'I’m pretty sure Cottrice Lallard couldn’t lift it to head height, let alone take anyone’s head off. I suppose I could ask Blamour to look after it for a bit. In return for some food perhaps.’
‘I’m not sure Blamour would see looking after that thing as a reward.’ Hermitage gave their options his usual careful thought and weighed up the pros and cons. They could go to Blamour who would bore them into the ground with a simple description of his walk from the village to his home, or they could impose on the widow Lallard on the very evening her husband had been murdered, or so it was reported.
'I suppose it had better be Blamour,’ he said, 'after all, the widow was with her mother, who sounded a bit of a handful.’
They strode on out of the main village and onto the track behind the buildings.
It was quite a charming village, this Cabourg, if you ignored the murders. It was warm and pleasant, and the people seemed content in their lives of simple labour. The nobles appeared to be beneficent and their soldiers weren't pushing people around or stealing their goods all the time. Hermitage quickly recalled that everyone here was Norman so they didn't need to go round stealing things. Even so it was unpleasant to think of this almost idyllic existence tainted by animalistic behaviour.
It was a long way from Eden of course, there were at least two dead people and another one unaccounted for but even the Garden had its serpent.
Wat thought out loud as they walked. 'Lallard's reward for his services to Le Pedvin was the sword.’
Hermitage nodded now, content that this made the sword fit the situation. 'It explains why it was his proudest possession. But…' Another thought occurred to him, one he really didn't like the taste of at all.
'But what?’ Wat checked the privacy of the lane.
'Reward for services already done or services yet to be delivered?’ The monk nodded significantly.
'Probably both,’ Wat shrugged, clearly not seeing the significance of the nod.
'What if Lallard was given the sword to come back and ensure Le Pedvin's plans for the Bonnevilles came to fruition?’
'You mean...’ Wat tailed off, obviously not sure what Hermitage did mean.
'You said it yourself.’
'I did?’
'Yes. Le Pedvin wants the Bonnevilles out of the way. He sends us to prove there's been a murder so William can have them executed.’
'With you so far.’
'So Le Pedvin sends Lallard to make sure there actually have been some murders, and they look like the fault of the Bonnevilles.’
'Good Lord,’ Wat breathed.
'The blacksmith must have been beheaded by a large sword,’ Hermitage nodded to the weapon in Wat's hand.
'And the wheelwright?’
'Lallard must have had help to move the anvil,’ said Hermitage, 'the same help put the wheel together after the wheelwright was dead. Perhaps he was stabbed by the sword and then the wheel spoke was inserted afterwards.’
'Cottrice?’ Wat asked.
'Oh, not sure about that,’ Hermitage was doubtful.
'Because she's a woman?’ Wat chided his friend.
'Because I doubt she could lift half an anvil,’ the monk said reasonably, 'and she did seem genuinely distressed at his death, to begin with anyway. The bodies are in the Bonneville wood store, they work for the Bonnevilles, what better circumstances could you have. We will report back to Le Pedvin that yes, the Bonnevilles have likely killed some people and that will be that.’
'So where's Lallard?’ Wat asked.
'Just hiding somewhere I expect. Or gone back to his master to wait the outcome of events after which he will miraculously reappear.’
'Blamour and Poitron said they'd seen him dead.’
'How better to get away with murder than be dead yourself?’ Hermitage said.
They both paused and looked at one another at this.
'What a horrible expression,’ Hermitage concluded.
'But it works,’ Wat carried on with some enthusiasm, 'he was the huntsman, ready supply of animal blood I should think. Plenty of knives to hand. Pretty easy to smash your own place up a bit, throw some blood around and lie there with a knife sticking up until someone finds you.’
'Your own wife?’ Hermitage was horrified at such behaviour.
'If you go round beheading blacksmiths and impaling wheelwrights, giving your wife a bit of a fright isn't likely to worry you much.’
Hermitage agreed that this was probably the case. Their duty was clear though, their duty to the dead craftsmen of Cabourg, their duty to truth and their duty to their own immortal souls. 'So,’ he said to Wat in firm and honourable tones, 'we have to prove it was Lallard and that Le Pedvin is ultimately responsible.’
''Woah, there,’ Wat was shocked, 'we have to do what and what?’
'It's our duty. There has been great sin here.’
'It's our duty not to become murder victims ourselves and increase the overall level of sin,’ Wat protested. 'For all we know William is behind all this as well, or at least isn't against it. We report honestly and we'll find ourselves the way of the blacksmith and the wheelwright. I imagine they'd hang me with my own thread and do something horrible to you with some monastery stuff.’
'But Wat,’ Hermitage began.
'But nothing. We don't really have any of that proving stuff, evidence, that's it. We're only speculating that this is what happened, nothing proves it at all.’
Hermitage paused for thought and had to conclude that this was true. There was no evidence, only a theory that fitted the facts. If they reported that Lallard was the murderer the locals would laugh because the man had been seen dead
'Perhaps we should go and see the Bonnevilles?’ he suggested.
'My my Hermitage, you are full of strange ideas today,’ said Wat, 'first it's let's accuse a senior Norman noble of complicity in murder, then let’s go to another noble's castle and do the same thing. I can see how you end up in so much trouble.’
Hermitage could do nothing but shrug. He did end up in trouble a lot, and people kept telling him it was because he would insist on being honest, saying what he thought and reminding others of their vows. He would tell them it was a monk's duty, and that would only get him into more trouble. The more he said the deeper it got and then people would start on the fact that he never learned. “Play the game Hermitage”, one relatively friendly novice had told him once, “nod agreeably, smile and say yes of course and absolutely, and then go away and do exactly what you're told.”
Hermitage had quite liked the fellow until then. What an appalling way to live. Then, when a more senior cleric had advised him to nod agreeably, smile and say yes of course and absolutely, and then go away and do exactly what he wanted, he realised that he was never going to fit into, well, anywhere really.
'Let's stick to Blamour,’ Wat suggested, 'he still might give us something about the blacksmith and the wheelwright.’
'Such as?’ Hermitage couldn't think what more they wanted, he'd already had enough.
'Did they have any enemies? Any trouble in the past? How did they really get on with the Bonnevilles? Any strangers around asking after them?’
'I suppose it might add to the picture,’ Hermitage acknowledged and they resumed their stroll towards the house of Blamour.
The old man was sitting outside his home as usual, his dog at his feet, sound asleep.
'Ah,’ Blamour said with little enthusiasm.
Poor fellow, thought Hermitage, there was probably nothing worse than seeing strangers approach at mealtime.
'Good evening master Blamour,’ Hermitage nodded a brief bow.
'Ar,’ Blamour acknowledged the fact.
'We were wondering if we might get you to tell us about the blacksmith and the wheelwright?’ Wat asked.
'I don't know nothing about all that,’ Blamour said with some hostility.
'Before they were dead,’ Hermitage added, thinking that this man didn't normally require much in the way
of encouragement to start talking.
'And we, er, happen to be without lodgings now that Lallard is erm, no longer available,’ Wat explained.
'You don't want to go in my place,’ said Blamour, as much instruction as suggestion.
Hermitage had to admit the place was very small and having two adult guests under the roof would be a squeeze. It had never occurred to Hermitage that there might be a Mrs Blamour. In that case it certainly would be inappropriate for them to stay under this roof.
'Perhaps you could suggest somewhere then?’ Wat was only just keeping the irritation out of his voice.
Before a recommendation could be made, loud footsteps came down the path behind them and they turned to see Poitron stepping smartly after them.
'There you are,’ said the Norman as he stepped up to the group.
Hermitage was taken aback, they'd only been with the fellow a moment ago, where did he think they'd gone? Hermitage's aback went even further as he considered the two companions Poitron now had.
These new arrivals were dressed as guards, probably Bonneville men and they carried large pikes in their right hands while swords and daggers hung at their belts. They were wearing the usual Norman helmets, which gave Hermitage a bit of a start as he kept forgetting they were actually in Normandy. They had sturdy leggings, some semblance of chain mail around their shoulders and thick leather tabards across their chests, emblazoned with what must be the Bonneville legend. They looked like they were ready for a fight, but Hermitage thought it unlikely there would be one around here.
'That's them,’ Poitron said to the guards who stepped smartly to either side of Hermitage and Wat.
“Aha” thought Hermitage, we are going to talk to the Bonnevilles, how useful.
'Take them away,’ said Poitron, which didn't seem very friendly at all.
Hermitage's right arm was grabbed by one of the guards and half thrust up behind his back.
'Excuse me,’ the monk protested. He looked to Wat who had a very resigned look on his face, one which said the weaver knew exactly what was going on, Hermitage hoped he'd get an explanation soon.
'No talking,’ Poitron ordered, 'you can explain yourselves to Lord Bonneville.’
'Well that's jolly good,’ Hermitage began.
'Yes,’ Poitron agreed, 'just before we execute the pair of you for the murder of our blacksmith and wheelwright.’
Hermitage's stomach tried to do its disappearing act and his knees shook vigorously at one another. He gaped at Wat who looked back at him with a simple expression, so simple that even the monk could read it. “You've done it again Hermitage”, it said, or something like that.
Caput XII
Locked Away
'This is ridiculous,’ Hermitage whined as the dungeon door was shut in his face.
There was a small barred window in the door, just big enough for a guard to tell whether the occupants were dead yet. Hermitage pressed his face to it and called the departing Poitron. 'How can we have anything to do with your murders? We only just got here.’
Poitron turned back. He turned back with the pent up energy of a man who has endured a journey across the village and into the castle while a monk talked at him incessantly, unceasingly and irritatingly. He was a man who had restrained himself from doing something very physical to the monk but who was now in private.
'Exactly,’ Poitron snarled, 'two strangers turn up, one of them with a bloody great sword, just the thing to kill a blacksmith, and the other knows how the murder of the wheelwright was done.’
'I don't,’ Hermitage protested, immediately realising his explanation of the reassembled wheel was the best the village had.
'And a monk who has some experience of murders,’ for Poitron the facts were piling up, 'with his friend who no doubt would help him lift an anvil.’
Hermitage opened his mouth to protest but had to accept this was a very good explanation of events. He saw how all the pieces went together very well, how events could be readily explained and how it would suit the situation of the village to have these two strangers as the guilty parties. Of course he had to remind himself that he hadn't actually done it, but it was a very good argument. He considered telling this man they'd been sent by Le Pedvin but suspected that might only make things worse. He'd save it for the Bonnevilles.
'And God knows why you cleared Lallard away, he was probably your accomplice.’
‘In which case…’ Hermitage began. He had a comprehensive exploration of that proposal at his fingertips.
Poitron held up his hand to stop any explorations. He looked Hermitage in the eye and said, 'Stay there until Lord Bonneville sends for you. Then we'll chop your heads off.’
Hermitage gaped some more.
'And if I ask the lord nicely,’ Poitron added, 'he might let me do it.’
The man stomped off, gesturing that the guards should stay and do their duty by the bolted door.
Hermitage didn't really know in which order to be horrified and outraged. Such a fabrication of events, with a clear falsehood at its heart, disturbed him so much he wanted to shake the dungeon door until the truth was accepted.
The suggestion they would be executed was somehow impossible to conceive; after all, they had nothing to do with the deaths and such a great wrong could not come to pass. He knew a lot of great wrongs which had come to pass, many of them quite recently and at the hands of Normans, but still. He hadn't killed anyone so it was ridiculous to suggest he'd be executed.
He turned back to Wat, who was sitting on the floor, his back against the far wall and his knees drawn up.
'I've never been on the inside of one of your dungeons Hermitage,’ the weaver said quite brightly but with a strong hint of resigned disappointment.
'What do you mean, one of my dungeons?’ Hermitage protested.
'The ones you end up in when you're trying to solve a murder?’ Wat seemed puzzled that Hermitage couldn't remember. 'That first time? The death of Brother Ambrosius, when I found you in the dungeon waiting for execution?’
'Ah yes, well there was that one,’ Hermitage acknowledged.
'And all that business with the Garderobe?’
'I was only captured that time,’ Hermitage explained, 'there wasn't actually a dungeon.’ He thought this was an important distinction.
Wat coughed, clearly thinking the distinction was not important at all. 'Even with the tapestry business you got threatened with death by that Norman, Gilbert.’
'Ah yes,’ Hermitage recalled quite clearly, 'but that was only a threat. First a dungeon, then a capture and after that a simple threat, things have been getting better.’
'And now a dungeon again,’ Wat concluded.
'Well, yes,’ Hermitage accepted, 'but as soon as Lord Bonneville hears us, he'll let us go.’
'I don't know,’ said Wat thoughtfully, 'I thought Poitron's explanation was quite convincing.’
Hermitage was alarmed at this, 'Nobody could believe we had anything to do with it, we've come to help.’
'Nobody knows who on earth we are,’ Wat explained rather forcefully, 'in a situation like this, in a village like this?’
'Yes?’
'Always execute the strangers.’
'I must say you seem very calm about this,’ Hermitage, in between bits of his own fear and anger, was irritated that Wat wasn't similarly exercised.
'What can I do?’ Wat held out his hands to indicate their surroundings, 'I'm locked in what seems to be a fairly robust dungeon, in the bottom of a pretty impressive castle, with two guards outside who report to a thoroughly angry young man. No point in fretting about it.’
'No point in fretting about it?’ Hermitage wondered what would be worth fretting about. 'Perhaps when they come to take us to the executioner's block you'll fret a bit.’
'Oh yes,’ Wat agreed amicably, 'I'll fret then. In the meantime we needs our wits about us. Wits and fretting tend not to make the banks of a smooth flowing river.’
Hermitage
appreciated the charming imagery but would appreciate it a lot more on the outside of the dungeon. And if he could get outside the castle it would cheer him enormously. Back in England would be good if wishful thinking was the order of the day.
'I think,’ said Wat slowly, 'I think when we get taken before the Bonnevilles we have to mention Le Pedvin.’
'Really?’ Hermitage could only think of the scary Norman soldier as having enemies, he had trouble with the concept the man might have any friends at all. 'Surely the Bonnevilles aren't his friends,’ he went on, 'he would hardly have sent us to prove their master is a killer if they got on well.’
'I wouldn't bank on that,’ Wat speculated, 'having seen what the Normans get up to, they're as likely to kill friends as enemies as complete strangers. No, I'm not thinking they'll be friends and the nice Bonnevilles will let us go. I'm thinking they might be as terrified of Le Pedvin as the rest of us. If they think we're his friends they might not dare kill us.’
'Or if they think we have anything to do with Le Pedvin they might kill us more quickly,’ Hermitage countered. 'Or more slowly,’ he added as a horrible afterthought.
Wat was musing. ‘I think we need something even closer to the truth now.’ He pursed his lips and looked absently around their cell.
'But not the actual truth,’ Hermitage confirmed, unhappy that he was being asked to lie yet again but reasonably content that he wasn't putting his neck even closer to the block with the real reason for their visit. This did seem to be proving the case his old grandfather had put to him, that once you started lying you opened the door to a world of lies and got sucked into them for the rest of your life. The old man concluded that the most important lesson in life was to learn how to lie really well. Hermitage suspected this had been his very first motivation towards the monastic life.
Wat sucked the air in through his teeth, 'Oh heavens no. But we do need to say Le Pedvin sent us here for something.’
‘This murder in Bayeux?’
‘Yes,’ Wat didn’t sound sure, ‘could be, although there’s a chance a noble will be a bit better informed.’
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 13
