Hostage to Fortune by Sarah Hawkswood

Author:Sarah Hawkswood [Sarah Hawkswood]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780749024833
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2019-02-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

William de Beauchamp had never had any intention of complying with the demand to appear at the bridge over the Teme with Geoffrey. Indeed, he had not considered it even worth stating to his undersheriff and serjeant before leaving them. As far as he was concerned, he had left them hunting on the west bank of the Severn, and he had taken the precaution of ensuring he was informed of any body of men crossing at the ferry points, both at Upton and Worcester ford itself. He was tackling the situation from the other end. The information that this morning the river was frozen so that no ferry could cross, played into his own hands. The kidnappers would not know whether he had been going to give in or not, and might just decide not to kill another hostage. With the exception of Christina FitzPayne, who was a comely woman, and whose death would possibly ruin Bradecote, and the likely reaction of the Archbishop of Canterbury to the loss of his envoy, de Beauchamp was not particularly concerned whether other hostages were killed, except that it taunted his authority. He hoped Bradecote and Catchpoll might have success, but could do nothing practical to aid them. He therefore concentrated his efforts on the things he could work upon, and sent Walkelin to find the hoard of silver, which would deny it to the enemy, and perhaps give a solid clue to who these criminals were, or at least whence they had come.

With his previous day’s success boosting his confidence, Walkelin set off early next morning, through the Sutheburi Gate and onto the Evesham road. ‘His’ men-at-arms were only really required so that they could assist in carrying the silver back to Worcester if it was too heavy, and as a nominal protection. It was a task without risk, and had the weather been kinder, all three would have considered it as good as a Holy Day, with none to order them about for the morning. The January weather, however, chose to chastise them. A north-easterly wind bit deep through the layers of cloak, cotte and undershirt, for they wore as many layers as possible, and carried flurries of snow that settled upon ground already iron-hard. They held to a brisk trot, which kept the horses warm enough, but failed to assist the extremities of the riders. They muffled their faces in an effort to prevent frost-nip, but their breath condensed to an icy wetness on the woollen cloth. It was not a day to be abroad.

They saw but three souls upon their journey, and those only upon the outskirts of Worcester itself. About halfway between Whittington and Stoulton they slowed to a walk, keeping an eye out to the left of the road for the blasted elm that had been given as the sign for them to halt.

Geoffrey had not told them to look beneath this gaunt ghost of a tree. It was, he said, too obvious a place of itself.

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