Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘No, my lord, but a long time ailing. Mauger’ − and the wheelwright spat on the frozen dirt as he spoke the name − ‘was taught the trade, of course, but was ham-fisted and not cut out for it. His father took me on when my own father died, and treated me as good as a son, even though the business would go to Mauger and I would work for him.’

  ‘Did you resent that?’ asked Walkelin, not unsympathetically. ‘After all, you would be the craftsman.’

  ‘What point was there?’ The wheelwright shrugged. ‘To be honest, I thought that when I ceased to be a journeyman I might leave Stoulton, and find a place with some older man who lacked kin to take over the work when he became too aged. But before that happened, Mauger got took for stealing sheep, and I fell for a village maid, and well … Here I am.’

  De Beauchamp, who saw no point in this line of questioning, and had no interest in the wheelwright, returned the conversation to Mauger.

  ‘He was declared outlaw. So he claimed sanctuary.’

  ‘Aye, my lord, but not here. He took sanctuary away south in Bushlea.’

  ‘In ’35, yes?’ De Beauchamp’s eyes had narrowed. ‘I wonder.’

  ‘My lord?’ Walkelin was in the dark, and the wheelwright just stood blinking. De Beauchamp did not seem to notice them, rather he was lost in some meditation of his own. He emerged, shaking himself like a wet dog, and looked at the wheelwright. ‘Why Bushlea?’

  ‘It was as far as he got before thinking he would be caught?’ The man frowned. ‘Though now I think about it, there was something.’

  ‘Think harder, man. This may be important.’

  The wheelwright rolled his eyes, under pressure. Walkelin did not think the sheriff was wise to fluster the man.

  ‘I … I am not sure. His mother, my aunt, had kin there, I think.’ The wheelwright pulled a face. ‘He had been there before, when his “tricks” put him out of favour here at home, yes, that must have been it.’ He sounded relieved, as if anything less would attract the lord Sheriff’s wrath. ‘There, my lord.’

  De Beauchamp did not respond immediately, and the wheelwright’s relief turned to disappointment. He had hoped for at least a word of praise for his effort of memory. He frowned, and there was silence for a minute.

  ‘Reynald de Roules,’ William de Beauchamp murmured, almost to himself.

  The wheelwright’s frown deepened.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘It was that year that Picot de Roules sent his son abroad.’

  Walkelin was as confused as the wheelwright.

  ‘But, how does that …’

  ‘Picot de Roules was a good man, a fair man. Always said there was bad blood on the wife’s side, though. She was of the family of Bellême, and we all know their blood.’

  Whatever was known among the landed classes, Walkelin and the wheelwright were no better off, and still looked mystified.

  ‘Reynald was the second son, and his mother’s favourite. There were rumours, but perhaps he really was Picot’s. She encouraged Reynald, I would swear to it.’ He was still talking more to himself than the other two. ‘There was nothing he would not think within his rights, as he proved.’

  He might not be talking to them, but he had their attention.

  ‘Picot would never have asked for the heiress to such estates for a younger son, not without pressure from his wife and Reynald himself. It was foolish, and so I told him. I recommended that the King refuse his request, and King Henry agreed. I do not think Picot was surprised either. The next thing was that the girl disappeared. Reynald clearly hoped that possession, in every sense, would change minds. Perhaps it might, but the maid, though maid she was no more, took her own life. Reynald said he was just a “little rough” with her, but she was a fool, panicked, and slit her own wrists. Well, I saw the corpse. The state she was in I would doubt she would have had the strength left.’ He shook his head, the memory revolting him. ‘There’s force, and there’s force. I dare say many a nervous virgin has jibbed like an unbacked filly, and submitted to a mixture of seduction and strength, but those bruises, aye and broken skin also, were not simply indications of a reluctant “bride” not yet blessed by church or given by the secular authority. I think she died under his foul mistreatment and as soon as she ceased to breathe, he slit her wrists. Catchpoll agreed, but we could not prove it, and would never have got a confession from him. Picot was ashamed, mightily and rightly so, and did the only thing he could. He sent Reynald on pilgrimage to atone for his sins, and said he never wanted to see him on his lands again.’

  De Beauchamp blinked, and appeared to bring himself back to the present. His audience were respectful and silent for a moment, then Walkelin, who was frowning in concentration, spoke up.

  ‘You said Picot de Roules “was” a good man, my lord. He is dead now?’

  ‘Yes. Though I hardly see how it helps or hinders us.’ The sheriff scowled disapprovingly, thinking Walkelin was too slow and had not taken note of what he had been saying.

  In fact, Walkelin had listened very carefully, but his mind was thorough, rather than one which made great leaps of imagination. It was a trait Serjeant Catchpoll actively encouraged. He had commended him for it, saying that a good serjeant had to keep much in mind, and that letting it all jumble like a basket of eels was the path to madness, and failure.

  ‘Reynald de Roules was exiled by his father, not the law, my lord. If his mother were still alive,’ Walkelin speculated, hoping he was right, ‘would not a favourite son visit his mother if he returned to England? Should we not visit Bushlea?’

  De Beauchamp sniffed, considering the idea.

  ‘I cannot say whether the lady Sybilla is alive or dead. Her name has not been mentioned by Henry, who succeeded his father. But then, what reason would he have to do so? He knows my thoughts on her. I even made enquiry when Picot died … But there was no suggestion his death was not natural.’ The sheriff paused. ‘We could get there and back in the daylight, and it would be thorough. Is that something Catchpoll has been teaching you?’

  Walkelin nodded, and thanked the wheelwright, in whom de Beauchamp had patently lost interest. Then they left, he was just relieved to have passed from under shrieval scrutiny.

  It was something over a dozen miles to Bushlea, but most of the journey was on the old Roman road that ran south to north, and the sheriff and his acolyte took the better part of it at a canter, both to keep warm and to give them the chance to get back to Worcester before full dark. Henry de Roules was not an old man, by any means, but he had a careworn look about him, and his lady likewise, though it was possible that some of her tiredness came from the three small children about her skirts. De Roules greeted his sheriff with due deference, and offered mulled wine in refreshment, but his eyes grew nervous when his brother’s name was mentioned.

  ‘My lord, I beg you, speak softly. If my lady mother were to hear … It is bad enough—’

  ‘Hear what?’

  The voice was acidic, and jangling sharp in tone. Henry de Roules shut his eyes in misery, and Walkelin looked to the doorway of the solar, where a diminutive woman stood, with one bony, claw-like hand upon the amber knob of a blackthorn stick. The atmosphere seemed to have chilled in a moment, and Walkelin actually repressed a shudder.

  ‘Well?’

  De Beauchamp vouchsafed the lady a nod, but no more, and spoke, since de Roules did not seem to have any words in him.

  ‘I am come to ask if your son,’ and he stressed the possessive, ‘has shown his face here these last few months, my lady de Roules.’

  The lady’s hard eyes, dark as jet, narrowed, and her lip curled in disdain.

  ‘Since my son was never sent from the shire by the law, I do not see it is the law’s business whether he comes to his own home or not, de Beauchamp.’

  She made no pretence of politeness, and Henry de Roules, seeing the sheriff’s expression, interjected to placate him.

  ‘My lady mother does not mean—’

  ‘Silence, fool.
What gives you the right to say what I do, or do not, mean? In fact, get out,’ she pointed the stick at her unhappy son, and then, to his own horror, at Walkelin, ‘and take that red-mopped peasant with you. Since when have you “entertained” peasants in my hall? What I have to say to de Beauchamp, if anything, I will say in private.’

  She had said ‘my hall’, and Walkelin now understood the demeanour of Henry de Roules and his wife. This bird-like woman, more a crow to peck out eyes than a dove to coo lovingly, clearly ruled the roost. Part of him was shocked, for de Roules would otherwise have looked a very ordinary sort of lord, not one to be downtrodden, but this terrible crone who had such power she might well be a witch, as far as Walkelin could see, had the place under a spell. He withdrew thankfully, with the lord de Roules murmuring how it was just like his brother to harass him, even when dead.

  ‘Dead, my lord? You know this?’

  ‘No, but it leaps to the mind. If he lived, he would have come as the lord Sheriff suggested, and I have, thankfully, neither heard nor seen sign of him from the day my father cast him off.’

  ‘But the lady …?’

  ‘She will have it that he lives, and bides his time to return, though I have two healthy sons, and …’ De Roules paled as the unthinkable was thought.

  Walkelin, still uncomfortable getting information from his social superiors, effaced himself and went where he felt he might do more good. He went to the stables, ostensibly to check the sheriff’s horse had been receiving good care.

  In the hall, William de Beauchamp faced Sybilla de Roules. Somehow, he knew she would swear black was white, just to annoy him.

  ‘So, why do you come here now, after all these years, to torment an old woman?’

  She made it sound as if she were some enfeebled dame, although her twisted hands, and the stick, were the only indications of any infirmity of body, and her mind seemed as sharp as her tongue.

  ‘Because most crimes are simple crimes, based on greed, on fear, on lust. There are crimes being committed in this shire that are done for pleasure also, and by one who knows me. There are few who combine coolness with malice, and I do not know that Reynald de Roules is dead. So …’

  ‘You do him that justice, at least,’ she murmured, smiling. ‘He was always so very clever. Too clever for you, de Beauchamp, and if Picot de Roules had not been a mewling, weak-headed fool like his son and heir, he would be here now. I actually wonder sometimes if I ever gave birth to Henry or he was a changeling, a bastard-brat of Picot’s, swapped while I was too wearied by the process to notice.’

  Thus she calmly cast aspersions on both blameless son and spouse. De Beauchamp again wondered if old gossip spoke true. She had not mentioned her husband as Reynald’s sire, but it was not pertinent to what he needed to know.

  ‘Has Reynald come to you in these last months?’ He knew she was delaying, keeping him from his question. ‘Has he?’

  ‘Many times,’ she paused as his eyes widened, ‘in my dreams.’ Then she laughed. ‘I would not tell you, and you know it, de Beauchamp. Why did you come? Because you thought Henry would tell you? You are a bigger fool than he is.’

  William de Beauchamp would gladly have broken her thin neck, judging by the look on his face, and it made her laugh the louder.

  ‘Ah yes, I am protected by both age and sex, am I not? Get you back to Worcester and hunt chicken thieves. Leave me and mine alone.’

  De Beauchamp knew he was wasting his time. He withdrew with as much dignity as possible, and in a foul temper, which was only assuaged by the information that had been gleaned by Walkelin.

  ‘My lord, I guessed the lady Sybilla is feared, but not loved, by all in the manor. Nobody would dare disobey her, but nor would they seek to protect her. The stable lad was happy to talk about how their lives are made misery by the old dame, though I doubt he sees her direct, but rather suffers from the misery filtering down. I said she must have little reason to come to the stables, since she is old and looks infirm. He said she had not ridden in a long while, but took it up again before Christmas, despite the weather, and would not ride attended, for all the lord begged her to do so. Mind, if I were him, I would encourage her and hope she broke her neck.’

  ‘You liked her too, then.’ De Beauchamp gave a sour smile, and kicked his horse to a canter.

  ‘My lord, in truth, I think I saw a witch today.’

  Walkelin crossed himself devoutly. De Beauchamp secretly agreed with him, but then they said a Bellême ancestor had made a pact with the Devil.

  ‘So, the lady Sybilla takes to the saddle again, though she cannot find it comfortable, and at a strange time of year for enjoying the fresh air, and just before all this mayhem commences. Hmmmm. Does this all make sense to you, Walkelin?’

  ‘It makes sense, and the more so if there is a connection between Mauger and this Reynald. The hoard, which we have not looked at closely, was said to be of foreign silver from France and eastward, and the leader of the gang had a name like “Reginald”, according to Geoffrey. Add that to all this and what my lord Bradecote said when he read the last message, about how the man was at odds with you, my lord, personally … Yes, it fits.’

  ‘If Mauger was outlawed and had to make for the nearest port, he would go to Bristow. What would be more likely than him to fall in with de Roules’s “outlawed” son, for it was as good as an outlawing.’

  ‘We do not know it was the same time, my lord,’ Walkelin cautioned.

  ‘No, but the coincidence seems too good. I think we work upon the idea that he is our man, until proven otherwise.’

  Walkelin pursed his mouth, placing all the information in order in his head, methodically, as Serjeant Catchpoll had taught him. At the conclusion of this process he looked his sheriff in the eye.

  ‘If all this is true, my lord, then may all the saints of heaven protect the lady FitzPayne.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sheriff’s men-at-arms managed to find an evergreen thicket in which to secrete both themselves and their mounts, and approached it from an angle which they considered best hid their hoof prints. The only problem that they foresaw was that it was the only such thicket with a good view of the Powick bridge from the southern side, and they thereby risked finding the kidnapper’s man being wishful of sharing their cover. One of the men-at-arms regarded this as an advantage, since the man would ‘drop like a ripe apple in their lap’, but his companion, less sanguine, was not convinced that two-to-one was safe enough odds against the dangerous criminals they faced.

  ‘Besides, what if we have to kill him to protect ourselves? We was told to see where he went, and one of us to return here to meet the lord Undersheriff. Neither he nor Serjeant Catchpoll will be pleased if we present them with a corpse.’

  ‘Well, if you can think of anywhere better to hide, just tell me and we’ll go there,’ mumbled his practical partner, blowing on his hands, and stamping his feet.

  Guy left the occupants of the low-eaved dwelling huddled together, not just for warmth, but from fear. He told them that any attempt to go outside or alert anyone to what was going on would assuredly lead to the death of the head of the house, followed by their own. The woman did not, thankfully, try to hang about his feet and plead. Guy found such things histrionic and time-wasting. She nodded, promised, in hushed tones, to do as he commanded, and offered him the slightly stale bread that was to have been her meal. He pushed it away, gruffly. He was a man, after all, and would not take the food from a woman in her state.

  What he did take was her husband’s spare cotte and cloak, and the greasy fleece that the peasant had used to keep himself warm when scavenging in the woods. He also wrapped sacking about his legs, which further concealed his boots and gave a little extra warmth, and muffled his face as best he could. Today, Guy would be on foot, and his disguise was also a practical way to keep him from freezing. He saw the little sled beside the turnip clamp, and went off, dragging it behind him, a poor peasant whose supplies of kindling had be
en insufficient in the cold snap. None who saw him gave him a second thought.

  He skirted round Powick itself, for a man seeking wood would not need to go through a village, and, as he descended the hill, began to collect dead wood from among the trees that bordered the Teme. There was mistletoe among the skeletal branches, and it gave him cause to grimace. He had been a midwinter babe, and his mother had jokingly said he had been named Guy after the mistletoe rather than his grandsire, since the French for the plant was ‘gui’, like his name. He tried to cast the memory aside, for the Guy that had been her son, her pride, was no more.

  He made no attempt to conceal himself, indeed he even whistled a tune, one remembered from long ago and fully English. No fool was Guy, to ruin all with a song from beyond English shores. Nor did he fail to notice the best hiding place near the bridge. He smiled to himself, though his feet ached with cold, and his earlier noble impulse had left his stomach growling with hunger. If he was a man sent to spy upon a spy at the bridge, and just an average man, he would hide there for sure. Let them hide. He continued his quest for wood, and a wood pigeon, fluffed up against the cold on a branch above him, watched until he was almost below it, and then took off with a flapping sound that seemed extraordinarily loud in the white silence. It did not go far, in fact almost adjacent to the evergreens. Guy’s smile grew wider. Why not? He could outwit a man who thought hiding meant standing in a bush.

  He took a wandering course, adding branches he pulled from the snow to his load, and selecting a stone or two that he found as he scrabbled beneath the cold white blanket. He drew close, heard a faint whisper in the bushes, and lobbed the stone, full force, at the wood pigeon on its perch. Without a sling, his chances of hitting it were minimal, but it flapped off and the stone came to earth with a plonk, right next to the greenery, frightening the horses. There came swearing, and, in character of the wood gatherer, Guy cried out in a nervous English voice, ‘Who’s there? I have nothing worth stealing!’