Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  Hermitage thought this was a very good point. If they were under the protection of Lord Bonneville what could possibly happen to them in the man's own village.

  Poitron's reply was quite reasonable as well. 'If Lord Bonneville doesn't know you're in the dungeon he won't worry, will he?’ He smiled that worrying smile again. 'And if you die in the dungeon we'll just tidy up and his lordship need be none the wiser. And we've still only got your word that you're the ones he's expecting.’

  Hermitage gaped at such naked dishonesty, 'And when there's another murder?’ he asked, pointing out just one of the flaws in Poitron's thinking.

  'Oh well,’ the man shrugged, 'if that happens we'll know it wasn't you.’

  'And then what?’ Hermitage demanded, surely the man could see this course of action was mad.

  'Then we'll dig you up and give you a Christian burial.’ Poitron gestured that the crowd should hurry on to the castle, before their captives did some more evil.

  'But, Le Pedvin,’ Hermitage bleated, as if the name had magical qualities. He'd never thought he'd call upon the ghastly man in supplication.

  'If you are from Le Pedvin,’ Poitron said in a low conspiratorial tone as he turned close to Hermitage and Wat, 'and knowing the man as I do, he'll just send some more people when you two never come back.’ He rubbed his hands and urged his pitchfork army on with a rousing, 'To the dungeon.’

  ‘You’re catching up Hermitage,’ Wat muttered as they were escorted.

  ‘Catching up with what?’

  ‘Dungeons. One investigation, two trips to the dungeon, you’re getting back on track.’

  Hermitage couldn’t scowl very well, it didn’t come naturally, but he gave it his very best.

  The dappled lane, quiet in the summer sun, lay undisturbed by even a zephyr of whispering wind. A lone thrush hopped hither and thither in search of snails, even its tuneful voice silenced by the heat. The trees bent as if worried by the weight of the light pouring down upon them, and even the air itself seemed caught between moments. The world had paused to indulge in this instant of tranquillity and calm, and then a pitchfork-carrying mob tramped through taking a monk and a weaver to a dungeon, ruining everything.

  One of them took a hopeful swipe at the thrush, while another bent quite regularly, gathering every snail he could find.

  'This is simply not reasonable,’ Hermitage complained from inside the dungeon, ‘they can’t keep throwing us in dungeons like this.’ If he thought the last one they occupied must be the worst the castle had to offer, Norbert and Poitron had plumbed the depths, literally and metaphorically, to come up with accommodations which would be turned down by a colony of diseased bats.

  'Who's expecting reasonable?’ Wat asked, quite reasonably, ‘we got more time than I’d been expecting really.’

  Neither of them wanted to sit down in their new residence, there simply wasn't anywhere. There was no furniture, which was hardly surprising as it would probably rot away in the damp within a week, and the floors were running with water. Even that was happening in a disturbingly unhealthy manner, the water behaving as if it left all its tinkling joy behind when it came in here. It was slothful and mischievous water, water with a plan to go places, the sort of places that would make grave robbers turn away in disgust.

  'We need to talk to Lord Bonneville,’ Hermitage said earnestly as he started to pace up and down their small space. He stopped pacing when his sandals stepped in something soft and wet but a bit too thick for water.

  'Not much chance of that,’ said Wat, 'I shouldn't think he gets down here much,’ he nodded his head to indicate their surroundings, 'I reckon this place was here first and they built the castle around it, no chance of breaking out.’

  Hermitage hadn't even thought of breaking out, it sounded positively dishonest. He thought that people would come to their senses and release them. It had happened before after all.

  There was light in their space, which, as his eyes adjusted, Hermitage noticed was more cave-like than anything. Perhaps Wat was right and this really was a natural feature that the builders of the castle had used. It wasn't at all clear where the light was coming from, there was certainly no window, but a dull glow wandered around, clearly feeling rather lost. There were probably cracks in the rocks through which the outside world meandered before finding itself in here, unable to get out again.

  The walls were jagged, although a less-than-charming grey slime did its best to soften the edges. The floor was uneven and it was only possible to stand upright in the middle of the room, as the ceiling dipped down in a largely random manner. The entrance to the place had been through a narrow crack in the rock, against which a door had been built. This was wider than the gap and so neither hinges nor handle were visible from inside. There wasn't even a grill in this door, nor a hatch to allow the passage of food.

  This last fact found a small space in Hermitage's consciousness where it sat, worrying him.

  'What do we do?’ he asked. It appeared that this situation was completely hopeless but Wat would have a plan. Wat always had a plan. Even sealed in a cave, in the bowels of a castle, in the hands of mad men and their mob, in a village where murder seemed to be some sort of local tradition, in the land of the enemy, Wat would have a plan.

  'No idea,’ said Wat, who was prowling round the cave like a cat wondering where the mouse had gone.

  Hermitage couldn't take this in straight away, where was Wat's plan? The weaver was the man of the world, surely a simple sealed cave with no way out would only be a moment's trouble.

  'Er,’ Hermitage's thought processes came to a rapid end.

  'Look around you Hermitage,’ said Wat.

  The young monk did so, half expecting to spot the secret escape route only Wat had noticed. Seeing nothing other than grey walls he raised his eyebrows, asking the weaver for the answer.

  'This is the sort of place people get thrown away in. The special dungeon for those particular prisoners where never opening the door again is probably on the schedule.’

  'They can't do that!' Even as he said this Hermitage had a strong nagging feeling that yes, they could.

  'I think they already have.’ Wat leaned against a wall and gazed hopelessly at his companion. 'This really could be it. I don't think we'll die of thirst, after all we can drink most of the floor by the look of it. However, I expect it could finish us off just as effectively. Dying of starvation might not be a problem if a good strong pox gets us first.’

  'But when Bonneville asks for us…' Hermitage began with a glint of hope. The sort of glint from something very questionable which reflects moonlight in the graveyard from which the robbers have just run screaming.

  'If he does. The man seemed drunk enough not to know what was going on at all, let alone where a strange monk and weaver have gone. And if he does ask for us, Poitron will just say we've gone away, or been summoned back to Le Pedvin or something.’

  'So when there's another murder, Poitron will have to explain that.’

  'I suspect master Poitron is very good at explaining things and making sure none of them have anything to do with him.’

  'There will be another murder.’ Hermitage nodded to himself.

  'Soothsayer now are you?’

  'It stands to reason.’

  'That again.’ Wat snorted.

  'We know there have been three murders and nothing seems to have been achieved. If it’s all to get Bonneville executed you only need one murder, not three.’

  'Eh?’

  'Why are three people dead? I don't believe Bonneville does it for fun, he seems such a nice chap. Bit drunk mostly, but hardly the type to go round slaughtering the locals. And also, like you say, Le Pedvin was probably lying. If I came across a tavern full of liars, in the middle of a lying competition, Le Pedvin would be keeping score.’

  'Very poetic. And this helps us how?’

  'The murders haven't changed anything. Three people dead for no obvious reason. No one's overthrown the
local lord, there's been no attack. No one in the village has any light to shed. Whatever these murders are for, I don't think it's happened yet. In which case there will be more.’

  'There's always just plain hatred,’ Wat offered, 'people do tend to hate one another, and the experience we've had at home of Normans who hate people usually results in death.’

  'We have to get out,’ Hermitage concluded, 'we have to work on these murders and find out what's going on. It's the only way we'll be freed.’

  'We have to escape an impenetrable dungeon to show that we should be let out of the impenetrable dungeon?’

  'That's it.’ Hermitage knew there was a problem in the plan but he didn't want to think about that bit right now.

  'Even if we could get out I think any locals we came across would just throw us right back in again. Maybe without our heads to keep us company this time.’

  Hermitage frowned at this knotty problem, which must have a solution. All problems had a solution if you just thought about it hard enough. He thought very hard indeed but the solution kept its distance. He walked back towards the door and gave it a half-hearted push. He knew that it would be locked but it had to be worth a try. It was locked.

  'Where's the light coming from?’ he asked.

  'I think there's some sort of grill in the ceiling up in that corner.’ Wat gestured behind him where the roof of the cave/dungeon tied itself in convoluted knots as if trying to escape its own company.

  Hermitage wandered over to the spot. Well, he stepped cautiously through the rivulets of the floor and tried not to slip over. He craned his neck around against a particularly jagged outcrop of wall, until he could see the light in its original form, instead of the weak excuse for illumination that loitered idly in the room. If it had better things to do it certainly wasn't going to do them in here.

  There did appear to be an opening in the roof although he could only see one small edge of it from here. Unfortunately the edge he could see had a clear iron bar across it.

  'Climb up and have a look,’ he nodded Wat towards the light.

  'You climb up and have a look.’

  'I've erm,’ Hermitage hesitated to go into yet more personal details, 'I've never been very good at climbing.’

  'Never very good at climbing?’ While sounding surprised that anyone could be not very good at climbing, Wat also managed to sound not surprised at all that Hermitage was not very good at climbing.

  'I, er, was persuaded to climb a tree when I was a lad,’

  'There you are then.’

  'And the others left me there all night because I couldn't get down again.’ Hermitage looked pleadingly at his friend.

  Wat let out a sigh and shuffled over to the wall, 'Give me a leg up then.’

  Hermitage held out his hands, interlocked cup-style, and Wat put his left foot in the man-made stirrup before hauling himself up on Hermitage's shoulders.

  'Ah yes,’ said Hermitage with a quiver in his voice, 'brings it all back.’

  'It is just a grill,’ Wat called down from his height, 'and even if the grill wasn't there we wouldn't be able to get through it. Too small. Might get a loaf of bread pushed through by a caring villager, but I don't think there are any.’

  Wat climbed down again, after which Hermitage wiped his hands on his habit. He looked around for any other inspiration, but this was not an inspiring space.

  'Perhaps if we made a lot of noise someone would have to come and we could overpower them?’

  'Or perhaps they'd come and make sure we never made any noise again?’

  'Hm.’

  'And as for overpowering people, regular, dungeon guard type people, I think your imagination is getting the better of you.’

  'There must be a way,’ Hermitage paced to the door and back to the grill, heedless now of the wet stuff that was getting into his sandals, 'how can we possibly solve the murders if we're locked up in here?’

  'I think we can't, that's probably the general idea.’

  Hermitage looked up at the light, the answer had to be there.

  'You really are a couple of idiots aren't you?’ A new voice drifted to them from the grill above.

  Hermitage was too preoccupied with his thoughts to give it immediate attention, he just responded naturally, 'Now Cwen,’ he rebuked, 'I hardly think that's fair.’

  Caput XX

  To The Rescue

  'Cwen?’ Wat bounded across the room to the space below the grill, while Hermitage watched in some bemusement.

  'I knew you'd be no good on your own,’ Cwen's voice pierced the gloom of the room and of Hermitage's heart when he finally got what was happening.

  'But…' was all the monk managed to say.

  'Cwen, is that really you?’ Wat's voice cracked and made Hermitage realise that his friend really had been genuinely concerned about their fate.

  'Of course it's me,’ Cwen replied sharply, 'who else in this place is going to be worrying about you? Apart from how to dispose of your bodies.’

  'How long have you been here?’ Wat had moved on from blessed relief to irritation.

  'Not long,’ Cwen replied.

  'But…' Hermitage said again. He had lots of thoughts to express but his 'But' kept getting in the way.

  'Do the locals know you're here?’ Wat asked anxiously.

  'Of course they do,’ Cwen replied.

  'But...’ Hermitage kept it up.

  'They've even made me a shepherd boy,’ Cwen said with some pride.

  'Shepherd,’

  'Boy. I know, but it didn't seem sensible to contradict them. I know my Norman isn’t very good but theirs is terrible. They just seemed to assume I was a shepherd from the way I talked. They don't seem very bright.’

  'Cwen,’ Wat laughed a laugh of pure joy, 'I have never been so pleased to hear your voice.’

  'I shall have to remember that when we get home,’ Cwen replied, 'keep you locked up more often.’

  'But…' said Hermitage

  'What is it Hermitage?’ Cwen asked, giving the monk some space to get round all his “buts”.

  'How did you? I mean why are you? I mean. Oh I don't know what I mean.’ Hermitage had too many questions so he tried to get them in some sort of order. 'Can you get us out?’

  'I don't think that would be very sensible,’ Cwen admonished.

  'Oh.’ Hermitage thought that would be the priority.

  'The locals seem to think you're some sort of demonic killers, or at least that's what Poitron's telling them. If anyone sees you on the loose they're likely to kill you first and ask questions afterwards.’

  'Well that wouldn't work at all,’ Hermitage explained.

  'I know it wouldn't,’ Cwen stopped him before he got going, 'the point is that while you're in there you're safe. Once you get out, the only thing to do is run away, very quickly. And I think two Saxons running away in Normandy is going to be a problem.’

  'Did you follow us here?’ Hermitage asked, his questions forcing their way to the front.

  'Er, yes,’ said Cwen, as if there were any other explanation for her talking through the grill of a Norman prison.

  'Why?’

  'To save you from death in a deep, dark dungeon?’

  'Oh, right. Yes. Thanks.’

  'Don't mention it.’

  'But if it's not safe to let us out?’

  'I'll just have to think of something. I only saw you being taken away just now. It's taken some time to find you so I thought I'd better come and let you know I'm here.’

  'Were you the shepherd boy in the field?’ Hermitage asked, with a moment of revelation. Rather offended revelation, but revelation none the less.

  'Yes,’ Cwen lowered her voice, 'sorry about that, but I couldn't have the locals thinking I'm on your side, especially as there was a pitchfork carrying mob coming up the lane, which I naturally assumed was for you.’

  'Yes,’ Hermitage admitted.

  'How did you follow us?’ Wat asked anxiously, 'we raced in Be
rnard's mad cart and then crossed the sea for goodness sake.’

  'I just started as soon as you'd left,’ Cwen explained, 'put Hartle in charge and borrowed a ride with some dubious Saxon nobles who'd manage to avoid going to Hastings. They seemed pretty anxious to get to Normandy as quick as they could, swear allegiance and offer services to the new King. You know, stay alive, that sort of thing.’

  'But William's in England.’

  'Ah, but they don't know that,’ Cwen explained, 'well they do now obviously, but they didn't then.’

  'And you didn't tell them?’

  'They seemed so keen on getting here, I didn't like to upset them.’

  'Ha,’ Wat clapped his hands in delight, 'oh Cwen, you are priceless.’

  'I am taking notes,’ said Cwen and her grin could be heard from a distance.

  'So what do we do now?’ Wat asked, a new light and enthusiasm in his tone.

  'We can't escape,’ said Hermitage in serious agreement with Cwen.

  There was a moment's silence.

  'Can't escape?’ Wat asked in clear surprise, 'you were the one who wanted us to overpower dungeon guards a minute ago?’

  'I know, but I see now that we can't escape. Cwen's right, if we get out of this place the locals will pounce on us straight away.’

  'I thought the running away sounded like a good idea,’ said Wat.

  'Run away to where?’ Hermitage asked, 'if we made it back to England Le Pedvin would want to know how we dealt with Bonneville. And when we say that we didn't actually, I think he'll be a bit disappointed.’

  'Hm,’ said Wat, clearly appreciating what Le Pedvin being “a bit disappointed” might involve.

  'And even if we did try running away I suspect Poitron would get us before we'd got two miles.’

  'He does have a reputation,’ Cwen put in, 'him and that Norbert are a bit of a terror around here. Going round telling people they're carrying out Bonneville's instructions, except most people don't believe them. Or at least that's what Harboth says.’

  'Who's Harboth?’ Wat asked, a weight of suspicion in his voice.