Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘You have, for certain, been learning from Serjeant Catchpoll,’ de Beauchamp drawled, raising an eyebrow. Fortunately, he was in a mellow mood. ‘But you would be wise to remember that he has been in my service as serjeant these twenty years, and is thus, sometimes, permitted … a jest.’

  As set-downs went, it was positively benign, but Walkelin gulped and looked distinctly chastened. The sheriff gave him a sideways glance as the gaoler opened the cell.

  ‘But now you play your part in this, so do not present that face before the prisoner. We are confident, remember. Swagger counts for much.’

  As if to confirm this, he entered the cell and belched contentedly, looking down at Geoffrey, who cringed, unsure whether he should struggle to his feet out of respect, or remain on the floor where there was not so far to fall.

  ‘I decided you might be missing us, be feeling lonely, perhaps,’ William de Beauchamp’s voice was mockingly solicitous, ‘so we came back.’

  Geoffrey’s expression was all that his captors could have wanted, blending loathing, distrust, and, most of all, abject fear. The Geoffrey that Catchpoll had brought in, cocky and in control, as he thought, was no more. The combination of miserable conditions, mistreatment, and the fear of worse, which even haunted his fitful sleeping, had broken him. He had expected the bearded man, or whoever commanded him, to have made a push to have him freed, but nothing had happened. He had been abandoned to his fate, which looked increasingly grim. The relief he had initially felt over the absence of Catchpoll had been replaced by the realisation that the lord Sheriff was of a similar disposition, and had as many unpleasant things in store for him. He also appeared to get a remarkable amount of entertainment from the process. Geoffrey, son of Herluin, had never seen much more to the sheriff than the office itself, with whom he came into contact for taxation, but had no more inkling about William de Beauchamp than any other artisan or tradesman in Worcester. He was powerful, tough, and worked way above their level. Now, far too late, he saw that he was indeed a man to fear, which was just what de Beauchamp wanted him to do.

  ‘Now, this time we are going to ask you questions, and you are going to tell us the truth, not some “clever” little story. You see, you made a mistake, being clever. Me, I do not pretend to be clever, because I do not need to. I am simply brutal. It serves me very well and,’ he leant down close enough for Geoffrey to feel his breath, ‘is very satisfying.’

  Geoffrey shuddered. He had thought himself clever; too clever to use all the silver hoard in the forgeries; too clever to be caught; too clever not to have made himself valuable in case of the worst befalling him; but now he was doomed. He was going to die, that was for certain, for the death of the aspiring journeyman let alone his moneying deceits. The noose seemed an almost welcome prospect in comparison with the unthinkable penalties he might face for those, and all after this monster of a sheriff had finished ‘playing’ with him as a cat would toss a helpless mouse.

  ‘I will tell no lie, will confess all, my lord,’ he whimpered, abject and defeated.

  ‘The silver was never in that hiding hole you have on the Evesham road, was it?’ Walkelin grumbled, for it rankled that he had been sent on such a fool’s errand in the cold.

  Geoffrey shook his head, and looked from Walkelin to the sheriff.

  ‘No, my lord. The silver is beneath the henhouse of my neighbour, the Widow Thatcher. She is innocent of all knowledge, my lord, being old and three-parts blind. She has kept her chickens more years than I can recall, and I offered to repair her henhouse two summers back, and to double-check for any eggs once or twice a week, if I could have what I found. She misses quite a few, of course, but it also means I have regular access, and I thought it an even safer spot than within my workshop. I always keep some silver blanks there, and old good coin, in case I should ever be robbed in my own home. It was the obvious place to put the hoard.’

  Walkelin looked to de Beauchamp, wondering whether he would be sent straightaway to find the cache, and rather hoping he might stay to see what else the prisoner revealed. The sheriff’s response saved him asking.

  ‘We will relieve the fowls of their shiny lodgers in good time. Now …’

  ‘Are there any more hidden dies?’ Walkelin blurted out, suddenly wondering if dividing his precious possessions was usual for the man. ‘I am sorry, my lord, but if he splits his silver …’

  De Beauchamp’s instant scowl eased.

  ‘Aye, it is a fair enough question. You might as well tell us, anyway, Moneyer, since you will never strike another coin.’

  There was a truth and finality to the statement that crushed Geoffrey completely. He gulped, and there were tears in his voice as he named the two other secret places, and gave directions to find them.

  ‘Now, we proceed to the other side of this affair, the man or men for whom you work.’

  ‘I told truth, my lord, about the bearded man.’

  ‘Perhaps you did,’ agreed Walkelin, ‘but we may learn more yet that you do not know you know.’

  Geoffrey had a sudden image of foul torture and went from white to sickly green of cheek. The sheriff laughed.

  ‘The idea of “extracting” information might appeal, but pain may cloud your memories. We shall reserve that in case you are not totally forthcoming.’

  ‘Please, my lord, I will keep nothing back.’

  ‘Hmmm, like you did not keep the other dies back,’ murmured Walkelin, keeping up the pressure, and earning an approving nod from his superior. ‘Tell us every scrap of information, however small. When were you approached? Was it by the bearded man? Tell us exactly how he looked, how he acted, what he said at your meetings.’

  De Beauchamp, realising that he had no need to look more than normally threatening, leant against the stone wall of the cell, and folded his arms, casually, waiting, and also watching Walkelin. Catchpoll had said good things about his protégé, and the sheriff could see he was right. There was a dogged focus within him that worked through a problem, even if he was not one to make leaps of thought. That concentration was upon the slightly freckled face now, as he listened carefully to Geoffrey’s tale.

  He had been approached just before Advent, by this man with the close-cropped beard, who introduced himself as one who knew his kinsman Mauger, the Stoulton sheep-stealer. The proposal he made was one of mutual advantage. He would bring Geoffrey a supply of dies from about the country, so diverse as not to have caused flutterings in the King’s Exchequer, at least in such uncertain times, and also a good weight of high-quality silver. From this, and with whatever dross a coiner would use, Geoffrey was to produce forged coin that could be put into circulation easily. For his work he would get a portion of the coin and make a tidy fortune in the process. The aim was to keep the silver content as low as possible without easy detection. The silver pennies that had come to light were from the first minting, which Geoffrey said had been pitifully poor, but he wanted to see if the population were as easily fooled as he thought. He had made no more than forty such pennies, some already cut to halfpennies, and got Roger the alehouse keeper to use them. The burgesses of Worcester, he admitted, were more astute than he gave them credit for, and so the next minting, made but not distributed, was of a higher content, though he said, with some pride, that it had a quarter less silver than it should. Walkelin had not interrupted to enquire why Mauger might have thought his cousin would be open to such an offer, if his probity had always been good, but he did halt the tale to ask why the bearded man was happy to trust Geoffrey with dies and silver.

  ‘It was uncanny.’ Geoffrey actually crossed himself. ‘He said I could not deceive them nor run, for everything about me was known, and in truth, he was right. He knew about Mald …’

  ‘I should think all those who supped in the Moon alehouse knew about her,’ Walkelin snorted.

  ‘Yes, but … He could even tell me the side of the bed I used, as if he had been there, watched us sleeping.’

  ‘You pay to actually sleep
there?’ It was de Beauchamp’s turn to sound incredulous. ‘I would have thought …’ He shrugged. ‘Continue.’

  ‘He knew how I spent my day from the moment I rose to the moment I slumbered, knew those whom I counted acquaintance, or friend − knew I disliked raw onions, even. He said every move I made would be watched and if I betrayed the trust put in me, his lord would personally rip out my guts and feed them to the curs of Worcester. He meant it, I know he did.’

  ‘Then describe again this man, who could be so forgettable,’ challenged Walkelin. ‘What manner of speech had he. You said before that his face was weathered, so were there also marks? What sort of boots did he wear?’

  ‘His boots?’ queried de Beauchamp.

  ‘Aye, my lord. A man may have several changes of clothes, but if he is not wealthy, or if he moves about without a permanent home, he is unlikely to possess more than one pair of boots.’

  ‘Fair point. Then yes, tell us about his boots too.’

  ‘I … er … well, his boots were brown. Well used, but good boots. I can say no more about them.’

  ‘A very “brown” man all told, our bearded friend,’ remarked de Beauchamp, casually.

  ‘Yes indeed, my lord. His face was swarthy, bronzed as I said before. His clothes had seen good wear but were not from your common sort of man, and his eyes too were brown.’

  ‘Was there anything about him that was not?’ sighed the sheriff.

  ‘What did he say about his lord?’ Walkelin was not giving up.

  ‘Mentioned him but rarely, he did. But there was a pride in him, I’d vouch for that. He knew his lord to be a very hard man, but did not seem afraid of him, as though he knew him many years and was more a companion than mere servant. He was not a servile sort of man at all.’

  ‘And the name? Can you recall better the name of the lord?’

  ‘No, only that it began with an “R”, and was not Rannulph or Robert. I am fairly certain it ended in “D”, but might be wrong. He mentioned it in passing, once only.’

  ‘Did he have a horse, the brown-bearded man? And please do not say it was brown.’

  ‘He arrived on foot, my lord. I never saw any horse. In fact, he sort of appeared, and disappeared.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ De Beauchamp pulled a face. ‘Not very helpful.’

  ‘I am sorry, my lord,’ stammered Geoffrey, instantly.

  ‘If,’ wondered Walkelin slowly, ‘the man knew so much about your private life, how come he did not know about your hideaways?’

  ‘The one in my own workshop, beneath the threshold, I have only ever used when the place is shut and safe. Nobody could know of that one.’

  ‘But Mald’s? And the henhouse?’

  ‘Perhaps he did not watch me that particular visit.’

  ‘The henhouse was more regular, so it is possible he knew.’ Walkelin frowned. ‘My lord, I think it best I go and find out what Widow Thatcher’s hens are brooding.’

  ‘Yes.’ De Beauchamp stretched. ‘We have finished here.’

  He called for the gaoler, and Geoffrey heard the man ask whether he might now feed the prisoner. The sheriff looked surprised.

  ‘Feed him? Did I say so? No. Then do not. He can wait until tomorrow and digest his own failings.’

  On which depressing note, he stalked out.

  Chapter Twelve

  During the night it snowed again, even more heavily. Bradecote swore in frustration when he stepped out and discovered it, but Catchpoll reminded him yet again that if it hampered them then it hampered the kidnappers also. They made their farewells to Father Prior, with Catchpoll resigned to the fact that the venison, which had filled his dreams, would never pass his lips. He hoped the monks appreciated it.

  The horses had to plough through snow that came halfway up to their hocks, and snow flurries remained upon the wind as the dismal dawn reluctantly gave up what light it possessed. Two men were sent upon the road to Powick to conceal themselves within view of the bridge, to see whether there were any others watching the crossing of the Teme, while the remainder crossed the bridge of its tributary at Leigh. They had no need to ask whether any riders had been sighted, for the snow was a pristine white blanket on the far side, marred only by the footprints of deer and fox.

  ‘There, my lord, none have passed through here this morning. We make our dispositions as we wish and wait for them to walk into our arms, nice and snug. Our only real concern is keeping the horses warm enough while we stand about, for what might be an hour or even two if we are unlucky.’

  Bradecote was conscious now of excitement, an anticipation of action, though also of a peak of risk for his Christina. Well, it was up to him to make sure she was unharmed. The snow now worked against them, for concealment among the trees and undergrowth would mean urging their mounts from perhaps fifty paces from their targets, and if the hostages were close bound, there might be time to either slaughter them or use them as shields with which to bargain. He regretted having so few archers among the men-at-arms. Thomas Wood had a bow, and perhaps five others. Kidnappers and captives alike would be wrapped up as best they could, hooded and indistinguishable, but those upon mules would almost certainly be Benedictines. Father Samson had been upon a horse, he recalled, but it had not been a beast he would recognise again. Christina ought to be easiest to spot, thank God, smaller, upon a white-blazed chestnut, though she might not be as obvious as he would like. He detailed Wood and another archer, one on each side, to concentrate upon identifying her, and bringing down any threat that existed before he himself could reach her.

  Deployment of his men was easy, since the enemy was effectively funnelled into the bottleneck of the little bridge. All they had to do was get into the closest cover either side, with a couple of men left to prevent any who reached the bridge passing beyond, and to do so without churning up so much snow that it would be obvious there had been many horsemen here, from a distance. He made good use of every holly bush and evergreen for concealment, and hoped that the kidnappers would not be on the alert, since some men had simply to keep still among the bare trees. At least the archers could be placed well, their mounts kept back on the eastern side of the bridge.

  They waited. They grew numb of foot and finger, and a worm of worry began to eat at Bradecote’s brain. Could Catchpoll have misread the signs last night? A single horseman came over the horizon. Catchpoll and Bradecote exchanged glances. A man would need a very good reason to be riding out today.

  ‘Perhaps they were delayed, my lord, and their scout is only a little way ahead of them. Shall I take him, far side of the bridge, where there will be less fuss?’

  ‘Yes, and unharmed. We need all the information we can get from him.’

  The rider was not well mounted, but upon a shaggy beast that looked best suited to pulling a cart, and as he passed by, Bradecote had to admit he did not look at all like a man of quick wits and actions. He frowned. There came the sound of hooves upon the wooden planks of the bridge, then a muffled cry from beyond. A minute or so later, Catchpoll appeared, grim-faced, and with the rider, trailing miserably behind him.

  ‘Well?’ Bradecote’s tone was peremptory, for he guessed whatever news the serjeant brought was not good.

  ‘My lord, this is the reeve from Knightwick, on his way to Worcester to tell the prior he no longer has a grange, and the lord Sheriff that there is a corpse, a burnt corpse, in the ashes.’

  Bradecote went white. For a moment no words came. He wiped his hand across his mouth and swallowed hard.

  ‘When was this fire? At dawn?’ He wondered whether it had been set upon the kidnappers’ departure, to lure them away from Powick. He looked at the reeve. ‘Go on, man, tell me,’ he barked.

  ‘My lord,’ the reeve looked unhappy, ‘the fire was some time about midnight, we think. A cottager heard a screaming noise and peered out to see the sky lit by fire. The grange was all aflame when we reached it, and nothing could be done but let it burn itself out. Some poor pedlar, or traveller of some sort, si
nce he had a pony, must have gone there, hoping for shelter and food from the brothers, found the place empty, and—’

  ‘Set himself on fire inside?’ Bradecote’s voice was incredulous.

  ‘I cannot explain that, my lord, but what other cause could there be for a man to be within the barn?’

  ‘It was a man, for sure?’ the undersheriff was suddenly eager.

  ‘Well, I assumed …’ The reeve pulled a face. ‘I can only say for certain it was once a poor soul, and what woman would be abroad alone?’

  Bradecote bit his lip, to hold back his retort. It was unfair. What could this man be expected to know? He tried to think clearly.

  ‘Serjeant Catchpoll, it looks unlikely the kidnappers will come this way now, but it will be our quickest route back to Powick. Send half the men into Leigh, and have them warm themselves at any hearths they may, to exchange later with those here. You and I will make best pace with Master Reeve here, and see what remains of Knightwick grange. Tell Thomas Wood he has command in our absence, and if, by some strange occurrence, the gang appears, my orders stand, to the word, and, whatever the lord Sheriff might want, their priority is to save the lady Christina, is that understood?’

  ‘Aye, my lord, it is.’

  Catchpoll went to pass this order, while the reeve of Knightwick stood, looking worried, confused, and uncomfortable. The latter was caused by the trickle of melting snow within his cotte that was coursing down between his shoulder blades. He had spent a disturbed night, begun a miserable morning in foul weather, and was now at the beck and call of a very morose undersheriff. Within a couple of minutes Serjeant Catchpoll returned, mounted and leading the shaggy pony. Bradecote swung himself into his own saddle and the three horsemen urged their mounts back towards Knightwick, and the burnt-out grange.

  The remains of Knightwick grange were a pathetic black and grey smudge in the near pristine whiteness of the snow. The wind picked up handfuls of ash, tossed them and then discarded them, so that the little ash flakes mixed with the snowflakes, and the smell of burning remained in the air. The reeve was not keen to go back to within where the barn itself had stood, for he had never seen a charred corpse before this morning, and never wished to again. Catchpoll had seen his fair share, and Bradecote also, in the course of his recent shrieval duties, though he still loathed the sweet smell of cooked flesh.