'Thank you very much,' Briston called from the back of the cart. 'So the death notes mean nothing.'
'You know I don't think they do.' Wat was quite equitable in his reasoning, as if the conclusion that he didn't really like Briston had cleared his head. As the cart approached a bend in the road, he craned his neck round to address the bound weaver. 'I came for you when I got the note but I'm pretty damn sure you'd have been off in the opposite direction before you could say “watch out for that Norman” if I had sent mine to you.'
'Watch out for that Norman,' Hermitage repeated.
'Yeah,' Wat sniggered.
'No,' Hermitage said. 'Watch out for that Norman.'
Wat turned to face forward and saw the Norman.
It was a big Norman. It was on a big horse and it had some other Normans standing at its side. It was in the middle of the road and it was looking at them with interest.
As Hermitage considered man and horse, he could see why Harold lost the battle at Hastings. As the Briston-pig had been bound in soft pink tapestry thread, this fellow was bound in shining metal and he could have looked down on Virgil from the height his saddle and hit him with one of the many bits of metal that hung at his side.
The head was gloved by a sparkling Norman helmet that protected ears, neck, and most of the skull. The front was open to reveal a face that said all it needed to. It was a mature and ragged face that looked like it had seen far too much to worry about anything. . Light chain mail ran down the right arm and loitered on the handle of a sword in its scabbard at the side of the horse. This weapon did its best to reach the ground. One glance told Hermitage he was perfectly happy if the thing stayed exactly where it was.
The Norman's chest was emblazoned with a fine coat of arms. This looked like nothing more than a Norman sinister rampant trampling a field of Saxons dormant.
The legs were clad in metal work and hung around the sides of the horse as if ready to crush the beast to death at any moment. Four men were standing by the horse and they all had weapons of their own. They wore the same blazon and looked just as relaxed about this encounter.
Briston was silent. Hermitage was silent. Wat opened his mouth to speak.
'A strange group of travellers?' the Norman asked, although it seemed he was asking his men rather than the travellers themselves.
All Hermitage could think of to do was smile. So he did.
'A grinning monk, a well-dressed man, and a fat fellow tied to a cart. I imagine the explanation for this would be fascinating.'
'Well, sir,' Hermitage began.
'I said would be fascinating,' the Norman interrupted, 'if I wanted one.'
'Ah,' Hermitage tried smiling again, even though it hadn't helped the last time.
'You are travelling from Bigby to Baernodebi.' This was a statement.
'Yes, sir,' Hermitage confirmed.
'Having just travelled from Baernodebi to Bigby.'
'Oh,' Hermitage wondered how the man knew that. 'Yes, we did.'
'To fetch the fellow tied to the cart.'
'Erm, yes, I suppose so,' Hermitage shrugged.
'You suppose so? You have a fat man tied to a cart you are pulling along the road and you suppose so?'
'Well, he didn't want to come,' was all Hermitage could think of.
'Is there some trouble, sir?' Wat asked, as if pulling carts with fat men tied to them was perfectly normal.
'Not yet.’ He waved Wat to silence, his eyes boring holes in Hermitage. ‘I assume that you are the investigator.'
Hermitage was surprised. First Virgil now a Norman on a horse. He had a reputation and it seemed to be spreading. Perhaps the king had put out an edict announcing that Hermitage was his investigator. He could be known the length and breadth of the land as the King’s Investigator. As he considered this more, and took into account the current popularity of the king, he thought this might be a bad thing. A very bad thing. There were those in the land who resisted the Normans still. They attempted to wreak great damage on the property and symbols of the new king. Hermitage did want any damage wreaked on him.
'I, erm…' He supposed that a Norman wasn't likely to wreak damage. 'Yes, that's right, but how did you...?'
‘Come with me,' the Norman on the horse instructed.
'Actually, we've got to get back to Baernodebi,' Hermitage answered. ‘You see, we're dealing with a murder at the moment.'
'Really,' the Norman said, with little interest.
'Yes, and a young lady's life is in danger. We have to get back with the fellow on the cart to make sure that a great wrong is avoided.'
'Very commendable,' the Norman commented. 'Problem is, if you don't come with me, I'll do a great wrong as well, probably use my sword. Then my fellows here will make sure you come with me anyway.'
This was a very reasonable Norman, Hermitage thought, in the sense that he reasoned well, not that he was being reasonable.
'Lead on, sir,' Wat gestured.
The Norman swung his animal around and the four men turned and followed. None of them even cast a glance back at the cart so sure were they that they were doing exactly as they were told.
'Wat,' Briston hissed.
Wat turned his head.
'Let me go,' Briston whined. 'I don't think they want me.'
'Oh, yes we do,' the Norman on the horse said without a head turning or step faltering.
'Bugger,' Briston hissed again.
They didn't go far down the main road from Bigby to Baernodebi before they turned off on to a track that ran into the woods. They tramped on for a couple of hundred yards or so, no one saying anything, until they emerged into a clearing. Or rather what had once been a clearing. A stockade now dominated the area. High wooden walls went off to left and right, circling round to enclose a space at least a hundred yards across. The wall was about seven feet high, just tall enough to make someone pause before trying to scale it, followed by death, most likely.
The traditional Norman construction could be seen in the middle of the space. Hermitage thought it interesting that the Normans had established tradition in so short a time. That's what came of making sure all the people of alternative traditions were dead, he supposed. As soon as the Normans arrived, the locals would have been forced to build this massive heap. It was at least thirty feet tall, and about a hundred across the bottom. On top of the pile there was another palisade of fencing with a reasonably substantial wooden keep inside it.
They passed through a gateway in the outer wall and the Norman got off his large horse and handed it to another soldier who led it away. Without issuing any further instructions, the Norman made for steps cut into the side of the mound and headed for the top of the hill. One of the attending men cut Briston free and indicated that they should follow by jabbing them with his pike. They followed.
It was a steep climb. The mound was high and the steps were few. Both Hermitage and Briston were panting when they got to the top. The Norman led the way through the upper palisade gate, across only four or five paces of open ground and into the keep.
This was a simple building – the building of a soldier at camp – more substantial than a tent obviously, but with little more comfort. A fire blazed in the place, but unlike Stott's manor, this one did so in the middle of the floor and most of its smoke hung around in the room, as if waiting for something exciting to happen. They all coughed and spluttered through the fog that headed straight for the open air as soon as the door was opened.
'My Lord,' the Norman from the big horse gave a short bow, turned and left.
Hermitage peered through the murk. The keep was basically a wooden box. It was about thirty feet square and fifteen or so tall. It was built for defence and so only had slim arrow slits as windows. The smoke from the fire was queuing up at these for a way out. A couple of torches hung on the walls, but all they did was light up the smoke.
This really was a soldier's camp, meant for hardened men who were defending a lawless country. It could defend fro
m attack and be a source of offence when the conditions were right. The Normans had thrown them up all over the place and they were usually filled with very hardened men indeed.
Hermitage almost jumped out of his skin when a definitively hardened man appeared out of the gloom and reared towards them. If war could be said to toughen men, this one looked like he'd been dunked in a blacksmith's quenching tank and then had all remaining softness beaten out of him on an anvil. His face was rough and weather beaten, probably from being outside for days – while he killed people. His war clothes hung on him like a second skin, and he looked like he took them off as often as his skin.
'I am Gilbert,' the man announced.
Hermitage wasn't sure if this was a first name or a surname; the Normans were odd about this sort of thing. Gilbert looked at them all long and hard.
'Brother Hermitage,' Hermitage put in. He thought about holding out his hand, but feared Gilbert might take that as a threatening gesture.
'Odd name for a monk,' Gilbert observed. His glare moved on.
'Wat,' Wat said when the glare came his way
'Briston,' Briston said.
'Are you all together?'
Hermitage wondered at this. Well, of course they were. They'd been dragged here together, why wouldn't they be?
'Oh yes,' Briston said. 'All together.'
Gilbert frowned while Hermitage and Wat did their own glaring at Briston. He smiled happily back.
'Right. I've got a job for you.'
Hermitage gulped. He'd heard what it meant when a Norman said they'd got a job for you. This man probably wanted some more mud piled on top of his hill. The old joke "what did your last slave die of" was seldom used these days. It had stopped being funny.
'Well actually, we're on our way to Baernodebi,' Hermitage started to explain. 'Got rather an important matter to attend to. Someone's life at stake, you know? We really ought to be getting back.'
'Oh, I know all about people's lives being at stake,' Gilbert nodded agreeably. 'In fact, I've got one of the stakes at the bottom of my hill.'
'Always glad to help,' Wat tried to sound positive.
'Excellent,' Gilbert scowled. He stepped across the fire and came straight up to Hermitage. 'Where's my daughter?' he demanded.
Caput XXIV
At Home with the Normans
'Your daughter?' Hermitage looked around the smoke shrouded room as if he'd been asked to play spot-the-daughter. 'Erm,' was all he could come up with.
'Come on,' the hardened Norman demanded as if Hermitage was deliberately holding back.
Hermitage was completely lost. He looked to Wat and Briston for help. The fat weaver was scanning the room, presumably for a way out. Wat was looking as non-plussed and confused as Hermitage felt.
'I'm, erm, not sure that I know her,' Hermitage offered as a sort of humble question/excuse.
'Well, of course you don't,' Gilbert snapped back. 'You better bloody well not.'
'But then?' Hermitage was so far out of his depth he started to get panicky. It was bad enough when people confused him, let alone when they were big Normans in dark and smoky keeps.
'Why erm…' Wat spoke up as respectfully as he could. 'Why would Brother Hermitage here know where your daughter is? Sir. My Lord.'
Gilbert glared at Wat with the sort of look that could knock sparrows out of trees. 'He's the investigator, isn't he?' he said.
'Oh, erm, yes. I suppose he is.'
The lord took a deep breath and explained reluctantly, 'My man's been looking for her. He went to the wretched market in Baernodebi, checked the place over, nothing. Well, apart from some disgusting Saxon selling the most revolting tapestries.'
'Really?' Wat enquired with interest, trying not to look at Briston. Hermitage managed to keep his mouth shut, although his eyes were wide open.
'You're all sick in the mind.' Lord Gilbert took in the whole Saxon race. 'Having stuff like that passing about.'
'You're absolutely right,' Wat agreed.
'At least that's one weaver we won't be seeing around here anymore.'
'Glad to hear it.' Wat did now look at Briston with a now-I-know-what-you're-up-to look.
'Anyway, my man passed through again on his way back and the place seems to have been wrecked. Apparently some peasant with a pig said the King’s Investigator-monk was around and had gone off looking for someone. He got directed to some loon in a field who plays with meat and he told my man you'd gone to Bigby to bring back some fat man.'
'Did he?' Wat asked, clearly suspicious as Hamard hadn't even wanted to tell Hermitage where Briston had gone.
'Well, he told my man eventually,' Gilbert acknowledged.
'Ah.' Hermitage felt relief as a palpable warmth spreading through him – relief that his discovery as the investigator was simply a chain of events. His relief cooled rather as he wondered what had persuaded Hamard to tell. 'Yes, Briston the, erm, fat man,' he just stopped himself saying "weaver". We found him,' he gestured to Briston who had sidled towards the door.
'There you are then!' The Norman was pleased. 'You found him! Now you can tell me where my daughter is.'
'I'm afraid I don't know,' Hermitage held out his arms, as if showing that he wasn't hiding the Norman's daughter in his habit.
'Well, work it out then.'
'Work it out?'
'Yes!' Gilbert was losing patience. Hermitage felt a large Norman soldier with no patience inside his own keep was probably quite dangerous.
'You're the investigator. You find people. Find my daughter.'
Hermitage felt rather despondent. The first death, of Brother Ambrosius, he had investigated because he was there. Right there. At the time. The exact time.
The second, Henri de Turold, he had solved because he was made to. The supposed death of Briston was his own investigation, which was rather satisfying. Since then, Virgil had forced him to look for Briston and now this Norman was demanding he find a missing daughter.
He didn't think much of being King’s Investigator if everyone with a problem could just demand he sort it out for them. How could he manage if he was in the middle of one job when someone demanded he do another one, and demanded that the old one still be done as well, without giving him any more time to do either of them?
Bit like being back in the monastery actually.
Still, he reminded himself, this was a large Norman soldier in his own keep. Surrounded by his own men. And very willing to do horrible things to people. He probably took priority over the mad, giant lunatic who was miles away. Another piece of thinking he would have to file away. He had a feeling it might come in handy.
'If you gave me some details, I could keep my eye out for her as we go on our way. Perhaps consider the facts and see what might have happened. Get back to you in a day or so?'
Gilbert lowered his head slightly and looked at Hermitage through his eyebrows. Which were copious. 'Now,' he said.
Hermitage noted that he'd never seen angry eyebrows before. He looked once more around the smoke-filled room. This simply wasn't possible. How could he find someone who wasn't here and about whom he knew nothing? At least with Briston he had Wat to ask. And Hamard. Who would he ask here? The Norman?
Yes, of course he'd ask the Norman.
'Where did you see her last?' he asked, not immediately able to come up with anything better.
'What?' Gilbert roared, as if he'd been accused of misplacing his daughter.
Hermitage answered quickly, hoping to divert any physical manifestation of Norman rage. 'It's a standard question,' he gabbled. 'I need to know where she was last so we can work out where she is now.'
'It is the sort of question Hermitage uses,' Wat explained, 'even when he's working for King William.' Wat nodded encouragingly.
That seemed to placate Gilbert somewhat. He calmed down to a simple rumbling discontent with menaces.
'Over there,' he said, gesturing to a corner of the room.
Hermitage looked to the corner and thou
ght it quite possible the girl was still there. It was just that no one could see her.
'May I?' Hermitage nodded towards the corner.
Gilbert grunted, which Hermitage took as consent, and he stepped cautiously over to the corner. Wat followed, all the time smiling and making conciliatory gestures towards the smoky Norman in his smoky room.
'How old is she?' Hermitage asked as he walked across the room.
'Sixteen,' the old war horse replied. 'Just turned.'
Wat raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes at Hermitage. The monk wondered if the smoke was getting in them.
Once in the corner of the keep, the two men looked in some surprise at what they saw. This corner was an oasis of order and civilisation in a room of ruin and squalor. A cot hugged the wall, covered in a fine embroidered blanket. This was neatly laid and tucked into the corners of a feather mattress. The cover had a single charming scene of a princess in a tower looking down at a field of unicorns, each one ridden by a handsome knight in shining armour.
By the side of the bed, laid out in a neat row, were three pairs of shoes. Next to these were several bottles of perfumes or unctures of some sort. The bottles were lined in ascending order of height. The whole presented a scene in stark contrast to its surroundings. It didn't help that all of the objects in this charming corner were covered with a fine layer of soot.
Wat looked from the bed to the room in which it sat and whispered in Hermitage's ear. 'I'm not surprised she's gone.'
'She, erm, normally lives with you then?' Wat asked as if this was perfectly routine and quite proper.
'Of course,' the Norman replied in the same tone. 'Her mother passed on years ago and she's been with me ever since.'
'On campaign.'
'Always on campaign,' the Norman said as if this was right and proper too.
'Looks like she's quite the lady,' Wat commented.
The Tapestry of Death Page 22
