‘But he only knows a meeting place, and it is unlikely to be the barn.’
‘We have the advantage that he will not have been sent direct to the barn, my lord, but he has Walkelin with him, and that lad might well think sensible and work out they needs a local barn to shelter in overnight, so he might be there tomorrow also.’
Bradecote groaned. Never had he thought he would want Walkelin to be without initiative. Then he concentrated.
‘Where is the nearest point that you think we can cross the Severn?’
‘Somewheres south of Hallow, my lord, which is where I suspect the messenger has crossed to Worcester.’
‘And the kidnappers also?’
‘Probably, my lord, and taken shelter the other side. But they are far enough ahead to have crossed by now. We would not reach near Hallow for the best part of two hours in the snow, and then we would be in gloaming. It would be madness to cross in the dark.’
‘In the dark, yes, but by moonlight?’
‘My lord you’re not thinking …’
‘I am thinking, Catchpoll. I am thinking we have to make up time. If the night is cloudless and cold, well, it is near full moon.’
‘So you are thinking we cross the frozen river in the moonlight, simple as that, and ride into Worcester, waking the gatekeepers with a cheery greeting?’ Catchpoll’s sarcasm was undisguised.
‘Er, no.’ Bradecote had the grace to blush. ‘I wasn’t intending to go into Worcester at all. For a start, we do not know how close the kidnappers are to the barn already. We just have to pray they have stopped before reaching it. They will not be far off, though, and will not want to be waiting in the cold tomorrow, so are most likely to get there good and early. Besides, if we go to Worcester, the sheriff is in command and … My plan is to skirt Worcester and spend the night at my own manor. If we set off betimes tomorrow morning, we have a good chance of being there before both kidnappers and the lord Sheriff, which gives us the best chance of securing the hostages.’
‘If our bodies are not under the ice, that is,’ growled Catchpoll, morosely.
Chapter Seventeen
Christina was cold, she was hungry as she had never known before, and she was scared. Her life seemed to be spiralling to a grisly fate, and she had done the only things she could to affect the outcome. She prayed the blessed Eadgyth was perhaps helping her after all. The remaining Benedictines ignored her, lost in their own contemplations, no doubt. Father Samson looked grave but resigned. Clearly, he expected little from this wicked world, and it had fulfilled his every expectation. Well, she had seen more than her share of sorrow and wickedness, but knew there was good to be found, and happiness, if she could but be permitted to grasp it. She prayed, as her horse stumbled through the foot-deep snow, that the blessed Eadgyth would continue to protect her, and that Hugh Bradecote would find her, and not just her cold corpse. There was no sun that she could follow for time or direction, but when they came to cross the frozen Teme by the bridge near Powick, she realised they must be going north. They travelled parallel to the Severn, beyond Worcester she thought, and then turned to meet the riverbank and the white expanse of ice. The thought of trying to cross it was terrifying. Whether it would take the weight of a person, let alone a mount, was a matter of chance, and a fall could break a bone or send a body to a certain death in the freezing water. The only men who did not look perturbed were Father Samson and Reynald de Roules. Reynald selected one of his own men to go first, an honour that was not appreciated by the man or his horse, which rolled an eye and looked at its rider as if he were mad. Only with a great deal of coaxing and pushing from behind could it be forced onto the ice, and then its own sense of self-preservation took over and it trod, very delicately, head down, behind the man who held it on the loosest of reins lest it disappear and drag him in with it. Once he had got about a third of the way, Reynald set a brother and one of his men, a good ten yards apart, to follow on. Slowly, a few at a time, they made their way across, the later ones heartened by the sight of the first ones clambering up the far bank to safety.
Christina crossed with Guy to one side of her, and Mauger to the other. She told herself that she was lighter than nearly everyone else, and thus had a better chance. She was just over halfway when she slipped and pitched forward with a cry, landing on her hands and knees. Her horse jibbed, but miraculously kept its footing a few paces behind her. Mauger’s mount was less fortunate, or sure-footed, pulled up hard and dragged Mauger over as its hind legs crumpled under it and it sat down. He fell backwards, his head cracking on the ice, and lay still. The horse struggled, trying to get its hindquarters up again, while Christina, shaken, crawled forward a few paces and gingerly balanced herself to rise, conscious that if the ice cracked beneath the horse it might send fissures as far as herself. She dared not look back to see how it progressed, or what happened to Mauger, but struggled onward, repeating the Ave Maria under her breath. Guy reached the other side slightly before her, and actually came to reach down a hand to pull her up the bank.
‘Give me your hand, my lady,’ he said, quietly.
She stared at him for a moment, then held out her hand and let him help her up the bank. She did not know what to say. He might have called her that from some old habit of courtesy, but somehow, no, he knew who she was.
‘You know.’
‘Yes, from talking with the men-at-arms at the bridge.’
‘But you have not told Reynald?’
‘No. It … It would put you in even worse case if he knew.’
‘I—’
‘My lady, I would loose you now, but if you knew not your way … And without other distractions Reynald would come after you, and outstrip your mare, easily. He will not be crossed, and he is … vengeful.’
‘I have seen. But, in the end, we are not to be freed. He made that clear last night.’
Guy nodded.
‘Knowing Reynald, that is true. And he tires of this “game”. We have no time now, for he approaches, but I will try to have words with you. And if not, know that I will do whatever is in my power to see you safe.’
He threw her up into her saddle and tied the leading rope from her palfrey to his own mount. Reynald was crossing with Father Samson. Mauger’s horse was upright now, and shaking with fear. Reynald had ignored it, but spared Mauger a glance and a nudge with his boot. The red stain from one ear, and the staring eyes, told him all he needed, and he passed on. When he reached the bank, he mounted without so much as mentioning the man, and berated his men for hanging about like washing on the drying grounds. He rode off, not bothering to glance back, as others did, at the pathetic heap on the ice, and the horse, now whinnying at being alone, but fearful of moving.
For a while thereafter, Christina’s mind was as numb as her chilled feet. She tried to think. This man Guy, the very man who had chopped off Brother Augustine’s hand without so much as a pause, was offering his aid. That he had not revealed her to Reynald, seemed to indicate that he meant it, but should she trust him? Gradually she took in her surroundings. They were unknown to her, masked by the snow, but she knew that she was now east of the Severn and had at least the possibility of recognising where she was. A church, perhaps, might give her a clue. She had expected to turn southwards upon the road to Worcester, which had seen some use and was trampled enough to make the going easier, and then skirt about it, but for a short way they went north, then cut vaguely eastward across country. De Roules clearly thought any pursuers would assume they had gone south as she did, and would be looking for tracks off the road nearer Worcester. She smiled to herself, in the belief that her betrothed no longer needed to track. Then doubts assailed her. What if they actually reached the barn tonight? Would she be drawing Hugh Bradecote to a dangerous stalemate where the defenders had the advantage? She had been praying that he might reach her, but now she realised that to do so he must face the danger of crossing the river, and then taking on an enemy behind wooden walls. She had seen no men with bows among
Reynald’s ‘pack’. She ought to have paid more attention. There might yet be one or two unslung and strapped to a horse’s flank. Was she wishing him into danger? She gave herself a mental shake. The ice crossing had addled her wits. He would be coming after her whether she wished him to or not, for he would not abandon her. It was foolishness to worry about it, and perhaps she had an ally.
It was getting dark, and they had not stopped. Not only Christina wondered where they were headed for the night, and when Guy asked Reynald, he received no more than a smile and an injunction to ‘wait and see’. A short time afterwards and the squat outline of a church appeared, and signs of a village. Reynald held up a hand, and told Guy to keep everyone back whilst he went to reconnoitre. He returned a few minutes later, smiling.
‘I cannot offer much in the way of food, but there will be shelter. Follow me.’
They did as they were told, and came round to the west end of the church. To the horror of the Benedictines, and the discomfort even of his men, Reynald opened the door and led his horse inside. For a moment nobody followed. He stuck his head out, his whisper venomous.
‘Bring the horses in, fools. How else can we remain unseen? Come in or stay outside and freeze to death.’
Reluctantly, they followed one by one. Within, the priest, who had been saying Vespers alone, lay gagged. Guy raised an eyebrow.
‘You did not kill him? I thought you would not be so … charitable,’ he commented, as if only mildly interested.
‘He will live, so that when de Beauchamp sends someone here tomorrow, he may tell them we have been and gone. Oh yes, this is Tibberton church. His dwelling is next door. The widow can cook. Take her to make the best of what you find, and Guy,’ he paused, ‘you were ever too easily swayed by a woman. Make sure you are not this time, for it might be fatal.’
Christina wondered if it showed him suspicious, or thinking of last night and merely offering a warning not to take advantage of being alone with her if he thought her diseased. Guy sniffed, looked at her as if she were an encumbrance he could do without, and grabbed her wrist, almost dragging her out of the door.
The priest’s house was small but wonderfully warm after their recent refuges. There was a fire upon the hearthstones, the first warmth Christina had felt in nearly two days, and she extended her hands to it with a sigh. Guy closed the door behind them.
‘You must at least start to cook, my lady. Could you make your way to Bradecote in the dark, if I let you free?’
‘I … I do not think so, not in the dark and with the snow. It makes things less familiar. Besides, what you said earlier … Reynald would …’
‘I could delay him.’
There was a finality in his voice, and Christina understood. Guy did not think he would beat Reynald in a fight. She was confused by him.
‘Why? Why offer such a sacrifice for a woman you do not even know?’
Guy shrugged.
‘I have reached the end, perhaps. I have no stomach for this any more.’
She was reaching for onions, hanging in a string from a beam, but looked at him, her head on one side.
‘You are not like the others, not some common criminal. Who are you?’
‘I am a common criminal now. Once, years back, I was not. Now I am Guy, no more, no less. The name I had should not be besmirched. I owe it that.’
‘Are you declared outlaw?’
‘Not in this realm, no. But what I have done these last few years would have me so elsewhere, were there a name to outlaw.’
She frowned.
‘You take no pleasure in this. Reynald does.’
‘Reynald. Ah, he has a madness to him, one that seems worse since we returned to England. He seeks his own destruction, but wants to destroy as much as he can in that spiral downward.’
‘So why have you stayed with him?’
‘Duty, in part. He picked me from a gutter, when I had no further to fall, gave me what seemed self-respect again, as a man with a sword in his hand, but not, in truth, just as a man. I was too far gone for that. I am damned.’
‘But there is repentance, and forgiveness.’
Christina was slicing the onions, and her eyes pricked.
‘Not for sins such as mine, lady. I killed a man, foully, to have his wife, though she forsook me fast enough for another; I have fought not for lord or honour, but for silver; I have killed men, stolen; and now I have even killed a holy brother. God will not forgive me that.’
‘Brother Augustine was indeed a man of God, more so than many of his brethren, in my opinion. But if his death brought you to repentance, he would not begrudge you salvation.’
She took a skillet, and cut a slice from a side of bacon, smoked beneath the eaves. A real cook, she thought, would have cooked the bacon first. There was silence, then she asked the question that came to mind.
‘But what of that poor woman and her children? That was …’
Guy smiled, wryly.
‘You do think me that low. The peasant woman, may she be delivered safely come the spring.’
‘You did not …’
‘There are some things … No, I did not. Reynald could, I could not.’
‘But you cut her husband’s throat. I heard you boast of it.’
‘I did, and he will show the scar to his grandchildren, no doubt.’ He saw her surprise. ‘A knife need not cut deep.’
The bacon sizzled, and the smell was enticing. Her stomach, deprived of food, knotted in anticipation, but she hardly felt it.
‘So you would end it all, by defending me?’
‘You could put it that way, if you so chose, my lady FitzPayne. It has a smattering of honour to it, don’t you think?’
She frowned.
‘I do not think it would work, as a plan, and − forgive me − had you not thought, if your sins are not publicly upon your name here, could you not just leave this, and go home?’
‘Go home?’ He sounded as if the word was forgotten.
‘Have you none who would not fall upon your neck with tears of joy to see you alive, if they thought you dead?’
‘Aye, until they heard what I have done since they thought me lost.’
‘There was a prodigal son, was there not?’
‘Not as prodigal as I have been,’ Guy sneered, but there was a pause.
‘For all that is past, you have shown mercy, humanity, charity, these last days. Would it be impossible to go home, confess to a priest, be what once you were, strive for forgiveness?’
There was a longer pause.
‘The bacon will be crisped.’
‘Oh!’
She pulled skillet from fire, the heat of the handle hurting her hand and leaving it red. Bacon and fat went into the pottage.
‘If you cannot escape tonight, then it must be when there is some confusion.’ Guy did not wish to speak of himself any more. ‘If Reynald makes a show of killing, and the chances are he will take a monk first, then there might be a chance. I will try and keep you bound to my horse tomorrow, or in “my” charge, and if there is an opportunity, I will loose you. The day after, well, it looks as if I will not be left here to watch, but if I am, then you are on your own until my return. I think that is the best I can offer you, my lady.’
‘And I am grateful, my lord.’
He looked at her sharply, thinking for a moment that she mocked, but saw she meant her words, and looked at the floor.
‘The meal must be ready. I will carry the pot, if you will carry the bread, Mistress Cook.’
If Catchpoll had been praying for heavy snow clouds to occlude the moon’s silver visage, he gave no sign of it. They made the best pace they could upon the trackway, hard ground and ruts making their progress through the snow hazardous. The horses disliked it, and had to be kicked hard to keep going, the men rode hunched and miserable, the whisper that they were heading to cross the Severn bringing down curses upon the undersheriff, and prayers to the saints for preservation.
Bradecote hims
elf felt more alive and vital than for days. From Bransford they had signs of their quarry once more, heading northwards, but the tracks themselves were no longer more than a confirmation. He had an objective and a plan, a plan that had a good chance of success, as long as the kidnappers did not reach the tithe barn by tonight, and on the morrow he would be able to do something at last, something other than chase shadows. He would see her, he would save her, if it cost his own life he would save her, and any man who stood between them would die. The pernicious depression that had afflicted him in his frustration was gone, and had been replaced by hope and resolution.
Catchpoll looked, and saw much. That his superior considered the Severn was simply an obstacle that he would overcome without a second thought, was clear. Serjeant Catchpoll was not as sanguine. He had lived on the banks of the great river all his life, and knew it to be unforgiving if treated without respect. He had never seen it frozen hard enough to cross on foot, though he had heard of it being so twice in his oldfather’s time. It was not uncommon for the edges to turn to creaking, cracking shards, but, God’s truth, this was a colder snap than ever he had experienced. Perhaps it would be hard-iced enough to cross. The only good thing was that if the enemy had crossed safely, then so could they, or at least most of them.
The short January day was hastening into night by the time they saw the tracks turn riverwards. In the gloaming the snow took on an eerie brightness, and when the moonglow filtered between the trees it seemed positively eldritch. They came to the bank, and here the prints of men and horses had trampled a swathe in the whiteness. Catchpoll looked across. There were no signs of cracked ice or filling holes, saints be praised. There was, however, a dark mound upon the ice in the middle of the river. Catchpoll raised an eyebrow. Well, it would ensure the men took the crossing cautiously.
‘The river is iced thick enough to cross,’ announced Bradecote, in a tone that had an edge of excitement, as if it was the fulfilment of an anticipated treat. The men looked at him sullenly, uninspired.
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