‘How could you …?’ Father Samson mastered his voice.
‘Very easily, and if you don’t want to find out how, you’ll shut up.’ Reynald de Roules looked at the religious with near loathing. ‘I cannot abide sanctimonious fools who haven’t the courage to take life and shake it. It is all threats with you, threats and empty promises, disguising your own guilt.’
The look of horror on Father Samson’s face was replaced by blank incomprehension. He could not conceive why this man should spout such venom. Seeing it, de Roules scowled and clamped his lips into a thin line, as if regretting giving so much insight into his thoughts. There was an almost nervous silence from both captors and captives alike. A monk sank to his knees, taking refuge in prayer even if it angered the dangerous individual who held them, and one by one the others followed suit. De Roules turned away, his lip curling, but said nothing more. It gave a chance for the tension to ease.
Christina was somehow divorced from the scene, half forgotten in the background. There was no possibility of escape, for she knew she could not slip away entirely unnoticed and she had no idea where she was, but she tried to make sense of what she was watching. She had certainly been correct in her first assumptions about the leader of the gang, whom a man had addressed as ‘my lord’. He was no common criminal; perhaps he had committed some crime and been declared outlaw in the past. He was cold enough, but not totally cold. His words to Father Samson had been bitter, and from deep within. She wondered if they had been targeted specifically because they were a group of religious. Her first thought had been that they had been taken for ransom, but if this man hated so much, it might as easily be to satisfy his bloodlust, and where did that leave her? There was a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. When he had finished with the Benedictines, he would not be letting her go free.
De Roules was speaking quietly to his right-hand man, the one he called Guy. There were practicalities like food and water to be considered. There was a well to the rear of the building and one of the men was sent to draw enough to boil for a pottage. One man unpacked a sack, and then muttered and spoke to Guy, who stroked his close-cropped beard, smiled and nodded. The man grinned and brought the bag of barley, onions and dried herbs to Christina.
‘Here. A woman is good for two things. Since we ain’t being allowed the one, you can give us the other. Cook the dinner.’
Christina did not demur. Nor did she reveal that her experience of actually cooking a meal was almost non-existent. She had overseen feasts and the daily provision of meals in a manor, but not stood over cooking pots. Well, if she hoped to maintain the deception of her being but a merchant’s widow, she would have to show at least some nearer experience and ability. She said a silent prayer and hoped that a simple pottage could not go wrong. Had it not been so serious, it would have been almost funny that her future might depend upon her cooking skills.
The fire was fed, the iron cooking pot hung over it and Christina FitzPayne, twice the widow of landed lords and the betrothed of the lord Undersheriff of Worcester, sliced onions that brought tears to her eyes. The smell, at least, was promising. She even heard a stomach rumbling. Her addition of herbs was probably the most decisive element, when she might turn a reasonable effort into something that would either draw praise or be spat into the embers.
She was only able to relax when the pottage was ladled into bowls and a murmur of approval ran among the kidnappers, and even the brethren. It also meant, however, that Christina was appointed cook for the party. She hoped they would not expect variety.
The normality of eating seemed to calm nerves. The threatening atmosphere lessened, though de Roules would not have the corpses moved. He thought it amusing, watching the Benedictines, who were divided between those who averted their eyes and studiously avoided facing the corner, and those for whom the sight had a mesmeric fascination. Christina assumed that, after the meal, the details of a night watch would be made, and then everyone would settle to rest as best they could. It was most unexpected when the leader got up and addressed them.
‘You may be wondering why I have gathered you here …’ He paused for effect, and Christina wondered whether he meant ‘gathered’ as a man gathered witless sheep, ‘because I promise you, I do not hunt your sort for pleasure; poor sport it would be. However, you are of use to me; at least he is.’
De Roules pointed at Father Samson, who tried to outstare him, and failed. The lupine smile returned to the thin lips. A couple of the brothers shifted uncomfortably, for there was malice in the expression.
‘William de Beauchamp, Sheriff of Worcestershire, holds something I want, so I need to get him to hand it over. I know him of old, and so taking just anyone is no use. I have to hold someone he dare not shrug and let me kill, rather than give in. Fortunately for me, here is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s envoy passing through, and de Beauchamp dare not be seen to throw him to the wolves.’ He laughed, and gave a wolf howl, eyes sparkling.
Father Samson looked at him with the growing realisation that there was a dangerous madness to the man.
‘Who are you, my son?’
‘I am Reynald de Roules, and no son of your getting.’ The reply was spat. The name meant nothing to Father Samson, though Christina felt some vague jangling of memory. De Roules continued, ‘So what I need to do now is let de Beauchamp know what I have. Monks write, so which of you black sheep can wield a quill? Hands up.’
The brothers looked to Father Samson, who frowned, but nodded. Two brothers held up a hand. De Roules pointed to the elder, a mild-looking man with fluffy, greying hair that had once been ginger ringing his tonsure.
‘You, the old one, come here.’ He swept bowls from the small table in the room and nodded at Guy, who brought out vellum, quill and ink. He pressed the brother onto the narrow bench. ‘Write just what I tell you.’
He set out his demand, which was simple enough, and carried the threat of the murder of the hostages, one by one. At the end, he picked up the vellum by one corner as if tainted, and handed it to Guy, who scanned it. The scribe went white. Guy looked down at the monk, momentary respect in his eyes, and then struck him from the seat.
‘My lord, this brother is guilty of the sin of disobedience. He has not written just what was said. He has rather told the sheriff who you are and how many men we are.’
Reynald de Roules looked at the brother sprawling on the dirt floor. When he spoke, his voice was very calm, and matter-of-fact.
‘Oh yes, I did not say that Guy here could write, but nor did I say he could not read. Disobedience is a sin, Brother. You must do penance. It shall be not to write again.’ He looked at Guy. ‘The message would be best delivered by hand, so de Beauchamp knows we are serious, do you not think?’
They exchanged glances, and Guy grabbed the Benedictine by the scruff of the neck and hauled him outside into the dark. De Roules looked at the other brother who could write.
‘You will be obedient, won’t you, Brother?’ The monk nodded, wide-eyed with fear, and jumped as there came a thud and a scream from outside. ‘Then write exactly what I say.’
It was pure chance that the brother was found before he froze to death. A man walking back from the next village had turned aside to attend to the demands of nature, with some reluctance. Exposing his buttocks in the biting cold was less than appealing, but there was no help for it. He stepped from the track into the undergrowth and almost fell over the body, effectively camouflaged by the dark habit. The man bent down to draw back the cowl, his bowels forgotten, and crossed himself. There was blood, sticky to the touch, and with the smell that clung in the nostrils, from a wound that sliced into the tonsure above the left ear, but was mostly a mess at the top of his jaw. He assumed the man − not an old man either − was dead, and shook his head that any should strike down a man of God. He rolled the body onto its back, and only then noticed that there was breath and life within. The Good Samaritan sniffed, and wiped his sleeve under his nose. The man did not look
huge, but it was not going to be easy, carrying him the half-mile home. Muttering to himself about wishing that he could guarantee regular meals that fed the cloistered, he shouldered his burden with a grunt, and then put him down again. It was no use, nature had to come first.
By the time he reached his home, the colour had gone from the world, and the grey of deep gloaming lay upon the way like a dark blanket. He opened the door clumsily, breathing heavily from his load. The man’s wife, exclaiming at what he had found, was both pitying and worried. What if the brother died in their cottage? What if he didn’t die and needed nursing and feeding for who knew how long? She bade her husband lay him on their palliasse and then go, as soon as he had the breath in his lungs, to fetch the priest, both in case the poor man needed final absolution, but more importantly so that he could assume control and responsibility for the situation.
Father Cuthbert arrived, wheezing, frowning, and mopping his brow with his sleeve. It was both a foul crime and, as far as he could see, a useless one, to rob a man who possessed nothing, and how could any man do such a thing to a holy brother? He looked at the unconscious monk. He was no physician, and had no more idea if the Benedictine would die than the cottagers.
‘If the skull is full broken, he will most likely die. If the bone is but scored or slightly cracked, he may live. The wound must be bound and cleaned, and he must be kept warm.’
‘Can he be moved, Father?’
The woman was not just trying to rid herself of a burden. There were four children in the one-roomed dwelling, and all huddled on the same straw-filled bed at night for warmth in the winter cold. If the wounded man took the bed, they either had to join him, a stranger, and potentially a dying man, or all lie upon the compacted dirt of the floor.
The priest stroked his chin and sighed. If the man was to die, it was the will of God, though the Almighty had had nothing to do with the getting of the wound. He had already been carried over a man’s shoulder and survived, so another hundred paces or so should make little difference. He understood the woman’s concerns. He sighed.
‘Let him come to me, and I will keep vigil. You have many other duties. But I will fetch Wulfram, and that hurdle he was making today, on which to carry our poor brother. And in the morning, whatever has come to pass, I will go to the lord, and have him send word to the lord Sheriff at Warwick. A crime such as this must, of a surety, be laid before the law.’
Father Cuthbert’s charge did not die, but nor did he awaken. He seemed to be in a deep sleep, but there was no hint of the changes in breathing that the good father, who had attended many deathbeds, had come to recognise. In the morning he did as he had said, and went to the lord of the manor to report the crime, leaving old Mother Hild to sit and watch the patient. The lord pulled a face.
‘Where was he found, Father?’
‘By the King’s road, my lord, so there is no requirement for hue and cry in the village, not that it would avail us aught. An attack is a wicked thing, but upon a holy brother …’ The priest shook his head at the evils men perpetrated. ‘The lord Sheriff should be told, though whether it is a killing is yet to be seen.’
‘I will send a man to inform him, and let me know if the brother wakens, or dies.’
Chapter Five
A man-at-arms crossed the bailey and made his way as inconspicuously as possible up to Serjeant Catchpoll, looking both embarrassed and a little shocked. Catchpoll’s eyes widened for a second as the man whispered in his ear, and he frowned, the grizzled, grey brows beetling. The man-at-arms winced, expecting to be berated, but the serjeant ignored him and went straight to the sheriff and undersheriff, his face inscrutable.
‘My lords, there is something you should see on the castle gate.’
‘If it’s at the gate, then bring it here, Serjeant.’ De Beauchamp was only half attending.
‘No, my lord, I said “on”, not “at”.’
The import of what Catchpoll had said sunk in. His superiors followed him and the man-at-arms, who was now considering whether he was going to be shouted at by even more important people or whether, if he was fortunate, he would now be forgotten.
The castle gate had been opened, and several of the castle inhabitants had drawn round in ghoulish interest. They now fell back. There was a stained piece of vellum attached to the door by an iron spike hammered into the solid oak, but what had attracted the attention was that the spike passed first through the palm of a smallish, dismembered hand. It was both repellent and magnetic, drawing the eye even as it turned the stomach. A woman crossed herself.
Catchpoll was not squeamish. He got as close as possible and peered at the hand.
‘Hacked off cleanish in a couple of strokes I would say, my lords. May I remove it?’
‘Yes, take it down, Catchpoll so we can see the message.’
Catchpoll pulled the cold metal from the equally cold flesh, and dropped the spike, holding the hand in place for a moment. There was no blood, what had remained having already stained the vellum. He took the writing in his free hand and passed it to Bradecote, since it meant nothing to him. Instead he studied the hand itself.
Bradecote could read, not as fast as a clerk, but well enough. His cheek paled and he took a sharp intake of breath.
‘My lord, this comes from someone who wants the release of Geoffrey the Moneyer, to be set free at noon tomorrow in Upton, by the sheriff himself, and alone. In exchange for which they will free the Archbishop of Canterbury’s envoy and his party, whom they took on the road north-east of Stratford. That must have been the day before yesterday. Failure to comply will mean the deaths of the hostages, one by one. We will know when the envoy has met his Maker by the arrival of his head. As a token of the seriousness of their intent they deliver this demand “by hand”.’ He paused. ‘My lord, they hold my Christina.’
He looked suddenly to Catchpoll, holding the hand, and the serjeant, as if reading his thoughts, put his first fear aside.
‘This, I would say, was the hand of a man, and a religious. There are no calluses from heavy labour, but there are ink stains beneath the nails and a thickening of the skin at the tip joint of the middle finger. This was a clerk or scribe.’
He heard Bradecote’s relieved exhalation. He ought to be able to tell the difference himself, but his mind was a tumble of thoughts.
‘Bring these things where we can be private. I have no intention of discussing this before a load of gawping idiots.’ The lord Sheriff sounded aggrieved. He had been envisaging a few days of feasting and relaxation still, and now this had arisen to spoil everything. ‘Bradecote,’ he jerked his head towards the hall and stalked away.
‘I will be with you directly, my lords,’ Catchpoll threw after them, turning to the man-at-arms, who had not been forgotten.
‘I want whoever was on watch from the time these gates were closed last night, now.’
The last word was barked, and sent the man-at-arms scurrying away. He returned within a couple of minutes with four hangdog-looking men.
‘So, you were on watch at the gate all night, but I suppose none of you happened to notice anyone come up to it? Admittedly, someone could do that on the quiet, and be missed, but tell me, do, just how in the name of Our Lady and all the saints of heaven, did you cloth-ears not hear some bastard hammering a dirty great spike into the door?’
‘We might have been taking a turn on the battlement, Serjeant,’ offered a man tentatively.
‘The very battlement that overlooks the gate?’
‘If we were on the stair—’
‘Either you climb so slow your aged fathers − if you ever knew who they were − could still go faster, or the bastard with the spike hammered mighty fast and has the muscles of a blacksmith.’
‘Then that is a clue, Serjeant. Should we go and make enquiries of the bla—’
‘No, you dolt. I want to know what you think I am going to tell the lord Sheriff that will keep you from a flogging for being asleep on watch.’
‘We wasn’t none of us asleep, honest, Serjeant.’
‘You might as well have been, for the use you are.’ Catchpoll shook his head at their ineptitude and swore, long and smoothly, then sighed. ‘You are dismissed, but you will be on double watch for the next week, and no Twelfth Night feasting for any of you. Now bugger off, before I think of any other punishments I care to mete out.’
The men dispersed, not daring to so much as grumble, and still hoping that the sheriff would not have them flogged as an example.
Catchpoll went to the sheriff’s chamber, bearing the severed limb like a bizarre trophy, set it on the floor, and took position near the brazier where he could warm his chilled hands.
Bradecote sat leaning forward, staring at his own hands, which were clasped between his knees, almost as if in prayer. He felt sick, a clammy hand gripping his viscera, and his brain could not claw its way past the simple fact that Christina was in the hands of men who had no compunction in lopping off the limb of an innocent man of God. What might they not do to a woman? He should have remained resolute. He should have forbidden her to go and stuck to his resolve, not been weak and succumbed to her pleading and sulks. And yet he had had no right to stop her, nor the heart, when she was so determined that only this would give her the talisman that would see a child of her own at her knee. She had said it must not be easy or it would not be valid as a pilgrimage. He thought that was why she had been so keen to go without his escort, the pleasure of being together. Well, she could not have imagined it would be this hard. His hands clenched and he did pray, silently and fervently, that God would keep her safe. He barely registered that the sheriff and Catchpoll were now in discussion over the implications of the ransom.
Hostage to Fortune Page 5
