‘So, do you think young Walkelin will do all you want of him?’
‘Well, my lord,’ Catchpoll sniffed. ‘He can but try when it comes to reining in the lord Sheriff once he gets the bit between his teeth, you might say, but I think once he gets into working on the prisoner, his natural instincts to follow a scent will take over and he will find out far more than the lord Sheriff alone might do. It all comes down, perhaps, to whom he most fears displeasing − William de Beauchamp or me.’
Bradecote did not need to see Serjeant Catchpoll’s grin to know the answer to his unspoken question.
Chapter Eight
With William de Beauchamp’s departure, Bradecote was now in command, but Catchpoll knew that at this moment he was in no condition to exercise authority. He realised, with some surprise, that six months ago he would have delighted in this situation, eager to show the fledgling undersheriff that he was but a lordly figurehead. Yet now he wanted to protect Bradecote from looking weak. He had known Drogo’s jest that he wanted to adopt the undersheriff for what it was, and had laughed at the idea when Walkelin had asked if he ‘liked’ the man, only at Michaelmas. Was it that he had simply got used to a new way of working, or did he genuinely like the man, lord that he was?
The previous undersheriff, Fulk de Crespignac, had possessed a well-muscled sword arm, and as much muscle between the ears, in Catchpoll’s opinion. He had expected to present the final culprit before the sheriff, had expected also the rare praise, though he knew that his superior was aware that Catchpoll did the vast majority of the work. He also let the serjeant have a free rein, which had suited Catchpoll very nicely.
Bradecote had no inclination to work that way, even from the first, which had taken Catchpoll by surprise. He was no fool, and had a ‘ferreting brain’, which had meant a far more even working relationship. Catchpoll had resented the intrusion in the beginning, but had swiftly come to realise that they worked well as a team. He lacked the experience and the cynicism, though he appeared to be learning fast enough, and he had an overdeveloped dislike of coercion, and a terrible weakness for feeling guilty over things no sensible man would think twice over, but he had humour, and a quick grasp of fact, and … Catchpoll sucked his teeth. He must be getting soft indeed, because he did like him, not just respect him.
He cast the undersheriff a covert glance. The dark brows were now knitted in a frown, the mouth tight shut beneath that long nose of his. He often said Catchpoll’s face told him much, but in fact it only told that he was thinking hard. Bradecote’s face showed more of the man beneath. He was worried, in fact more than worried; he was afraid. Not that his personal courage was in doubt, but that he was afraid for what might befall the lady Christina, and chafed by his inability to protect her. He was now clearly brooding upon the message, and its hinted threat. They were natural fears, but he would have to snap out of it.
‘My lord?’ Catchpoll had to repeat himself to get Bradecote’s attention. ‘My lord, what would you have us do now?’
Bradecote looked at him, owlishly.
‘Do? We follow the trail.’
‘Aye, my lord, but the temperature is dropping like a stone and we have at best two hours of usable daylight. We will have to find shelter and we are not an inconsiderable number. We were fortunate at the manor last night. Our best chance would be to go up the hill to Malvern and shelter at the priory, where we can leave the corpse also.’
‘But the trail will be stone cold.’
‘If we stay out overnight it is us who will be stone cold, my lord, and that’s a fact.’
Catchpoll turned to order those who had dismounted to mount up and prepare to move, as if given a command from the undersheriff, then turned back as Bradecote spoke softly, ‘They have half a day’s advantage.’
‘Maybe a little more, my lord, what with us checking here, as we had to do. But think. They have to be within range of the bridge over the Teme at Powick, two days from now. They are not going to range far west of Malvern, nor far north, either, in these conditions.’
‘And if we do not find them before then? De Beauchamp will not bring Geoffrey to the meeting point.’
‘No, my lord, he will not.’
‘So then what? Another “example” like this?’ Bradecote, wearied in spirit, ran his hand round the back of his neck, and immediately his mind was filled with the memory of Christina’s hand there, soft and caressing. ‘What if it is her, Catchpoll?’ he whispered.
‘My lord, think straight.’ Catchpoll spoke slowly, carefully. ‘The lady is too precious to waste, too good a bargaining point if pressed. And besides, knowing her to be yours, what man would harm her, since nothing could be more certain than the law going to the utmost lengths, and with a man with vengeance in his heart at its head. He would be a fool to harm the lady FitzPayne, and one thing he has shown us thus far is that he is no fool. He’s cool, yes, and a cruel bastard, certainly, but he has a clear head. For all the threat, and I know what you read into that message to the lord Sheriff, he will keep your lady and Father Samson alive.’
He put foot to stirrup and mounted, and Bradecote followed his lead without question. They set off along the trail, now not of one horseman but a large party, and thus easy to follow. The undersheriff was silent, desperately trying to find some way to advance logically through the fog that clouded his brain. What Catchpoll said was true, he knew, but the dull ache of fear remained within him, even as logic told him to be calm. Eventually he spoke.
‘Can you make any guess as to how many we follow, Catchpoll?’
‘As I would estimate, about twenty, give or take a few, which means, since some are the hostages, we have the advantage of them in numbers, as long as they do not have somewhere to defend, and even then it seems they are swordsmen, so if cornered they would have to parley upon the lives of the captives, or come out and fight, losing the advantage.’
‘How well do you know this area between the Severn and the Hills?’
‘Not well enough, my lord, if I speak truth, but … Yes, we have a man from hereabouts.’ Catchpoll turned in his saddle and shouted, ‘Thomas Wood, come here.’
A man-at-arms cantered forward so that his horse was shoulder to shoulder with Serjeant Catchpoll’s.
‘Yes, Serjeant?’
‘You’re local here, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Serjeant. Born and raised up in Malvern weald. My father was forester at Hanley.’
‘Then you can be of use to us now. You answer the lord Bradecote’s questions, and think carefully.’
Thomas eyed the undersheriff’s stern face nervously, and Bradecote made a determined effort to smile, though it emerged as a twisted grimace.
‘We know the kidnappers will be no further than the clearing was from Upton when they hope for an exchange at the Teme bridge by Powick, two days from now. Can you think of anywhere locally where they could find shelter, but not be likely to find people, between now and then?’
The man rubbed his chin, pensively.
‘Nothing natural, my lord, not for such a number. A single man, or a couple, might hide in a cleft, or secluded dell with thick cover, but these men will need barns, sure enough.’
‘And do you know of any broken down or disused ones hereabouts?’ Bradecote needed something useful upon which to fix his thoughts.
‘My lord, I have been in the lord Sheriff’s service these four years past, and rarely back to home, and certainly not wandering about the country as a youth might be, messing about or whatever. I cannot recall any, and would not know any recently fallen into disrepair.’
Catchpoll wondered what minor crimes had been encompassed within the ‘whatever’ but kept his mouth shut.
‘Then barns on the edge of villages perhaps? In this weather, people are less likely to be abroad.’
‘Then I’m thinking you’d be wanting tithe barns, best of all, my lord.’
‘Ah, now that is a good thought, my lord.’ Catchpoll nodded his head. ‘Tithe barns or granges
with just a brother or two to tend them, this season, would be ideal.’
‘And do you know of any such, Wood?’
‘Well, I knows there is none at Powick itself, my lord. The brothers at Malvern would be most likely to know all the granges hereabouts, of other houses as well as their own.’
The man-at-arms spoke without any prompting from Catchpoll, Bradecote knew, and gave another reason to head into Malvern. He made his decision.
‘Then we track to the next pathway, which will give us a starting point to work from tomorrow, and thereafter go to Malvern for shelter and information.’
It was getting dark as the horses plodded up the hill from Newlands back towards where the squat stone tower of the priory church peeped above the green of the trees. The Benedictine priory nestled among the woods on the slopes beneath the high points of the Malvern Hills, its seclusion a reflection of its reclusive origins in the previous century. It was not designed to accommodate large numbers in its guest hall, and the arrival of the sheriff’s men caused considerable disruption. Serjeant Catchpoll, with remarkable − and surprising − tact, ventured that the good brothers would offer refuge against the elements and that, since it was good enough for the Holy Family, their stable would provide adequate shelter for any that could not fit in the guest hall.
Bradecote hid a genuine smile at Catchpoll’s pious demeanour. The wily old fox, he thought, was going to get the best he could from the situation. He watched as Catchpoll told the sorry tale of their quest and then, with a flourish, ended it by uncovering the body of the unnamed brother, which caused as great a gasp of shock and horror as even Reynald could have hoped to see.
Father Prior’s eyes widened, and he crossed himself.
‘We have no name to him, Father Prior, but know that you will bury him with all due rites.’ Catchpoll spoke reverentially, as if they had brought the body especially to Malvern for this reason.
‘His name is known to the Almighty, for certain, and the manner of his death, which is so damning to the perpetrator, has an element of martyrdom to it. This kidnapper clearly has no respect for the godly, and they suffer for it. We will offer up prayers for our poor Brother in Christ, and place his body in a chapel until the cloister garth is soft enough to dig. He will lie among us until Judgement.’
‘We hope that you will pray for our success in capturing the evildoers, before they commit any more deeds of such depravity. The men have had a long, cold day, and have eaten but a crust since breaking their fast.’
The swift glance that Catchpoll cast Bradecote showed eyes that glittered. He was angling for as good a hot meal as the priory kitchen could produce, and Prior John took the bait.
‘I will instruct the brothers in the kitchen to ensure there is plenty to assuage their hunger, a good thick pottage, fresh bread and perhaps baked apples.’
Bradecote’s own stomach nearly rumbled out loud at the thought, and he realised he had eaten nothing since before dawn.
When he sat down at the prior’s own table, however, and faced not only these delights, but a plump pigeon also, Hugh Bradecote’s appetite dwindled, for in his mind he saw Christina, cold and hungry, living upon what little her captors spared her. Prior John noticed the reluctance, and pressed him, gently, both to eat and explain his loss of appetite. The prior was a man who listened well, and Bradecote found himself telling him about Christina FitzPayne. The Benedictine’s advice was curiously similar to Catchpoll’s. He recommended that he eat well to keep up his strength for the hunt, trust her current safety to God, who would surely watch over her, and focus all his mind on a successful resolution.
‘What would she say to you, my son, if she saw you leave the sustenance you need, out of thinking of her lacking?’
‘She would tell me to eat, Father,’ he smiled sadly, ‘as if I was a recalcitrant child.’
That was one of the things he loved about her, he thought. Ela, and he realised with a jolt he had not had his first wife in his thoughts once in the last few weeks, would have wrung her hands and worried if he did not eat, but Christina would be practical, and if she thought there was no reason that he should fast, she would chivvy and berate him. The smile lengthened. He actually wanted to be wed to a woman who would nag him; she would nag him, though, from love, and her passionate nature, not as some shrew.
‘Then do as she would tell you. I will mention her especially in our prayers. We will pray for all the captives, and for God to guide you to success in releasing them.’ He paused and then, with sudden insight said, ‘It must be very lonely for her as the only woman.’
‘Indeed, Father.’
‘But remember this also. The blessed saint to whom she is upon pilgrimage, will be sure to add her protection, and will assuredly grant her benison.’
Later, as he lay wakeful in his cot, Hugh Bradecote also prayed that St Eadgyth would protect his intended, and whispered his firm intent to find her into the cold darkness.
The sheriff’s men woke to flurries of snow so thick as to be a blizzard, though Catchpoll promised an increasingly restless Bradecote that it would not last, and that it would hamper those they pursued as much as themselves. In the end they departed just after Sext, assured that they might return to the priory that evening, if their path had not taken them too far distant, and with repeated assurances of prayers for their success being offered at every office. The temperature had not risen with the dawn, and the wind now blew from the north-east, slicing through layers of clothing as if they were gossamer. Those men who had complained at being billeted in the priory stables now thought of them in a far more favourable way, and muttered about chasing about the shire when all sane folk were within doors by their hearth fires.
They retraced their route to the point where the trail crossed the track that had led them to the priory, though even in the woods the snow was deeper and hindered their progress, and set off once again across country. The woods were very quiet, except for the sound of the wind whipping between the bare branches. Once, a dog fox with some rodent in its jaws, slipped across their path, the orange-red coat standing out sharply in the colourless landscape, but otherwise it was a seemingly uninhabited world.
Prior John had told them that the Malvern brothers had no true tithe barn, but stored grain and straw at a small barn at Bransford, and that the monks of Worcester had an old grange a few miles further west, at Knightwick, but upon the southern bank of the Teme. The path they were now following certainly headed in the right direction, and Bradecote found himself wondering how best to tackle the situation if they found their quarry there. If there had been no hostages it would be simple, for, despite the loss to the priory, they would demand surrender or they would burn them out. The captives put a whole new complexion upon the matter. Starving them out would be nigh on impossible since the weather was so bad a besieging force could not camp outside more than a night or two at best, and the water they had should last that long at the least, if they had been sensible. The kidnappers would have no reason to throw down their arms at the first sign of being surrounded, and in fact were more likely to threaten the important hostages. The permutations made his head spin. He was brought back to the present by Catchpoll’s sudden halt, and the raising of his hand. Ahead of them, crows were squabbling over something upon the ground. His heart sank. Not another death, he prayed. Catchpoll watched, waited a moment, and then trotted forward, dispersing the angry birds. Bradecote fought his unwillingness to view another body, and followed. He was amazed to see Catchpoll looking at him, grinning.
‘Be eased, my lord. No monkish corpse this, just a roebuck as broke its leg and died. The crows haven’t been at it long, so I would say it was fresh overnight, and there is good meat here. What say we butcher it now and take the meat back as an offering for our lodgings at the priory. Venison stew would go down well, even if it has not hung.’
‘Are we on the King’s land, Catchpoll?’
‘Not sure, my lord,’ he rubbed his thumb down the side of his
nose, ‘but if the King don’t think it right to feed men upon his business, he’s lacking in royal generosity. Besides,’ he added pragmatically, ‘he won’t ever know and we won’t tell.’
‘Catchpoll, killing the King’s deer …’
‘And we never killed it, neither,’ added Catchpoll as a clincher.
Bradecote realised that leaving the carcass to the crows would be seen, probably rightly, as a cruel waste by his men. On the other hand, he had no wish to be delayed.
‘We’ll take it, but I want to keep going. Sling it across a beast and it can be butchered when we reach our halt for the night, whether that is Malvern or elsewhere.’
Grinning, Catchpoll dismounted, hoisted the deer onto his shoulder and carried it to one of the men-at-arms to put across his horse’s withers, with the reasoning that the man’s horse looked the sturdiest for the added burden. Then they resumed the trail, with the men thinking of warmth and good meat.
There was no sun, but if it had been showing through the cloud it would have shown itself well into its descent when they reached Bransford. The village reeve shook his head and said they had seen no body of men, but Catchpoll knew that the kidnappers would not have ridden through habitation, but rather around it. They were shown to the barn, set back from the village, that was used by the Malvern monks to store tithes from the vicinity. It was small, and tired-looking, and had, declared the reeve proudly, been the village barn, until replaced by a newer and larger one. The Benedictines had negotiated with their brothers in Pershore, who held the manor, for the right to the old one. It had saved them building from fresh, and their tenants down by the Teme and Severn from trailing all their dues back to Malvern itself.
‘You hear as how sometimes the houses of monks are not in charity with one another, but Abbot William and Prior John are good men, and fair. It has been a good arrangement. A lay brother comes out this way every so often to check the store, or brings a cart to take what is needed, and we sends in a dog, ratting, but otherwise it is their business and we leaves them to it.’
Hostage to Fortune Page 9
