8,39 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Bradecote & Catchpoll
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Bradecote and Catchpoll face a frantic race against time in an unforgiving winter landscape January 1144. Hugh Bradecote does not want his betrothed travelling on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St Edgyth at Polesworth, but the Archbishop of Canterbury's envoy and his entourage of monks seem perfect as Christina's escorts, until they are captured by a renegade who kills for pleasure. Against a backdrop of a hard winter and a frozen River Severn, Undersheriff Bradecote and Serjeant Catchpoll are struggling to rescue Christina before a psychopath does his worst and Bradecote cracks under the pressure.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 379
Ähnliche
Hostage to Fortune
A Bradecote and Catchpoll Mystery
SARAH HAWKSWOOD
For H. J. B.
Contents
Chapter One
Christmastide 1143
The Severn was running high, for there had been heavy rain in the preceding week, and there seemed little chance of the man, whose head was being held under water, being found. The current ought to take him swiftly southward to where none would recognise him, and none would mourn him as more than a soul lost to the river’s power. The flailing, which had been uncoordinated, ceased, and his assailant, breathing just a little heavily, let him go and turned away into the darkness. Thus the man did not see that the body merely floated to catch between two skiffs that strained against their moorings, to be discovered with daylight.
William de Beauchamp, lord Sheriff of Worcestershire, was not known as a generous man, nor one particularly concerned at the happiness of his vassals. He had, however, been considerate, and not made his undersheriff wait over long for a decision upon his request to wed the lady Christina FitzPayne, widow of Corbin FitzPayne of Cookhill. This had been less to do with any wish to earn Hugh Bradecote’s thanks and devotion than a desire not to have an undersheriff whose thoughts would be inclined to wander, and whose resentment would rise if his ladylove was kept tantalisingly out of reach. A pragmatist, not a romantic, de Beauchamp worked upon the principle that once the woman was his, Bradecote would settle back into normality and not be found gazing at nothing, and with that untypical vacant smile upon his face. He had given his approval at the end of Bradecote’s feudal service early in Advent, and had declared that they could be wed come Candlemas, but it was several weeks into December before the undersheriff was able to meet with his betrothed, and give her the good news in person.
Hugh Bradecote had returned to celebrate the Feast of the Nativity in his manor, showing his accustomed charity to the poorest of his peasants and arranging for a hog to be roasted come Twelfth Night. Undeterred by a cold easterly wind, and flurries of snow, he collected Christina from Cookhill on the feast of St Stephen, and took her to his manor at Bradecote, there to view what would become her new home, to be seen by all and sundry, and to be introduced to his son, now a lusty infant of nearly five months. He had been concerned that she might find it a melancholy thing to hold a babe in her arms, having lost the child she was carrying when her husband had been killed. He need not have worried. She took to Gilbert from the moment that he held out his pudgy baby hands to tug at her coif and blew bubbles at her, and she was reluctant to give him up to the wet nurse. The natural demands of an infant to be cuddled found a maternal response in her that was heightened by seeing his father in him. Bradecote, who saw no resemblance at all, truth be told, relaxed.
‘I see that I have already been supplanted in your affections by a younger suitor.’ He shook his head in mock complaint, and she laughed. ‘They say a woman’s heart is fickle, but so soon?’
She drew close, with Gilbert pulling at her earlobe, and smiled up at him, which made his heart beat the faster.
‘You are the only man for whom my heart has ever stirred. This little mite, oh yes, draws mother love, but mother love is not what I feel for you.’
She laid her free hand on his chest, and her eyes were full of promise.
‘I do not value power or possessions, but I hold you above everything, above any duty or loyalty. You two are the focus of my life now.’ His voice was low, and he took her hand and kissed the fingers, one by one. She gripped his hand, and there was a tremor in her own voice as she spoke.
‘I had never thought to mean so much to anyone, my lord.’
‘Well, you do to me.’
There was a tension, a frisson. There were those who considered that the binding of betrothal gave a man full rights, and at that moment Hugh Bradecote was very aware of the desire to take whatever she was happy to give.
Gilbert, perhaps sensing that he had been forgotten, gave a bubbly gurgle that broke the spell. They laughed, just a little self-consciously.
It was the only difficulty between them. Bradecote was determined that she should not feel pressured or forced in any way, and for her part she feared that offering herself to him might seem to indicate that, as a woman twice widowed, she did not value either her body or the deed. In a way that was true, for bitter ill use had inculcated the former, and the absence of love, and indeed positive loathing of her first husband, had debased the second. She wanted this union to be special, and the anticipation was acute. It promised so much, and she was caught between wanting to wait and a very physical need.
After a couple of days it was verging on the unbearable, and the summons from the lord Sheriff was almost a relief. A man-at-arms arrived on the last day of the month, calling Hugh Bradecote to Worcester.
‘De Beauchamp is at the castle, and thankfully the castellan is away, which lightens the atmosphere.’ Bradecote smiled at her. ‘The sheriff is never in a good mood when living cheek by jowl with Simon Furnaux, and I am not sure that I blame him. Will you come with me?’
‘Is that a request or a polite command, my lord?’ She smiled back.
‘A request, of course. The lord Sheriff has said that, investigations notwithstanding, there will be a good night’s feasting, come Twelfth Night, and if I am to miss it here … Oh, let us be honest, I just want to see you, be with you when I am able. It is an odd sort of wooing, my love, but there it is.’
Parting from Gilbert cost Christina a pang she had not anticipated after only a few days, but her spirits were lifted by the presence of Hugh, riding so close that their knees touched as the horses walked side by side. They arrived with the sun casting its lacklustre rays from three fingers above the horizon. The fur-lined hood of Christina’s cloak framed a face pale and pinched with cold, and Bradecote was glad to see her bestowed in a chamber with a brazier already giving a steady heat. He himself went straight thereafter to the sheriff.
‘Good to see you here, Bradecote. Enjoying your betrothal?’
Bradecote coloured, which made de Beauchamp laugh.
‘Looking forward to Candlemas, my lord,’ Bradecote mumbled.
De Beauchamp raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, and continued smoothly to the matter in hand.
‘I called you in because we have trouble brewing, and if we do not bring the culprit in soon, we may have problems with the burgesses. If they cannot trust the coinage it disrupts trade, and since it bears the King’s head, it casts doubts upon his power also.’
‘I am sorry, my lord,’ Bradecote tried to make sense of de Beauchamp’s rather cryptic utterance, ‘what exactly has been happening?’
De Beauchamp drew a hand across weary eyes.
‘Far too much, and none of it good. There’s silver coin in Worcester that might as well be lead with a silver coat, and the merchants and artisans are all in a fuss, like chickens with a fox among ’em. Heaven knows the coinage is not as good as it was under the old king, for he made sure there was more silver in it, but this is not just a little light, it is not fit to call coin of the realm.’
‘But surely we just arrest the moneyer whose die marks the false coin?’
‘Now why did I not think of that?’ The sheriff’s voice dripped irony. ‘Of course that was what we did. But Master Osbern is no forger. He has been a moneyer here, oh, must be a good two dozen years. I would say longer but that he still has both hands, and a daughter of twenty, so he cannot have been in the trade when King Henry took his justice upon the moneyers.’
Back in 1124 there had been an issue of silver pennies. There had been many complaints at its poor quality, and King Henry, determined to assert his authority, had called in all the English moneyers and the majority had lost their right hand and chance of fatherhood. It was a salutary lesson, and one that was not forgotten the best part of a generation later.
‘There is no doubt?’
‘None. Catchpoll has never had a sniff of anything corrupt about the man in all his years, and when he brought him in, he was patently as mystified as frightened. You can smell guilt.’
Privately, Bradecote wondered whether William de Beauchamp could really tell the difference between guilt and fear, but nodded anyway.
‘We checked the die. The forged coin was not as sharp, not quite, according to Catchpoll, who has the eyes of my best hawk. He thinks a copy was taken, which would be simple enough in wax, and passed to the forger. And then, to cap it all, Osbern’s journeyman was found floating in the Severn. Now, he might have been drunk, but it all tallies rather too well. It seems it was probably a killing, but I doubt it was by his master.’
‘There cannot be many moneyers in Worcester, my lord, if it was another.’
‘Five. We have spoken to all, and none seemed more than horrified at the forging. We have no proof to link them, and obtaining a confession would be … difficult.’
‘When was the journeyman found?’
‘This morning, just after sunrise. We have one innocent man, and four seemingly so, and need an end to this.’
‘Could not a man who has been a journeyman to a moneyer elsewhere, and knows the craft, have come to Worcester, then befriended our drowned journeyman and …’
‘Just happens to have secret access to a supply of lead and silver and a hidden furnace and … Must I continue?’ The lord Sheriff sneered, and Bradecote looked embarrassed. ‘You set that hound after a scent that leads nowhere. Speak to Catchpoll, and let us make an end to this before the good burgesses send too great a complaint.’
Serjeant Catchpoll greeted his superior with a nod that was half obeisance and half greeting.
‘I thought as the lord Sheriff would be sending for you to join the pack. If nothing else, it looks good to the moaning merchants.’
‘Such confidence.’ The undersheriff smiled wryly. ‘Am I meant to be rendered speechless with joy?’
‘No, my lord. It was the lord Sheriff’s thinking I was voicing. My thought is, the more, the merrier. My bones are too creaky to enjoy chasing around Worcester in the sleet, with men-at-arms whose brains froze long before their feet, and just Walkelin with any sense. Another pair of legs with a brain attached is mighty useful.’ Catchpoll grinned. ‘And you’ve got mighty long legs, my lord, if I speak truth.’
Bradecote smiled back, but then grew serious.
‘So we have forged silver pennies that are more dross than silver, an innocent moneyer in the mire, and a drowned journeyman. You don’t think the last might have been an accident?’
‘Accident?’ Catchpoll made a derisive sound.
‘The lord Sheriff said it was always possible he was drunk and fell in.’
‘Well, he might have been drunk, for a drunken man is easier to get to the water and push, but if so, he wasn’t so drunk he didn’t struggle at the last. I reckon as his head was held under and when they was sure he was dead, they pushed the body right in. There is a bruise on the inside of one arm, not a place that gets bruises in day-to-day living, but might if someone was holding you down with the other pushing your face in the water. I am sure, but the lord Sheriff is trying to be not quite convinced.’
‘The coincidence of the death seems too much. I am with you.’ Bradecote paused. ‘Who have we spoken to since?’
Serjeant Catchpoll noted the ‘we’, and resisted the urge to smile.
‘The journeyman lived in Osbern’s house. He had an aunt in one of the streets off the Foregate, but all she does is wring her hands and say as he was a good lad. Osbern is a widower, and his daughter keeps house for him. According to him, the two did not speak much except over meals, and he had no complaints about his journeyman, other than he thought he had itchy feet to move on at the end of his indentures.’ Catchpoll turned, aware that someone had come in quietly. It was the lady FitzPayne. He made her an obeisance a little self-consciously.
‘Forgive me, I …’ She coloured. Whatever she had intended to say was set aside, and instead she took a breath and looked directly at Serjeant Catchpoll. ‘I could not but hear what you just said. Was the journeyman ill-favoured, or of disagreeable temperament?’
‘Didn’t look too pretty after a night in the river, my lady, but he’d have been comely enough breathing, and well, we haven’t asked if people liked him particularly, more if any really had reason to hate his guts. Why do you ask?’
‘Because if there was a young man in the house and he was comely and agreeable, it sounds very odd to me that he and the daughter did not at the least flirt a little. That the father thinks they barely spoke looks like a pretence to lull him. Perhaps the girl did not think he would favour a match with the journeyman? If it had got that far.’
‘You think the father found out and killed him?’ Bradecote enquired, frowning, but she pursed her lips and shook her head, as if despairing of male intelligence.
‘No, my lord. But I think if someone was to ask the girl about the journeyman, away from her father’s presence, you might find out far more than you would expect.’ Her voice softened. ‘Lovers tell secrets as well as keep them.’
Catchpoll gazed at the floor, face working as he considered the matter. Hugh Bradecote kept his eyes on hers.
‘And …’ she looked down, avoiding Hugh Bradecote’s gaze and said, hesitantly, ‘she would tell another woman, before she showed her broken heart to a man.’
Catchpoll was quick enough to grasp her meaning.
‘You’re not a sheriff’s ma—officer, my lady.’
‘No, Serjeant Catchpoll, but I am soon to be a sheriff’s officer’s lady, and the quicker this is solved, the more time for’ − she paused, and her eyes betrayed a twinkle − ‘discussing the future.’ Bradecote actually blushed. ‘Put me in the way of the maid and see what happens. If I fail, you have lost nothing, and if I succeed in finding out anything you may take it further. It is not hazardous. Please?’
Serjeant looked to the undersheriff, who rubbed his hand over his lightly stubbled jaw, and then nodded.
‘We can do that easy enough, my lady. And grateful we’ll be if anything comes of it, for sure.’
They arranged to visit Osbern the Moneyer in the morning, for the short, winter day was drawing to a close, with sullen grey clouds hanging heavy over Worcester, and the wise shaking their heads and presaging snow. Hugh Bradecote was torn between pride in his betrothed’s intelligence, and a strong dislike at her involvement in any shape or form with his work for the shrieval authority. That the last time had brought her to a dagger’s point still brought a shudder when he contemplated it. He voiced his disquiet when they were alone.
‘This is not your concern, my sweet, though it was clever of you to think of—’
‘It is your concern, my lord, and I would have you free to think of me.’
She dimpled playfully, and teased him with a cheek close enough to kiss, but he was not so easily distracted, and took her by her arms, firmly but gently, and held her from him. She pouted, and he frowned.
‘I would not see you set at risk, you know that.’
‘What risk is there in talking to a girl about a secret swain?’ She sniffed disdainfully. ‘Women do such things every day.’
‘Not when the “swain” has just met a violent death. I am serious.’
Her face lost the smile.
‘So am I, my lord. I want to be part of your life. This is one aspect of that life. Oh, I know that usually I will be of no use to you, but here I can be so, and at no real risk, you must admit.’
He drew her close then, cheek to cheek.
‘You are not just a “part”, you are far more, and you will always be of use to me, because thinking of you will make me content when the world is otherwise grim.’
‘Merely content, Hugh?’
His kiss answered her.
Osbern the Moneyer had a neat burgage plot in Gloveres Strete. Christina could tell, just by peeping into the open workshop, as she ‘happened’ to pass by, that though the owner might have no wife, he had a woman who kept it clean and orderly. She wondered if he would have been happy to give his daughter up to any man, not just his journeyman.
Catchpoll introduced his superior to an obviously worried man, who still feared that the law might arraign him for murder if not the equally capital crime of forging. He gave his full attention to the questions that the undersheriff posed, even if he had answered them all before. His fear meant that he did not wonder why the lord Undersheriff was accompanied by a lady. The whereabouts of his daughter were discovered with a casual question, which elicited the information that she was laying out washing at the drying ground to the rear and would not disturb them. Christina FitzPayne excused herself from ‘men’s talk’, and had a momentary concern about how she would explain what she, an unfamiliar face, and clearly not one used to menial tasks, was doing among washing, but was spared any complicated lie by the girl herself. She was as neat as the house she kept, but her cheeks were marred by a smudge where she had wiped a grimed hand across tears, and her eyes were red. An expression of sisterly sympathy had Christina sat with an arm about the girl’s shoulder and hearing the outpouring of her misery in moments. The tears alone told much. Hawise could not grieve in her father’s presence, but her heart and hopes, she cried, lay in pieces. It took little or no coaxing on Christina’s part to find out that she and Edmund, her father’s journeyman, had planned to wed, but that there had been harsh words in recent weeks between master and man, and Edmund had taken them badly and had turned his thoughts to leaving as soon as his indentures expired at Lady Day, and taking her with him. He had even made provision should he not find employment in his trade in Hereford or Gloucester, he had said. Much more was made of how wonderful he had been and how cruel fate was to take her chance of happiness from her. Christina, with a genuine wish to give comfort, listened at length and said, though it might comfort her little now, that she herself had met with sorrow, but had found happiness later.
‘It can seem so black, the future, but do not think it will turn out to be so. Quite unexpectedly, all can change.’
Christina thought of how true that was, how her own life had altered so very swiftly, and for a few moments she forgot Hawise, forgot her mission. Only three months past she had been the peacefully contented wife of a man who inspired respect but no passion, but had been glorying in a new chance to be a mother, and with the hope of a child she could love and, at last, see flourish. Husband and hope had been swept away in one blow, as sharp as any axe, casting her back into the abyss in which she had once before languished, and yet, in that despair and misery, Hugh Bradecote had appeared, and taken her life and expectations into the light. She loved, and was loved; she would have a child to care for, even if it was not of her own womb, and—It struck her, the revelation, and she gasped as if winded. The thought in her head was as clear as a command at her shoulder, and if she did not obey it, she knew her dearest hope would crumble to dust. Her lord, as he would so soon be, would not like it, but there was no avoiding what must be done. She blinked and stiffened, and the girl felt her do so, and looked at her, dragged from her grief by curiosity.
‘Who are you?’
‘I,’ Christina smiled, and her voice did not sound her own in her ears, ‘I am just a pilgrim.’
Christina’s information to Catchpoll and Hugh Bradecote stopped short of revealing this intention, but was otherwise a true account.
‘She did not say that she knew what it was that her lover intended to do to make provision for their departure. She might not know, of course.’
Catchpoll tugged at his ear, and pulled a face.
‘It would depend greatly upon how he thought she would react to his stealing from her father, though if the dies were simply copied, he might have persuaded her there was no theft, just a crafty borrowing. He need not have told her the end result of that “borrowing”.’
‘How foolish would she have to be not to …’ Bradecote shook his head, but paused at the look on Christina’s face, and his voice petered out.
‘A woman in love is blind to many things, my lord, and may choose to be blind to more.’
There was an edge to her voice, defensive as she was for her sex. She did not want him to think women weak-minded, as all men thought them weak of body. Catchpoll coughed, uncomfortable at the thought of some lordly lovers’ spat. It drew Bradecote’s attention back to the matter in hand, and he was grateful to avoid what he too feared might be a feminine huff, which he could neither combat nor comprehend.
‘Many’s the time I’ve come across the family of criminals who cannot see how their son or husband, aye, or daughter even, could be guilty of as much as a minor misdemeanour. They close their eyes to what they would see as obvious in others. So what the lady says may well be true. If he did not tell, well, she would not ask.’ Catchpoll sighed. ‘Pity, if that is the case, since if he told her everything, we could have our forger under lock and key before the Matins bell tomorrow.’
Chapter Two
The serjeant’s gloomy prediction proved remarkably accurate. When the sheriff’s men spoke to her the next morning, Hawise was initially afraid and then affronted at their suggestion that Edmund had been engaged in a serious crime.
‘It is a wicked thing for you to cast blame on a man when he cannot defend himself. He was a good man, my Edmund, I’d swear an oath on it.’
Bradecote tried to smooth her ruffled feathers, suggesting that perhaps he had been deceived by another, a person who had then killed him to prevent him revealing all when he found out the truth. This settled far better with the distressed damsel.
‘Did he have to have dealings with other of the moneyers in Worcester, or their indentured men?’ Catchpoll tried to sound casually interested. ‘As part of the trade?’
‘Well,’ Hawise creased her delicately arched brows in concentration, ‘I suppose he must have had some with all of them at one time or another.’
‘What about recently, Hawise?’ Bradecote did not want to frighten the girl, and spoke gently. ‘Do you recall him going out on your father’s business, or indeed upon his own, when work was finished?’
‘We met when we could,’ she murmured, ‘when Father was out. Edmund did not go off to the alehouse, if that is what you mean. He stayed here, except of course when he went to visit his aunt. He was a good nephew, and she has been ailing of late.’
Catchpoll glanced at his superior. When he had seen her, the dame had looked in robust health.
‘So he was good to his kin. Tell me,’ Catchpoll sounded nonchalant, ‘if he had gone to an alehouse, which one do you think he would have gone to?’
‘Not where Father sups, for sure,’ she sighed. ‘The sign of The Moon down by the quays, I suppose, which he knew from youth, as his father used it. But, as I said, he did not go drinking. He was a good man.’
‘A good man who was almost certainly putting his master’s neck in a noose by stealing his dies to make forged pennies,’ muttered Catchpoll, as they left, collecting Walkelin, who had been detailed off to keep Osbern engaged in conversation, ‘and her father must have the eyesight of a mole not to notice those red-rimmed eyes of hers.’
‘Perhaps she claims it is the peeling of onions,’ suggested Walkelin, with a grin, which was met with a quelling glance from his serjeant.
‘So,’ Bradecote was determined to sound positive, and ignored Walkelin’s jest, ‘we are off to the Foregate to see the aunt and visit a nearby alehouse, just in case.’
‘We are, my lord. The aunt looked a sturdy, fit woman to me. I would guess the “visits” were not to her, but we had best check, before wasting our time in alehouses.’
‘I did not think to hear you say time in an alehouse could be wasted time.’ Bradecote grinned.
‘Now there, my lord, you are wrong. I happen to think a lot of time is wasted in such places, idling, and “home brewed, home drunk” is better.’ Catchpoll made a fair assumption of righteous innocence.
The aunt was indeed far from enfeebled, and declared, with some pride, that she had not been laid sick in her bed for a single day in the last five years. Their next stopping point was thus the alehouse, where the host was cagey. He had come within Catchpoll’s orbit sporadically over the years, and was not keen to be helpful. However, the lordly undersheriff was not the sort of personage who entered his premises, and Bradecote played off his rank shamelessly, standing tall and looking both arrogant and powerful.
‘I take it you will not waste my time with lies.’ He conveyed a sneering boredom that the man had never before encountered. ‘Had you seen Edmund, the journeyman of Osbern the Moneyer, with anyone in particular these last weeks?’
‘Edmund …’ The man spoke the name as if he had never heard it before, looked at the wall, and then the floor, glancing only briefly at the undersheriff, but jumped as Bradecote brought his hand down with a sharp crash upon the table. The tankards set upon it rattled as if nervous.
‘Don’t … keep … me … waiting.’ The words held menace, and the alehouse keeper trembled.
‘My lord, I … he … Well, there were one or two fellows he spoke with more than others. I did not recognise the first. He was a stranger in the parish, though he turned up on four or five occasions. The other was one of his own craft.’
‘I want the name. The moneyers of Worcester are known to all who trade.’
‘My lord, it was Geoffrey, the son of Herluin, him as works in Meal Cheaping.’
The undersheriff, noted Catchpoll approvingly, did not express his gratitude for this information, but rather ‘suggested’ that the alehouse keeper keep his memory sharp for the next time he should be visited by the law, and stalked out. Catchpoll almost rubbed his hands in glee.
‘Now, that, my lord, was very well done. Just the right degree of power, threat and downright malice. Did me good to see it. You mark that, young Walkelin.’
‘Before you praise me so much my head swells, Catchpoll, I want Walkelin to the Bridge Gate, and you stay here to watch the Foregate. I am heading back to the castle and will set men on the other gates and reliefs to you both. We meet in Meal Cheaping, as soon as we can, but not directly in view of our suspect. Whereabouts is the man’s workshop?’
Catchpoll gave him directions and he set off, his stride long and purposeful, but not running, lest it draw remark that might yet set the quarry to flight. The thought that the moneyer would have been wise to flee Worcester as soon as he had disposed of Edmund was supplanted by that which said the lord Sheriff had not begun a murder hunt upon the discovery of the sodden corpse. It had been treated as accidental drowning, and so keeping calm was the best course. Wavering between hope and anticipation of failure, Hugh Bradecote entered the castle and immediately set about ordering men who were native to Worcester off to the gates, with instructions to question those leaving and to watch for Geoffrey, son of Herluin. His was a well enough known name and face to be noticed. He then returned through the bustling streets to Meal Cheaping to await Catchpoll and Walkelin. He would have been disappointed, had he known, that a lad had been sent from the rear of the alehouse under the sign of The Moon as soon as he and Catchpoll were out of sight, with instructions to inform Geoffrey the net was closing about him, to remind him that he had most certainly not passed poor coin into circulation through the alehouse, and to receive a generous reward for the information.
It was not long before Walkelin arrived, and thereafter Catchpoll, who looked a little breathless.
‘Let’s hope our man is still within. Walkelin, go round the back and make sure there is no escape route that way. Count to thirty as you go, as will we, and then go in fast. Off you go. One, two, three …’
When they entered the premises there was no sign of Geoffrey. Walkelin suggested hopefully that he might have simply gone out to purchase food, but Catchpoll shook his head, gloomily.
‘Look about you, lad. What do you see?’
‘Well, normal things, Serjeant. There’s a loaf and a beaker and the furnace is ali—Oh!’
‘Yes, the furnace is aglow, but there are no signs of tools, and why leave it fired up if he was planning to be out in the streets this morning? Especially unattended.’
‘Should he not have a man working under him?’ queried Bradecote, frowning.
‘He did, my lord, but he died just before the end of Advent, and no doubt it was natural. He slipped on ice and broke his thigh. There’s a few that live after that, but most do not. I knew of it, but he was not pushed, and it was no business for the lord Sheriff. I doubt Geoffrey would have replaced him yet.’ Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed. ‘If he has gone to ground today, I would swear an oath it was these last minutes, which means he was warned. I’ll have that conniving slug from the sign of The Moon by his—’
‘By nothing until we have conducted a search of Worcester, Catchpoll.’
‘Search Worcester, my lord? All of it? We could be chasing the bastard in circles for days. There are not enough men in the castle to go through every house, outhouse and stable, and not let him slip past and turn up behind them.’
Bradecote muttered imprecations under his breath. What Catchpoll said was true.
‘It is possible he got out through the gates we had not covered straightaway, but if we ask at them, we ought to be able to find out if he was seen at one. Otherwise he is still in Worcester. If we cannot flush him out with numbers, well, he cannot make his escape either, and if we put out patrols in force, he must turn up somewhere over the next few days. We go to any known kin, or friends, and check them thoroughly. If he is hiding, as opposed to being hidden, he must emerge at some point for food, if nothing else. We patrol day and night, and he has to fall into our hands eventually.’
Catchpoll detected the note in Bradecote’s voice, the one that was trying to persuade himself this would work. He sighed.
‘I suppose even if we do not have him yet, he cannot put out any more false coin, so that will limit the damage with the burgesses, at the least. But the lord Sheriff will not be best pleased. And I will have the alehouse keeper in my charge at the castle, because if he warned him, my lord, then he knows far more than he told, and playing coy with the law is what I won’t have.’
‘Fair enough, Catchpoll. Do you want to drag him in yourself, or get Walkelin to do it?’
‘Do it myself, from choice, my lord. And if the good citizens of Worcester see me kicking him all the way, well it does no harm to remind ’em that I am still … er’ − Catchpoll’s thin lips spread in an unpleasant grin − ‘alive and kicking.’
Whilst the sheriff’s men had been checking who was leaving Worcester and Serjeant Catchpoll was making life most unpleasant for the alehouse keeper, a party entered, making its way towards the Cathedral Priory, where, having been greeted with suitable deference and respect, and having had private conversation with Prior David, its leader went to pay a call upon William de Beauchamp.
Samson of Bec held no abbacy, but he was influential, being a friend of the Archbishop of Canterbury from his days in Normandy, and was employed as his envoy trying to mediate with Bernard, the Bishop of St David’s, with whom Archbishop Theobald was engaged in a long dispute. He therefore travelled with the entourage befitting an important churchman. De Beauchamp had little interest in the religious world, but Theobald had power and influence and was now aligned in the Empress’s camp. It would be a foolish man who did not extend his envoy less than every courtesy. Nonetheless, it was the sort of superficial meeting that left William de Beauchamp grinding his teeth in frustration at such time-wasting. Father Samson was not one to be rushed, and though not personally vain, was very full of the importance of his mission and of his superior. His voice was low, and he spoke slowly, in the sing-song manner of one who had spent a lifetime reciting the Offices in church, and, in the ears of de Beauchamp, he sounded patronising. The lord Sheriff did not appreciate being treated like a child, by anyone. He was thus in a far from pleasant humour when Bradecote and Catchpoll returned. Expecting the worst, Catchpoll sent Walkelin off to the kitchens to scout out some bread and cheese, thus keeping him from hearing his seniors given a rare trimming.
Father Samson was still expatiating upon the intricacies of his mission when they were ushered into the chamber. For a moment, William de Beauchamp’s face registered relief, and he held up a hand to stem the cleric’s flow. Father Samson was caught mid-sentence and registered his displeasure with a frown. The lord Sheriff’s apology fooled nobody, but he did invite the archbishop’s envoy to return to bless and partake of a fine dinner. Father Samson could do nothing but thank his host and withdraw with a good grace. De Beauchamp’s brief expression of pleasure was quickly followed by a scowl, as his undersheriff and serjeant revealed that they had probably worked out who had killed Edmund and copied Osbern the Moneyer’s dies, but that the suspect had slipped through their fingers. He made growling noises like a mastiff with toothache, as Catchpoll described it later to his friend Drogo, the castle cook.
‘And I will say this for our undersheriff: he does not shrink from getting an earache off the lord Sheriff as his predecessor did. My lord de Crespignac was not as bold in the face of the de Beauchamp ire.’ Catchpoll grinned, accepted the proffered beaker of beer, and took a good swig, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘And,’ he added for good measure, ‘he can curse in the English something beautiful. Your average lord, well he can make himself understood and can master a few choice comments, but it trips off my lord Bradecote’s lips like he took it as mother’s milk. No trace of Foreign in his speech, and no need to explain slow, what someone says.’
‘Want to adopt him, do you?’ Drogo chuckled, and ducked as the empty beaker was lobbed at his head.
Christina FitzPayne had kept her own counsel since the previous day’s interview with Hawise. She needed time to try and work out how her aim could be achieved, and spent the morning coming upon dead ends. In each case she knew that she would face Hugh Bradecote’s prohibition, and prohibition that was well founded and sensible, as she had the honesty to admit to herself. Defy him she might, but not foolishly. She had not initially paid much attention to William de Beauchamp’s visitor, until she heard a lay brother talking to a man-at-arms in the inner bailey. She approached, and both men acknowledged her presence with a respectful nod.
‘Forgive me, Brother, but did I hear you are travelling to Lincoln?’
‘Indeed, my lady. Father Samson is on his way to discuss his mission with the lord Bishop of Lincoln, who is currently within his see.’
‘And when is it that you depart, brother?’
‘On the morrow, my lady.’
‘And do you take the route that meets the Fosse Way?’
‘I have not been told so, my lady, but I would judge it likely. If the weather is like to get worse, Father Samson will want to use the best roads and reach Lincoln betimes.’
‘Thank you, Brother.’
Thus it was that Father Samson was waylaid upon his departure from the shrieval presence. If at first he frowned and shook his head, it was clear that he was persuaded to change his opinion. All Christina need do now was inform her betrothed, and she pulled a face at the thought.
Bradecote was contemplating how to create the impression that the patrols and searches were not just a random and desperate effort to find their culprit, when Christina found him. He smiled, but it was perfunctory, and then ‘confessed’ the morning’s failure.
‘But is the lord Sheriff not pleased that you know which moneyer is responsible?’
She sounded perplexed, and he pulled a wry face.
‘He does not see things in your charitable light.’ He sighed. ‘Until this matter is settled, I cannot escort you back to Cookhill, my lady. I am sorry for the delay.’
‘I was not intending to return there straightaway. I …’ Her voice became uncertain, for she did not relish the reaction she knew her words would elicit from this man, this man whom she loved. ‘I am going on pilgrimage.’
‘You are what?’ His voice was raised in surprise and disapproval, all thought of Geoffrey the fugitive cast aside.
‘I want to go to the shrine of St Eadgyth at Polesworth, before we wed, my lord. I need to, don’t you see? No child of my body has lived to full age, and I am afraid.’ She came very close, looking up at him, her eyes pleading, taking his hand and placing it below the girdle at her waist. ‘Holding Gilbert, seeing you in him, I want your child, our child, and I want it to live. If I go on pilgrimage, the blessed saint may intercede for me. My grandmother ended her days there, and prayed to the blessed Eadgyth for my mother to have a son after she had produced but four daughters. My brother was the result. This is important to me. Can you not understand?’
‘And cannot you see that I am marrying you because you are you, not to bear me sons?’ He stroked her cheek. He saw the worry gnawing within her, but he had worry of his own. ‘Wait until I can accompany you. You know I will be free as soon as we have the forger. It is midwinter, Christina, the roads are treacherous, even without the risk from outlaws and lordless men in these times.’
‘My dear lord, I would not wish you to accompany me. No, do not look like that. If you were with me, what hardship would there be, however harsh the weather?’ She smiled tremulously. ‘It would be a pleasure to me. And if there is no hardship, or risk, how have I proved myself worthy of the saint’s blessing?’
Her eyes pleaded, but he saw only the hazards.
‘You do not comprehend the risks, and would put yourself in harm’s way for a whim,’ he said softly, though she took his tenderness as patronising, and then he made an even greater blunder. ‘It is not as though the case were desperate. I have an heir. I love you. I really do not care—’
‘You do not care for me to carry your child? Is it because I carried Arnulf de Malfleur’s? There, I said his name.’
She was losing her temper. She stiffened, and her eyes glittered.
‘Don’t be foolish.’ He scowled. ‘That chapter of your life is closed to you, and as if it had never been to me. Those things were not of your choosing and I do not − could not − think you “sullied” by them. Of course I want children with you. I keep telling you that I love you, don’t I? But I love you so much I do not want to lose you, and needlessly.’
‘I have to go, Hugh.’
He shook his head, and spoke with finality.
‘It is simply too far and too dangerous. I forbid it.’
The stiffness became rigidity, and her pretty mouth set in an uncompromising line.
‘You forbid? Well, since I am not yet your possession, you cannot forbid, my lord Bradecote. Father Samson’s party departs in the morning, bound for Lincoln, and I have already obtained his permission to travel with them. You see, I am not foolish.’ She tossed her head. ‘I have thought this through and I shall be perfectly safe. Who would threaten men of God?’
She pulled away from him and stormed from the room. He swore beneath his breath at the mule-headedness of women, and sighed heavily. He considered going to the churchman and asking him to refuse Christina’s request, but deep down knew that if he did, a black chasm would always thereafter exist between him and the woman he loved, and he wanted nothing between them at all. To keep her close, he had to let her go, however much it fretted him.
