Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘I would say you must wait for another time, Brothers, but you have so little of it, it would be unfair of me to get your “hopes” up. I did not perhaps tell you that William de Beauchamp was unable to come to hand over my man, but then, he was never very likely to do so. We will try perhaps once more, for my forger is a valuable asset, but in truth I grow bored of this chasing about. To alleviate the boredom I am already thinking how you will end, one by one.’ He turned again to Father Samson. ‘And for you, being the most senior, I shall reserve the death I gave to my father. It was …’ he paused for effect, ‘appropriate.’

  There was silence.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Guy woke early, and lay wakeful in the malodorous dark, his mind reviewing the past and contemplating the future. He was a man who enjoyed the life he had led with Reynald de Roules for the last four years, for the most part, though physical discomforts had been commonplace. There was a dangerous immediacy to it, a daring frisson, and, if he did not hold the same views upon religion as his adopted leader, he knew himself so far beyond saving that he might as well get all the excitement he could from this life, since the next would not be as pleasant, for all the Church claimed repentance could absolve all sin. Killing, once you got used to it, did not seem so hard, though he still recalled turning aside to vomit after his first battle, seeing the life leave the first man he killed in the Holy Land. Strange that of all the men he had killed since, it was that first face that haunted him, though it had been in fair fight and his enemy’s life or his own. In the deepest hours of night, brown eyes bored into the remnants of his soul, perplexed, disbelieving, and then the blood issued from the mouth, and he felt it wet upon his cheeks as if red and real, not the product of the mind. Such foolishness it was, to be haunted by that, when those were the days he had not strayed beyond the bounds of what was accounted noble. Killing the enemy in battle, his proud ancestors would not object to that, would indeed applaud it. His service with the knights protecting pilgrims in the Holy Land had been pure enough, but on the way home he had fallen. Those same ancestors would not have approved killing a Gascon knight in jealousy over a woman, a woman who was the man’s wife, and with a knife in the back. That she had played him as false as the husband in the end was perhaps justice, had driven him also to drink and distraction, which was where Reynald de Roules found him, impoverished, incoherent with wine, brandishing his sword at shadows.

  Why Reynald, who never showed an ounce of compassion for anybody, should have taken it upon himself to sober him up and add him to his retinue, he would never know, but he was grateful for it. These last four years they had been soldiers of fortune to whoever paid them, no deed too low, no deed too dangerous, and then Reynald had taken it into his head to come home to England, where none of them ought to be, though it felt good to have arrived. Killing here felt different, though Guy told himself it was the same. He was glad they had never strayed north to where he might have been known. Better he remain a scion of a noble house, lost upon his returning from noble deeds, mourned proudly, than found to be a common criminal. Reynald talked of making his fortune with the melted silver, talked of ruining the Sheriff of Worcestershire’s reputation, of ‘buying’ an heiress from the King and holding land in England, but Guy could not see it happening. They had made trouble, which they were good at, but there was no ending he saw but blackness. He thought Reynald was tiring of this escapade, hoped they would make an escape to Anjou or Normandy. This was too cold, too grim, and Reynald’s near obsessive hatred of the Black Monks was getting out of control.

  When Reynald had sent him outside with the scribe, the day of the kidnap, he had taken the Benedictine’s hand almost without thinking. It had even seemed a ‘just’ punishment, though he did not feel now it was his finest deed, and Reynald was getting into one of his darkest and most dangerous moods.

  So here he was now, in a peasant’s hovel, and expected to commit murder on a large scale. Whilst Reynald had not given an express command, he clearly intended that there should be no witnesses to their presence in Bransford, just a trail of cold bodies. Reynald was quite capable of killing a pregnant woman and five children in cold blood, but in truth, Guy was not. He realised that, even after all this time, there really were some things he would not stoop to do, as though the name he once bore would be too sullied by them.

  He therefore had to persuade the woman and her brood to keep silent within their dark chamber, and hope that if he went to the barn, Reynald would not think to send any to check. In truth, de Roules had no reason to, since he had never before disobeyed him, but you never could tell with Reynald. Guy sighed, arose and went to explain, very clearly and slowly, to a frightened woman that he was not going to commit murder, not in this house at least.

  Christina also awoke before a cold dawn, though her conscience was clear enough. The straw, in which she had formed a sort of nest, kept her from freezing, and, sporadically, she had dozed, but only exhaustion had given her that respite. She was cold, so cold in the extremities that it veered between numbness and pain. It seemed as if she could not remember what being truly warm and comfortable was like, and thought longingly of the fur-lined cloak she had eschewed in her show of humility. It was a natural step thereafter to think of Hugh Bradecote, whom she knew would be doing everything in his power to find her. For the umpteenth time she wondered if she would die, fated never to have enjoyed the happiness that at last seemed within her grasp. It chilled her the more, and it was only by a great effort of will that she arose to see how Brother Augustine fared. After his timely, if unknowing, intervention the previous evening, the fever had kept him unaware, keeping him trapped in a world of febrile dreams, and she hoped he had not felt the cold.

  He had not, for neither heat nor cold would concern him again, and the cold flesh owed nothing to the temperature in the barn. The eyes were closed as restfully as in sleep, the jaw relaxed as if he had been about to sing Matins, the single hand that had picked and plucked at his coverings these last three days, lay stilled forever. The body was stiffening, but not yet quite so far gone that she could not lay the right arm to cross the left upon the chest, though the infected, bandaged stump made it a grotesque imitation of the norm. She prayed, blowing on her blue-white hands as she did so, but not just for the repose of a godly, gentle soul. Tears pricked her eyes, not for the Benedictine brother, whom she knew had not feared his death, and on whom the Almighty would assuredly have mercy, but for her loneliness and isolation. She prayed for justice, and she prayed for rescue. She crossed herself and shuddered, then moved, stiffly, under the watchful gaze of the malodorous individual that de Roules called Mauger, to where the Samson of Bec lay wrapped in his fine cloak. He was huddled about by the brothers, who had at least each other for warmth in this situation. As the lone woman she had nothing, bar the uncouth suggestions of those among her captors of ways they would warm her.

  ‘Father Samson,’ she called softly, unable to get close enough to shake him. He did not stir. His sleep, at least, was sound enough. She was guilty of the sin of jealousy, and as she called his name again, there was an edge to her tone. This time he opened his eyes, frowning as he focussed, and from displeasure at being dragged from the easing stupor of sleep.

  ‘What is it, my la—daughter?’

  ‘Brother Augustine is dead, Father. He died in the night. I am sorry.’

  Father Samson sighed.

  ‘We will pray for him.’

  ‘I thought,’ remarked Christina, with a degree of acerbity, ‘that you might request a delay whilst you consecrate a patch of earth and bury him.’

  ‘With what? I did not see that our captors possess shovels or picks, and the ground is frozen. Besides,’ he sounded as if explaining to a slow-witted child, ‘I hardly think they would accede to such a request. Indeed, they would be inclined to treat the dead with even less respect.’

  Christina bit her lip. Irritatingly, the churchman spoke sense. Her brain was working as fast as it could, made
sluggish as it was by cold and hunger. If the good brother’s corpse was left, and the kidnappers did not care, thinking they would be far away by the time the sheriff’s men were alerted to it, she might have the chance to leave something that they could find. It would, at the very least, let Hugh know she was alive, and if only she had some indication of their intent, she might even give him the opportunity to make the leap that would bring him within striking range of a rescue attempt. She wished thoughts alone could travel through the winter air.

  The cleric was speaking, though she did not pay him full attention. It was the sonorous and solemn tone of the religious declaring that man was born to die, and that it was a natural thing that should not be feared by the godly. She wanted to rail at that. What was natural about having one’s hand hacked off by criminals and dying from the festering wound?

  The other brothers assimilated the information as the threads of half waking, half sleeping, left them. One by one they crossed themselves and went down upon their knees. Christina joined them, but her prayers for the departed were done, and she was desperately trying to work out how best she could alert her betrothed. She could leave, if all else failed, a lock of her own hair, even if she had to pull it from her scalp and place it under the dead hand, but that was so little. It would tell Hugh Bradecote merely that she had been here. She made a decision.

  It might well have been Father Samson’s place to announce the death of one of his entourage to Reynald, but it had been she who had nursed the poor brother, as best as she was able, and so she brushed herself down and went to where the kidnappers rested, between the captives and the barn doors. They too were close packed for warmth, like piglets round a sow, she thought disdainfully.

  ‘The man of God you disfigured, Brother Augustine, died in the night.’ She kept her voice even, though she wanted to spit the news at him. ‘I thought that you would want to know.’

  Reynald de Roules yawned, sniffed, and wiped a dewdrop from the end of his nose.

  ‘We’ll travel the quicker for it. I had wondered whether to kill him anyway. He was holding us up, but nobody thought of trying to escape and abandon an injured companion, so he had his uses.’ He paused. ‘Indeed, he has still. Kenelm, wake up, you mangy cur. I have a task for you.’

  He kicked at a man curled just beyond his feet, who grumbled and opened his eyes reluctantly, whilst scratching his groin.

  ‘What?’ He became fully awake, and added, ‘My lord.’

  ‘The monk died. Cut off an ear, and get the Scribbler over here. I am sending you to Worcester to deliver the final message, since they could not take action upon the last.’ De Roules’s voice had a trace of boredom in it. ‘The river should be frozen enough by now.’

  Christina feigned disinterest and even stood back, but listened intently, even as she was revolted by the thought of such desecration of the dead. The scribe was dragged from his prayers for the departed, and hauled, shaking, before Reynald.

  He dictated his demand in an emotionless tone, though it contained also a threat which made Christina bite her lip. This, he said, was his final offering to release the captives. His patience had worn thin. If Geoffrey was not released, at Tibberton church, by noon on the day the sheriff received the note, which was accompanied by the token of Reynald’s ‘esteem’, then he would kill all the hostages in such manner as he thought appropriate and leave their corpses for de Beauchamp to discover about the shire.

  Christina shuddered. What ‘manner’ would he think appropriate for her? She felt sick.

  De Roules snatched the vellum from the scribe as he finished, and thrust it at Kenelm. Guy was not there to read it, but he had no fear whatsoever that the Benedictine would not have written exactly what he had been told.

  ‘You take this to Worcester, but I want you to send another to the castle with the message. Get across the Severn today, where it is easier, north of Worcester itself. Go in by daylight first thing tomorrow, just an ordinary man about his business. Leave the horse somewhere outside the gate, for a man on foot is less conspicuous. They will be watching the castle gates. Use a child, or an old woman, from choice. A little bribery, or a simple threat, will see it done right. You leave once you see them get to the gate itself, mind. Even a dull wit like you should manage that.’

  ‘And where do I meet you, then, my lord?’

  Kenelm was suspicious, not a little convinced he was being abandoned. After all, as Pigface’s ‘keeper’ he had already incurred Reynald’s displeasure.

  ‘We will be back at Evesham’s tithe barn, the one near Bradecote we used the second night, tomorrow, at sunset. I am sure you can find it. Be there, for we will not linger in the morning.’

  Christina clenched her fists within the long sleeves of her gown, and hoped none could hear the pounding of her heart, which thumped in her ears. She knew where they would be, tomorrow night. Her fate might, at last, not depend wholly upon others. This would be just what the sheriff’s men needed, and almost certainly her only remaining chance of survival, but how could she convey the information? She could not write, and the brother who was deputed to write the demands was a pusillanimous fellow who would almost certainly reveal her plan, and see her suffer for it. Stealing any spare vellum or ink would be almost impossible, since it was kept by Reynald or Guy. She gasped as the thought hit her. Even a scratched sign might help, and if needs be a drop of blood would provide ‘ink’. So what could be used to write upon? The linen of her shift, now doubtless begrimed and fraying, might just serve, though the marks would spread and be difficult to read. She went to a corner, ostensibly to be private and relieve herself. It occasioned nothing more than a lewd glance from one of her captors. Out of sight, she did the obvious and also tore a small strip from the linen, though it pained her chapped hands to do so. She thought carefully about what marks should go upon it, and then smiled. She took a sharp end of straw, and prised the chapped skin apart so that it oozed red. Dipping the end of the straw in the drop of blood, she made two vertical marks, and grimaced as she had to widen the cut for more blood. She drew a horizon line with the semicircle of a sun over it and an arrow indicating that it was setting. They had a time. That was easy, but the place? Her hand hurt, and her brain was spinning. She bit her lip, as much for the discomfort to counter the pain in her hand as in concentration. Her nerves jangled lest she be discovered, and the tiniest scratching sounded so loud it must give her away, but with a few more bloody strokes it was done.

  She closed her eyes, and sent up a devout prayer that the message would be found, and found by those for whom it was intended. She wondered if Hugh Bradecote would realise it was directly from her, and then remembered the inspiration to use the lock of her hair. After all, what was a little more discomfort. She yanked enough strands for it to be clear it was intentionally left, and tied the thin lock round the strip of cloth. The body of Brother Augustine, though further brutalised, had thus far been otherwise ignored. She hoped they would not move him, at least his hand. She knelt beside him, placing her hands over it and tucking the cloth under the hand, with just a few hairs protruding. These men would not think to see them, but wily old Catchpoll would, or her Hugh. She prayed that whoever found the body would call the sheriff before burying it, and leave it be.

  ‘I tried to help you, Brother. Now you do this last good deed for me, please, my friend,’ she whispered, and pulled the edges of her cloak to half shroud the body, while the pale, restful face was left to draw the attention of any who entered the barn.

  Guy now appeared, sidling into the barn cautiously. Reynald had stiffened at the sound of the door scraping open, and slid sword from scabbard, but relaxed as he spoke, and fired the important question at him.

  ‘All tidy?’

  ‘You will have no trouble, my lord.’ Guy sounded casual.

  ‘Good. The monk died. I am sending Kenelm to Worcester with a last note, and an ear.’ Reynald laughed, softly. ‘Might as well use him as much as we can, even if dead.’

&n
bsp; Guy had an urge to cross himself, but fought it, for Reynald would sneer at any show of religion. Besides, why should Heaven forgive him this death, after all the others, even if he knew contrition?

  ‘We cross the Severn today, to the north where it is narrower. The ice should be thick enough. If not … well, I am not going first.’ Reynald smiled. ‘I will tell you the current plan as we go along.’ He stopped, and seemed to remember the lonely peasant, tied to a wooden upright in the corner. ‘I must just finish our business here, and—’

  ‘Let me, my lord.’ Guy interrupted. ‘It is nothing worth wiping your blade for. After all, I “tidied” the rest. I will catch you up in in the first few hundred paces.’

  ‘As you will.’ Reynald seemed to have lost interest, and turned to the rest of the company, who were in various states of readiness. ‘Come on, you miserable apologies for men, up with you all. We have a river to cross. Has anyone got skates?’ He laughed, but it was not a pleasant laugh.

  The news was greeted with gruntings and grumbles, especially as there was nothing, yet again, with which to break their fast. Nobody, however, wanted to be the last ready, and come under Reynald’s increasingly vicious displeasure. They bestirred themselves, Benedictine and criminal alike.

  A few minutes later the barn was empty except for the stiffening corpse of Brother Augustine, Guy, and the tethered peasant. The man had few illusions as to why someone had hung back, but his thoughts at the last were of his family.

  ‘My wife?’ he murmured, eyes pleading. ‘My children?’

  ‘Be at ease on that, my friend. Your family are safe, upon that I give my oath, which once meant much. But you, I am sorry, cannot simply go free.’

  Guy drew his knife.

  The brown horse caught up before the riders were indeed more than a few hundred yards distant. Reynald smiled, and Guy managed to smile back. He held up a bloodied knife.