Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Father Cuthbert’s medicinal skills were perhaps better than he thought, for on the morrow, Brother Bernard was not slipping in and out of consciousness. Whilst his brain was still clouded and fuddled, and his expression the pained one of a man with an evil headache, he was able to answer, coherently, the simple day-to-day questions put to him, and Father Cuthbert declared him fit to travel, with the lord Robert’s escort. He sent him upon his way with his benediction and the assurance of his being, with his missing companions, remembered in his orisons. The lord Robert brought the travelling cart his mother had always used, which was covered. A thoughtful and kind man, he also provided rugs and a bolster against which the injured man might recline. It would mean a slow pace, and two days of travelling, but the infirmary of the monks at Alcester could care for the injured Benedictine overnight.

  ‘What if the lord Sheriff is not in Worcester, my lord?’ Father Cuthbert asked, as Brother Bernard was tucked tenderly beneath the furs.

  ‘I thought of that, and sent one of my men, yesterday, after we spoke, with a message to the castle. It would be unfortunate if he was about to depart for some time and we just missed him. And if he is upon his own manorial business at Elmley, or one of his lesser holdings in the shire, they can send fast enough to him. Unless he is far distant, he will know that I am coming, and the poor brother also, if fit enough.’

  The little priest smiled, and gave silent thanks yet again that the lord of this manor was both well-intentioned, and thoughtful. There were neighbouring villages that were far less fortunate.

  Reynald roused the occupants of the dilapidated barn at dawn, dragging the timorous scribe outside as soon as it was possible to discern word on vellum, to add a line to the message he had dictated in the gloaming the previous afternoon. The nervous monk studiously avoided looking at the stiffened corpse of his Brother in Christ. Guy gave the message a cursory glance, but there was no fear that the scribe would have dared deviate by a letter from what was said. In fact, there was more danger that his trembling hand rendered the writing difficult to decipher. Reynald sneered at the nervous Benedictine.

  ‘Afraid to meet your Maker, Brother? Tut-tut. What a sinful life you must have led.’

  His laugh sent a chill through the monk that was far worse than that of the cold.

  Within the barn, Christina, though she definitely thought the title flattered the structure, tried, surreptitiously, to rub some warmth into her chilled legs. They felt as cold as those of the poor dead brother must be, up in the tree. She had cooked the meagre meal, and tended the injured brother, Brother Augustine. The other Benedictines seemed to want to keep well away from her. She had even heard two in muttered conversation saying that it was her presence that had brought misfortunes upon them, for ‘consorting’ with a woman. She despised them, and pitied them also. They looked like men who had never genuinely ‘consorted’ with a woman in their entire lives, probably oblates who had entered the claustral world as children and had simply learnt that the Daughters of Eve were as dangerous as the Serpent itself. Seeing their kidnap as a ‘Judgement from God’ was risible. That Father Samson, whilst not sharing their view entirely, nevertheless was uncomfortable with her being in such close proximity with the brethren, and kept his speech with her to a minimum, did not help.

  She had little enough experience of nursing, but none of the brothers had faced wounds before, and had proved remarkably squeamish. When Brother Augustine had been dragged back into the grange that first night, the bloody stump flailing, and the severed hand held like a trophy by Guy, one monk had fainted clean away, and another vomited in the corner. She had been the only one to go forward, with a linen coif from her small bag of possessions, and had attempted to staunch the bleeding. Instead of assisting her, the brothers had got on their knees to pray. The poor man was in shock, which kept the pain at bay a short while, but had then felt it the more when it kicked in. She had nothing to give him ease, and it tore her heart to see how he tried so hard not to show his distress. It showed in his eyes, and he whispered, disjointedly, that he did not wish to upset his brothers. Christina’s own eyes had misted. They were doing nothing for him, except praying, which she thought of limited use in a practical emergency, and yet he was lying there, biting his lip until it bled in an effort not to cry out. She had spoken soothingly, sought fresh binding to press over the reddened bandages, and wondered if he would die from loss of blood.

  He had not, though he passed a bad night, and she had little rest. He had been sat upon a mule up before another brother for travelling, though the jolting was the last thing he needed, and by that evening she had seen the spots of colour that presaged the fever into which he then fell. Father Samson had sat with him then, and only then, and taken his confession. Now he was only lucid at times, and once took her hand in his good one and blessed her as an angel in his hour of trial, which brought a lump to her throat, but then as quickly slipped to tossing and muttering incoherently. One of the kidnappers had come over in the night and kicked him for disturbing his sleep with his ramblings.

  Now, on the fourth day, her heart had sunk. The bandages had taken on a foul smell, and she had no fresh linen to apply to the wound. If the wound was festering she knew of nothing that she could do. She spoke to Father Samson when she could do so without everyone hearing her words. He had closed his eyes in an expression of pain, sighed, and said that it was God’s will, and that she should not blame herself too much. She dug her nails into her palms at that, and bit back the obvious retort.

  She glanced behind her, as she trotted along, and saw the nodding tonsure of Brother Augustine, bumping along unsteadily in front of a brother who seemed offended by the, as yet faint, odour of putrefaction. His eyes were open but unfocussed, his cheeks flushed with a dry heat. At least, she thought bleakly, if he was delirious, he would not notice the discomfort of the bouncing around. If the wound should bleed heavily, well, the end might come a little quicker, that was all. Her throat tightened. Just at this moment Brother Augustine seemed her only friend in a grey world of cold and evil, and miserable suffering.

  The sheriff and his men broke their fast even as the streaks of a winter dawn lightened the sky, and bade their host and his lady a polite farewell, conscious that it was met with patent relief. Their numbers had put a considerable strain upon the modest resources available, and the attempt of a man-at-arms to make free with a comely wench, whose father took strong exception to his advances upon his daughter, had left the atmosphere more than a little strained at the subordinate level.

  Bradecote could barely disguise his impatience to depart beneath the formal civilities, which communicated itself to his big-boned grey and had it sidling and on the fret in the bailey. The undersheriff breathed an audible sigh of relief as they cantered back up the trackway to where Catchpoll had called off the search the previous night, and then back to the westward-leading trackway. Catchpoll was like a hound casting around for a scent, and de Beauchamp, watching from his horse, and alongside Bradecote, jestingly wondered if they would end up hunting boar. Bradecote managed a small smile, but his eyes were focussed upon Catchpoll’s expressive face.

  He was not in luck from the length turning back to the last sighting, and it was mid-morning and more towards the rising slope of wooded hills that there came a contented ‘Aah’ from the wily serjeant. Bradecote’s horse was fidgeting in response to his agitation, and he sent it bounding forward at the touch of an unintended spur.

  ‘You have something?’ The undersheriff’s excitement was clear.

  ‘Aye, my lord, at last we do. He has cut across country, and this direction would suggest he was heading north towards the priory at Malvern, but he will have steered clear of it. So now we see where he leads us.’

  Catchpoll set off, mounted, but frequently leaning to look down his horse’s sloping shoulder at the ground and vegetation. Occasionally he halted, dismounted with a grumble, and peered more closely at a broken twig or imprinted mark. The pace was steady
, however, and it was with the pallid sun only a little past its zenith that the sheriff and his entourage came upon the clearing and the deserted assart. The remnants of the fire and the signs of horses having lingered would have confirmed that their quarry had stopped here for some time, but neither of these things drew any attention. They stared instead at the corpse tied to the tree bough. As they approached, a crow flapped lazily away, cawing its disapproval at being disturbed. Even without its depredations, the sight would have been unpleasant. The lord Sheriff’s lip curled in distaste. Catchpoll swore, long and hard, and at the conclusion sent two men to cut the body down.

  ‘They knows we are following and this is to show us they do not care. It says, “follow and find us if you can, if you dare”. It’s a challenge, pox on them.’

  ‘I take it the wound was fatal?’ asked Bradecote, controlling his voice to sound calm and unemotional, and dismounting to stand beside Catchpoll as he inspected the body as it lay upon the hard ground. The corpse was stiff still, the now crow-pecked sockets dark and ghoulish. Catchpoll looked for other signs upon the body before studying the single wound under the ribcage.

  ‘It was quick, there is that for it,’ he muttered. He looked up at Bradecote, and beyond him to the sheriff. ‘Killed the moment the knife entered the heart, my lords. There was little blood. Though a man could reach up, just, and drive a knife in like that, I am of the view he was killed face to face. What they did to the body was all for show, and after the deed was done.’

  ‘But why go to such lengths? We would hardly fail to see it even had it been left on the ground?’ Walkelin frowned. ‘Unless they thought wild animals might drag it away.’

  ‘Oh aye, and do the Malvern Hills boast giant foxes, or were you thinking these woods harbour wolves?’ Catchpoll mocked, but smiled as he shook his head. ‘No, this was to show us, and perhaps also to cow the hostages. Think what having one of their number displayed like that would do to the brothers.’

  ‘They would see the blasphemy,’ murmured Bradecote, thinking that Christina also had been a witness to this barbarity.

  Catchpoll had finished his inspection of the body, and went to the wooden building. He emerged almost immediately, grunting contentedly and with a scrap of vellum in his hand.

  ‘Thought as much. They knew we would follow them, knew we would find the body, so it follows they would leave us some message.’

  He handed the roll to Bradecote, knowing the lord Sheriff knew the sight of his own name when he set his mark beside it, but was not a man for words.

  ‘And it says?’ William de Beauchamp spoke impatiently as Bradecote frowned over the scrawl and his lips moved silently. At length he looked up, his visage grim.

  ‘What cause has this man to be at odds with you, my lord?’

  ‘How do I know?’ snapped de Beauchamp. ‘Since you have yet to tell me what the scribble says.’

  Bradecote moistened his lips and read slowly and carefully, his voice devoid of feeling.

  ‘You do not take me seriously, de Beauchamp, which is a mistake. Only a fool would try the ruse you used at Upton, and I am no fool, whatever else you think me. The good brother who brings you this is the result of your folly. Add him to your conscience. I give you a second chance, because I am a generous man. Bring Geoffrey, and alive, not a hanged corpse, to the crossing of the Teme by Powick, on the third day after Upton. That should give you enough time, if you bestir yourself from here.’ Bradecote paused, took a deep breath and continued. ‘Do not disappoint me, for I am running out of dark-garbed figures, and who knows who will be next.’

  It was running through Bradecote’s mind, as the import of the words sunk in, that Christina was soberly clad, and the note said ‘dark’ not ‘black’. The Benedictines’ habit was not a deep black, but they were called the Black Monks, and to him at least, it seemed as if Christina was specifically included in the threat. The dread of what might happen to her, how he might find her, made the bile rise in his throat. He was silent, fighting his inner horrors.

  Catchpoll ruminated, sucked his teeth, and looked at de Beauchamp, who was pensive but not troubled.

  ‘What do you want done with the body, my lord?’

  ‘What?’ The question recalled the sheriff from his brown study. ‘Oh, we take him to the priory at Malvern and get the monks to bury him, as soon as the ground is soft enough to dig. Let us see if this place gives us any more idea of numbers, or any indication at all of where next to hunt. Following your nose works well enough, but is not swift.’

  While the corpse was laid over the withers of a horse, and covered with a blanket, and the rider prepared to mount up behind one of his fellows, Catchpoll touched the undersheriff lightly on the arm. He turned a face to the serjeant, which showed far more than he would have wished to divulge, but Catchpoll, however illiterate, could also put two and two together, and had a good idea of his superior’s thoughts. He said nothing beyond repeating the instruction to ferret around the area. Dwelling on things would achieve nothing, so best he keep active.

  Catchpoll, Walkelin and Bradecote looked closely about the fire, though it revealed nothing, and then within the ruined barn. There was little enough shelter, for half the roof was gone, boards missing from the walls, and there were no remnants of straw in which to have burrowed for warmth. The best that could be said for it was that it gave reasonable protection from the prevailing wind. There was an area of desiccated vegetation that had stood from the previous summer and had been flattened. This, then, was where everyone had huddled, probably captors and captives alike, through the long, cold night. Bradecote wondered, almost inconsequentially, whether Christina had had her second cloak about her. Even if she had, she would have spent a most miserable night, and it was probably the third she had endured. He thought guiltily of his place in the great hall, and the mulled wine he had enjoyed the previous evening, warming his chilled feet by the hearth.

  William de Beauchamp wriggled cold toes within his boots, and wiped a dewdrop from the end of a reddened nose. The temperature was dropping rapidly and the sun had disappeared behind thick grey cloud. He almost wished he had not told Catchpoll to search the scene, for standing still let the ache into one’s bones.

  The trio emerged from the barn without any sign of having made any more useful discoveries. Catchpoll approached, shaking his head.

  ‘Nothing to help us in there, my lord. It was slept in by a group of people, and we guessed that much anyway.’

  ‘Back to tracking, then.’ De Beauchamp sighed, pulling his horse’s head round, and preparing to move off. A shout from a man-at-arms halted him. A horseman was approaching. ‘Now what?’ he grumbled.

  The man was flushed and had clearly been riding hard that day. He bowed to the lord Sheriff, and made his report.

  ‘My lord, I have a message from the lord Constable, requesting that you return at once to Worcester. There is news from a lord in Warwickshire, about an injured monk who was overlooked in the kidnap. The lord will bring the injured brother as soon as he is fit to travel.’

  ‘So Furnaux is back in the castle. Well, on this occasion it is of use, I suppose.’ De Beauchamp spoke almost to himself, then looked piercingly at the messenger. ‘When did you set out, man?’

  ‘Crack of dawn, my lord. It was known you were heading for Upton so I went first there, though the ferryman is cracking ice all the way across now, and I doubt not Severn will be frozen by dawn. I asked at places thereafter and was told which way you headed by a man a ways back. A group of nigh on thirty men is easy enough to follow.’

  ‘Well done to you, anyway. Bradecote, I will return to Worcester immediately. If we make good speed we might be near home before dark.’ He looked at the messenger. ‘If you need a fresher horse, exchange with one of the men here. These beasts have not had to gallop today.’

  Hugh Bradecote did not need to ask if de Beauchamp would obey the instruction on the vellum. He could only pray that this new lead might somehow help, although he cou
ld not see how it would mean catching the kidnappers.

  ‘My lord,’ Catchpoll spoke up, suddenly. ‘Will you take young Walkelin with you? If you’re going to be “talking” to our forger it would be well to have one who is learning the trade with you. He has seen the way I work a fair bit now, and the effect of two men loosing questions is far better than one, and who’s tongue is English, only English.’

  Walkelin’s eyes widened, in part in disbelief at being put forward by his mentor, and also from the frightening thought of having to work alongside the lord Sheriff himself, who was a figure so elevated he had barely exchanged more than a dozen words with him before becoming Catchpoll’s ‘serjeanting apprentice’. Catchpoll saw the look, and grinned his best death’s head grin at him.

  ‘Fair enough, that’s a good thought, Serjeant.’

  De Beauchamp turned to give some instructions to Bradecote, and Catchpoll took Walkelin by the sleeve, whispering softly in his ear.

  ‘Remember what you’ve learnt, lad, and try not to let the lord Sheriff charge about like a wounded boar. You’ve brain enough to get good information from Geoffrey. Speak respectful with the lord Sheriff, but think for yourself. Now, off you go, with my blessing, and if you muddy it all, remember the lord Sheriff may shout, but it’s me that can make your life a misery.’

  With which cheering words, he held Walkelin’s shaggy-coated horse for him to mount, and slapped it jovially upon the hind quarters. As they watched the three horsemen canter away, their speed limited by the tortuous path to the trackway, Bradecote glanced at Catchpoll, speculatively.