Hermitage scanned the village quickly, in case there was some large body of water he’d missed.
‘Not here,’ More scoffed at Hermitage’s idiocy. ‘The village headman says there’s a big river over the other side of the hills.’
‘Where?’ Hermitage asked.
‘No,’ said More, ‘Why.’
Hermitage was lost. ‘Why what?’
‘No, not why what, Just Why. The river’s called the Why. Why you’d call a river the River Why I don’t know. Pretty stupid if you ask me.’
More should know, thought Hermitage in an uncharitable moment.
‘And the best thing about it is that the ferryman just died.’
‘That’s the best thing?’
‘Oh, he didn’t drown or anything.’ More assured Hermitage. ‘I’m going to run the boat, ‘cos I can do that, and mister Martel is going to do all the money and stuff.’
Martel smiled at the plan. Hermitage thought it would at least be better than living in a cave. Although running a ferry with More was not a task he’d take on.
‘And have you got a boat?’ he asked
‘There’s usually one around if you look hard enough,’ More grinned at the complexity of his plan.
As they lapsed into silence, Hermitage, Wat and Cwen quietly contemplating that the people of the River Why didn’t know what was coming their way, a quiet moan could be heard emerging from the ground.
Hermitage suddenly recalled that de Boise was still down there. In all the goodbyes and partings, he’d completely forgotten that they’d just buried a Norman noble under a rock. Surely they couldn’t walk away and just leave him there? He imagined the man would be motivated to dig himself out once he got hungry enough.
Wat squatted down at the base of the stone, ‘Well,’ he shouted at the rock, ‘we’re off now, so good luck with everything. The stone and the like.’
‘Get me out of here,’ de Boise found some of his old strength.
‘Oh no, we’re not going to do that. And if I were you I’d stay there. Once we’ve told King William what you’ve been up to he’ll chop your head off as soon as say hello.’
‘I’ll kill you,’ de Boise shouted.
‘No, you won’t. If you did that William would know you weren’t in Ireland. And I don’t think there’s an army in the world could stop him dealing with the man who stole all his gold.’
Hermitage tutted in disappointment at this dishonest dealing.
All de Boise could do was let out a muffled shout of frustration.
As they were about to leave, the muffled shout became a scream.
‘Good Lord,’ Hermitage turned back, ‘what’s happened?’ He thought that the stone might have slipped in the hole and really done for de Boise. What an awful thought.
Even More and Martel leaped up and took a step away from the stone.
‘Get me out, get me out,’ the Norman noble was positively hysterical.
‘What is it now?’ Wat asked wearily.
‘There’s something in here with me.’ De Boise sounded as scared as a normal person.
‘What could be in there?’ Hermitage asked. ‘It’s probably a mole or a rat or something.’
They all pressed their ears against the stone to see what they could hear.
The blood of three people turned as cold as the stone itself as they recognised the noise.
From the base of the stone, from the tomb in which de Boise was sealed came a familiar and disturbing cackle.
‘It’s only me,’ Lypolix’s voice could be heard, ‘I’ve bought some berries.’
Finis
Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns.
An Introduction
And it came to pass that Brother Hermitage did visit Shrewsbury. A place that would gain renown for the workings of the medieval monk detective - just not this medieval monk detective.
Brother Hermitage had to deal with nuns in this instance. He knew nuns could be trouble, but not this much…
Caput I
The year was surely one to be written in all the history books of the land. It would be remembered for centuries, such were its momentous events. Men and women in a thousand years would recite it as a pivotal moment in English history.
1068.
The year Gilder died.
In and around the town of Shrewsbury, where he had held sway as its leading merchant and land owner (and house, hovel, peasant and slave owner as well), not a dry eye could be found. In the streets and the markets, in the taverns and the houses, in the churches and even among the monks of Bromfield and the nuns of Wenlock tears were shed and chests were beaten.
There was wailing and there was howling. The name of Gilder was in nearly every conversation and someone had even created a little rhyme in his memory. It was all the people of the town could do to stop themselves going to the body itself to hoist it aloft and carry it in procession. There never would be such a day as the day Gilder died and the little children were being told to remember it.
The town was not ready for such a shock. Gilder had held the place together for more years than many could remember. It was only under his rule that people had finally stopped sacking the place every few weeks.
For centuries past it had been the Danes. When the Danes went back to wherever it was Danes came from, the Welsh popped over. And if neither of them were available even the English would have a go - just to make sure there was nothing left for the Danes to sack.
It was all very well being grandly swapped between the Kingdoms of Wessex and Mercia when someone married someone else, but either realm would be more use if a king actually turned up now and again to stop invaders taking everything of value away in their sacks.
Gilder had put a stop to that. He had erected some walls around the place to act as a deterrent but all they really did was stop those who used to simply walk in and help themselves to whatever was lying around. Any more committed invader would bring a couple of ladders and it was business as usual.
No, Gilder had other methods as well, and they seemed very effective. Nobody was quite sure what they were, which was worrying considering the man was no longer available to deal with attackers, but they had worked. He usually just went and had a word with groups who started bothering the gates of the town and they would go away. It was marvellous.
Sometimes the discussions lasted long into the night and involved the consumption of large quantities of food and ale - the town’s food and ale. The result was always the same though. The would-be pillagers would leave pillage-less. Often they were grumbling and clearly unhappy but as the saying goes, “better three pillagers in the woods than one in your parlour”.
It was only now occurring to the town moot, that gathering of the great and good of Shrewsbury, that they had not a clue what it was Gilder said to these people that made them behave so reasonably. Perhaps his son, young Balor, knew the secrets of the merchant but just now it was not decent to go enquiring about such things. There would be plenty of opportunity - always assuming no one came to plunder Shrewsbury in the meantime.
But Gilder was old, there was no doubting that. He would have to go sometime, everyone acknowledged, but now? There had been no time to prepare. No long, lingering days leading ultimately to demise. The suddenness of the event was doubtless causing as much of the turbulence as the fact of the death itself.
If the town was in a state of turmoil, it was also nervous. As the hours stretched into days, minds turned from the shock of the departure to its implications. Ordinary folk started to discuss how they would manage now that Gilder was no more. Who would be their leader and protector? They would have to be extra cautious in dealing with anyone who wanted to come into the town. Extra cautious usually involved giving the town guards extra arrows.
This particular sunny and bright summer morning would not be a good time for strangers to arrive at the gates seeking entrance.
So it was that the three strangers who arrived at the gates this morning seeking entrance
were somewhat put out by their welcome.
‘How can three of us plunder a whole town?’ the smart looking one called up to the guard in his wooden tower. ‘One of us is a monk and one’s a woman.’
‘I could plunder them if I wanted,’ the young woman whispered, as if insulted by having her plundering abilities doubted.
The guard peered down, noting that the small figure who was supposed to be a woman was giving him a look that could stop a charging bull. She might appear young and slight, but the dark hair was pulled back a bit too tight and the fists were clenched a bit too fiercely for comfort.
‘A monk?’ the guard enquired, choosing his subject carefully.
‘Yes,’ the well-dressed one replied wearily, brushing a fall from a mop of curly black hair out of his eyes. ‘This bright young fellow here? The one wearing the monk’s habit and with the haircut of a monk who looks just like a monk? He’s a monk.’ He straightened his immaculate jerkin and sighed heavily.
‘Brother Hermitage.’ The monk introduced himself to the guard with an enthusiastic nod. He also had an enthusiastic gleam in his youthful eyes and an enthusiastic smile on his lips. The enthusiasm seemed to hover around him like a miasma, just waiting for the opportunity to enthuse about something. Or anything, really.
‘Funny name for a monk,’ the guard observed, suspiciously.
‘A lot of people say that,’ Brother Hermitage replied brightly. ‘And this is Wat the weaver,’ he went on, indicating Wat at his side. ‘And this is Cwen, she’s a weaver as well.’
Cwen glared.
‘A very good weaver,’ Hermitage added. ‘I can assure you we mean no harm.’
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘We’d like to come in please,’ said Cwen, making it quite clear she thought the guard some sort of idiot for not realising what people who turn up at gates generally want.
‘Why?’
‘Because we are travellers on our way to Derby, and Shrewsbury is in the way,’ said Wat, a tone of impatience creeping in.
Hermitage was about to suggest that the guard could come out to talk to them if he didn’t want to let them in when he heard footsteps approach from behind. Perhaps, if there was a queue of people trying to enter the town this morning the guard might be more cooperative.
‘Excuse me,’ a female voice joined the conversation. It was the sort of “excuse me” that was more command than request. This person was going to be excused whether you liked it or not.
Hermitage turned and saw the new arrival. He turned back to the gate. Then he turned more quickly back to the woman. Yes, there was no doubt. He had been right the first time. It was a nun. He supposed there was no reason why a nun should not be on the road and seeking entrance to the town but it was the last person he’d been expecting. His mind asked him who the first person might have been but he managed to silence it. Perhaps it was a woman dressed as a nun, who wasn’t one really? He considered it even more unlikely that a woman pretending to be a nun would be on the road. Or anywhere else, come to that.
‘Sister,’ he nodded acknowledgement.
The nun gave him a look that said how offended she was that the empty air had the temerity to speak. It was hard to tell whether her stern expression was the result of a wimple so tight it was making her eyebrows look like earmuffs, or whether she was naturally stern. She had the build to do stern very well indeed. She was tall and broad and looked as strong as an ox - and Hermitage had always been nervous of oxen.
She didn’t have to repeat the “excuse me”, she just naturally made them all step back to allow her through. As she did so she gave Hermitage a specific glance. It was more of a blatant stare of inquisition and all he could think of was to smile. This was clearly the wrong thing to do as the nun looked very puzzled.
When she approached the gate she looked at the guard and had him scurrying from his post.
In only a few moments, after the noises of various bits of gate paraphernalia being rearranged, a gap appeared as one wooden door was drawn back sufficiently for a single person to pass. It seemed even the wood of the gate wanted to get out of the way of this arrival. Mayhap, as a young sapling it had had a bad experience with a nun.
Hermitage, Wat and Cwen stepped forward to follow, only to find the gate shut in their faces.
‘Well, really,’ Hermitage complained.
‘Open this gate,’ Cwen shouted, kicking it to emphasise her request.
Wat was more contemplative. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before,’ he mused.
Hermitage thought it extremely unlikely Wat would have met a nun before. He had met very few himself, and was happy to keep it that way. ‘On the road somewhere?’ he suggested.
‘Hm,’ Wat frowned, ‘could be.’
‘They do all tend to look alike,’ Hermitage commented, ‘dressing the same like that. It’s amazing anyone can tell which nun you’re talking to.’
Wat cast a very peculiar glance at Hermitage, his eyes clearly pointing out Hermitage’s habit. The one which was the same as most other monks.
‘This is Benedictine,’ Hermitage pointed out. ‘It’s completely different.’
‘Now,’ said the guard, popping back up at the top of the wall, ‘where were we?’
‘You were about to let us in,’ Wat explained.
‘No,’ said the guard, thoughtfully, ‘that wasn’t it.’
‘Like you did for the nun,’ Cwen pointed out.
‘Ah, well, got to let her in,’ the guard explained.
‘Does she live here then?’ Hermitage asked.
‘Sort of,’ said the guard, which Hermitage thought was a bit odd. ‘That’s sister Mildburgh and she gets really cross if you don’t do what she says.’
Definitely a nun then, Hermitage thought.
Cwen spoke up, ‘I think you’ll find we’ll get really cross if we don’t get let in.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the guard, ignoring Cwen completely. He faced Hermitage. ‘Did you say he was a weaver?’ He gestured at Wat.
‘Oh dear,’ Hermitage mumbled, ‘I know where this is going.’ He addressed the guard, ‘Yes, that’s right. Weaver.’
‘Wat the weaver?’
‘That’s the one,’ Hermitage said quickly, ‘and I am a brother originally from…’
‘The Wat the weaver?’ The guard was not being put off.
‘Yes,’ said Hermitage with resignation.
The guard turned his attention to Wat and stared, long and hard. Eventually he decided what to say. ‘You dirty devil,’ he leered.
Wat shrugged.
‘But those days are behind him now,’ Hermitage explained. ‘He has forsworn making any more tapestries of dubious content.’
Wat didn’t look happy at being reminded of this.
‘The one I saw wasn’t dubious at all,’ the guard commented with a grin. ‘It was downright rude.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Hermitage, hoping to get the conversation back to the question of their entry into the town. ‘But the works of Wat are more wholesome now.’
‘And nowhere near as profitable,’ it was Wat’s turn to mumble.
‘Oh,’ said the guard, ‘that’s a shame. Still. Great admirer of your work sir,’ he called. ‘Honoured to meet you.’
Hermitage tutted, ‘Perhaps you’ll let us in then?’
‘I liked that one in the bath house,’ the guard mused, his mind somewhere else altogether.
Hermitage sighed at the lack of progress.
‘Perhaps we should tell him you’re the King’s Investigator?’ Wat suggested. ‘And that you demand entrance.’
Hermitage was alarmed at the prospect. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You know I never wanted to be King’s investigator. It was only that William made me.’
‘William the King,’ Wat pointed out, unhelpfully.
‘These people might not be impressed by that. We don’t know how far the Norman influence has extended.’
‘No
rman yoke, you mean,’ Cwen corrected.
‘Be that as it may, I think we should keep it to ourselves.’ Hermitage was anxious not to be known as the King’s Investigator. It was bad enough that he had to look into the widest range of horrible events at the behest of the King and his henchman, Le Pedvin. He’d much rather be investigating some particularly troublesome text or other.
But he was away from the King now. Miles away. The people of Shrewsbury would have no need whatsoever of a monk who went round investigating things. The very idea was ridiculous.
‘Alright,’ the guard had emerged from his reverie, a reverie about which Hermitage wanted to know nothing at all, judging from the look on the man’s face. ‘You’d better come in then. Can’t keep the great Wat the weaver loitering outside.’
The news was very welcome, even if it was only for Wat.
The guard disappeared from sight and there was the sound of heavy steps descending a wooden staircase. This was followed by muffled instructions to someone else within the walls and the sound of timbers being moved aside.
Chains followed, clanking their way across the ground. Then there was a deep thud, probably some heavy counterweight being dropped to the ground. This was immediately followed by the shout of someone who had just had a heavy counterweight dropped on their foot.
The noise of an altercation drifted over the gates, reaching three sets of bemused ears. The manipulator of the counterweight was being taken to task in a most unseemly manner. His suitability for the role was seriously questioned along with his parentage. The three new arrivals exchanged looks. Only Hermitage blushed at the language.
The sound of a head being knocked against the inside of the gates of Shrewsbury caused eyebrows to rise. The subsequent impression of an unconscious body being dragged away was perfectly clear.
The footsteps on the stairs returned, this time getting closer.
A new face appeared at the top of the guard’s tower.
‘Yes,’ the face asked, ‘what do you want?’
Wat contained a small scream. ‘We want you to open the gates so the three of us can come in and plunder the town.’
Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids Page 26
