Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Cannot decide, or unwilling to confess? And confession is so good for the soul, too.’ Reynald drew so close his eyes glittered into the Benedictine’s. ‘You will confess before the end.’

  Father Samson’s eyes widened, just a fraction, just enough for Reynald to at last detect fear in him.

  ‘But the lord Sheriff may—’

  ‘You do not know William de Beauchamp. I do. I think you had best pray very hard to your god for deliverance, don’t you?’

  ‘He is your God also, if you would but accept …’

  ‘He is no god of mine. I believe in nothing but myself.’

  ‘Your soul …’

  ‘Don’t waste your breath.’ Reynald made a sound between a growl and a laugh. ‘Oh, and do not think to frighten me with excommunication, should a prelate hear of my deeds, for I am excommunicate already.’

  Christina watched him turn away and shivered, not just from the cold. If Father Samson had not met a man like Reynald de Roules before, then she, in her misfortune, had. She hoped that his focus upon his dislike of the Benedictines would keep him from any interest in her, but her head told her she remained at risk, and her only protection was her knife, which she used to cut onions. ‘They break so easily’ he had said, as if he had broken women before. It was not a comforting thought with which to curl up and attempt to sleep, and she felt as if her prayers were as lost in the cold dark as her body.

  ‘Pigface’ shivered. The warmth of the fire outside had been just enough to keep misery at bay, but here in the barn the chill had got to him once more, though he had burrowed as best he could in the hay, and tried to creep closer to Kenelm, who had kicked him away, drowsily. He had trodden in a fox’s fouling, and the smell was pungent, but taking off his boots would have meant frozen feet for sure. That fire, it glowed in his mind. He wanted to be warm again. He could be warm again. In the darkness he crawled towards the barn door, stood, and eased it open. If any stirred, they thought it the wind in the wooden structure, or someone going outside to relieve themselves of more than could soak into the dirt in some corner. Behind the barn the last red glow remained, but it was disappointing. The flames had shrunk to nervous red tongues licking up through the charring twigs. The fire was warm but the wind was bitter cold. ‘Pigface’ had an idea. He would clear a small space and make himself a little hearth. After all, people had hearths in their homes. He took some twigs and sticks from the edge of the fire and went back into the barn, cautiously, pleased with himself and keen that this should be his very own fire. He pushed the hay aside on the dirt floor, and made a little pyre, then crept outside and, risking his fingers, took the end of a stick, the farthest end of which glowed scarlet. Cosseting it, protecting it from the wind, he returned and coaxed it into life with his kindling. For a few minutes his success looked in doubt, but then the little redness spread. ‘Pigface’ smiled in innocent delight. The amount of heat he would gain was actually meagre, but he felt he was warmer, and curled up, watching it until his eyelids drooped and slumber took him.

  Christina was dreaming. It was a nightmare of the sort where everything was confused. She was cooking again, but with orders to produce a feast for the King, and yet had two cabbages, a string of onions and a bag of flour. She was stirring a distinctly unappetising-looking ‘glue’ over the fire, and it smelt of cabbage water and onions and was likely to have her flogged for incompetence or worse, executed for trying to poison King Stephen. Now the attendants were stamping their feet, tired of waiting, and the fire was smoking and making her cough. She coughed, and the unreal and the real met, and parted with her on the side of wakefulness, still smelling smoke. She opened her eyes, coughed again, and, without thinking, screamed ‘Fire!’, stumbling to her feet as she did so, and almost falling over Brother Augustine.

  Her cry alerted others, more deeply asleep. The smoke had been joined by a crackle, and the sight of hungry flame lipping at the straw. Everything was confused. In the darkness men swore, and stumbled about, trying to calm and grab the increasingly agitated horses. Christina was near the door. Her thoughts were of herself and Brother Augustine, who was incapable. She grabbed him by the shoulders and heaved, dragging him nearer the door, pushing it open, taking a breath of pure air so sharp with cold her lungs pained her.

  The opening of the door sucked in the air the fire craved, and suddenly it was not licking but ravaging. She was outside, hauling the injured monk so that he was not about to be trampled by man or horse. There was mayhem. Figures came out with horses in tow, the brethren, their hands bound, were tripping over their habits as they made their escape from the increasing heat. For a brief, liberating moment, Christina saw her chance. She did not know where she was, or which direction she might head, but if she slipped away now, unseen, there was a chance she might be considered unworthy of following. Leaving the brother would be a sorrow, but the man was dying. It was only a matter of time, she was sure, for all her care of him. She made her decision, stood, and felt the hand on her arm. It was Guy.

  ‘Just in case you had any ideas of leaving us, Mistress,’ he said, softly, ‘think again. I am watching you. Watching you is the best job on this miserable meandering, so don’t think I am going to abandon it, or you.’

  He felt her sag. She would do nothing. He returned to chivvying the men to get the beasts out.

  Reynald stood with his own horse, as if deep in thought. For a man of action he could be remarkably still. Then he shouted, and everyone attended.

  ‘All men out? All beasts? Guy, count ’em.’

  There was silence, then Guy’s response.

  ‘All prisoners, all men, one mule short.’

  ‘Which of you stupid bastards lit a fire?’ He could see the blaze had started from within, and had not been some spark from the near-dead fire outside. His eyes, demonic in the fire glow, ran over his men. No prisoner could have set a fire. They looked scared, and confused, like panicked sheep. His men were little better. He watched, judged. Then he stared at ‘Pigface’.

  ‘Le feu?’

  The man’s little eyes stared back at him. He said but one word.

  ‘Froid.’

  So he had been cold. Well, now he would not be. Reynald shoved the big man to the door of the barn, now well alight.

  ‘Allez chercher la mule.’

  He pushed him inside.

  ‘He’ll not manage—’ Kenelm began to speak, but stopped, and his jaw dropped, as Reynald put the bar across the door.

  ‘Mount up and let us be gone before the locals notice the sky is all red. Come on.’

  Without so much as looking again at the barn, he swung up into the saddle and trotted away, confident of being followed. Part of the barn roof fell in, and the departing figures heard a high-pitched scream, which might have been the mule.

  Chapter Eleven

  William de Beauchamp had never had any intention of complying with the demand to appear at the bridge over the Teme with Geoffrey. Indeed, he had not considered it even worth stating to his undersheriff and serjeant before leaving them. As far as he was concerned, he had left them hunting on the west bank of the Severn, and he had taken the precaution of ensuring he was informed of any body of men crossing at the ferry points, both at Upton and Worcester ford itself. He was tackling the situation from the other end. The information that this morning the river was frozen so that no ferry could cross, played into his own hands. The kidnappers would not know whether he had been going to give in or not, and might just decide not to kill another hostage. With the exception of Christina FitzPayne, who was a comely woman, and whose death would possibly ruin Bradecote, and the likely reaction of the Archbishop of Canterbury to the loss of his envoy, de Beauchamp was not particularly concerned whether other hostages were killed, except that it taunted his authority. He hoped Bradecote and Catchpoll might have success, but could do nothing practical to aid them. He therefore concentrated his efforts on the things he could work upon, and sent Walkelin to find the hoard of silver, which would de
ny it to the enemy, and perhaps give a solid clue to who these criminals were, or at least whence they had come.

  With his previous day’s success boosting his confidence, Walkelin set off early next morning, through the Sutheburi Gate and onto the Evesham road. ‘His’ men-at-arms were only really required so that they could assist in carrying the silver back to Worcester if it was too heavy, and as a nominal protection. It was a task without risk, and had the weather been kinder, all three would have considered it as good as a Holy Day, with none to order them about for the morning. The January weather, however, chose to chastise them. A north-easterly wind bit deep through the layers of cloak, cotte and undershirt, for they wore as many layers as possible, and carried flurries of snow that settled upon ground already iron-hard. They held to a brisk trot, which kept the horses warm enough, but failed to assist the extremities of the riders. They muffled their faces in an effort to prevent frost-nip, but their breath condensed to an icy wetness on the woollen cloth. It was not a day to be abroad.

  They saw but three souls upon their journey, and those only upon the outskirts of Worcester itself. About halfway between Whittington and Stoulton they slowed to a walk, keeping an eye out to the left of the road for the blasted elm that had been given as the sign for them to halt.

  Geoffrey had not told them to look beneath this gaunt ghost of a tree. It was, he said, too obvious a place of itself. Instead, they were to hunt between the roots of a holly tree, some ten paces eastward and out of direct sight from the road. The undergrowth was certainly a good concealment, out of which the holly protruded, glossy amidst the winter dullness. The trio tethered their mounts to a sturdy branch, and grubbed about beneath the holly − like hogs in the forest, complained one of the men-at-arms. There was meant to be a large flat stone, disguised by a dusting of earth and vegetation, so there would be no need to dig properly. With bare hands, that had been chilled even within gauntlets and now hurt in the freezing air, they scrabbled, swearing, at the unforgiving soil. It was one of the men-at-arms who raised the shout of success as his broken fingernails contacted a clear stony edge.

  Three pairs of eyes were focussed upon the slab as it was lifted, to reveal a chamber the size of a horse’s head, and two feet deep, the sides slabbed like a small kist, but totally empty. Walkelin’s disappointment was vented in a long exhalation.

  ‘The bastard sent us out for nothing. I’ll …’ he paused, trying to think of something suitable and Catchpoll-like to suggest doing to Geoffrey upon his return, but nothing came, and he merely growled menacingly. The men-at-arms were less aggrieved, and shrugged. Life was full of disappointments.

  Walkelin seethed all the way back to Worcester, his anger on the boil, and was even tempted to go direct to the cells before reporting to de Beauchamp, but sense won over ire.

  The lord Sheriff was equally annoyed, though he had enjoyed the proximity of a good fire all forenoon, and had not experienced the perishing cold. He swore in words Walkelin did not understand, but which were clearly vengeful. Walkelin hoped they were not directed at him, and this showed upon his face. Seeing his uncertainty, de Beauchamp smiled, grimly.

  ‘Not your fault. The other information was true enough, what reason had we to doubt this? None. No, it is our creator of false coin and false words we have to blame, and he will not like the penalties.’

  With which he strode off towards the cells, with Walkelin trailing in his wake. The gaoler had scarcely time to fumble the key in the lock and open the door, before the lord Sheriff thrust him out of the way and advanced into the dank cell, grabbed Geoffrey by the throat, even as he tried to stand, and shook him as a dog shakes a rat. Walkelin actually wondered if the man’s neck might snap with the force. Geoffrey’s eyes bulged, and his teeth rattled.

  ‘Play games with me, would you, cur?’ de Beauchamp yelled, but then dropped his voice to a dangerous purr. ‘Well, the games I play are far rougher than you would like.’

  He dropped the forger, gasping for air, to lie crumpled on the dirt floor, and sneered down at him.

  ‘No breath for lies now, eh?’

  De Beauchamp watched the heaving chest, saw the fearful look in the face that was eventually upturned to him. The hard eyes met the wide, terrified ones, and locked. Without blinking, or losing contact, the sheriff moved a booted foot, and stood upon the hand which braced Geoffrey from lying face down in the dirt. William de Beauchamp was a big man, and he let his weight balance shift so that the vast majority was on that foot, crushing that hand. Geoffrey’s mouth opened in a cry of pain.

  ‘What lies?’ he screamed, realising they had now found the empty hiding place.

  ‘The hoard of foreign silver that has vanished into thin air.’

  ‘Gone?’ Geoffrey whimpered, tremulously.

  ‘Or was never there,’ growled de Beauchamp.

  ‘No, no, he must have come and removed it, the bearded man, when he heard I was taken.’

  It was possible, but de Beauchamp was not entirely convinced. Better to let the man stew and ask again later. He watched the pain and fear in the prisoner’s eyes, and then spoke calmly, almost silkily.

  ‘As I said, you won’t like my games, and down here, there are so many to play. The best bit is that I know when, and you do not. Anticipation is half the pleasure, don’t you think?’

  He ground his boot, very slightly, just to increase the agony, and then turned away, telling the gaoler that the prisoner had lost his appetite and would need no more food that day. He did not look back at Geoffrey, and spared only a glance at Walkelin, until they were outside again. Walkelin, who had himself been in a mood to strike Geoffrey, was divided between admiration and horror. If that was just the start of things, what would the lord Sheriff order next? Walkelin did not think he had a weak stomach, but torture in cold blood was not an easy thing to face.

  De Beauchamp smiled.

  ‘I feel a lot better for that. Now, I wonder if the chicken I was promised has finished upon the spit.’

  Walkelin’s jaw dropped, as de Beauchamp guessed it would, and he laughed out loud.

  ‘Not been at this long enough, have you? I’d lay you odds Serjeant Catchpoll has told you before now that a man’s fearful imaginings are worth twice what you can achieve by simple violence. I hurt him for sure; I enjoyed it and he deserved it, but think how much worse he feels now, wondering what is next.’

  ‘And what is next, my lord?’

  ‘No idea yet,’ shrugged the sheriff, ‘but I would wager it is not half as bad as he thinks it will be.’

  Walkelin had to admit that was just what Serjeant Catchpoll would have said.

  William de Beauchamp did enjoy a noontide meal, though Walkelin was not, of course, privy to it. Instead, Catchpoll’s apprentice made his way to the kitchens, not so much for sustenance as warmth, and company. There was a new kitchen maid with dark tresses and a way of glancing under her long lashes that made him think thoughts for which, had she known of them, his mother would beat him with her broom, and then lecture him on how things were when she was young and maids were modest. The girl’s name was Eluned, which would also have caused mutterings, since his mother never failed to denunciate all Welsh females as loose in morals. Walkelin once asked her why she thought this, and had his ears boxed for impertinence.

  He would certainly have defended this particular Welsh maid as demure. Her glances were shy, and not enticing, and in his more depressed moments, Walkelin wondered if she was just bemused by his red hair. There was much talk of her in the guardroom, but anticipatory rather than from knowledge. She was some distant relative of Nesta, erstwhile widow and baker in the castle foregate, and now wife to Drogo, who commanded in the kitchens.

  Walkelin was interested, but not about to risk being snubbed, so he undertook what Serjeant Catchpoll described as ‘becoming a wall’, the fine art of being forgotten by the people around you. He found himself a spot that was warm, not going to have him berated for being underfoot, and gave a good view of all th
at went on in the busy castle kitchen. Then he watched, and he listened. It was true; after a few minutes he was no more considered than the spits and spoons.

  He had gone to watch the shapely Eluned, but what he heard took more of his mind. The hand nailed to the castle door was still a major topic of conversation, and he could almost have laughed out loud at the wildness of the speculation that it produced. There were those who said the kidnappers were Welsh, and not really interested in Geoffrey, but in forcing the archbishop’s man to concede to the Bishop of St David’s. This drew a snort and angry shake of the head from Eluned, though she was too junior to dare speak out. When another, with good reason, asked why Welsh churchmen should mutilate their non-Celtic brothers, one man shrugged and simply said the Welsh were heathen at heart. This did draw a response, and she clattered a platter onto the trestle table, declaring, in her lilting voice, that the Welsh had been Christians when the English were wicked pagans with more gods than days of the week. There then ensued a loud interchange between those with Celtic ancestry and those purely Anglo-Saxon, and which was only halted by Drogo’s bellowing reprimand to everyone, which was so colourful in its language that several girls covered their ears.

  Having had a good helping of watching Eluned, and a reasonable hunk of fresh bread and some ale, Walkelin, mindful of his mentor’s absence, did what he thought Catchpoll would do in the circumstances. He checked with the men at the gate that no messengers had come for the lord Sheriff, and nothing untoward had been seen. Judging that by this time his superior would have finished his repast, he then reported back to the sheriff, who was picking meat from his teeth. Together, they ambled back to the cells, knowing Geoffrey had had nothing at all. While the gaoler unlocked the door, de Beauchamp described a delicious pigeon patty in loud and glowing detail to Walkelin, with an accompanying wink and broad smile.

  ‘And I thought you was having chicken, my lord,’ murmured Walkelin, forgetting himself, then colouring to the roots of his red hair and garbling a humble apology.