The two women spent a lot of time circling one another with care. Cwen did most of the circling as Wat's workshop wasn't large enough to allow Mrs Grod to go round in a circle.
Wat caught Mrs Grod's eye, from which she seemed to take great pleasure, 'Take us where Mrs Grod?’ He asked.
'Normandyland,’ Mrs Grod grunted and got back to the pot.
Caput IV
The Next Cart for Normandy
'Oh my Lord,’ Hermitage quaked and quivered and shook all over the kitchen. He knew in his heart that the trip to Normandy was unavoidable, Le Pedvin and his eye patch had made that clear, but he hadn't expected it to start quite so soon. He needed a few days and nights to let the worry really fester and drive him to distraction.
Still, perhaps it was best to get on with it straight away, the sooner it started the sooner it would be over. Such a pragmatic and sensible approach was absolutely nowhere in Hermitage's fabric. Quivering and quaking was much more natural and he got on with some more of it while Wat and Cwen exchanged heartfelt looks.
'That Norman wasn't kidding was he?’ Cwen said as lightly as she could manage.
The sound of heavy boots clumped through the front door of the workshop.
'Someone here for Cabourg?’ a voice called, as if it was starting an outing to the nearest shrine.
'In here,’ Wat called back.
Hermitage rather wished he hadn't, he still wondered about running out the back before any of this could get underway. He turned to the doorway to see what hound of the Norman invader had been despatched to rip him from home and hearth.
'Afternoon,’ a beaming round and rosy face greeted them from the middle of what seemed to be the output of a fairly major cloth maker. Swathes of tunics, coats, scarves and hoods were propped on legs that were probably sturdy under the many layers of binding. The figure waved two appendages from somewhere in the middle of the clothing and removed sturdy gloves.
Hermitage thought this man must be absolutely boiling. It was summer outside and although the weather was as changeable as normal, the odd autumn day throwing itself into the mix, it still wasn't the weather for the layers of winter.
If the man's appearance was hard to fathom the voice was also difficult to place. It was accented but certainly wasn't broad Saxon, neither did it have the familiar twang of Norman.
'My name's Bernard,’ the figure introduced itself with a strange emphasis on the word.
'Bernurd?’ Hermitage checked.
'No, Bearnaard,’ the man pronounced his name correctly and smiled at everyone in the room. Even Mrs Grod who looked away with one of her giggles. 'And I'll be your cart man for the journey to Cabourg.’
'Oh, right, er hello Bernard,’ Hermitage stuttered out, this not really being what he had expected. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but judging from Le Pedvin's approach to matters, he thought gruff and aggressive would be the order of the day. He expected to be carried off to Normandy against his will and in the face of a fierce struggle, well as fierce a struggle as Hermitage ever put up, which was akin to a beetle resisting the passage of the cart wheel which is going to squash it to a beetle-shaped stain on the track.
'Are we all packed then?’ Bernard asked, looking around for some luggage.
'We only knew we were going about half an hour ago,’ Wat pleaded.
'Oh that Master Le Pedvin,’ Bernard laughed and smiled, 'always in the most awful rush. Take this prisoner here, take that noble there, remove those bodies, never a moment's rest.’
Hermitage and Wat exchanged looks that said neither of them were keen on getting into a cart with this man. Hermitage began to think he would be more comfortable with a standard issue Norman, the shouty, threatening sort.
'I'll give you a few moments to get things together then,’ Bernard smiled and clapped his hands together, 'while I persuade this wonderful cook here to give me a taste of her delicious smelling pot.’
Everyone looked at Bernard with some shock now, even Mrs Grod.
The man stepped up to the cauldron, took a deep breath and his smile broadened even further. Bernard was made of strong stuff.
It wasn't going to take Hermitage long to gather his belongings, a small devotional volume and a spare pair of sandals were his worldly possessions. He sat on the cot in his small chamber clutching these things, as if they connected him to the simple life he craved, where no one got murdered, no one invaded anyone else and if they did, they didn't bother him about any of it.
Wat's preparations were just as swift but mainly because he had a pack ready for departure at any moment. He had explained to Cwen that this was a relic of the olden days, when he never knew which offended mob was going to approach his workshop with burning torches in the middle of the night. She had explained that those days were gone now, but the habits of caution were hard to lose.
Wat's pack was also considerably more valuable than Hermitage's. Of considerably more value even than the persons of Hermitage, Wat and Cwen put together, bearing in mind what was hidden in its lining. After all, if he did have to leave the area rapidly, he would need to set up business in a new location.
Cwen hovered around him like a midge, straightening this, moving that and then putting it back where it had been in the first place.
'We'll be fine,’ Wat said, smiling, 'of course we will. Le Pedvin wants us to go and look into this Bonneville chap and then report back. That requires going there and coming back. And I think if Le Pedvin wants it to happen, it pretty much happens.’
'Unless of course this Bonneville chap really is a murderer and he does his murdering thing all over you?’ Cwen replied.
'I still don't believe it. Le Pedvin is up to something. It would be a simple enough matter for him to sort out Bonneville on his own. Why he wants us I do not know, but I bet it's not for anything we've thought of.’
'Perhaps he'd like the murdering Bonneville to murder the King's Investigator?’ Cwen speculated, 'I'm sure that's a pretty serious crime, murdering a King's anything. Send the investigator in, get him murdered and then give Bonneville the axe.’
Wat looked at her in all seriousness, 'Cwen,’ he said, 'that's a shocking idea. It would require the most awful level of deceit, low cunning and downright dishonesty. Just the sort of thing a Norman like Le Pedvin would come up with so whatever you do, don't mention it to Hermitage.’
'So it could be true?’ Cwen's voice started rising to her shriek.
'Anything's possible,’ Wat conceded, 'but I'll be there to look after Hermitage. I've had whole monasteries wanting him dead before now and we've come out of it in one piece.’
'I don't like this,’ Cwen concluded miserably.
'I'm not exactly over the moon myself,’ Wat replied sombrely.
They held one another and kissed in the privacy of Wat's chamber, before taking breath and returning to the waiting Bernard.
The waiting Bernard was sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of Mrs Grod's worst before him.
'Second helping,’ Mrs Grod commented in amazement.
'Aha, we all ready then?’ Bernard asked, rising from the table and licking his lips, a dangerous step positively avoided by the apprentices.
'Let's get on with it,’ said Wat with resignation. 'Ready Hermitage?’ he called.
He nearly jumped out of his skin as the monk sidled up behind him and muttered, 'I suppose so.’
Bernard clapped his hands together and rubbed them heartily. He put his gloves back on and strode to the door.
Wat followed with a heartfelt look to Cwen who stayed by the kitchen, seemingly unable to move. She moved when Hermitage showed no sign of motion and had to be pushed down the short corridor.
Outside, drawn up in the middle of the wreckage of Wat's vegetable patch was a cart. It was an extraordinary construction and Hermitage had to raise his eyebrows to consider their transport.
Like its driver, this thing defied his expectations, which had been closer to being dragged along behind a horse. The car
t was clearly designed for people of some moment, as it was simply huge. Four massive, solid wheels adorned each corner, each one almost as tall as a man, and between them they seemed to support what was basically a small house. It had walls, a roof, two windows on this side alone and a door, with steps leading up to it. The thing was certainly more magnificent than most of the monastery cells Hermitage had occupied.
'Travelling in style eh?’ Wat nudged Hermitage and grinned at the cart. He nodded back to Cwen, indicating that things were looking up.
'What is it?’ Hermitage asked, still not quite sure that this thing was a cart and not some sort of dwelling with wheels propped against it.
'Noble's carriage,’ Wat replied, as if he knew all about them.
'But it's got walls,’ Hermitage was gaping now, 'and a roof. What sort of a cart has walls and a roof?’
'The type people use when they're travelling through an area where the population wish them no good.’ Wat explained.
Hermitage continued gaping as the explanation made no sense.
'If you're a widely reviled noble you don't go riding round your demesne in an open wagon. You'd almost certainly get things thrown at you, if not shot at you. If you're a top noble, say a duke or a king, and everyone hates you, you need to be very well protected, even from the other nobles. Specially from the other nobles. This looks like the sort of thing to survive a well-planned ambush. You could probably hunker down in this thing for a day or so. Unless someone set light to it I suppose.’
'Set light to it?’ Hermitage was horrified at the thought.
'Not that anyone will want to set light to us. Unless they think we're a passing duke or king of course.’
Bernard had gone over to the door of the carriage and was holding it open for them to mount, a small set of wooden steps in place for their comfort. At the front of the monstrous box, four strong horses stamped in harness, looking keen to leap to the horizon at the first opportunity.
Hermitage saw that up high on the front of the house-on-wheels there was a seat, where the reins of the horses were gathered. This perch had to be at least eight feet off the ground and must be Bernard's spot, which explained why the man was swathed in clothing. The weather might be warm but the driver of this behemoth would need protection from the dust and the stones of the road, as well as some padding if he were thrown off completely.
Wat stepped forward and quickly sprang into the carriage, taking up a seat at the rear from where he leaned out of the window nonchalantly, as if he travelled like this all the time.
Hermitage was much more cautious and climbed slowly up the steps, ducking his head to get to the interior. If his breath had been taken away by the outside of this contraption it was carried overseas and held hostage by the inside.
There were cushions, real, actual, plump cushions and they were scatted about all over the place. Red, blue, purple, the most opulent dyes imaginable had been used in their manufacture, and the manufacture hadn't stopped until the carriage was full of the things. They were thrown in abandon across the seats, which were themselves padded in magnificent buttoned cloth of deepest red, and they even lay on the floor. Hermitage found it hard to believe so many cushions were allowed to gather in one place, let alone that the place should be a cart of all things.
The floor itself was not bare board, or even covered with a scattering of wood shavings or earth, which would be normal to provide the necessary convenience for the travellers. No, this floor had cloth on it. Thick woollen cloth. On the floor. Hermitage began to think the whole place was some sort of mistake, or a travelling cloth store.
As he gently and reluctantly put his dirty sandals on the floor of the carriage he took in the walls and the ceiling. These were as padded as the seats and were of such shameful luxury, that Hermitage began to contemplate travelling on the outside with Bernard.
'Nice eh?’ Wat commented from his seat, which he now lounged upon, stretching his feet out across the width of the carriage.
'Oh Wat,’ Hermitage said in modest disappointment, 'we can't travel in this. It's not decent.’
'Not decent?’ Wat clearly had no trouble accepting the offering. 'We're being dragged out of the country at the whim of our overlords and they've laid this on for us. I think it's our duty to accept.’
'What will people think?’ Hermitage asked, the thought of being seen in this thing giving him considerable alarm.
'No one's going to see us inside here are they?’ Wat explained, 'that's generally the point of something like this. Keep those inside nice and safe. If Le Pedvin wants us to travel in it, I don't think we get a choice. Besides, we'll get there a lot quicker in this thing.’
'Quicker?’ Hermitage really couldn't understand this. A massive thing like this must grind along as slowly as a novice on his way to an Abbot's reprimand.
'Of course,’ Wat indicated the cushions and the padding, 'once those horses get going we'll need all this to avoid breaking a leg. Looks like Bernard's already got his padding under his clothes.’ Wat nodded to the driver who was taking the steps away and packing them in a space under the cart.
'How long will it take us to get to the coast then?’ Wat asked.
'Oh quick as spittle,’ Bernard replied with his grin, 'couple of days probably, although we're starting late of course.’
'Couple of days?’ Hermitage was aghast, 'it must be two hundred miles at least.’
'Two hundred and five I reckon. My beauties'll do that in no time. Six miles an hour we'll keep up, no problem.’
'Six miles…?’ Hermitage couldn't finish the sentence.
'That's right. We'll change horses a few times on the way but six miles an hour, seventeen hours a day, no problem.’
While admiring the mathematics of the plan Hermitage's horror got the best of him. 'We'll be killed,’ he bleated.
'Not with all these cushions,’ Wat pointed out.
Hermitage looked at the cushions, now thinking there weren't enough.
'Seventeen hours a day?’ His voice was weak with worry.
'Yeah,’ said Bernard, 'Master Le Pedvin told me to take it easy, give you a few hours’ sleep and that.’
Without further explanation Bernard slammed the door shut and started to clamber up to his eyrie.
'Two days?’ Hermitage squeaked at Wat as he dropped onto the cushioned seat opposite.
Wat nodded. 'This is serious.’ The weaver looked thoughtful.
'I know,’ Hermitage replied, 'the human frame wasn't built for such speed. We'll be crushed to death, or all the sustaining humours of the body will be expelled.’
'No, no,’ Wat dismissed his friend's concerns, 'being given this to travel in.’ He waved his arms about to take in their surroundings. 'And this driver. Le Pedvin really wants us to deal with Bonneville. I reckon this is William's own personal carriage.’
Hermitage did look round in some awe at this.
'I mean, who else is going to own something like this. I've never seen one this big and well equipped. And the King wouldn't put his property at our disposal if it wasn't something pretty vital.’
Cwen had come up to the carriage window now and Wat and Hermitage looked down on her from their lofty position. Hermitage could imagine this was a king's carriage, it would be ideal for looking down on people.
'Take care,’ she said, her voice strangely muted and soft to Hermitage's ear.
'We will,’ Wat sounded strong, but Hermitage thought that was as much for him as for Cwen. 'I think dealing with the murder will be a piece of cake compared to travelling two hundred miles in this thing.’
Hermitage knelt on the chair opposite Wat and put his head out of his window to regard Cwen. 'We shall try to deal with this matter and return as fast as possible. If this cart can get to the coast in two days, it can certainly get back that quickly as well.’
Wat and Cwen exchanged knowing looks that seemed to say that a speedy return was not expected. Hermitage thought it was perfectly reasonable. After all he'd re
solved the death of Henri de Turold in about a day. Poor Brother Ambrosius had taken a bit longer and Briston the weaver did seem to go on a bit. Even so, if a Norman noble was going round murdering people pretty regularly it should be pretty easy to spot.
He was indulging in the comfort of this thought when there was a “yargh” from Bernard and the crack of a large and complicated set of reins. The cart leapt onto the rough track, forward motion imparted to the massive structure by the massive horses that might have been specially bred for the job.
Unfortunately Brother Hermitage, who was perched precariously on his seat, was not attached directly to the horses so he didn't move at all. The space surrounding him headed south with some vigour, while his body stayed exactly where it was.
For a moment he marvelled at the experience of hanging in mid-air while the world around him tried to leave. It was only a moment though, as realisation that the back wall of the cart was heading his way came to him quite quickly. So did the back wall of the cart.
Wat ducked as the monk sailed over his head and crashed into the padding above the weaver's head. Hermitage fell into the soft cushions and the not quite so soft Wat.
They untangled themselves and Hermitage concluded that sitting facing the direction of travel was probably safest. Unless of course this thing should go backwards? He reasoned that the horses getting out of their harnesses and turning round to push the cart was somewhat unlikely and so settled himself in. He gathered as many cushions as he could, padded himself around and braced his feet against the seat opposite.
The horses continued to increase speed from their first headlong thrust to the horizon and Hermitage bounced and jerked around the inside of the cart like a novice after the abbot's reprimanding chamber door has closed.
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 4
