Catchpoll looked at the undersheriff’s haggard face with some sympathy.
‘The lord Sheriff has the right of it, my lord, though sorry I am to drive the point home. In doing what we have today we may have even kept your lady safe for longer. They may take retribution, but their only bargaining power is live hostages. They might not be so kind to the brethren, but the archbishop’s man and a noble lady, well, they are valuable to them, as long as they still seek their man.’
Bradecote felt sick to his stomach, and his brain felt as sluggish as the half-frozen waters of the river. He tried hard to think, and the more he did, the more his fear took hold.
‘The man with the shod horse took the westward road, my lords, towards the crossing of the Hills to Ledbury, past the Old Place.’ Catchpoll pointed to where long, long ago men had made their mark upon the shire border, and terraced the top of the hill into a prominent gathering point. It still stuck above the treeline near the southern end of the Malvern Hills. There was a wooden palisade and raised motte upon it now, as the lord Waleran de Meulun, Earl of Worcester, had stamped his authority on the shire boundary in these troubled times, but Catchpoll still called it the ‘Old Place’ as his forefathers had done. He ignored his superior’s pallor. ‘It isn’t much, but we know they are on this side of the river and getting back will be hard to do without us knowing, if we set a watch here, for there are no other regular crossings between here and Worcester, or towards Gloucester. They will not want to go beyond the Hills into Herefordshire or they are too far from Worcester. We hunt here. The rider is but a few minutes ahead of us. There must be signs and the gang cannot be so far away that the single rider could not reach them by mid-afternoon, as I would guess.’ He went and untied the hooded man-at-arms who was standing patiently behind the sheriff’s horse. ‘Any man needs shelter in weather like this, and the lone rider probably only left the group this morning. They must have taken a barn somewhere as shelter. We ask. We check. We will find them.’
Catchpoll sounded determined, even quietly confident. It was enough for de Beauchamp, but Bradecote knew now that finding them was only half the battle, and his mind crowded with unwelcome thoughts, like spectres in a nightmare.
The villagers of Upton saw the imposing lord circle his horse, keen to be gone, whilst a grizzled man retrieved his mount. Then the horsemen were gone, even more quickly than they arrived, and the village shrank back to the peaceful normality of winter’s noontide with barely a shrug. Whoever they were, whatever they had wanted, it had nothing to do with Upton folk.
The man on the newly shod horse took the first few miles quickly, always listening for hoof beats behind him, but steadied where he passed people. At a fork he took the south track that ran along a low ridge, but then dropped into slightly marshy ground and cut back to head north almost parallel to the east side of the Malvern Hills, sticking up like the spine of a sleeping dragon. The path was scarce more than a deer track. He skirted an assart, sweeping around the thatched dwellings of man and hog before joining the trackway beyond for another mile, and at a stricken oak swung east towards the river.
He arrived at the clearing, an abandoned assart with a dilapidated barn, if one could term so small a building a barn. There, kidnappers and hostages alike crowded round a fire of dead branches augmented by a couple of broken planks, the monks holding out bound hands as if still in prayer.
The rider dismounted, pleasantly warm from his exertions, handed the reins of the nondescript brown horse to another, and strode across to where Reynald de Roules leant against a tree, idly picking his teeth. He raised an eyebrow at his second in command.
‘What news, Guy?’
Guy grinned.
‘They thought we would turn up, like a crowd at a hanging, no doubt, and wait for them to take us.’
De Roules did not look surprised. He merely nodded.
‘So. We show them we are not to be treated with contempt. They know we are this side of the river. They will be hunting. Let us give them something to sniff out. A corpse would be just the thing. Kill,’ he paused and surveyed the huddle of prisoners, lengthening the tension, ‘that one.’
He pointed to a wiry monk with a strongly aquiline nose and, for a man of God, remarkably fierce eyes. He wanted the choice to appear random, but he had watched his victims closely, if surreptitiously, and this was one he thought less sheep-like, and more likely to cause problems. The woman, she interested him, in more ways than one. She was of no value as a pawn. She was a widow of recent date, she said, and looked it. Most women looked at men, as men looked at women. They looked, they assessed, and marriage did not generally make a difference. The exceptions were nuns professed, for the most part at least, the newly wedded and bedded who were still lovesick, and the newly bereaved, who saw nobody outside their bubble of grief. Her voice was good, from what little she had said, so she was the relict of some wealthy merchant, or more likely worthy lord of the manor, but there would be nobody to raise a ransom for her, if he had wanted a little money on the side, nor plague de Beauchamp for her safe return. He would wait a while. She had a good figure, and should provide good sport when he chose. He wondered idly if he would take her in front of the brethren and make them watch. He gave a snorting laugh. It would show them what they were missing as well as his power.
The laugh was taken by both captors and hostages to indicate that he found the arbitrary murder of a monk entertaining. His men were impressed, the monks horrified. They had already witnessed the mutilation of Brother Augustine, who lay wrapped in Christina’s second cloak. There was no reason that they would think this some evil jest. The wiry monk had gone a deathly white, and his eyes showed a blend of panic tempered with venom, which gave de Roules a twisted satisfaction.
‘Tut-tut, Brother, you must not give in to the sin of anger. You would like me dead? Struck down by some godly vengeance? Such faith, and such a waste of effort.’
A man grabbed the monk from behind by the elbows, and the one who answered to the name of Mauger took the religious by the throat and looked toward his leader.
‘How?’
‘I take it you mean in what way, since even you are perfectly capable of killing a man, especially an unarmed man.’ He sounded almost weary of the subject already. ‘Well, I think we should make it clear it was not an accident. Actually, I have quite a nice idea.’
He approached the held man, whose dry lips were moving in prayer even as his eyes spat hatred, pushed Mauger to one side as he drew his dagger, and drove it up under the ribs in a single swift movement. The monk’s eyes widened for a moment and then he was dead. Reynald de Roules stepped back, and wiped the blade on the dark habit.
‘So generous of me to make it quick, almost merciful. Now, strip him and tie him to that tree bough with his own cord for one arm and the sick one’s for the other.’ He looked at the Benedictines, and spoke almost sweetly. ‘Do you think he will get to heaven quicker if he mimics his Saviour? He even has the wound in the side.’
Father Samson was as pale as his inferiors, but with outrage as much as shock.
‘Blasphemy,’ he cried, pointing his bound hands at Reynald. ‘Your soul is forfeit doubly for such a deed.’
The leader of the kidnappers smiled, though his eyes glittered.
‘You think I care?’ he sneered.
Some of the gang looked at each other, not comfortable with so open a disregard for religion, but none spoke. Mauger stripped the body as instructed, then he, and the man who had held the arms, dragged the corpse to the tree.
‘How do we …’
‘Send a man along the branch, you witless oaf, and offer up the body.’ He sighed at the ineptitude of others. ‘It is only a foot or two that he’ll dangle from the ground.’
De Roules turned away as his instructions were obeyed and looked at Christina. She had lowered her eyes. He walked towards her, though she resolutely did not look up, and stood at her shoulder.
‘No need to look, eh, lady? A widow like
you knows what a man looks like. Not that you can call these miserable celibates men.’ He lifted her chin. ‘You wait, and I will remind you what a real man is like.’
Christina did not so much look at him as through him, which he found oddly unsettling. There was neither fear, nor disdain, nor even anger. It was as if she simply saw the trees in the background. He frowned. It was not the response he had expected. Had he known how she felt inside he would have felt far more at ease, but Christina had learnt long ago to mask things from a man who took without asking.
The Benedictine brothers were on their knees, regardless of the cold ground, their mouths working in prayer as if the very familiarity of the words could cocoon them from the ghastliness of what went on before them. Father Samson, emboldened by his outrage, began to dwell upon the fate of those who died excommunicate as those involved surely would, until de Roules silenced him by hitting him about the face.
‘You forget, my godly friend, you are useful to me alive, but not necessarily unharmed. Now cease your scaremongering, or I myself shall cut out your tongue and send that to the noble sheriff, William de Beauchamp. Much use you will be as the archbishop’s envoy then.’
The sheriff’s men were too numerous to be ignored. The sight of so many soldiers riding past a couple of woodmen’s cotts was enough to halt all activity and it was not difficult to find out if any had seen a man upon a brown horse riding through with purpose in the last ten minutes. De Beauchamp was impatient and wanted to gallop, but Catchpoll’s advice prevailed.
‘We would overshoot the mark, my lord, and waste time in the long run. It costs but a minute or two to ask, and if we works from the known to the unknown we won’t get ourselves lost and chasing our tails. Once we reach a place where the rider was not seen, we know the distance we have to backtrack and search for the place he left the road, for leave it he will. And they are none so daft, these men. Both horse and rider were forgettable, ordinary, without distinguishing marks. Number of times I’ve hunted a man who took a fancy horse, or wore a silly cap,’ he shook his head, ‘you would not credit.’
They had news of the ‘forgettable man’ at four lowly assarts, but then the road forked, and it was a toss-up which to take. The sheriff was unwilling to split his forces without a guarantee of reuniting them, and with no knowledge of how many they would face. They took the left fork, following likely hoofprints but met with blank faces at the next habitation.
‘Clever bastard,’ mumbled Catchpoll, grudgingly admiring. ‘My guess is he has gone down where the ground is soft, but too soft to retain the hoof prints. He could have backtracked towards Upton, gone west, or threaded through the woods of the Chase to the north. There’s few enough folk to see him. It’s a large area we have to cover, and the afternoon is so advanced we will lose the light within half an hour, light good enough to track by.’
‘But …’ Bradecote opened his mouth to remonstrate, but shut it again. He wanted to yell that they must try one route at least, but good sense told him that blundering about in the greying late afternoon would achieve nothing. It hurt, though, to know that at this moment they must be within five miles of the hostages, of his Christina. Catchpoll shook his head regretfully.
‘Aye, my lord, it is tempting for sure, but it would be easy to make a mistake and mar all. If we are here at first light we will not lose much time on them, for they too will be stopping for the night in this cold.’
‘Right, then.’ De Beauchamp clapped his gauntlet-clad hands together decisively. ‘We will keep along this ridge and “visit” Robert Folet at Mortun. I was wanting to see what he has put up there. Thrown up a motte, as I hear, for fear of “brigandry”, as though this side of the Severn is full of outlaws. He’s more afraid he will be asked to side with Empress or King and choose the wrong one. He will no doubt be delighted to give shelter to the sheriff of the shire who can “protect” him for a night.’
‘And all his men too,’ murmured Catchpoll, with a wry smile.
The sheriff’s bark of laughter was the only response. Hugh Bradecote was beyond finding anything funny this day.
The ‘castle’ was neither large nor designed to hold off any large-scale force, but it impressed the peasantry, and would keep out ‘casual thieves’ muttered de Beauchamp, having far better defences of his own. There was a motte with a palisaded lookout atop it, and a moated bailey with a small but cosy hall, kitchen, barrack for the handful of men-at-arms the lord Folet had to his name, and stabling. To the north, a stone chapel stood rather more sturdily. It did not look large enough to take in the lord Sheriff and upward of thirty men-at-arms, at least not comfortably bestowed, but William de Beauchamp was not particularly concerned how his men fared, as long as they had food in their bellies and a roof over their heads, even if in the stable. He was content that the owner could provide him with enough comfort to give him a good night’s rest and a decent meal.
Robert Folet himself was a man in middle age, inclining towards the rotund, who looked as if comfort and security were his own priority. He was politeness itself to the lord Sheriff, though he groaned inwardly at the amount of even the most meagre fare that such a number of men would eat. He bade his noble guest take his ease in his hall. De Beauchamp accepted as formally, following his clearly unwilling host, and Bradecote naturally accompanied him. Catchpoll tagged along, having decided that the disadvantages of being among the ‘fancy folk’ outweighed being crammed into whatever space was allotted to the men-at-arms and sharing their victuals. De Beauchamp cast him a glance and sly grin. He would go along with it, and if asked, would say the serjeant’s presence was required to discuss the next day’s plan. Catchpoll was a curmudgeonly and insubordinate old devil if made more than normally miserable, and he would need him fresh and alert to track on the morrow.
The lady of the manor was most unexpected, being youthful, pretty, and slim, that slimness only disrupted by the pronounced bulge that indicated her advanced state of pregnancy. Her natural inclination seemed to be to withdraw modestly, but her husband was obviously as keen to show her off, perhaps to flaunt that he possessed so attractive a woman or, as de Beauchamp whispered to Bradecote while the man’s attention was distracted, to trumpet the fact that he could still sire a brat. Bradecote himself looked at the woman, scarcely more than a girl really, and thought of Christina’s past. Was this man, who seemed indolent rather than unpleasant, at least a reasonable husband, or was he, within the privacy of the lordly bed, a monster? The lady did not seem nervous of her lord when she looked at him. Her voice was soft, her manner mouse-like, but that seemed her natural self. Christina, his Christina, was of an entirely different mettle, and being submissive must have come hard to her. As he later laid himself to sleep, and listened to de Beauchamp’s even snoring, he whispered into the darkness, ‘I will find you.’
Chapter Seven
It was on the second morning after his discovery that the wounded Benedictine stirred and moaned, muttering words the old woman could not understand. She dithered, and then went to find Father Cuthbert, who hurried back, only to find that the patient was asleep again, but in his view, more lightly so.
‘I think this is true sleep, not unconsciousness, praise be. If he wakes again, come straight away to tell me of it.’
He made every effort to be close on hand for the rest of the day, and was rewarded in the afternoon when he was himself taking watch, with a sigh and flickering of the eyelids. Father Cuthbert laid a hand upon the brother’s shoulder to speak calming words of reassurance, but the poor man flinched and began to speak in rushed half-phrases that old Mother Hild, who was setting a pease pottage over the hearth fire, thought mere gibberish.
‘Ah, poor man’s wits have gone, Father.’
‘No, I think it was just he was not speaking English.’
It certainly sounded more like the Norman French used by the lordly class, but Father Cuthbert could understand a little of that and this man’s accent was thicker and almost unintelligible. In an effort t
o communicate he therefore resorted to Latin. Father Cuthbert was a parish priest, more used to getting his hands dirty alongside his parishioners, and had forgotten most of the Latin he had learnt beyond the Offices, but it was enough to calm the sick man. He mumbled about Père Samson, and the priest wondered if that was his abbot. He knew none of the local religious houses were led by a Samson, so it aided him not at all, but he did manage to get the brother’s name, which was Bernard, and this he passed on to the lord of the manor, Robert of Fulbrook.
‘Let me speak to him, if he is awake, Father, and see what I can find out.’
It was an unimportant manor and the lord Robert was English born and more comfortable in the language of his tenants and peasants than he would have cared to admit, but he spoke the tongue of his forefathers, if not mothers, well enough. It took much concentration, because, in his opinion, Brother Bernard was not many years in England.
‘You know, Father, I must send again to the sheriff, but this time to the sheriff in Worcester. I am not certain of everything, for his thoughts are still somewhat knotted, and his accent thick, but he was clearly part of the entourage of this unknown Father Samson, on their way from Worcester. Whither they have disappeared is anybody’s guess, but it is most odd they did not return to find one of their number. William de Beauchamp may have a key to unlock all this. I shall go myself, and hope that he is currently at the castle. The poor brother is not fit to be moved, is he? If we took him by cart?’ The lord asked the question in hope, for he would rather the monk faced the questions than himself, for he had little beyond what he would send via his messenger.
‘The infirmary at the priory would be best placed to continue his treatment,’ sighed Father Cuthbert. ‘My skills are limited − in fact, I have done almost nothing but bind his head and ensure he has been watched lest he fit, and I am but one man, assisted by whosoever I can bring in to sit with him. Yet I am not sure that the jolting journey would not worsen his condition. Keep him in your prayers as he is in mine, ask me again in the morning, my lord, and we will see.’
Hostage to Fortune Page 7
