The larger of the men-at-arms stepped from his cover, hand raised placatingly.
‘No fear, friend. We mean you no harm.’
Guy stood his ground as if unsure whether to stand or run.
‘Then why are you hid?’
‘We are sheriff’s men,’ declared the man-at-arms, puffing out his chest a little, ‘upon the lord Sheriff’s business. And why are you out?’
‘Collecting wood. Some bastard stole the best part of what I had remaining two days past.’ Why not tell the truth, thought Guy, and give them something to tell their superior? ‘And the pigeon, well, if I hit it there would be meat tonight, and me with five brats and another due.’
The second man-at-arms peered out between the leaves.
‘You’d need a sling to have much chance of that.’
‘Aye, but empty bellies mean you’ll try anything.’
The first man looked at the peasant.
‘Your wood, where did it go from?’ he asked.
‘Beside my home.’ Guy was having fun.
‘But that is where?’
‘A ways off, beyond Bransford. I scoured nearer home yesterday.’
‘And you saw no group of riders, with Black Monks among them?’
‘No, surely I did not. Why do you seek such?’
Without any further prompting, the men told him of their hunt for dangerous monk murderers and kidnappers, the gang growing in size and viciousness in the telling. Guy learnt much about his pursuers and little truth about his fellow gang members. At the conclusion of their amicable chat, they requested he keep his eyes and ears open, and report anything unusual back to them, since they would be remaining until past the middle of the day.
Guy readily agreed, and passed beyond them, crossing the track to the bridge itself, and foraging along the riverbank beyond, keeping an eye out himself for any sign of activity from the north, and the Worcester road. After a while a cart rumbled into view. One man-at-arms had gone to stand upon the bridge and ask the carter if he had seen anything. The man was muffled up to the eyes and miserable. Guy, pricking up his ears, heard that he was headed for Worcester, but the Severn was frozen so hard no ferry could cross, and so he was coming southward to see if there was any way over still by Upton or even, at a push, Tewkesbury.
So the river was frozen. Guy sighed. Well, no point him waiting for the sheriff, who had been unlikely to make an appearance anyway. He would report back to Reynald, after waiting a decent interval. There came a sound among the undergrowth by the river, and three mallard waddled onto the ice. Guy wondered if the prayers of sinners were answered when they benefited the innocent. He had two more stones in the wrappings round his boots. He took one, crossed himself, and threw it with such force he lost his footing and fell forward in the snow. There was a loud quacking, and flapping, and he swore under his breath, but when he looked up, there was a drake flat out upon the ice. Elated, Guy took up the longest stick he could find and gingerly trod upon the ice at the edge of the river, reaching to pull his prize back to shore. Grinning, he held it up proudly towards the bushes, knowing the sheriff’s men would have seen his exploit. What better reason to return ‘home’? He passed them on his way back, with a cheery wave that was not mere pretence, and began the cold trudge back to Bransford. There was wood for a fire, and meat for a meal. One duck between twenty was not much, but split between two adults and five small children would be the nearest thing to a feast he had enjoyed in weeks.
Bradecote and Catchpoll returned to the waiting men-at-arms by the Leigh brook, with Bradecote near silent all the way. Catchpoll was more worried about him than the absence of a trail to follow. He remained hopeful that their quarry would turn up nearer the bridge, and that the men sent to watch there had had some success. There was no sign of any large number of horses having passed from Leigh to Bransford, but if they had set out before the snowfall was established, there would be nothing to indicate their path. The snow would work both ways, however, since wherever they went from this morning, their passage would be easy to see. The barns at Bransford should have been a good bet, but proved a disappointment. As they approached the Malvern tithe barn, there were no signs of hoof prints in front of it, and a man emerged, a little furtively, pulling straw from his hair. He looked scared, and when accosted mumbled about a tumble in the straw with a willing wench who was a lot more accommodating than his shrew-wife. Asking him if he had seen twenty men within was a pointless question. However consumed by lusting loins, he could not have failed to have noticed them and been noticed also, which might well have proved fatal, judging by recent events.
Bradecote looked at the man, trying not to be judgemental, though his opinion of those who strayed was not high. Yet he himself had known the stirrings of temptation, so who was he to cast the first stone at an adulterous tryst.
The village barn was devoid of any life bigger than a scrabbling rat, and there was still no evidence of horsemen. Catchpoll grew more uncomfortable, and muttered silent prayers, which remained unanswered. Powick had seen no horsemen even passing through, and it was there that they met up with the two men-at-arms, numb with cold, heading back. They vouched for the fact that the lord Sheriff had not appeared, which was expected, but not that it would have been impossible for him to have done so, with the Severn frozen and as yet impassable.
‘And you saw nobody?’ Bradecote was desperate now.
‘None my lord, but the carter heading south to try and cross the river lower down if not solid, and the man who killed the duck.’
‘The man who …’ Bradecote looked, stupefied, at Catchpoll, who shrugged.
‘Go on, surprise us with the tale of the man who killed the duck,’ demanded the serjeant. ‘I haven’t heard that one.’
‘He was just a peasant, collecting wood.’
‘In this weather?’ Bradecote was suspicious.
‘Ah, but there was a reason for that, my lord. He said his wood store was raided two days ago, and him from beyond Bransford. He said he had been out foraging yesterday nearer home. Today he came along the riverbank.’
‘He has a wife and five children, and another due, poor man. That’s a lot of mouths to feed in a winter like this. He threw stones at a pigeon, thinking with luck he might strike it dead, but it flew off. We chatted a short while and then he went on, along the bank. We saw him throw a stone at some ducks on the ice. Fell right on his face, and it was hard not to laugh.’
‘Aye, but it was worth the cold face, for he must have caught one right hard, for he killed it, and got it in with a stick and went home rejoicing.’
‘Did this wood gatherer actually gather wood?’ asked Catchpoll, quietly.
‘Oh yes, we thought of that, Serjeant. He was certainly collecting wood, and putting it on his little sled.’
‘What did he look like?’ Bradecote was thinking along the same lines as Catchpoll.
‘Average sort of fellow, not that we saw a lot of him, wrapped up against the cold as he was, my lord.’
‘Was he bearded?’
‘That we couldn’t say, for his face was muffled, as you would be on a day like today, my lord. We did not think it suspicious, considering.’
Catchpoll was pulling a thinking face.
‘The carter. What was he carrying?’
‘We didn’t look, and did not ask, Serjeant.’
‘Did it not seem odd that a man should be taking a cartload of anything out in this weather?’
‘Well …’ The second man-at-arms frowned, but then his brow cleared. ‘But the carter came, crossed the bridge, and passed on his way. He was only here for a few minutes.’
‘You are sure he did not pass from view and then come back and watch you?’
‘Cannot be certain, but if he did, we did not see him and we was in the best cover by the bridge.’
Catchpoll sighed and rubbed the side of his nose.
‘In the end, my lord, we are probably looking at the wood gatherer as the kidnappers’ man, thoug
h it is possible they too could not get anyone to the meeting point.’
The undersheriff looked as if he had not heard him.
‘My lord?’
Bradecote frowned, and only after a pause did he respond.
‘We do not know where the man came from, or where he went. We do not know if the kidnappers believe the sheriff ignored them, or was stopped from acceding to their demand. We—’
‘My lord,’ volunteered the larger man-at-arms, trying to be positive, ‘we do know he did not cross the Teme bridge, for if he came early, we would have seen tracks in the snow beyond the bridge, with the sled marks, and there were none.’
‘Then where in God’s own name are they?’ yelled Bradecote.
The men-at-arms had no answer, and just looked wooden, as subordinates found it safest to be when authority shouted at them.
‘My lord,’ Catchpoll’s voice was even, almost gentle, ‘we can only start again tomorrow. Perhaps they found shelter where we are unaware any exists.’
‘Why do we not know?’ Bradecote rounded upon him. ‘Are there secret barns? Have villages appeared out of the earth without paying taxes, without someone having lordship over them?’
‘No, my lord, but—’
‘How can you sound so calm?’
‘Because,’ and Catchpoll’s voice was raised now, ‘it does no good ranting when what we need is thinking.’
‘So I do not think?’
‘At this moment, my lord, no.’
‘You do not know how much I want to think, Catchpoll,’ Bradecote managed, through gritted teeth, and running his hand through his hair so that it began to stand upright as if surprised.
‘Oh, I do, my lord. Tonight we must return to Malvern. A night’s rest and food in your belly will settle you, and us all. Tomorrow we start again. And what the men say is true. The kidnappers are not north of the Teme. Come, my lord.’
He touched Bradecote on the arm but was brushed aside, though the undersheriff did wheel his horse about to take the Malvern track. The men-at-arms, unsettled by arguments between their seniors, were at least heartened by the thought of Malvern Priory, and wondered if the priory kitchen had decided not to let the venison hang for long.
Guy returned to the barn a little after sunset, with the news that, even had he wanted to, William de Beauchamp could not have complied with the demand to bring his prisoner to the bridge over the Teme. This news was greeted with a non-committal sound from de Roules. Anger would have been pointless, but Guy had expected it. Cooping Reynald de Roules up in a gloomy barn all day was going to do nothing for his temper, and he seemed to be permanently on the edge now, like a leashed dog that had not been fed for days. He told him something of the numbers hunting them, how he had duped them with such ease. Some things, however, remained undisclosed, especially the fact that he was going back to enjoy a duck currently roasting upon a spit. It would be, he decided, cruel to divulge what his meal would be, when, from the look of things, the others would be chewing raw turnip. There was neither wood for a fire, nor a place to make one, since they could afford no sign outside that would advertise their presence.
The unwilling travelling companions had formed distinct groups within the barn, as might be expected. The kidnappers kept together, and the Benedictines did the same, with the exception of the injured monk, who lay apart, nearer the door, with the dark-haired woman in close attendance. Her coif was gone now, the thick plait of her hair lying on her shoulder. The brothers had looked offended when she had removed it; the captors just looked. The dictates of decency had ceased to matter, Christina had thought, when there was an ailing man to tend. The old bandages were so offensive now, she had used her last comparatively clean linen to redress the stump. It had proved almost impossible to do without retching, and it brought tears to her eyes, since it distressed the poor brother so. He whimpered, and tried to cry out, would have done so had Reynald not clamped his hand over the man’s mouth. She and her charge were placed by the door, in the draught, where perhaps the stench might be dissipated. At first she feared for him chilling, but his fever seemed now much increased, and he burned, dry to the touch, in the dim chill of the barn. He had not been lucid since the previous night, and she thought perhaps he would not rouse to consciousness again.
She looked up from deep in her own thoughts, and saw Guy standing over her. She could not be sure, but she thought his face solemn.
‘He is dying.’ His inflexion made it less than a question.
‘Oh yes.’
Guy gave no answer, and turned away. He spoke quietly to a couple of the men, went briefly to the peasant who was tied in a corner, and then, given leave by Reynald, returned to his own prisoners in the village.
Reynald de Roules looked at the piece of turnip in his hand, and spat out the mouthful of the unappetising vegetable which he had been chewing. It was only fit to feed kine, and peasants, and he would rather go hungry a little longer. It was time that now dominated his thoughts. Being trapped within this wooden prison for the best part of twenty-four hours had, as Guy had suspected, tried his patience and his temper. He could not endure another day of it, so tomorrow they moved. They were all cold, and hungry, and even the men were starting to snap at each other. Reynald began to wonder if it was not better to cast this whole plan aside, and think again, perhaps back across the Channel.
A monk began muttering, reciting prayers. It seemed to him they did it without even knowing. Mutter, mutter, their whining entreaties and self-abnegation were too much to bear. Without warning, he crossed the floor in a couple of strides, treading on the hand of one of his men, who yelled in pain. His hand went out to the praying religious, and hauled him to his feet. Angry, granite-hard eyes, stared into hazel ones, wide with fear.
‘Cease your bleating,’ he commanded, and ensured compliance by striking the monk hard across the face. He let him go, to fall, whimpering, to the ground.
Father Samson looked up from what might have been contemplation of his own folded hands.
‘Does prayer frighten you?’ His voice was very even.
‘Frighten me?’ Reynald was stunned for a moment, then his lip curled. ‘Why should your mewling Latin frighten me? It is but a waste of breath. And I am not a man to be frightened. I do not fear death, and I do not fear life either, and you do both, whatever you say about your Faith and the Hereafter.’
‘We do not fear death, for it is but a passing from the imperfect towards the perfect, but perhaps some fear the manner of it,’ conceded Father Samson.
‘Words, nothing more,’ jeered Reynald. ‘You fear life even more. Everything that a man does by nature you condemn as a sin, every pleasure, be it in drinking, eating, killing, wenching.’
The word seemed to remind him of Christina’s presence. He had promised himself the taking of her, and if, as he intended, the end of this ‘game’ was in sight, he might not have much more opportunity. Besides, satisfying his needs elsewhere would take his mind off his empty stomach. He went and grabbed her by the plait of her hair, from where she knelt over the ailing monk, dragging her backwards, off balance, to the middle of the floor. Her cry of surprise and pain pleased him.
‘Wenching. Now there is something you all need reminding of, my black eunuchs. Just think how it will stir you to watch, how much penance you will have to do for secretly wishing it was you, not me.’ He looked to his own men. ‘You are to make sure they do not close their eyes or look away. If they do, take out their eyes.’
Christina was trying to think, trying to fumble for the little knife within its sheath at her girdle. It was unlikely, in the gloom, that she could strike and kill him, but if all else failed, afterwards …
He straddled her, his weight heavy across her hips, and though the face was barely more than a paleness in the gloom, the eyes glittered. She had seen a look like that before often enough. He would not want it easy; the humiliation was part of his ‘pleasure’. He was laughing, though for a moment he wondered at the emptiness i
n her eyes. Then he turned to the brethren.
‘Forgotten what it is you are missing? Let me remind you.’
He yanked at the neck of her gown, and the fabric gave way before his violence, tearing down from one shoulder to expose pale flesh in the dimness. His hand touched her warmth, and an involuntary shudder ran through her. She saw the flash of his teeth as he smiled, and hated her own weakness. She was not strong enough, she was pinned. Physically there was nothing she could do. Blotting it all out in her mind had worked, a little, in the old days, but no more. She concentrated, tried to think lucidly, ignoring his boasts to the unwilling voyeurs of his depravity. What he said was alone enough to make one brother tremble with revulsion and yet fascination.
He shifted his weight slightly, and she felt the threat of him through her gown.
‘Have you forgotten, too, Mistress?’ Reynald whispered, leaning forward, his face drawing close to hers. He wanted her fear as much as he now wanted her flesh.
‘I cannot forget, my lord.’ The sound was a soft hiss in his ear. ‘For my loving husband gave me a “gift” to remind me of him always, gave me what killed him. I took this pilgrimage to pray for deliverance from its ravages. Take me if you must, but remember me when it destroys you. It is indeed “better to give than to receive”.’ Christina managed a smile, though there was a scream of animal loathing within her.
Reynald paused, paled a little. She might be lying, but if she was not? He wavered, and in that moment of wavering, Brother Augustine sat up, wild-eyed, and pointed a trembling finger at the figures on the floor.
‘The wages of sin is death!’ he cried out. ‘Cursed be the fornicator.’
Christina felt Reynald tense. He stared at the monk, who seemed almost to have come from beyond death himself, and then down at her, with her cold smile. He struck that smile from her lips with his hand, and rolled away. She gasped, controlled the sob of pain and relief, and licked the blood from her lip.
Deprived of his prey, and shaken, Reynald struck out in words.
Hostage to Fortune Page 16
