Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  ‘You mean he’ll know there’s been no murder in Bayeux.’

  'Could be. In which case we’re done for.’

  ‘Done for what?’

  ‘Just done for.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hermitage lapsed into the silence full of worry and despair.

  'Why don't we just tell them the truth?’ This was always Hermitage’s first resort. ‘Le Pedvin has heard of the murders and sent us to look into them. It would make everything so much easier instead of coming up with some new nonsense each time anyone asks us a question.’

  'Because if Bonneville is the killer he’ll do us next?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Hermitage remembered now. He was already having a touch of the shaking horrors at the convolutions of their time here, never mind compounding the whole thing with yet more lies.

  'We could stick to the Bayeux story, and then if he knows that we come up with something else.’

  Hermitage sighed. That was the trouble with Wat, he always just dived straight in without thinking through all the details and possible outcomes. If he had an idea he just went with it to see where it would end up. Chances are he'd need another idea pretty quickly to make sure the first one didn't fall dangerously apart, and then another one after that.

  Surely much better to have your idea, then spend a day or two carefully analysing all the ramifications and potential pitfalls before cautiously trying out one small part to see if it had any effect.

  Granted, by the time you'd done all that the need for the idea in the first place had often vanished, or you'd forgotten what it was for, but it was far less risky. That had to be a good thing.

  'Unless…' Hermitage hesitated to suggest it.

  'Unless what?’

  'As you say, Jean Bonneville really is a murderer. He really did kill the blacksmith and the wheelwright and Lallard and wouldn’t hesitate to do two strangers, friends of Le Pedvin or not.’

  'Ah,’ said Wat, 'unlikely isn't it?’ he said hopefully.

  'I suppose so.’ Hermitage now paced the small dungeon from wall to wall and door to wall. This whole business was of course appalling, and it was being compounded by this deliberate lying. Still, he really did not want to be executed and that seemed to be the alternative.

  'So what do we do?’ Hermitage asked, 'just wait here until his lordship deigns to see us?’

  'I don't know,’ said Wat with annoyance in his voice, 'you've been in more dungeons than me, what do you usually do?’

  'That was only the once,’ Hermitage protested. Wat made it sound like the monk got locked up all the time, 'and anyway, you rescued me.’

  'It's once more than me and I'm not exactly in the best position to effect a rescue.’

  'So we just wait until someone comes and opens the door.’

  'Could be,’ Wat shrugged, 'or Poitron decides not to tell his master about us at all?’

  'And then what?’ Hermitage asked, unable to keep a slight tremor from his voice.

  'Then,’ Wat held his arms out to draw Hermitage's attention to their surroundings, 'welcome home.’

  It took Hermitage a few moments to take this in. He had simply assumed Wat would know some secret or other about being in dungeons and how to get out of them. He was so well informed about most areas of life where Hermitage was clueless, that this should be well within his ambit.

  They lapsed into silence and Hermitage joined Wat on the floor, waiting for something to happen. His capacity for waiting was pretty remarkable but even he could see it would run out before too long in this place.

  He usually used waiting time for interesting introspections into matters of import. Import to him rather than anyone else, but he found the time productive. Many knotty problems of nomenclature, definition and interpretation had fallen in the face of one of Hermitage’s patient onslaughts, but he had given up sharing his findings with anyone else. Their patience in the face of one of his explanatory onslaughts usually ran screaming from the room during the opening sentences.

  His accommodation did nothing for his attention and he found his thoughts wandering into his life and future, a road seldom trod, instead of into the alphabetisation of the prohibitions of Leviticus, which was his normal entertainment.

  Over their relatively short period together the weaver had educated the monk about all sorts of things, bringing new ideas from outside the monastery wall. Some were interesting, like the process involved in getting a tapestry from the sheep to the shop. Some less so, such as the labyrinthine financial complications which seemed to go with absolutely everything. And some were completely unwelcome, like where the dye came from for the flesh pink thread Wat needed so much of.

  He had just imagined that being in a dungeon was something easily resolved by people who were used to being put in dungeons. He felt rather ashamed of his assumption that Wat would be one of those people. One of those people who spent some considerable time in dungeons judging from the sort of things the weaver got up to, many of which Hermitage thought deserved nothing less than being put in a dungeon.

  He came to a realisation that dungeons really were nasty places in which a man could die. There was no secret catch, which those in the know would use to open the door. There was no understanding between jailor and prisoner, which would keep the experience as bearable as possible, no being brought out of your dungeon for meals or exercise. Real life was staring him in the face and it would not be blown away on winds of convenience.

  This was no pretence, this was not a practice for life, a first go after which you'd be allowed to tackle the real thing. An alarming self-awareness hit Hermitage that thus far he had treated the world as if life was going on around him. He was an interested observer, and sometimes recipient of its vagaries but he wasn't actually directly connected to it. He wasn't sure what he was connected to but it certainly wasn't the inconvenient, distasteful and unpleasant things he saw going on. He had floated above and around them in some way, feeling the knocks and blows but believing that somehow they weren't real, they didn't belong to him. His world was in his head and it was well ordered, well behaved and mostly harmless.

  This was awful. Hunger, thirst, death, all of them, were suddenly in the room with him, queuing up to scare him out of his habit. He had been dragged into the real world and he didn't like it, he didn't like it at all. He was just a part of something very large, a part that could be extinguished without anyone else even noticing. The dying ember of a thought that the door would just open and sort everything out wandered around Hermitage's head, wondering where its friends had gone.

  Caput XIII

  A Bit of Discipline

  The door opened.

  'All right you,’ a voice called as the morning sun shone into the dungeon, illuminating monk and weaver and empty stomachs. At the sight of the open door the fears of Hermitage’s night were drowned as his head bubbled with all the usual nonsense.

  He opened his eyes and immediately felt the pain a night sleeping on stones had introduced to most of his bones and joints. He groaned with the discomfort and knew it was only going to get worse when he tried to move.

  'Less of that,’ the voice instructed.

  Less of what? Hermitage wondered. He cautiously turned his head to see that Wat was in a similar state. They both grimaced as they gently moved limbs, reintroducing the idea of motion. Backs were twisted and shoulders flexed before they could eventually roll over and put hands to the floor and lift themselves up.

  'Smartly now,’ the voice barked.

  Hermitage, up on his aching legs, faced the door and saw a guard filling the space. This one was dressed as the others; tabard, some chain mail and weapons readily to hand, but they seemed more organised somehow. Hermitage frowned at the man and wondered what it was that made him stand out. He looked steadily and concluded that he was very neat for a guard. Actually he was very neat for anyone. Metalwork was polished, clothes were clean and the stance was very straight indeed.

  The head was completely shaved, which was rat
her scary but added to the overall neatness, and it made the man’s age indeterminable. He looked fit and strong though, which was all that really mattered for a guard at the door of your cell. The face was one that Hermitage thought was seldom visited by joy. Or pleasure, happiness, contentment or even peace. It was a face that wanted the world well ordered, and welcomed each day as a new disappointment.

  The man's hands were symmetrically bolt straight at his sides, his stomach was in, his chest out and he looked every bit the model soldier. He even had a pair of thick leather riding gauntlets clamped to his side under his left elbow. Clamped so hard the things were probably squealing for release. 'Come on, come on,’ he growled at them.

  Hermitage didn't know what more he was supposed to do, apart from stand up. When he and Wat were finally on their feet, side by side, waiting for whatever came next, the soldier looked them both up and down and grimaced.

  'You are both to meet Lord Bonneville,’ he said, although it was clear the very idea filled this man with a mixture of disgrace and disgust. That he would have to let these two anywhere near Lord Bonneville was a prospect of horror.

  'Yes, that's…'

  'Shut up!' The soldier screamed at Wat, whose head shot back in surprise. 'When I want you to speak I will invite you to speak. When I do not invite you to speak you shut up. Clear?’ The man only shouted very loudly now.

  Hermitage and Wat nodded.

  'As I was saying,’ the soldier said, glaring at Wat to dare an interruption, 'you are to meet Lord Bonneville, and you are clearly in no fit state to do any such thing.’

  Hermitage looked at Wat not seeing anything wrong with the weaver's state. He knew his own habit was shabby at the best of times, but then he wasn't supposed to take pride in his appearance. Or anything else for that matter.

  'So,’ the soldier announced, 'I will take you to the sluices where you will clean yourselves up before being taken into my Lord's presence. Follow me.’

  The man turned sharply on his heels and marched very precisely away from the cell and down the stone corridor that had brought them here. Hermitage and Wat exchanged shrugs and ambled out of the cell, each holding back in deference to the other until a scream of “get on with it” echoed down the passage.

  Skipping out of the cell they followed the guard, passing several more dungeons on their way, which at least appeared to be empty, before they arrived at an open area that had stone troughs along one wall. Doubtless these were fed from whatever well or spring provided water to the rest of the castle, and were intended as a supply to the dungeons to keep the inmates alive until they could be killed.

  'There you are,’ the soldier beckoned with a stiff arm.

  Neither monk nor weaver made any movement.

  'Wash,’ the soldier commanded.

  'What?’ Wat found his tongue.

  'Wash?’ Hermitage was well and truly lost. Why on earth would the man have brought them here for a wash? Why would anyone take anyone anywhere for a wash? Of course Hermitage washed as much as the next monk, well more than most to be honest as many of his brothers gave up such strange practices when they first took the habit, not bothering with them again until the habit was taken from them at death.

  He did recall the bizarre brother Abedon who took all his clothes off to wash quite regularly. But then he took all his clothes off quite regularly even when he wasn't washing, and it took considerable persuasion to get him to put them back on again.

  Hermitage could remember washing on several occasions but they had all been for a very good reason. A coating of dung, a trip into a mud pool, being showered with the contents of someone else's pot. As far as he could see there was no good reason for a wash now.

  'Wash,’ the soldier repeated, 'you are not being taken before Lord Bonneville in such a disgusting state.’

  Wat looked himself up and down and shrugged at Hermitage, clearly not able to see where his disgusting state was. Hermitage shrugged back, but realised that compared to the neat guard they were pretty disgusting. Wat was of course as well dressed as normal, but his clothes and hair had suffered from their bouncing cart and blowing sea journeys.

  'Or I can throw you back in the dungeon?’ the soldier offered, although it wasn't a kind offer. Hermitage speculated that the “throw” might be very real.

  With a look of resignation he approached one of the troughs and dipped his hands in it. As expected it was freezing cold and he shivered as he threw a few small splashes onto his face.

  Wat stood back looking on in apparent wonder.

  'You too,’ the guard ordered and Wat reluctantly joined Hermitage. He too dipped his hands in but was careful not to get any water onto his clothes.

  The guard stepped smartly up behind them, grabbed the back of their necks and thrust their heads deep into the icy pools.

  Hermitage struggled and gurgled in surprise and shock before the man pulled him back out quickly. He took a breath to speak before his head was pushed back under water. When he came up again he heard the soldier humming a little tune, to the tempo of which he thrust their heads in and out of the water like a laundress cleaning clothes.

  'That's better,’ the man crowed when he finally released them after innumerable plunges. The two men staggered about, neither having got the hang of breathing in when they were out of the water, and out when they were in.

  'What the hell?’ Wat eventually spluttered, trying to stand back from himself and survey the damage.

  'Can't have you appearing before his Lordship all disgusting and dirty.’

  The way the man said “disgusting and dirty” gave Hermitage serious cause for concern. It was clear the fellow was a stickler for appearance, his and everyone else's, but these words made him twitch in a rather disturbing manner. It was the sort of twitch Hermitage had seen in many people. All of them mad and dangerous in one way or another. He felt justifiably concerned about a mad and dangerous person who carried swords and daggers, all of which were carefully polished.

  'You have ruined my jerkin,’ Wat accused, holding out his hands to point out the jerkin.

  'Not at all,’ the soldier replied without a glance.

  'This is delicate tapestry work,’ Wat tried to look at the finely embroidered deer and foxes that paraded around his waist. Deer and foxes that appeared to have fallen victim to some hideous bloating disease that made them swell alarmingly as Hermitage watched.

  'His Lordship isn't interested in tapestry,’ the guard said as if this should be blindingly obvious from the man's title alone. He looked his captives up and down, 'I suppose you'll do,’ he reluctantly accepted, 'this way.’

  He led them further down the corridor until they came to another solid door, well bolted. The guard hammered on this and it was swung open by two more guards. Hermitage examined these with interest and they seemed a lot more, well, normal than the man they were with.

  'Got them all cleaned up then Norbert?’ one of them asked with a snigger.

  Hermitage's soldier simply glared at the other two, this was clearly a common topic of discussion in the guard room. 'If you ever want to serve his Lordship, by God you'll have to tidy yourself up,’ the man growled. He pushed Wat and Hermitage before him and they passed through the door.

  'Disgusting,’ the guard commented as he passed in close proximity to the door minders.

  'We're all wet,’ Wat complained, trying to shake the water from his hair.

  'His Lordship don't mind a bit of wet,’ the guard explained, 'filth though, filth his Lordship can't stand. Won't do. Won't do at all.’

  Hermitage thought it better to simply smile and nod.

  Their escort now directed them up a small stone spiral stair to another door at the top. Pushing this open they emerged into the main entrance hall of the castle.

  This was a fine and lofty space, at least forty feet across and it was grand, imposing and all that a lord's castle hall should be. The door they had come through was almost hidden in the corner of a curved wall that jutt
ed into the main space, doubtless the outcrop of a tower that went from the floor below up to the battlements.

  To their left was the main entrance from the outside. It comprised two huge, arch-topped doors, at least ten feet high, studded with ironwork and cross-braces, which were flung open revealing the morning courtyard beyond. Hermitage noticed that the place still wasn't guarded. Surely the castle couldn't still be lying down after dinner?

  To their right another, smaller version of the entrance door was closed in a massive expanse of one of the castle's stone walls. The ceiling rose high above their heads, the massive beams of the roof criss-crossing the space in a dance of power.

  Their guard stood, and they stood. Hermitage assumed they would be taken to Lord Bonneville, rather than him come to them, but perhaps they had to wait to be summoned. He and Wat dripped onto the flagstone floor and wiped heads and faces with their hands to try and remove the remains of the water.

  After what seemed like an interminable time, during which Hermitage started to shiver with the cold of the surrounding stone, the door to the right opened a little and the figure of Poitron emerged. He stepped across the space in measured paces, each one marked by the slap of his shoes in the echoing hall.

  'How is he?’ the guard asked when Poitron reached them.

  'The usual,’ Poitron replied, which caused the guard to tut.

  This seemed a bit odd to Hermitage and he exchanged a look with Wat, who clearly thought likewise.

  'Come on then.’ The guard pushed Hermitage in the back and the small party set off for the door.

  Drips and slaps and grumbles traversed the hall until they came to the inner doors, one of which Poitron took hold of and swung wide.

  'Hello!' a loud cheerful voice called from beyond the doors, 'come in, come in do.’ Hermitage looked to Wat, not really knowing what to make of this. It hardly seemed the greeting of a lord accepting murderers into his presence. He was even more interested to note the expressions exchanged by Poitron and the guard, expressions of disappointment and frustration.