and sometimes nothing at all. I have—’

  ‘Cooked, so I heard.’

  ‘That too. Seriously, I want to wash it all away. Please, Hugh.’

  ‘I will get the women to find the washday tub, and heat water in the kitchen and over the hearth. You can stand in that and bathe if you must, and they will bring warmed water, but I beg you not to linger over it.’

  He was clearly concerned. They rode into the manor courtyard, and he lifted her down once more, and led her through the hall and into the solar. She wanted to pick up Gilbert but would not until clean. Bradecote fussed about, arranging for another brazier to be brought in, for the washing tub and a piece of cloth to line it to be carried from where it was stood after its last use in the autumn.

  She removed her cloak and he saw the torn gown. His eyes narrowed, and his voice hardened.

  ‘Did that tear today?’

  ‘No.’ She looked at the floor, and then up at him. ‘Reynald would have … But I told him my husband had given me disease, that gave him pause, and then poor Brother Augustine sort of cursed him, and the moment passed. But I swear to you, Hugh, if I could not have killed him, and he
had … I would have killed myself afterwards, with my own knife.’

  Her face was very serious. He wanted to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away, even as he reached for her.

  ‘No. I want to be clean, for myself and for you, and burn these clothes.’

  ‘Ah. But your others are in Worcester and …’

  She giggled.

  ‘I hope perhaps Serjeant Catchpoll thinks of them, then, for I would not care to go to the altar in no more than an undershirt of yours and a cloak.’

  The thought of her in his undershirt made him swallow rather hard. The nurse, who had handed baby Gilbert to the wet nurse to be fed and kept from the dangers of damp air, shooed him out as she brought in the first container of water, and he went without complaint, and stood by the hearth in the hall with a beaker of mulled ale. Women came and went, and just for one moment he remembered the last time he had been kept from his solar by women. A shadow passed briefly, and benignly, over his happiness. He said a prayer for Ela’s soul, emptied his beaker, and brought his thoughts back to the happier contemplation of the present. How much water did it take to clean oneself, he wondered, and then he grinned. The lord Sheriff had given her to him, the Church would bless their union on the morrow. He halted the next wench bearing two pitchers, and trying not to spill them, for both were full, he took them from her, with an instruction that no more were needed.

  Christina stood with her back to the door, arms raised, twisting her hair to get the water out, groaning at the use of her pulled shoulder muscles, and the soft curves of her outline stirred him. She had heard the door open. Droplets of water stood out upon her soft, pale flesh, and he watched, fascinated, as a little rivulet formed and caressed its way down between her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. He had spent the last days fearing he would never hold her, living, ever again, that what was about to happen would be left a dream unfulfilled in bitter grief. His throat tightened. He wanted her very much, but there was also a sorrow, for her back told an old tale. The marks were fine lines, but she had been whipped, flogged, in her past, and Hugh knew by whose hand and why. Her first husband did that, and to a girl scarcely into womanhood, for the ‘fault’ of losing his child early. Hugh could not undo that past, wanted only to give a bright future, but he wondered if she might flinch at his touch.