Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids

by Howard of Warwick

  ‘What?’ said the new guard. ‘One bloke, a monk and a girl?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Wat. ‘We’re very fierce.’

  ‘You’re certainly very something or other,’ the guard snorted.

  ‘So, can we come in?’ Hermitage asked, trying to sound meek and harmless - which in any event was his natural demeanour.

  ‘Please yourselves,’ the guard replied. ‘It’s opening time anyway.’

  ‘Argh.’ Wat let his scream out and walked round in a very small circle.

  The guard waved to someone below and the final sounds of the town’s night defences being moved aside drifted over the great wooden gates of Shrewsbury which swung majestically open. Well, they started to open before getting stuck, at which point two men appeared and put great effort into kicking the great wooden gates of Shrewsbury to get them moving.

  ‘We’re going to have to do something about those hinges,’ one of the men commented, taking no notice of the visitors waiting to come in.

  ‘Goose fat,’ the other replied.

  ‘Goose fat!’ the first one coughed. ‘That’s your answer to everything.’

  Ignoring the fact that the gates weren’t fully open, Hermitage, Wat and Cwen sidled their way past the struggling doormen and entered the town.

  Hermitage felt immediate relief at having walls around him instead of being in open country. He spent most of his time being nervous about something or other, but the three of them walking alone from Wales to Derby really gave him something to work with.

  Another wretched mission as King’s Investigator had sent him across the border and now he had to get back to Wat’s workshop in Derby to meet the Normans and confirm he had completed his work. 1 If he didn’t, they had promised they would kill everyone and burn the place to the ground. Of course they might do that anyway, it seemed to be their preferred way of letting people know they’d arrived.

  But they were ahead of time. There should be no problem getting to Derby so a sojourn in Shrewsbury was both affordable and a great relief.

  Hermitage looked at the simple, rough houses gathered around the gate. People were already on the move at this early hour and it felt good to be among friendly faces once more, with a large and solid wall of wood between him and the outside world.

  They would find lodgings, they would eat and drink and shrug the trials of the journey from their shoulders. Perhaps there might even be time for him to locate the nearest monastic house, find out about it and then perhaps consider paying a visit. Even Hermitage, in his innocence had learned to look before he leapt. He wasn’t going anywhere near a strange monastery without being well prepared; he knew what monks were like.

  His last house, the monastery in De’ath’s Dingle, had been the most appalling place, full of the most appalling people - all of them monks. He was still grateful not to be there anymore and would now hesitate before crossing the threshold of any monastery without some advance information. He was sure there would be people in the town who could help him.

  The three of them wandered away from the gate and towards the centre of the town. The streets sloped gently upwards and the houses became progressively finer. Merchant houses proclaimed their importance from great height, their upper stories extending over the street as if casting everyone into their shadow.

  More humble dwellings, the wattle and daub clear for all to see, nestled at the shoulders of their greater cousins.

  The street itself was as rough and dirty as any street would be, but at least it was dry, the summer heat having baked it hard.

  As the day shrugged off the infested blanket of night, doors were opened, businesses began their trade and the holler of the tradesmen started to fill the air.

  The people who passed on the street gave the new arrivals the attention any stranger would deserve: frank staring and a look of disbelief that there was someone they didn’t recognise. The examination was normal enough but something was not quite right. The stares did not linger long enough. The appraisals were not rude enough and the children did not point and laugh.

  Even Hermitage, seldom able to understand why people did any of the things they did, or pick up on the most blatant expressions of emotion, implicit or explicit, now noticed that the people were not behaving quite right. For him to pick up details of human behaviour was pretty unusual.

  He turned to Wat and Cwen who had clearly noticed this long before and were looking carefully at the faces of those passing them, or just going about their business.

  ‘What is it?’ Hermitage asked, quietly. He always turned to Wat for explanations of what was going on in the world around him. He had explanations of biblical texts or the issues surrounding the post-Exodus prophets to hand should the weaver ever want them. But the weaver never did.

  ‘They’re all odd,’ Cwen observed.

  ‘A whole town can’t be odd,’ Hermitage replied.

  ‘I can think of a few,’ said Cwen.

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ Hermitage rephrased his question.

  ‘Let’s ask,’ said Wat, piling straight in in his normal, confident manner. He reached out and grabbed a passing boy who was otherwise intent on some errand.

  The child looked surprised and shocked to be arrested so abruptly. He glared demandingly at Wat. This was alarming as there were tears streaming down the cheeks of the child, who must be at least ten and so should know better.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Wat asked. ‘What’s wrong with everyone?’

  The boy sniffed a bucket of something soft and sticky up his nose and choked out the words, ‘Gilder is dead.’

  ‘Gilder?’ Wat repeated, a worried look on his face. ‘Gilder of Shrewsbury? The great merchant?’

  ‘That’s him,’ said the boy, wiping the tears from his eyes. He took a swallow and then grinned broadly at them all. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ The tears of laughter sprang back to his face and he used Wat’s moment of surprise to jump away and skip off down the street.

  On his way, he bumped into an old maid who was coming up the path with a small load of kindling in her arms. She immediately dropped this and grabbed the child in a hopping dance. They pirouetted along the path, laughing and crying at the same time.

  Now they had some clue, they saw that virtually everyone had the same look of gloriously happy relief.

  There were tears everywhere but they were falling down broadly smiling faces. People were clapping one another on the back, shaking hands in happy congratulation at their luck and generally striding about the place filled with joy that Gilder the great merchant of Shrewsbury was finally dead.

  1

  All explained in the volume entitled Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids, which is about Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids.