'Seventeen hours?’ he wailed to Wat, who was similarly entombed in as much soft material as he could gather.
The weaver, who, like Hermitage, left his seat with every rut in the track, shrugged and settled himself down for a sleep.
Cwen watched the departing cart with a tear in her eye, a tear no one must see or ever know about, least of all Wat. She sighed and turned back to the workshop, appraising it with a slight smile curving her lips, 'In charge eh?’ She muttered to herself as she rubbed her hands together. She looked very much like a woman with plans, plans that had only been waiting for their moment, a moment that required the absence of anyone with any other ideas.
'Hartle,’ she called as she walked back indoors, 'I want to talk to you. I've got plans.’
Caput V
A Killer for Double Sure
Hermitage was grateful that the cart did not spend the first seventeen hours of their journey travelling without rest. As evening drew the horizon closer, the mad dash slowed until with full darkness the cart came to a halt.
The night was moonless and Hermitage could not see the cushion in front of his face. He was surprised Bernard had managed to keep going even this long, it had to be about eleven o'clock at night and they must have travelled miles.
He sort of fell from the door of the cart as it was opened by Bernard. The journey appeared to have consisted entirely of a battle fought out in a confined space between a monk and a cushion maker. The cushion maker himself had not taken part in the conflict, instead he had sent his minions to fight on his behalf. There had been many of them, an almost inexhaustible supply, and in the heat of battle they had done unspeakable things to their opponent, things which no honourable man would do to another, even in a very hot battle.
There was a look on Hermitage's face, one which said the day in the cart had not only been uncomfortable, it had been alarming, unnecessarily intimate and in a disturbing way, educational.
'Where are we?’ He asked as he tried to flex his legs only to see a cushion drop out from under his habit. He'd thought there was something unfamiliar going on up there.
For a man who had spent all afternoon and evening on top of a racing wooden cart, without the benefit of cushions and padding, Bernard looked remarkably cheerful. He was still swathed in his covers and didn't look about to take anything off.
'Oh about Corby I should reckon,’ Bernard gazed about in the darkness, as if able to see distant landmarks.
'Good Lord,’ Hermitage blurted out, partly in amazement at the distance they had covered, but also because his legs no longer seemed to work.
'Passengers' cramp,’ Bernard explained, 'quite normal. Spend enough hours with your legs clamped to stop you being thrown about and it takes a few more to get them working again.’
Hermitage's legs weren't cramped as he had singularly failed to keep himself braced. Rather they were shaking from the memory of his experience with the cushions, one that he fully expected to revisit him during the hours of sleep.
Wat lowered himself much more gingerly from the carriage and tested his feet on the ground. Finding they were as dead as a Saxon noble, he sat himself on the cart step and tried to rub some life back into his limbs.
'So gentlemen, dinner?’ Bernard asked.
Hermitage and Wat looked at the man in some surprise and nodded and mumbled their interest in a meal, not having the first clue where one was going to come from.
Bernard knelt and fiddled about under the cart, where the steps were stored, before emerging with a bundle of kindling, some larger pieces of wood and a tangle of ironwork.
With deft hands and a speed that said this was not the first time he'd done this, the cart driver lit the kindling and organised the ironwork until it formed a small spit. Piling more dry wood on the fire until the blaze was well established, Bernard returned to the cart, extracting four skinned and prepared rabbits from the underside, together with a large skin of wine. A very large skin.
'What else have you got under there?’ Wat asked, as the animals were neatly skewered and roasting within a few moments, while large goblets of wine were consumed.
'Everything needful for a journey sir,’ Bernard said with confidence and pride. He tore the first cooked strips of rabbit from the fire and handed them to Wat and Hermitage. 'Not quite up to the standard of your cook sirs, but I hope it'll pass.’
Hermitage was too busy eating to explain this was so far beyond the standard of Mrs Grod that even the rabbits would lick their lips.
With rabbit plentiful and flowing from the fire, the three men sat in its glow and chewed their content.
'After master Bonneville I hear sir?’ Bernard asked.
'Do you?’ Wat replied before Hermitage could confirm the fact.
'Oh yes sir,’ Bernard nodded, 'nasty business.’
'What was?’ Wat enquired.
Hermitage was all ears. Perhaps this Bernard knew about Bonneville and the murders and would give them a head start.
'The murder,’ Bernard nodded through his rabbit.
'Which one?’ said Wat.
Hermitage thought his friend was being particularly dense. The murder Le Pedvin had told him about, how many were there?
'The one you're off to find out about.’ Bernard wasn't put out by Wat's obfuscation.
'Master Le Pedvin told you all about it then?’ Wat half asked a question and half made a statement.
'Oh yes sir,’ Bernard confirmed with a nod, 'that Master Bonneville, a renowned murderer, and you off to bring him to justice.’
'Yes,’ Wat mused, 'we are, aren't we. I don't suppose you know of any murders this Bonneville has actually committed?’
'Well not personally obviously,’ Bernard agreed, 'not that I move in such exalted circles you understand.’
'But you've heard that he's a murderer?’
'Of course sir. Everyone has.’
'Everyone?’ Hermitage couldn't resist joining in. If everyone knew this Bonneville was a murderer, there must be some useful information about the fact floating around somewhere.
'Tell me Bernard,’ Wat held the cart man's gaze, 'have you heard that Master Bonneville is a murderer from anyone other than Master Le Pedvin?’
'Oh yes sir,’ Bernard was confident.
'Anyone other than Master Le Pedvin, his servants, soldiers or household?’
'Ah,’ this did give Bernard some pause, 'I think I would have to say no in that case.’
'So the only evidence we have that this Bonneville is a murderer is that Master Le Pedvin says so?’
'Very trustworthy Master Le Pedvin,’ Bernard nodded, 'fine gentleman.’
'I'm sure he is.’ Wat lapsed into silence but it was clear he didn't think Master Le Pedvin was a fine gentleman at all.
From his previous experience of the Norman, Hermitage would have to agree, and he began to follow Wat's train of thought. They really did only have Le Pedvin's word that this Bonneville chap was a murderer. There was no named victim, no one had come forward claiming Bonneville had murdered their aunt or father or anyone. Neither Hermitage nor Wat had seen a body of course, but then if there was a body it would be in Normandy anyway.
'I'm told you gentlemen will find out all about the murder in no time at all though.’
'Told by Master Le Pedvin?’ Wat enquired amicably.
'Oh yes, fine…'
'…gentleman Master Le Pedvin, yes, you said.’
Bernard looked from monk to weaver, his smiling face clearly impressed by his passengers. 'King's Investigator I hear,’ Bernard looked to Hermitage.
'Yes,’ Hermitage acknowledged reluctantly, 'so it seems.’
'King's Investigator bound to be able to spot a murder a mile off I expect.’
'Master Le Pedvin told you what an investigator is,’ Wat stated.
'That's right.’ Bernard nodded and smiled,
'Do you get to Normandy much?’ Wat enquired.
'Oh no sir,’ Bernard replied, implying that a visit to such a
magnificent place was beyond someone of his humble station, 'just transport important people about as they need sir. To and from the ports and the like and then the sailing folk take over.’
'So you've not been to this Cabourg place then?’
'No sir,’ Bernard confirmed.
'Nor met Jean Bonneville?’
'Oh no sir,’ Bernard was horrified at the suggestion.
'Or transported any of his household?’
'I would be sure I haven't sir,’ Bernard was offended at the idea that he would have anything to do with someone so despicable.
From this discussion Hermitage concluded that Bernard knew nothing about Bonneville at all. He'd never been to Cabourg, not met any of his people and had no direct knowledge of anything useful at all.
'So in fact,’ Wat suggested gently, 'you have no direct knowledge of anything useful at all?’
Hermitage had thought about saying that, but it seemed a bit rude.
'If Master Le Pedvin says...’ Bernard began, obviously quite happy that the truths of the world fell from Master Le Pedvin's lips like dribble from a baby.
'Yes, yes,’ Wat interrupted, 'if Master Le Pedvin says so I'm sure it must be true.’
'Is Cabourg a big place?’ Hermitage asked. Perhaps the man had some general knowledge, which might be vaguely helpful.
'Wouldn't know sir,’ Bernard nodded happily.
'Have the Bonneville family been there long do you know?’
'Ah now that,’ Bernard said brightly, which gave Hermitage hope for some scintilla of information, 'I wouldn't know sir.’
Hermitage felt a growing frustration, which he tried to control. This poor fellow was only their driver after all, he couldn't be expected to know details of places he hadn't been or people he hadn't met. But then he had been happily promoting the idea that someone he had never met was a murderer.
'Master Le Pedvin said that Jean inherited the estate from an uncle.’ Hermitage pressed.
'That'd be right sir,’ Bernard nodded as he took yet more rabbit from the cart and skewered it over the fire.
'Do you know who the uncle was?’
'No sir.’
Hermitage was having trouble following this man at all. 'You said it was right that Jean inherited the estate from the uncle?’ He asked.
'I said it was right that Master Le Pedvin said that,’ Bernard smiled again, apparently confident that this should be of great help.
'If Master Le Pedvin said Jean Bonneville could transform himself into a donkey I expect that would be true as well,’ Wat scoffed.
'Now then sir,’ Bernard scolded lightly, 'that's ridiculous.’
Wat acknowledged that there were some limits.
'Master Le Pedvin would never say anything that wasn't true.’
'Alright,’ Wat finished another rabbit and settled with his back against one of the cart wheels, 'let's hear the Le Pedvin version of events then.’ He looked to Hermitage and raised eyebrows in a clear indication that what they were about to hear was probably a load of rubbish.
Hermitage agreed. This fellow clearly knew nothing but was prepared to swear it was true. He had no experience of the events they were looking into but simply repeated what he had been told by someone more important than him.
Hermitage wondered at anyone behaving like this. Surely if what someone told you had no foundation, you didn't believe it. You sought argument and discussion, you looked for evidence and supporting facts, you drew your own conclusions; you didn't simply accept what someone said because they were more important than you.
Then he recalled that not accepting what was said by people more important than him caused most of the trouble in his life. And most of the bruises.
He settled back to hear what Bernard had to say.
'Well sirs,’ Bernard began, like some paid storyteller spinning his yarns in the threads of the firelight, 'this Jean Bonneville fellow has the most awful reputation for murder. Does it all the time they say. His estates are not large but they're well farmed and he has a lot of peasants tilling the fields and looking after the livestock and such. If ever the man finds out that something has not been done right, or if some crop has failed or an animal died, he takes it out on the peasantry.’
'Dead peasants,’ Wat nodded as if he was taking notes.
'All over the place sir. And then there's the nobles as well.’
'He kills nobles?’ Hermitage asked, this really was unbelievable.
'Oh yes sir. Anyone who stands in his way, anyone who appears to be plotting against him, anyone who talks to King William or any of his men, he has them all done in. Even his relatives they say.’
'His relatives?’
'Yes sir. Anyone who might be a threat to him. A young cousin who might have an entitlement to some of the land, illegitimate offspring who turn up asking for their share, all the first born sons.’
'All the first born sons?’ Hermitage asked in incredulity.
'So I've heard sir.’ Bernard did not seem to think this was incredible at all.
'Sounds a bit biblical,’ Hermitage suggested, not wanting to say the whole thing was obviously made up.
'I wouldn't know about that sir,’ Bernard stared into the fire.
'With all this murder going on, why has no one stopped him?’ Hermitage asked, finding it ridiculous that anyone could go round nonchalantly committing murder for a bit of bad planting or for being the wrong relative. The way Bernard was telling it, there couldn't be many people left alive in Cabourg.
'Ah well, that's a good question sir,’ Bernard explained, which made Hermitage wonder if it was one to which the cart man had been given a specially prepared answer. 'What with good Duke William and his men rightfully reclaiming England, there was no time to deal with Bonneville. Obviously a noble is free to do what he wants most of the time, so much is only in the natural order of things, but when one of them gets out of hand like this, Duke William would normally step in.’
'But he was a bit busy killing English nobles,’ Wat prompted across the glowing embers.
'That's right sir,’ Bernard replied, apparently not seeing the irony in the fire.
'Surely now Duke William is King William and has erm, conquered England,’ Hermitage couldn't bring himself to voice the Norman rationalisation of events, 'he could send someone back to deal with Bonneville.’
'He has sir,’ Bernard nodded happily, 'you sir.’
'Ah,’ Hermitage had managed to forget for a moment why they were out in the dark listening to a tale of murder. The recollection that he was part of the tale was most disheartening.
Wat was shaking his head slightly, in what appeared to be amusement. 'But he could send some of his men to simply deal with Bonneville directly, he is the King after all. You know, chop his head off, something like that. Why send us all this way, at great expenses,’ he indicated the cart and Bernard himself, 'to show that this chap is a murderer when everyone says he's a murderer?’
'Justice,’ Bernard said grandly, staring into the firelight.
'Justice?’ Hermitage asked. He would have to say he'd seen little evidence of Norman justice as William's men rampaged their way across England.
'Oh yes sir. A true and worthy king like William, would not just go and have someone's head chopped off.’
“Oh yes he would,” thought Hermitage.
'What sort of example would that be to set? This Bonneville must be brought to justice for his wicked crimes. And who better for that than an investigator?’
'Why didn’t people simply run away?’ Hermitage asked. It seemed obvious. If there was a man who went round killing pretty much anyone he came across, wouldn't you just keep out of his way? Doubly so if you had a first born son.
'Where can you go sir? A humble peasant, serving on your master's land. Can't just up sticks and move to the next Lord. Word would be sent, people too. You'd be dragged back and executed for running away.’
'Another murder,’ Hermitage acknowledged.
&nb
sp; 'Oh no sir,’ Bernard countered, 'right and proper punishment for absconding.’
Hermitage and Wat exchanged looks, sharing a common understanding of their driver. Hermitage had come across many a sycophant in his monastic life, the brothers who agreed with whatever the Abbot said, did whatever the Abbot told them and cleaned up after the Abbot without breathing a word. He had found there was no arguing with these people, their world view was blocked out completely by the shadow of their abbot. Suggesting there might be alternatives to the Abbot's point of view was like asking them to invite demons into their habits. Not only was the idea unthinkable but you were obviously a deviant for coming up with it in the first place.
It was interesting to observe what happened when one of these relationships broke down. Poor brother Ekard had been the sycophant of old Abbot Uris, Uris of York. That Uris of York, the Uris of York, who, when he was found out, was chased from the town by a hastily gathered band of outraged shepherds, and who was banned by his bishop from ever attending another sheep fair. How the man had escaped excommunication was beyond Hermitage. After all, there were very specific passages in the bible prohibiting that sort of thing.
And Ekard had been bereft. To say the man wandered round like a lost sheep seemed inappropriate in the circumstances, but it summed him up perfectly. The fellow seemed incapable of functioning on his own and his denials of Uris's wrong doing, touching at first, became increasingly irrational and bizarre.
First it was all plain lies by the Abbot's enemies. Then it was mistaken identity and it was another Abbot all together, another Abbot who might, or might not be called Uris. When finally it was suggested that in revenge for the wool tax some shepherds had put the sheep up to it, all sympathy for Ekard was lost.
It was only when the new Abbot was appointed that Ekard found meaning in life once more. This installation came complete with a sycophant from the previous monastery but Ekard was having none of that. Within weeks the new Abbot's own man retreated from the field a broken man when his support for the Abbot's unique views on chastisement were exposed as less than blindly obedient.
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 5
