Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids

by Howard of Warwick

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids

  Or

  We’re Going on a Murder

  Being further Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

  by

  HOWARD OF WARWICK

  The Funny Book Company

  The Funny Book Company

  www.funnybookcompany.com

  © 2015 Howard Matthews

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, copied, or otherwise circulated without the express permission of the author.

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  Cover design by Double Dagger

  Also by Howard of Warwick.

  The First Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

  The Heretics of De'Ath

  The Garderobe of Death

  The Tapestry of Death

  Continuing Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

  Yet More Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

  The Case of the Clerical Cadaver

  The Case of the Curious Corpse

  The Case of the Cantankerous Carcass

  A Brother Hermitage Diversion (and free!)

  Brother Hermitage in Shorts

  Also:

  Howard of Warwick does the Middle Ages: Authenticity without accuracy.

  The Domesday Book (No, Not That One.)

  The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)

  Explore the whole sorry business and join the mailing list at

  Howardofwarwick.com

  Another funny book from The Funny Book Company

  Greedy by Ainsworth Pennington

  Contents

  Introit

  Caput I Here Be Dragons?

  Caput II Because the King Says So.

  Caput III What’s The Time?

  Caput IV All Druids.

  Caput V Prophecy, Prophecy.

  Caput VI A Growing Quest.

  Caput VII The Scent of Gold.

  Caput VIII The Stone of Stones.

  Caput IX The Fellowship Expands; Unfortunately.

  Caput X How to do a Sacrifice.

  Caput XI The Doubtful Pilgrims.

  Caput XII Lord Bermo Rides Out.

  Caput XIII Playing with the Rock.

  Caput XIV And Now, Stragglers.

  Caput XV Making Your Sacrifice Feel At Home.

  Caput XVI Over the Border.

  Caput XVII Meet the Locals.

  Caput XVIII Happy Times Ahead?

  Caput IX Strangers and Stranger Still.

  Caput XX A Hearty Welcome.

  Caput XXI Surprise, Surprise.

  Caput XXII Attrition of the Fellowship.

  Caput XXIII Secrets of Some Sacred Wood.

  Caput XXIV The Sacrifices Object.

  Caput XXV Tied and Ready.

  Caput XXVI Ah, the Gold.

  Caput XVII Now Who’s Lying?

  Caput XVIII A Few Revelations.

  Caput XXIX Digging for Bones.

  Caput XXX There Goes the Stone.

  Caput XXXI And End of Sorts.

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns: An Introduction

  Introit

  The lone Norman was scrambling back down the scree-sided hill much faster than he had gone up it. With each half stumble and blow from some bouncing piece of specially sharpened rock, he cursed himself for ever having gone up there in the first place.

  Perhaps he’d be able to see his way out of this God-forsaken country if he climbed one of its interminable hills? Stupid idea.

  He should have just followed one of the rivers to the sea. But that would have meant passing through the habitations of the completely mad people who lived here. And he’d seen how that ended up. From a distance, thankfully.

  He glanced back over his shoulder to see if the pursuit was still with him. Of course it was. That was the way his luck ran. Of all the endless, deserted stretches of rain-battered, bog-filled land to choose from, he selected the very bit with some lunatic living in a cave. A very jealous and very lunatic lunatic, judging from the reaction.

  All he tried to do was get out of the wretched rain for five minutes. The stuff fell out of the sky pretty much constantly so surely he could be spared a bit of cover.

  How was he to know the cave was occupied? It was a miserable hole in the side of a hill which no one in their right mind should be living in. And there was no one in their right mind living in it. No one in their right mind who had got a sword from somewhere. A sword? In a cave? With a lunatic?

  He kept running.

  The stones under his feet were bouncing up to hit his calves and ankles, and the stones from his pursuer were raining down on his shoulders and back. And the rain was falling on both.

  He knew a mission from King William was not something to be ignored, or managed badly. The things the King would do to him would make falling down a rock strewn hill in the rain chased by a mad man with a sword feel like a stroke from a jester’s bladder. But the King was miles away. More miles away than the Norman thought possible. The man with sword was right behind him.

  He knew where his priorities lay. He would explain the situation to the King later. Later meant he could spend all the intervening time still being alive.

  Just then, the wretched hillside fell away under his feet. The hill had been steep enough as it was. Now it tipped even further and he went down. Down onto the sharp stones.

  He felt the cuts and grazes on his hands as he slid down the slope which might as well have been paved with broken glass.

  Looking in the direction of travel he saw the scree drop straight into the waters of a small but deep and dark lake. He could see it was dark, he just knew it would be deep. Perhaps, once in the water, he would be able to swim away. Or sink with the rest of the stones. Probably the latter.

  While still moving he managed to dig his right hand into the ground and slowly spin his body round that he was going down backwards. There was no point trying to protect his hands, which were doubtless already cut to shreds.

  As his feet dug into the scree he began to slow. Relief spread through him as he realised he would be able to stop before the water. The relief was only momentary as he now had a good view of his pursuer who was handling the steep slope very well indeed and holding his sword high at the same time. Most impressive.

  At least his last sight would be of the mad man who was going to do for him. Better the sword than the lake, he thought.

  He looked up into the eyes of the cave-dwelling swordsman. ‘You!’ he exclaimed, with more surprise than he had felt for a very long time.

  Caput I

  Here Be Dragons?

  With more outrage than he had felt for a very long time Brother Hermitage put his hands on his hips. ‘Wales?’ he asked. He had felt a lot of outrage for quite a while now, and it was stirring quite unfamiliar feelings in his sedate character. He was never easily provoked, as his brother monks, who spent a lot of their time trying to provoke him, could testify. His emotional range normally stretched from mildly annoyed to moderately satisfied, and he rarely reached those dizzy extremes. Now, he was feeling positively testy.

  He could only gaze at Le Pedvin, King William’s second in comman
d and chief frightener of Saxons who had mentioned the dread place.

  Hermitage had been given his own personal prophecy about Wales and it didn’t end well. Of course he really only believed in prophesies from the Old Testament prophets, and they never mentioned Wales. This had to be a coincidence. If it wasn’t a coincidence he was in real trouble. The sort of trouble that only gets mentioned in prophesies.

  ‘Yes, Wales,’ said the Norman, an inaccurate map of Britain dangling from his right hand as he lounged in a comfortable chair in his camp tent. The tent with his attendant soldiers, the ones with all the knives and swords.

  Hermitage’s mouth was open but wouldn’t work properly it was so outraged. He appraised the figure of Le Pedvin, hoping this was some sort of joke. He would have to admit the Norman was not known for his jokes, or humour of any sort really. Apart from ill-humour of course, the man had a lot of that.

  Even appraising the figure was a problem as Le Pedvin didn’t really have one. His face was as ragged as a week old corpse and the patch over one eye only enhanced the impression that the man had started dying some time ago, but hadn’t quite finished yet. His reputation for wielding a sword was hard to believe. Wielding it for hours on end straight through people who stood in his way, apparently.

  Le Pedvin’s lone eye examined Hermitage in return and it was clear that the sight of the young, even-faced and bright-eyed monk gave it no pleasure.

  That eye moved on and fell upon Wat the weaver. A few years older than Hermitage, much better dressed and with considerably more experience behind the eyes and under the mop of curly dark hair. The weaver was trying to look bored at being asked about Wales – and was failing.

  The eye paid no attention to Cwen, the third person facing the Norman’s chair and the youngest of the group. He’d met her before and even cuffed her out of his way once, but as she appeared to be a servant, she didn’t register. If he’d been told this young woman was a talented weaver, and spent most of her time ordering the others about, he’d have laughed heartily; a hearty laugh from Le Pedvin being akin to the terminal wheeze of a ferret choking to death on baby rabbit bones.

  ‘We’ve only just stepped back in England,’ Hermitage protested, seeing where Le Pedvin’s finality was about the send them. And they had only just stepped back;[ The reason for their stepping back is nicely explained in Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other. Perhaps you’d like to buy that as well. ] off the boat from Normandy, where they’d been looking into another one of the murders that seemed to follow Le Pedvin around. Hermitage found himself wondering if, one day, he’d be asked to look into the murder of Le Pedvin himself. That would be nice. No, it wouldn’t, he reprimanded himself. All murder was evil.

  ‘You’re just in time then, and heading in the right direction,’ was all the Norman had to say.

  ‘Not more murder?’ Hermitage asked, familiar despair preparing itself for a bit of a romp around his head. Being dispatched by Le Pedvin to investigate a murder in Normandy had been appalling and their encounter with the man at the castle Grosmal had been awful[ An awful experience neatly explained in The Garderobe of Death, available from shops with books in them. You could start a collection.] . Hermitage had little confidence Wales would be any better.

  ‘No,’ Le Pedvin replied sharply.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well,’ the Norman hesitated, ‘yes. Probably.’

  He nodded a silent order to one of the men of arms who stepped smartly out of the tent. It was clear Le Pedvin had sent the man for something, hopefully a better map. Hermitage folded his arms and waited. It was an unusual feeling, being in demand, having something Le Pedvin wanted, which Hermitage felt put him in a position of strength. Of course he knew that anything Le Pedvin wanted, the man would take, probably by force. Still, it was nice to bask in the moment.

  After a very short time the guard returned, dragging something along as he backed his way into the tent. Definitely not a map then. Perhaps a trunk full of maps. That would be interesting. The backward travelling man elbowed them out of the way and deposited his burden at their feet.

  ‘Ah,’ they all said, as they saw what it was.

  Wat’s “ah” was a knowing and simple confirmation that this was exactly the sort of thing he’d expected.

  Cwen’s was a stifled “ah” from someone who didn’t want to appear surprised by anything.

  Hermitage’s was a much more normal “ah”. The sort of high-pitched noise that the person hopes will propel them rapidly away from the dead body that’s just been dumped in front of them.

  ‘What’s that?’ Hermitage followed his “ah”. His voice still up with the bats.

  ‘It’s a body,’ Le Pedvin seemed puzzled by the question, ‘surely you’ve seen enough of them to know what one looks like.’

  Hermitage had seen enough bodies. More than enough. He’d have been happy to stop before the first one. ‘I have seen far too many,’ he tried to make the criticism stick on Le Pedvin, but the man was far too slippery. ‘Where did it come from?’ he demanded, still thinking it was the most outrageous thing to throw before him.

  Le Pedvin frowned, ‘Outside,’ he said, ‘you just saw the guard bring it in? I do wonder how you manage to investigate anything sometimes.’

  ‘I know it came in from outside,’ Hermitage laid his contempt on thick, which was still pretty thin, ‘where did it come from before that?’

  Le Pedvin looked at Hermitage as if the monk was speaking a foreign language. ‘Wales?’ he asked, clearly unhappy that Hermitage had not been paying attention. ‘One of our number went to Wales and now appears to be dead. You’re going to find out what happened to him and who made it happen.’ He explained, as if to a child.

  ‘Appears to be dead?’ Hermitage was squeaking again. ‘He doesn’t appear to be dead. He’s actually doing it. Right here.’ He held out his arms to draw attention to the corpse on the floor. ‘As far as I’m concerned this poor fellow doesn’t come under the category of maybe a murder, he’s a firm yes.’

  ‘I don’t mean him,’ Le Pedvin was full of scorn for the monk’s stupidity.

  ‘There’s another one?’ This shocked Hermitage, although he tried to tell himself he shouldn’t really be surprised.

  ‘That’s what you’re going to find out.’ Le Pedvin rolled his eyes across the ceiling. ‘This is just a messenger,’ he nodded to the body on the floor. ‘Staggered in from Wales, delivered his message and died.’ Le Pedvin scoffed at the inadequacy of the modern messenger.

  Hermitage offered a silent blessing to the one who had now departed to deliver his very final message.

  ‘Had he run all the way?’ Hermitage asked sympathetically. If that was the case it was no wonder the poor man had died.

  ‘Could be,’ Le Pedvin acknowledged without interest. ‘Although it was probably the curse that killed him.’

  ‘The what?’ Hermitage asked, very slowly and very carefully.

  ‘The curse,’ Le Pedvin confirmed, as if everyone knew this, ‘the druid curse.’

  Hermitage could tell he had turned pale, even from the inside. The little blood that usually kept his face on the light side of pallid, had left for somewhere safer. Somewhere the discussion didn’t involve druid curses. ‘The druid curse?’ he asked, unhappy to let the words pass his lips.

  ‘That’s what he said,’ Le Pedvin nodded towards the deceased again.

  Hermitage gaped.

  ‘Well,’ Le Pedvin explained, ‘more sort of screamed repeatedly, to be honest.’

  ‘Why us?’ Hermitage bleated.

  ‘King’s Investigator?’ Le Pedvin pointed out, ‘King William made you his Investigator. Therefore you investigate things for him. He wants this investigated, therefore you do it.’

  Hermitage had to admit this was a very sound and well-constructed argument. He didn’t want to do it, therefore he shouldn’t, seemed to get him nowhere.

  ‘And you think this other man of yours is as dead as this one. You want him aven
ged?’ said Wat.

  ‘Not really,’ Le Pedvin sniffed, ‘it’s only Martel, who’d care? What we can’t have is people going round killing Normans. They’ll all think they can do it.’

  Now that was heartless, even for Normans.

  ‘And when you’ve found out what happened, you can bring his killer to your workshop in Derby.’

  ‘Why there?’ Wat sounded rather worried that Le Pedvin was using his home as a landmark.

  ‘Because we’re heading north for a spot of harrying and it’ll be on the way.’ Le Pedvin paused and consulted his map. ‘I think,’ he said turning the parchment in his hand.

  Wat frowned deeply.

  ‘Oh and of course if you’re not there, in what shall we say,’ the man pondered as if adding up barrels of cider on his fingers, ‘a week to get to Wales, week to find Martel’s killer, week to Derby? Three weeks? Yes, in three weeks we’ll burn the workshop to the ground and kill everyone in it,’ Le Pedvin completed the plan.

  ‘Is that really all you can do?’ Hermitage’s outrage flared once more. ‘Every time you want something, you threaten to burn places to the ground and kill everyone.’

  Le Pedvin smiled his thin, horrible smile, ‘Think of it as our secret weapon.’

  ‘It’s not very secret.’

  ‘That’s why it works so well.’

  ‘Well it’s not going to work for long. What happens when you’ve burned everything to the ground and killed everyone?’

  Le Pedvin held the monk with his one eyed gaze, ‘We’ve won.’

  There was nothing in the cold, lifeless gaze Hermitage wanted to engage with, so he moved on. ‘Have you any idea whereabouts he might have been?’