'He's the shepherd I've taken over from, apparently he has to do service as a Bonneville guard every month,’ Cwen explained, 'nice chap, told me where you were.’
'Oh he did did he? I'm not sure I...’ Wat began.
'He does think I'm the shepherd boy,’ Cwen insisted.
'Right,’ said Wat, not convinced, 'I've heard about his sort.’
'Oh for goodness sake,’ Cwen spluttered, 'you are trapped in a dungeon. The one Harboth says people get carried out of and taken straight to the nearest hole in the ground. What would you like me to do?’
Wat said nothing but his mumbles were quite loud.
'We have to solve the murders,’ Hermitage announced.
'How?’ Wat asked, spreading his arms to point out their current situation.
Hermitage frowned and let the options swim around in his head for a moment. There was only one, so that would have to be it. 'Cwen will have to do it.’
'Eh?’ Cwen sounded shocked, 'listen, I said it was bad enough that a monk gets involved in murder at all, let alone that you two seem to have been up to your necks in it without bothering to mention the fact. What do I know about solving murders?’
'We can give you instruction. You seem to be well in with the locals.’
'Yes, she does, doesn't she,’ said Wat in a rather unhelpful manner.
Hermitage ignored him and carried on. 'You can go and ask questions we couldn't get away with. You can find out what we need to know and when we've worked it out you can present the findings to Poitron who'll have to let us go.’
'Unless Poitron did it,’ Wat pointed out. He was being particularly unhelpful just at the moment for some reason.
'I suppose I could,’ Cwen sounded reluctant.
'Just bring us what we need and we'll stay here, in our little grey cell, to figure out the answer.’ Hermitage smiled for the first time in many hours.
'And you could drop off some food while you're at it,’ Wat added.
'Anything else master?’ The sarcasm carried the words straight to the floor.
'Skin of wine would be good.’
'Where do I start?’ Cwen asked, ignoring Wat.
'With the blacksmith and the wheelwright,’ Hermitage explained, 'we never did get to their places. We need to know what happened to them.’
'I think we know what happened to them,’ Wat put in.
'I mean what happened to them before what happened to them. What's gone on at their workplaces? Where are their families? How could they be dragged out of workshops and killed without anyone noticing? Just anything at all really, it will all help.’
'Just find out anything at all about the blacksmith and the wheelwright?’ Cwen asked with a bit of a sigh.
'That's right.’
There was a pause from the top of the grill. If Cwen had given her next words careful thought it certainly didn't sound like it. 'This is how you usually go about things then is it?’
'I'm sorry?’ Hermitage couldn't follow what Cwen was going on about.
'Murders and stuff, this is how you usually, what did you call it, investigate?’
'Pretty much, yes. Why, is there something wrong with it?’
'I don't know,’ Cwen mused, 'I just thought it would be a bit more, well...’
'Well what?’ Wat demanded.
'I don't know, sort of more, organised you know?’
'More organised?’ Wat seemed most unhappy at their methods being criticised.
'Yes, I mean, isn't a bit haphazard just going off and finding out all you can about the blacksmith and the wheelwright?’
'They are the dead people,’ Wat insisted.
'The majority of them,’ Hermitage added.
Wat carried on. 'And finding out what you can about the dead people is usually quite important in murders. Unless you've got any better ideas.’ The tone in his voice said that he expected Cwen not to have any better ideas at all.
'Alright, alright, keep your breeches on,’ Cwen replied, 'you just want me to find out everything I can about the blacksmith and the wheelwright.’
'That's it.’ Wat's teeth were firmly clamped together.
'Nothing specific? You don't want to know where they were at a certain time or who they were seen with or anything.’
'Just everything,’ Wat ground out, 'we can then work out what's important and what isn't.’
'Oh you can,’ said Cwen, 'I wouldn't know what's important then, is that it?
'Well if you can find out who killed them and how, that would be handy.’ Wat snapped back.
'But don't let anyone know you're asking,’ Hermitage stepped into what was becoming an increasingly tetchy exchange. He disliked it when Wat and Cwen were going at one another like this. He always told himself they didn't really mean it and would make up afterwards. It was a bit more difficult now, with Wat in a dungeon and Cwen out there on her own in a village full of killer idiots.
'Beg pardon?’ Cwen's flow was brought to an abrupt halt.
'You mustn't let anyone know you're asking.’
'I have to go and find out all I can about the blacksmith and the wheelwright without anyone knowing I'm asking about the blacksmith and the wheelwright?’
'That's it. If people think you're investigating you could end up in front of Poitron. And look what that did for us.’
'And how do I ask without asking exactly?’ Cwen's voice was full of disbelief.
'Erm,’ Hermitage found himself stumped by what was a very good question. He had seen the sense of the approach when the thought was in his head, but the words that came out of his mouth didn't seem to understand what he meant.
'Be subtle,’ Wat suggested, 'like with clients in the Inn. Just sit and listen, encourage conversation in a certain direction. Find a reason to raise the topic of iron work, or wheels.’
'Shepherd boys not generally having much call for either,’ Cwen observed.
'Just be observant and don't go in like a bull at a gate and start annoying people.’
'Are you saying I'm annoying?’
'With me in a dungeon and you as my only possible way out? I wouldn't dream of it.’
'If,’ Hermitage interrupted again, 'if we could get on with the matter in hand, perhaps we can discuss other issues when we're not in a Norman dungeon?’
'Blacksmith and wheelwright?’ Cwen checked.
'That's it.’
'Right, I'll see what I can do.’
There was movement above as she obviously prepared to leave.
'Erm,’ said Hermitage as there was one key point bothering him.
'Yes?’ Cwen hissed.
'What have you done with the sheep?’
Wat looked at him, clearly not understanding why this as a question of any interest at all.
'They'll be alright,’ Cwen replied, 'between you and me I think most of the time the sheep are herding the villagers, not the other way round.’
There was a scuffle from above and the presence of Cwen departed, sharpening Hermitage's despair at their situation.
'Why do we care about the sheep for goodness sake?’ Wat asked.
'They were nagging me.’
'The sheep were nagging you?’
'Of course. Cwen's now a shepherd apparently, she should be looking after the sheep. If she's not doing it who is? And if no one is, what are the sheep doing with themselves? I like to have everything in its place.’ Hermitage could explain this no more than he could explain why he always put his left sandal on first. 'It's like those threads you trim off the edge of the tapestries.’
'Loose ends?’
'That's it, the sheep are loose ends, and if they aren't taken care of they ruin the whole picture.’
Wat just looked at the monk with a glazed expression, 'I think I'll go and bang my head on the door for a bit, see if anyone comes.’
'Right oh,’ said Hermitage, wondering why Wat would want to do such a thing, but not liking to criticise.
'Isn't it remarkable that Cwen should turn up like this,�
�� Hermitage managed to forget the sheep for moment, but Cwen felt like a loose end herself, 'imagine her coming all this way on her own.’
'I wouldn't put anything past her,’ Wat called from the door.
Hermitage could see there wasn't any banging of heads going on, Wat was testing the solidity of the door with his boot. It passed.
'I wonder when she decided she was going to come.’ Hermitage asked, thinking something might have happened back in England to prompt Cwen's journey.
'As soon as I told her she couldn't, I expect.’
'Really?’ That didn't sound at all right to Hermitage. He tended to do what he was told straight away, only weeks afterwards realising he should have done no such thing.
'I've learnt that trying to get Cwen to do something she doesn't want to is like trying to make a tapestry by going to the field and asking the sheep to line up in the right order. You can talk to them all you like and they may move about a bit, but they're not taking any notice.’ Wat snorted to himself at the image, 'the only way to make them do what you want is with a dog or a stick, and I don't think I'd try either of those on Cwen.’ He shivered at this idea.
'So you knew she'd come?’
'No,’ Wat returned the main chamber and propped himself on the wall under the light, 'I thought this little exercise would be too mad even for her. I vainly hoped the attraction of being in charge of the workshop would be enough of a temptation.’
'It seems not.’
'It does, doesn't it?’ Wat had a smile lurking around his lips. 'She'd have launched herself at Le Pedvin and the entire Norman army if we hadn't stopped her. God knows what the poor Saxons who brought her here had to put up with. And I pity anyone who doesn't give her the information she needs.’
This caused Hermitage some additional worry, additional to all the other worries that moved around his head, taking it in turns to stand in front and shout at him. 'Do you think she'll be safe?’ he asked Wat.
'No, I think she'll be positively dangerous.’
'Oh dear, oh dear. If she isn't careful she'll come to Poitron's notice. We did tell her to be subtle,’ Hermitage wrung his hands as the worry seeped into his limbs.
'How old do you think she is?’ Wat asked, which momentarily put Hermitage off his stride.
'She'd be, what, seventeen or so?’ It was always hard to judge someone's age, even your own if you didn't keep a very careful count.
'And in seventeen years no one's cut her head off or thrown her off a cliff, although I imagine many have been tempted. She's lucky she's small and still a girl really. When she gets to full womanhood though..,’ Wat left the thought in the dank air.
'You think she'll be in greater danger?’
'I think she'll be really scary.’ Wat's smile had broken out across his face as if he was imagining what Cwen in full flight, at the height of her powers would be capable of.
'You care for her though,’ Hermitage observed.
'Of course,’ Wat replied quickly, 'young girl on her own in the world, only my Christian duty.’
It was Hermitage's turn to smile now. It puzzled him that there appeared to be genuine affection between the weaver and the girl, yet both did their utmost to deny it and behave intolerably to one another most of the time. He shrugged inwardly, there were many complex and puzzling features of God's creation which he needed to understand before he even started thinking about anything as complicated and mysterious as human relationships. And the ones between men and women had so many unique and frankly disturbing aspects that he doubted he would have time to get to them at all. In fact he rather hoped that would be the case.
'Let's just hope her mission is a success,’ Hermitage mused quietly. He was starting to feel very hungry and hoped her mission would be a success quite quickly.
'And let's hope she's gentle with them,’ Wat said, the smile back on his face. 'Of course there is another option.’
'Oh yes?’
'After they've had Cwen for a day or so they might let us out if we promise to take her away.’
Caput XXI
While Shepherds Watched
The villagers of Cabourg accepted the slim boy as a wandering shepherd with very little concern. No one bothered asking where he came from, or even why he spoke with such a strange accent. Perhaps it was the confidence in the youngster’s voice that put the residents at their ease. Perhaps it was the way the lad simply assumed they would have a role for him. Perhaps it was the way they looked him in the eye and then found they’d involuntarily taken half a step back.
Either way, Cwen, or Caradoc as she called herself, was taken into the bosom of the community, largely because she said so. Even the sheep seem to have acquired a new-found talent for doing what they were told. If Cwen was five years older and male, she'd be inside the castle issuing orders.
On her way back to the sheep, to check they hadn't dared move too far, she dropped in on Harboth who was ambling around the front of the castle.
'So this is doing guard then?’ she asked, trying to sound impressed with people who were doing guard.
'Oh yes,’ Harboth replied as he looked around guardedly. He was little older than Cwen and from the look of him did not give his guarding duties the attention they deserved. He was in uniform but there wasn't much of it. A simple tabard hung on top of his day clothes, the Bonneville sigil worn and almost faded to nothing. His attention seemed to be as much devoted to the inside of the castle as the outside, as if the greater threat came not from rampaging enemies as from his superiors in the guarding hierarchy.
His only weapon was a large stick, which, while it would certainly cause quite a headache, was going to be no defence against any professional who turned up wanting to get in.
'Have to do guard duty,’ Harboth moaned in the peculiar way they all talked round here. A frown crossed his plain, beardless face. 'Where's the sheep?’ He craned his neck to see behind Cwen as if she had them with her.
'They're alright, just had to take a leak,’ she explained.
This caused Harboth to frown more and his eyes to widen, 'You mustn't leave them,’ he explained ponderously, 'they need you nearby.’
Cwen could understand the young men of the village had to do service to their lord, and that Harboth was probably suited to simple guard duty, but he appeared severely taxed by the task of holding a stick the right way round.
'I've told them I'll be back,’ she assured him, staring hard into the deep pools of his brown eyes, hoping some sign of intelligent life was lurking in there somewhere. If it was, it had dropped to the bottom of the pool and was quietly decomposing.
'These murders then,’ she said, reluctantly encouraging a second conversation. The first, which had revealed the whereabouts of Hermitage and Wat had been hard enough, and had spent an inordinate amount of its time on the subject of sheep, none of whom had been taken to the dungeon.
'Oh yeah,’ Harboth was enthralled, 'horrible from what I heard. All blood and dead and everything. Mangled up in the log store apparently.’ He cast a very careful look in the direction of the log store. ‘Apparently one of them had a horseshoe plunged into his eyeballs and the other had his arms and legs chopped off and wheels put in their place.’
'Where did they live then?’
'Who?’
'The dead people.’
Harboth frowned his frown, 'Where did the dead people live?’
'When they were alive?’ Cwen explained slowly.
'Oh right. They was the blacksmith and the wheelwright.’
'I know.’
There was a pause.
'So they lived?’ Cwen moved her head in that encouraging way people use with animals.
'In the smithy and the wheel shop,’ Harboth explained patiently.
'And they are?’
'Where they lived.’ Harboth nodded happily at getting this one right.
Cwen ran a hand over her face and took a deep breath, 'Where is the smithy and where is the wheel shop?’
&nb
sp; Light dawned on Harboth's face. It wasn't bright, and it wasn't illuminating much of any value, but it changed the expression slightly.
'Down there,’ he said, pointing away from the castle gate. 'But there's no point you going,’ he added.
'Why not?’
'They're both dead,’ Harboth imparted the awful news.
'I,’ Cwen swallowed hard, 'I'd heard,’ she said as she walked away, 'perhaps I'll just knock and see if I can wake them.’ She waved what she hoped was a last goodbye to Harboth. Perhaps if she needed any more information she'd try asking the stick.
Thinking she really ought to go and check on her charges before she explored the workshops, she headed back towards the fields. There was always a chance the sheep had gone wandering, or had been scared by something, well, something scarier than Cwen, and if they were lost there'd be all sorts of trouble.
The day was warm and the sun shone as she ambled along the lane towards her flock. It was only now, in this brief moment that she noticed how nice the place was. The decision to travel and her journey here had been hectic and uncomfortable. As soon as she arrived she had to inveigle herself in the local community and find out where Hermitage and Wat had got to. Then, when she’d managed to get the job of stand-in shepherd, she’d seen her targets being dragged away to what was probably a fate worse than death.
Getting any useful information about Hermitage and Wat out of Harboth had tested her patience to the limit, and then she had to sneak into the castle to make contact with them. Now, if she wasn’t exactly idle, there wasn’t much useful she could do and so she took in the atmosphere.
She recalled the squally rain of Derby that she had left behind and her appalling journey across the sea was a distant memory. The struggles with Hartle, who had done nothing but present reasons why she couldn’t do what she wanted to do, had faded with each passing mile.
She could still taste the incredible bread and cheese she had been given to keep her going in the field. And the fine wine it had been washed down with. Mrs Grod’s pot loomed like a nightmare over this spread but was powerless to perform its usual miracle of removing all natural taste and texture and replacing it with something so unwholesome neither English nor Norman had the words.
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 20
