Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘It can seem so black, the future, but do not think it will turn out to be so. Quite unexpectedly, all can change.’

  Christina thought of how true that was, how her own life had altered so very swiftly, and for a few moments she forgot Hawise, forgot her mission. Only three months past she had been the peacefully contented wife of a man who inspired respect but no passion, but had been glorying in a new chance to be a mother, and with the hope of a child she could love and, at last, see flourish. Husband and hope had been swept away in one blow, as sharp as any axe, casting her back into the abyss in which she had once before languished, and yet, in that despair and misery, Hugh Bradecote had appeared, and taken her life and expectations into the light. She loved, and was loved; she would have a child to care for, even if it was not of her own womb, and—It struck her, the revelation, and she gasped as if winded. The thought in her head was as clear as a command at her shoulder, and if she did not obey it, she knew her dearest hope would crumble to dust. Her lord, as he would so soon be, would not like it, but there was no avoiding what must be done. She blinked and stiffened, and the girl felt her do so, and looked at her, dragged from her grief by curiosity.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I,’ Christina smiled, and her voice did not sound her own in her ears, ‘I am just a pilgrim.’

  Christina’s information to Catchpoll and Hugh Bradecote stopped short of revealing this intention, but was otherwise a true account.

  ‘She did not say that she knew what it was that her lover intended to do to make provision for their departure. She might not know, of course.’

  Catchpoll tugged at his ear, and pulled a face.

  ‘It would depend greatly upon how he thought she would react to his stealing from her father, though if the dies were simply copied, he might have persuaded her there was no theft, just a crafty borrowing. He need not have told her the end result of that “borrowing”.’

  ‘How foolish would she have to be not to …’ Bradecote shook his head, but paused at the look on Christina’s face, and his voice petered out.

  ‘A woman in love is blind to many things, my lord, and may choose to be blind to more.’

  There was an edge to her voice, defensive as she was for her sex. She did not want him to think women weak-minded, as all men thought them weak of body. Catchpoll coughed, uncomfortable at the thought of some lordly lovers’ spat. It drew Bradecote’s attention back to the matter in hand, and he was grateful to avoid what he too feared might be a feminine huff, which he could neither combat nor comprehend.

  ‘Many’s the time I’ve come across the family of criminals who cannot see how their son or husband, aye, or daughter even, could be guilty of as much as a minor misdemeanour. They close their eyes to what they would see as obvious in others. So what the lady says may well be true. If he did not tell, well, she would not ask.’ Catchpoll sighed. ‘Pity, if that is the case, since if he told her everything, we could have our forger under lock and key before the Matins bell tomorrow.’

  Chapter Two

  The serjeant’s gloomy prediction proved remarkably accurate. When the sheriff’s men spoke to her the next morning, Hawise was initially afraid and then affronted at their suggestion that Edmund had been engaged in a serious crime.

  ‘It is a wicked thing for you to cast blame on a man when he cannot defend himself. He was a good man, my Edmund, I’d swear an oath on it.’

  Bradecote tried to smooth her ruffled feathers, suggesting that perhaps he had been deceived by another, a person who had then killed him to prevent him revealing all when he found out the truth. This settled far better with the distressed damsel.

  ‘Did he have to have dealings with other of the moneyers in Worcester, or their indentured men?’ Catchpoll tried to sound casually interested. ‘As part of the trade?’

  ‘Well,’ Hawise creased her delicately arched brows in concentration, ‘I suppose he must have had some with all of them at one time or another.’

  ‘What about recently, Hawise?’ Bradecote did not want to frighten the girl, and spoke gently. ‘Do you recall him going out on your father’s business, or indeed upon his own, when work was finished?’

  ‘We met when we could,’ she murmured, ‘when Father was out. Edmund did not go off to the alehouse, if that is what you mean. He stayed here, except of course when he went to visit his aunt. He was a good nephew, and she has been ailing of late.’

  Catchpoll glanced at his superior. When he had seen her, the dame had looked in robust health.

  ‘So he was good to his kin. Tell me,’ Catchpoll sounded nonchalant, ‘if he had gone to an alehouse, which one do you think he would have gone to?’

  ‘Not where Father sups, for sure,’ she sighed. ‘The sign of The Moon down by the quays, I suppose, which he knew from youth, as his father used it. But, as I said, he did not go drinking. He was a good man.’

  ‘A good man who was almost certainly putting his master’s neck in a noose by stealing his dies to make forged pennies,’ muttered Catchpoll, as they left, collecting Walkelin, who had been detailed off to keep Osbern engaged in conversation, ‘and her father must have the eyesight of a mole not to notice those red-rimmed eyes of hers.’

  ‘Perhaps she claims it is the peeling of onions,’ suggested Walkelin, with a grin, which was met with a quelling glance from his serjeant.

  ‘So,’ Bradecote was determined to sound positive, and ignored Walkelin’s jest, ‘we are off to the Foregate to see the aunt and visit a nearby alehouse, just in case.’

  ‘We are, my lord. The aunt looked a sturdy, fit woman to me. I would guess the “visits” were not to her, but we had best check, before wasting our time in alehouses.’

  ‘I did not think to hear you say time in an alehouse could be wasted time.’ Bradecote grinned.

  ‘Now there, my lord, you are wrong. I happen to think a lot of time is wasted in such places, idling, and “home brewed, home drunk” is better.’ Catchpoll made a fair assumption of righteous innocence.

  The aunt was indeed far from enfeebled, and declared, with some pride, that she had not been laid sick in her bed for a single day in the last five years. Their next stopping point was thus the alehouse, where the host was cagey. He had come within Catchpoll’s orbit sporadically over the years, and was not keen to be helpful. However, the lordly undersheriff was not the sort of personage who entered his premises, and Bradecote played off his rank shamelessly, standing tall and looking both arrogant and powerful.

  ‘I take it you will not waste my time with lies.’ He conveyed a sneering boredom that the man had never before encountered. ‘Had you seen Edmund, the journeyman of Osbern the Moneyer, with anyone in particular these last weeks?’

  ‘Edmund …’ The man spoke the name as if he had never heard it before, looked at the wall, and then the floor, glancing only briefly at the undersheriff, but jumped as Bradecote brought his hand down with a sharp crash upon the table. The tankards set upon it rattled as if nervous.

  ‘Don’t … keep … me … waiting.’ The words held menace, and the alehouse keeper trembled.

  ‘My lord, I … he … Well, there were one or two fellows he spoke with more than others. I did not recognise the first. He was a stranger in the parish, though he turned up on four or five occasions. The other was one of his own craft.’

  ‘I want the name. The moneyers of Worcester are known to all who trade.’

  ‘My lord, it was Geoffrey, the son of Herluin, him as works in Meal Cheaping.’

  The undersheriff, noted Catchpoll approvingly, did not express his gratitude for this information, but rather ‘suggested’ that the alehouse keeper keep his memory sharp for the next time he should be visited by the law, and stalked out. Catchpoll almost rubbed his hands in glee.

  ‘Now, that, my lord, was very well done. Just the right degree of power, threat and downright malice. Did me good to see it. You mark that, young Walkelin.’

  ‘Before you praise me so much my head swells, Catchpo
ll, I want Walkelin to the Bridge Gate, and you stay here to watch the Foregate. I am heading back to the castle and will set men on the other gates and reliefs to you both. We meet in Meal Cheaping, as soon as we can, but not directly in view of our suspect. Whereabouts is the man’s workshop?’

  Catchpoll gave him directions and he set off, his stride long and purposeful, but not running, lest it draw remark that might yet set the quarry to flight. The thought that the moneyer would have been wise to flee Worcester as soon as he had disposed of Edmund was supplanted by that which said the lord Sheriff had not begun a murder hunt upon the discovery of the sodden corpse. It had been treated as accidental drowning, and so keeping calm was the best course. Wavering between hope and anticipation of failure, Hugh Bradecote entered the castle and immediately set about ordering men who were native to Worcester off to the gates, with instructions to question those leaving and to watch for Geoffrey, son of Herluin. His was a well enough known name and face to be noticed. He then returned through the bustling streets to Meal Cheaping to await Catchpoll and Walkelin. He would have been disappointed, had he known, that a lad had been sent from the rear of the alehouse under the sign of The Moon as soon as he and Catchpoll were out of sight, with instructions to inform Geoffrey the net was closing about him, to remind him that he had most certainly not passed poor coin into circulation through the alehouse, and to receive a generous reward for the information.

  It was not long before Walkelin arrived, and thereafter Catchpoll, who looked a little breathless.

  ‘Let’s hope our man is still within. Walkelin, go round the back and make sure there is no escape route that way. Count to thirty as you go, as will we, and then go in fast. Off you go. One, two, three …’

  When they entered the premises there was no sign of Geoffrey. Walkelin suggested hopefully that he might have simply gone out to purchase food, but Catchpoll shook his head, gloomily.

  ‘Look about you, lad. What do you see?’

  ‘Well, normal things, Serjeant. There’s a loaf and a beaker and the furnace is ali—Oh!’

  ‘Yes, the furnace is aglow, but there are no signs of tools, and why leave it fired up if he was planning to be out in the streets this morning? Especially unattended.’

  ‘Should he not have a man working under him?’ queried Bradecote, frowning.

  ‘He did, my lord, but he died just before the end of Advent, and no doubt it was natural. He slipped on ice and broke his thigh. There’s a few that live after that, but most do not. I knew of it, but he was not pushed, and it was no business for the lord Sheriff. I doubt Geoffrey would have replaced him yet.’ Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed. ‘If he has gone to ground today, I would swear an oath it was these last minutes, which means he was warned. I’ll have that conniving slug from the sign of The Moon by his—’

  ‘By nothing until we have conducted a search of Worcester, Catchpoll.’

  ‘Search Worcester, my lord? All of it? We could be chasing the bastard in circles for days. There are not enough men in the castle to go through every house, outhouse and stable, and not let him slip past and turn up behind them.’

  Bradecote muttered imprecations under his breath. What Catchpoll said was true.

  ‘It is possible he got out through the gates we had not covered straightaway, but if we ask at them, we ought to be able to find out if he was seen at one. Otherwise he is still in Worcester. If we cannot flush him out with numbers, well, he cannot make his escape either, and if we put out patrols in force, he must turn up somewhere over the next few days. We go to any known kin, or friends, and check them thoroughly. If he is hiding, as opposed to being hidden, he must emerge at some point for food, if nothing else. We patrol day and night, and he has to fall into our hands eventually.’

  Catchpoll detected the note in Bradecote’s voice, the one that was trying to persuade himself this would work. He sighed.

  ‘I suppose even if we do not have him yet, he cannot put out any more false coin, so that will limit the damage with the burgesses, at the least. But the lord Sheriff will not be best pleased. And I will have the alehouse keeper in my charge at the castle, because if he warned him, my lord, then he knows far more than he told, and playing coy with the law is what I won’t have.’

  ‘Fair enough, Catchpoll. Do you want to drag him in yourself, or get Walkelin to do it?’

  ‘Do it myself, from choice, my lord. And if the good citizens of Worcester see me kicking him all the way, well it does no harm to remind ’em that I am still … er’ − Catchpoll’s thin lips spread in an unpleasant grin − ‘alive and kicking.’

  Whilst the sheriff’s men had been checking who was leaving Worcester and Serjeant Catchpoll was making life most unpleasant for the alehouse keeper, a party entered, making its way towards the Cathedral Priory, where, having been greeted with suitable deference and respect, and having had private conversation with Prior David, its leader went to pay a call upon William de Beauchamp.

  Samson of Bec held no abbacy, but he was influential, being a friend of the Archbishop of Canterbury from his days in Normandy, and was employed as his envoy trying to mediate with Bernard, the Bishop of St David’s, with whom Archbishop Theobald was engaged in a long dispute. He therefore travelled with the entourage befitting an important churchman. De Beauchamp had little interest in the religious world, but Theobald had power and influence and was now aligned in the Empress’s camp. It would be a foolish man who did not extend his envoy less than every courtesy. Nonetheless, it was the sort of superficial meeting that left William de Beauchamp grinding his teeth in frustration at such time-wasting. Father Samson was not one to be rushed, and though not personally vain, was very full of the importance of his mission and of his superior. His voice was low, and he spoke slowly, in the sing-song manner of one who had spent a lifetime reciting the Offices in church, and, in the ears of de Beauchamp, he sounded patronising. The lord Sheriff did not appreciate being treated like a child, by anyone. He was thus in a far from pleasant humour when Bradecote and Catchpoll returned. Expecting the worst, Catchpoll sent Walkelin off to the kitchens to scout out some bread and cheese, thus keeping him from hearing his seniors given a rare trimming.

  Father Samson was still expatiating upon the intricacies of his mission when they were ushered into the chamber. For a moment, William de Beauchamp’s face registered relief, and he held up a hand to stem the cleric’s flow. Father Samson was caught mid-sentence and registered his displeasure with a frown. The lord Sheriff’s apology fooled nobody, but he did invite the archbishop’s envoy to return to bless and partake of a fine dinner. Father Samson could do nothing but thank his host and withdraw with a good grace. De Beauchamp’s brief expression of pleasure was quickly followed by a scowl, as his undersheriff and serjeant revealed that they had probably worked out who had killed Edmund and copied Osbern the Moneyer’s dies, but that the suspect had slipped through their fingers. He made growling noises like a mastiff with toothache, as Catchpoll described it later to his friend Drogo, the castle cook.

  ‘And I will say this for our undersheriff: he does not shrink from getting an earache off the lord Sheriff as his predecessor did. My lord de Crespignac was not as bold in the face of the de Beauchamp ire.’ Catchpoll grinned, accepted the proffered beaker of beer, and took a good swig, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘And,’ he added for good measure, ‘he can curse in the English something beautiful. Your average lord, well he can make himself understood and can master a few choice comments, but it trips off my lord Bradecote’s lips like he took it as mother’s milk. No trace of Foreign in his speech, and no need to explain slow, what someone says.’

  ‘Want to adopt him, do you?’ Drogo chuckled, and ducked as the empty beaker was lobbed at his head.

  Christina FitzPayne had kept her own counsel since the previous day’s interview with Hawise. She needed time to try and work out how her aim could be achieved, and spent the morning coming upon dead ends. In each case she knew that she would face Hugh
Bradecote’s prohibition, and prohibition that was well founded and sensible, as she had the honesty to admit to herself. Defy him she might, but not foolishly. She had not initially paid much attention to William de Beauchamp’s visitor, until she heard a lay brother talking to a man-at-arms in the inner bailey. She approached, and both men acknowledged her presence with a respectful nod.

  ‘Forgive me, Brother, but did I hear you are travelling to Lincoln?’

  ‘Indeed, my lady. Father Samson is on his way to discuss his mission with the lord Bishop of Lincoln, who is currently within his see.’

  ‘And when is it that you depart, brother?’

  ‘On the morrow, my lady.’

  ‘And do you take the route that meets the Fosse Way?’

  ‘I have not been told so, my lady, but I would judge it likely. If the weather is like to get worse, Father Samson will want to use the best roads and reach Lincoln betimes.’