Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids

by Howard of Warwick

  ‘Hardly likely,’ the Arch-Druid huffed, ‘there are a lot of us, we don’t all know one another.’

  Hermitage wished these people would make their minds up. First they’re happy, then they’re grumpy. There was no pleasing them.

  ‘Chap called Theletrix?’

  The Arch-Druid and Wulf immediately knelt at Hermitage’s feet.

  ‘Oh, I say,’ Hermitage didn’t know what to do.

  ‘You,’ the Arch-Druid almost stumbled over his words, ‘you met the great mage? And spoke to him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Theletrix, the great mage of the druids?’

  ‘Oh, is he? Yes, I suppose so. He didn’t mention any mages.’

  ‘Lord Theletrix is the great mage of all the druids,’ now the wretched Arch-Druid was impatient.

  ‘Is he? Ah, jolly good.’

  ‘And you say he knows of the circle to the south?’

  ‘Absolutely. He said it was built thousands of years ago, which is obviously ridiculous.’

  ‘Thousands of years ago?’ Wulf almost sobbed, ‘they built the Grand Complication thousands of years ago?’ He found a glare from somewhere and threw it at the Arch-Druid.

  ‘So he said.’ Hermitage gave a light laugh at such a patently stupid idea. ‘But he didn’t say it was a Grand Complication or anything.’

  ‘What, erm, what did he say it was?’ The Arch-Druid sounded like he didn’t really want to know.

  ‘What did he call it?’ Hermitage wracked his memory, ‘it was a very strange expression. Oh yes, a timepiece.’

  ‘A timepiece?’ The Arch-Druid had a crack in his voice.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. He said they would be able to tell what time it was whenever they wanted. Day or night. They’d also know what day and month it was and everything. Sounded very clever to do it all with rocks. But an awful lot of trouble when all you need to do is write it down anyway.’

  ‘Write it down?’ It was Wulf who was now sounding very despondent. His glare at the Arch-Druid deepened.

  ‘We will have nothing to do with writing,’ the old druid announced.

  ‘Really?’ Hermitage couldn’t believe anyone wouldn’t be fascinated by reading and writing.

  ‘We carve our sacred runes upon the rocks and that is all that is needful,’ the Arch-Druid was announcing this solemnly. ‘We have heard of this writing on animal skins and the like, but it is against the will of the Gods.’

  Hermitage gave one of his best tuts. ‘Much easier to keep track of the time if you write it down. No need to move rocks about at all.’

  ‘You,’ Wulf hesitated, ‘you write down the time?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hermitage explained. ‘Every monastery has a monk who keeps count.’

  ‘Keeps count?’

  ‘Of course. How else would we know when the devotions are due? The monk gets up every morning and writes down what day it is. That’s pretty easy, it’s basically the last one plus one. Then he checks when the sun rises, when it’s high and when it sets and lets everyone know. He sets his candles to measure the passing hours and then rings the bell.’

  ‘And he doesn’t have a stone circle at all?’ Wulf had some hope in his voice.

  ‘Of course not,’ Hermitage laughed lightly at the very idea. ‘We sometimes use a sundial.’

  ‘Sundial?’

  ‘Yes, a plate of metal with a spike in the middle. The shadow of the sun cast by the spike tells the hour.’

  Wulf was looking at Hermitage in wonder. ‘That’s how the stone circle works,’ he paused, ‘of course you need to see the sun, which doesn’t happen much round here. And this metal plate is of magnificent size, like a stone circle?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Hermitage, ‘quite small really. You can carry it around.’

  ‘Carry it around?’ Wulf sounded so disappointed he was on the point of tears.

  ‘I’ve heard rumours that some monks are working on a magnificent device of wood and metal which actually tells the time all on its own. Even in the dark,’ Hermitage couldn’t wait to get the details of this as soon as it was available. ‘But we still use the monk to write it all down anyway. And then once a year a monk comes from the church and checks that our monk is on the right day.’

  ‘And what do you call this monk of yours?’ Wulf was really in his boots now.

  ‘Anything you like really,’ Hermitage couldn’t see it mattered. ‘The last place I was at we had a name for him because he looked out for the passing days and hours. We called him the watch.’

  ‘The watch,’ Wulf threw his hands in the air. ‘We were going to build a bloody great circle and all we needed was a watch!’

  ‘Writing,’ the Arch-Druid grumbled as if it was a disgusting habit. ‘And lord Theletrix’s circle did not open a gateway to the Gods?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Hermitage was firm on that nonsense.

  ‘I can tell the time perfectly well with the circle we’ve got,’ Wulf seemed to making some explicit criticism of the Arch-Druid, ‘why would we need a Grand Complication at all?’

  The Arch-Druid was thinking, ‘Perhaps we should travel to see this great circle the lord Theletrix has. You could see if it makes a difference,’ he suggested to Wulf.

  ‘Be a lot quicker than building our own,’ Wulf said, rather sulkily.

  Hermitage really didn’t have much of a clue what was going on any more. Everything was confusing; the people most of all.

  The Arch-Druid and Wulf seemed buried in their thoughts. De Boise was by definition buried under the rock, and his complaints were gradually becoming fainter. The crowd in the village were sorting themselves back into their groups, presumably to decide what to do next, which made Hermitage wonder what he should do next?

  ‘What do we do now?’ he asked Wat plaintively, as he realised the complexity of their situation. ‘We’ve found the gold and we’ve found Martel.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Martel, who heard his name being mentioned.

  ‘I was just saying that we’ve sort of completed our mission to find you and the gold.’

  ‘And what do you do next?’

  ‘That’s just what I was asking,’ Hermitage turned to Wat for the answer.

  ‘Well,’ the weaver mused, ‘the King thinks Martel is dead.’

  ‘Probably for the best, really,’ Martel was despondent. ‘I thought he might be pleased if I said there was gold. Should have known better.’

  ‘And Le Pedvin was being his usual deceiving self, not saying what he really wanted.’

  ‘Le Pedvin?’ the quake in Martel’s voice was clear for all to hear. ‘I’m not going anywhere near him.’

  ‘The cave it is then,’ sad Wat, which didn’t seem to cheer Martel at all.

  ‘I don’t think the druids will want to part with the gold,’ said Hermitage, ‘and we are not just taking it,’ he added before Wat or Cwen could make the suggestion.

  ‘It’s easy enough then,’ said Wat, ‘with de Boise under the rock, we go back and tell William the truth.’

  That sounded good to Hermitage.

  ‘Well, some of the truth. We say Wales was full of gold and the druids had it, but de Boise wasn’t dead at all. He had deceived William and came to steal the gold for himself. He’s bound to believe that. After all, he thinks everyone is as bad as he is. We just say de Boise ran off with it. To Ireland probably. That should stop William bothering the welsh for years.’

  ‘And you’ll make sure he thinks I’m dead,’ Martel urged.

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’ll believe any of this,’ Hermitage fretted.

  ‘What choice does he have?’

  ‘He could kill us,’ Hermitage pointed out.

  ‘Ah,’ said Wat, knowingly, ‘not now that we know how proud he is of his personal investigator.’

  This did not cheer Hermitage. ‘What are we going to with this lot?’ He nodded his head to the village which was still pretty much swarming with stragglers, pilgrims, robbers,
Bermo and his men as well as the druids, John and More and all the villagers. It looked like a pretty busy town. ‘We can’t turn up with a troop of twenty odd people following on.’

  After all their trials, King William and Le Pedvin, getting to Wales, being nearly killed by a largely mad Norman and some strange druids, Hermitage felt that the most difficult task was still ahead; getting people to stop following them.

  They left the master stone and headed into the crowd, the foundations of the monolith quietly moaning behind them.

  Caput XXXI

  End of Sorts.

  Hermitage sought out Ellen, who he thought seemed to be the most intelligent of the group – if one of the most scary. As they approached they could see that she was in heated conversation with Leon, which was turning out to be one of the main features of her family.

  ‘I told you,’ Leon was insistent, ‘Lord Bermo has offered me a job. I’m going to be a guard. I want to be a guard and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ He stamped his foot.

  ‘A guard!’ Ellen wailed at the air. ‘You want to be a guard? You’ll be killed.’

  ‘But if I’m a guard we’ll get regular food and stuff. We might even be able to get a little hovel of our own.’

  ‘We’ve got a perfectly good hovel at home.’

  ‘I hate it,’ Leon burst out, ‘and I hate you. You’re ruining my life.’ He stomped off.

  Ellen turned to see the others arriving. She tried to look calm and in control.

  ‘Well,’ said Wat, rubbing his hands together, ‘it’s been nice to have you straggling us, but we’re off now.’

  Ellen had a thoughtful look. ‘Straggling you has been quite interesting, actually. And we got fed. I think we might carry on.’

  Hermitage thought that was a very bad idea indeed. He liked being on his own and it had taken him a long time to get used to just having Wat and Cwen around. If he was going to be straggled for the rest of his life, he might just go mad.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Wat. Hermitage regarded him with some horror. ‘I’m sure King William and the whole Norman army will be really pleased to meet a bunch of Saxon stragglers, Wat said with a curious smile, ‘after all, he does so love Saxons in large numbers.’

  Ellen’s look remained thoughtful. ‘Or then again, we might stay here.’ Hermitage sighed his relief. ‘After all, the village looks like it could do with some fresh blood.’ Hermitage hoped that the druids wouldn’t take that too literally.

  Ellen adopted a new expression as she looked around the place, one that said Hywel clearly wasn’t up to his job, and what the village really needed was a woman in charge. ‘My son’s been offered an important job in lord Bermo’s army you know.’

  ‘Really,’ Wat sounded very impressed, ‘all turned out well in the end then.

  Cwen stepped forward, looked Ellen up and down and then the two women exchanged heartfelt hugs with many pats on the shoulder. ‘You look after yourself girl,’ said Ellen.

  ‘And you, old woman,’ Cwen replied.

  The two sniffed and wiped their eyes.

  ‘Don’t you take any nonsense from these two,’ Ellen instructed. An instruction Hermitage considered to be completely unnecessary.

  ‘And you keep this village in order,’ Cwen responded.

  Hermitage looked on in complete bewilderment. Surely these two hated one another. What on earth was going on? He looked to Wat for an explanation.

  The weaver’s expression said that there probably was an explanation, just not one they would understand.

  They left Ellen issuing orders to people who didn’t know who she was. ‘That’s stragglers dealt with,’ said Wat, ‘just robbers, pilgrims, John and More to go.’

  They found Banley next. He and the rest of his band were sitting around outside the large village hut, comparing sticks with Bermo’s men.

  ‘I imagine you’ll be staying here,’ Wat said to the leader. Hermitage didn’t know why he’d conclude that. After all, the robbers had followed them half way across the country.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Banley confirmed. ‘I think we have a duty to make sure that the poor, defenceless druids don’t get any of that gold taken off them.’

  ‘By some band of ruffians,’ Wat prompted.

  ‘Exactly,’ Banley nodded, and his men grumbled their agreement. ‘And it was such a lot of gold.’ Banley went rather misty eyed, and Hermitage had some doubts about the man’s sincerity.

  ‘I don’t know whether to wish the luck to you or the druids,’ said Wat as they left.

  ’Wat,’ Hermitage hissed in the weaver’s ear, ‘I have a horrible feeling they plan to rob the druids.’

  ‘I have a certainty they plan to rob the druids,’ said Wat.

  ‘Then shouldn’t we do something?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Tell someone?’

  ‘There are so many reasons not to do anything,’ Wat explained. ‘One; I don’t think that lot are capable of robbing cow dung. Two, the druids haven’t done us any favours, so why would we care?’

  Hermitage thought that was a most uncharitable thought.

  ‘And three, I think John has found himself a new job as well.’ He nodded over to the edge of the woods where the druids were in conversation.

  The Arch-Druid was addressing Wulf and Gardle, Lypolix was presumably scampering in the woods somewhere. There was a large woollen blanket at their feet, tied up into a bundle. It was pretty clear that the bundle contained the gold, which had been recovered from the sacrificial field.

  By their side stood John. The man was upright and proud, rigid and very fearsome. His largest sword was held in front of him, point down, and he was surveying the village as if inviting someone to try and take the gold so that he could chop them to bits.

  ‘He did seem to be in thrall to the druids,’ Hermitage commented.

  ‘He’s probably as glad to be out of Norman clutches as the rest of us,’ Wat commented. ‘Being a sell-sword to Le Pedvin must be a precarious occupation.’

  Hermitage felt a tug at his habit and turned to find Elard, Lanson and Pord standing in a neat row.

  ‘We were just going to look for you,’ said Wat. ‘We’re leaving now,’ he looked Lanson in the eye, ‘and you’re not coming with us.’

  Hermitage winced at the rudeness.

  ‘That’s right,’ Elard confirmed happily. ‘Sorry about that, but you’ll just have to manage without us.’

  ‘I think we’ll cope,’ said Wat.

  ‘What are you going to do then?’ Hermitage asked. ‘This is a heathen country, the nearest shrine must be miles away.’ He then thought this through. ‘Except, of course you don’t go to the real shrines anyway.’

  ‘We’re not doing shrines anymore,’ Elard smiled.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Hermitage, happy that they might be heading towards the right path.

  ‘No,’ said Elard, ‘we’re going to be druids.’

  Wat gave a short, sharp laugh. Hermitage didn’t understand.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re going to be druids?’

  ‘Have you seen them?’ Elard was as puzzled as Hermitage. ‘They get robes and food and even gold.’

  ‘But, but,’ Hermitage tried to get his thoughts in order. ‘It’s not just a case of deciding to be something. Druids believe in Gods and spirits and trees and mushrooms and things.’

  ‘We can do that,’ said Elard.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Hermitage was appalled. ‘You can’t just say you believe in something. You have to actually, you know, believe it.’

  ‘I do,’ said Elard.

  ‘Me too,’ Pord and Lanson added.

  ‘Well, I don’t believe you,’ Hermitage folded his arms.

  ‘Yes,’ said Elard, ‘but you don’t matter. The big druid with the beard has said he’ll take us.’

  ‘The Arch-Druid,’ said Hermitage.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘The one whose every word you have to obey.’


  ‘That’s right,’ said Elard, but he sounded a bit less sure.

  ‘The one who just tried to sacrifice his own druids.’

  ‘Erm,’ Elard now looked to Lanson and Pord.

  Wat patted Elard firmly on the shoulder. ‘I think you’re making the right decision. And if we’re ever in this part of the country again we’ll pop by and see if you’re still here.’

  Elard gave a weak smile.

  ‘Or if there’s three new stones sticking up with some moaning coming from underneath them.’ He pulled Hermitage and Cwen away, leaving the erstwhile pilgrims to consider their options.

  ‘This is going really well,’ said Wat. ‘Nearly shot of the lot of them. I think we just sneak out now. No one else needs to see us go.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling More will find out and follow us anyway,’ said Cwen. ‘After all, he’s no earthly use to this place.’

  They headed off back towards the master stone and the path that led back over the hills, away from the village.

  Hermitage could hardly believe it was all over. Of course there was still the King and Le Pedvin to deal with, but as they were so many miles away he felt confident that Wat’s story would be accepted. He was also confident that at each mile post on the way to Derby he would leave a little bit of that confidence behind.

  They were close to the stone now and it seemed they would get away without More spotting them. Hermitage did feel bad not saying goodbye to More. But then saying hello had not been exactly fulfilling.

  ‘Bye then,’ More’s squeaky voice, wafted across the grass. The ancient boatman didn’t sound in the least concerned that they were going without him.

  Hermitage looked at the master stone and saw More and Martel, sitting comfortably with their backs against the rock, feet outstretched.

  ‘Ah, yes, goodbye,’ Hermitage stumbled over his words. ‘You’re, erm, staying here then?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ More shook head and beard. ‘Me and mister Martel got a plan.’

  ‘Really?’ said Hermitage. Even his curiosity, rampant as it was, showed no signs of interest in any plan these two had come up with.

  ‘We’re going to run a ferry,’ More announced proudly.