‘That boy always was happier with his sheep than doing his tithe. Happier with his sheep than doing most things, come to think of it,’ a puzzled frown settled briefly on the man’s head.
‘And you are?’ Cwen tried again.
The man looked at her cautiously, obviously weighing up whether he should tell her or not. He sighed and his shoulders sagged, as if he had decided that the game was up and he might as well reveal all.
‘I’m Tancard.’
‘Tankard?’ said Cwen with a smirk.
‘No,’ Tancard said deliberately, ‘not tankard, Tancaaard, the honourable Norman name.’
‘Right,’ Cwen nodded seriously, ‘so what are you doing in the smithy then Tancard?’
‘I’m the blacksmith,’ he said simply.
‘Really?’ This wasn’t the answer she’d expected at all, but it was a very interesting one. ‘You’re supposed to be dead you know.’
‘What do you think I was doing under the bed?’ Tancard asked as his shoulders fell even lower. ‘I was miles away when I heard how the blacksmith in Cabourg had been killed horribly.’
‘Must have been a surprise.’
Tankard grunted acknowledgement, ‘And with Duke William the way he is at the moment, if someone tells you you’re supposed to be dead, you don’t put your hand up and say “actually I’m over here”.’
‘I can see that,’ Cwen was sympathetic, ‘England’s pretty much the same. Say boo to a Norman and the next thing you’re likely to say is “argh”.’
Tancard nodded at this truth, ‘So I sneaked back here to find out what’s going on, and lo and behold I am dead.’
‘Along with the wheelwright it seems.’
‘Not a good time to be a craftsman in Cabourg,’ Tancard gave a hollow laugh, ‘or a wheelwright,’ he added.
‘So you erm, hid under the bed?’ Cwen could see that this would be a very difficult situation to find yourself in, but was hiding under the bed really the answer?
‘Well I heard there was a body and everything. I mean, if a load of people told you you were dead, and your body was in the log store, wouldn’t you want to have a look?’
‘To check you weren’t really dead?’ Cwen offered.
Tancard scowled at her, ‘I’m not an idiot. I know I’m not really dead. I’d just like to see who is dead that they think is me.’
‘Who’s been the blacksmith while you weren’t here then,’ Cwen could see the problem, ‘have you got any family? A son perhaps?’
‘Nope. So if they think they’ve killed the blacksmith, who have they really killed?’
‘And you think the people at the castle did it?’ Cwen asked. Maybe Tancard had an idea who the killer was. That would put Wat in his place. She could return to the dungeon and say she had found the killer and ask what was so difficult about investigating.
‘Not really,’ the blacksmith admitted with some reluctance.
‘But when you saw my tabard you thought I’d come to kill you.’
‘I don’t know who’s doing the killing. Just stands to reason that the people round here with all the weapons would be the ones most likely. Doesn’t make sense though, old Bonneville was a bit of a handful, but the young master’s a piece of cake. Can’t imagine him having anyone killed.’
Cwen frowned, trying to make any sort of sense of any of it all. Maybe it wasn’t so straightforward after all. Hermitage and Wat hadn’t said anything about complications. Surely if there was a dead person, there was someone who did it and that was that. How could people who should be dead turn up and ask to have a look at their own body? If this was investigation, the monk was welcome to it.
A question formed in her mind but it seemed a bit impertinent. Being impertinent never usually bothered her, but Tancard was such a vulnerable soul she didn’t like to make his life any worse. That wasn’t being mean at all, that was being nice.
‘Did erm?’ She paused, not knowing how to put it nicely, again never normally a consideration when opening her mouth.
‘Did what?’
‘Did anyone sort of want to kill you before you went away?’
‘No they did not,’ Tancard spoke up for himself.
‘No enemies?’ She pressed on.
‘Certainly not, I’m the bloody blacksmith not the executioner.’
‘All right,’ Cwen felt her normal self taking over again, ‘I’m only asking. Someone killed the blacksmith, or a blacksmith, or someone pretending to be a blacksmith. There has to be a reason.’ Good lord, she was talking like Hermitage.
There was a painful pause, which Tancard plainly did not want to fill with conversation.
‘So have you had a look at the body?’ Cwen tried to turn the discussion back to the matter in hand.
‘Haven’t had a chance,’ Tancard complained, ‘that Poitron’s been prowling around the place all the time. I’ve had to keep myself hidden.’
Cwen weighed up the situation. Tancard turning up when he was supposed to be a corpse in the log store and hiding in his own smithy was definitely odd. ‘I think we ought to go and see,’ she concluded, ‘until we know who it is that’s dead, nothing makes much sense.
‘Right,’ Tancard agreed although he didn’t sound sure, ‘we stroll into the castle log store in broad daylight and ask to look at the dead blacksmith.’
‘I am a guard,’ Cwen displayed her tabard.
‘That’s as maybe,’ Tancard grumbled, ‘but if anyone spots me walking about aren’t they going to be a bit suspicious? Hello Tancard, they’ll say, I thought you was dead? You’re looking at lot better now.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s no one about anyway, the whole place seems to be deserted most of the time. The villagers are off in the fields and the castle seems to keep itself to itself.’
‘Ar,’ Tancard explained, ‘that’s the new master that is. The old boy would have had patrols out and everything. Young Jean just seems to like feasting and drinking.’
‘Well that’s good then.’
‘And drinking and drinking.’
‘Even better. Come on,’ Cwen risked what she thought was a friendly punch to the shoulder, which Tancard appeared not to notice at all, ‘what’s the worst that can happen?’
‘Two dead blacksmiths?’
‘Well you can’t hide under your bed forever.’ Cwen’s patience was running out.
‘You sound like my mother,’ Tancard grumbled, but he did at least seem ready to move.
‘Good.’ It seemed best to simply take Tancard’s cooperation for granted and get on with it. She was pretty sure he would follow. ‘I’ll have a look out the door and see if it’s clear.’
Taking Tancard’s incoherent muttering as content, Cwen strode across the floor of the smithy and removed the bar that had been holding the main doors closed. She opened the creaking left hand one a crack and looked out onto the track. No one about. This really was the quietest village she’d ever seen.
‘Come on then,’ she called back to Tancard, who appeared from behind the animal skin. He had the look of a child who didn’t want to go to the market.
‘Look,’ Cwen opened the door fully and demonstrated the deserted world outside.
Tancard moved cautiously forward, so she went out and stood in the middle of the path. Holding her arms out in the traditional gesture that indicated all was safe, she beckoned him with one arm.
Like a mouse peeping out of its hole, Tancard’s nose prodded the air. His head came next and he looked up and down the lane, testing it for any lurking blacksmith killers.
Apparently satisfied, he carefully joined Cwen on the road, closing the smithy doors behind him.
‘So,’ Cwen said, as she stepped smartly along the road, dragging Tancard in her wake, ‘you said you were miles away when you heard the news?’
‘That’s right,’ Tancard spoke quietly, as if the sound of his voice would betray him.
‘Had you been gone long?’ As she asked this she realised she wanted to know. She wasn’
t just making noise to keep the nervous big blacksmith calm, she really wanted to understand what had happened here. Where had this village blacksmith been and how long had he been gone? What had he been doing? Why did everyone think he was dead? Who had killed him? The questions piled up in her head. These new sensations of curiosity and the need to impose order on a complex world were Hermitage’s fault. She would kill him when she saw him next.
‘Too long,’ Tancard replied. It seemed the time away had not been happy.
‘Oh yes?’ Cwen encouraged the man to go further, ‘family was it?’
‘No,’ Tancard grunted, ‘I was…’ He stopped and froze in the middle of the path.
A figure was coming down the lane and it had clearly seen them. The man had come out from behind some trees to the right of the path and was ambling his way down from the direction of the village. He showed no alarm at the sight of Cwen and the blacksmith, in fact he raised his arm in greeting. Cwen and Tancard exchanged looks.
‘Oh not him,’ Tancard sighed, ‘it would be him.’
‘Who?’ Cwen looked back and forwards, ‘who is it?’
‘You’ll find out,’ Tancard replied with a weight of resignation in his voice, ‘you can forget sneaking into the castle without anyone knowing. Five minutes and the Duke himself will have heard.’
Cwen felt her stomach sink. Perhaps this was someone from the castle who would also know that she should not be a guard. It had all been going so well, the whole place was as quiet as a grave and then as soon as they try to move, someone leaps out of the woods to ruin everything. There was nothing to do but carry on and hope the meeting was short and uneventful.
The space between them diminished until the new arrival was within speaking distance. Cwen saw that at least it was an old man, so there was unlikely to be any immediate arrest, or worse. It was clear the old boy was going to speak first and Cwen found that she was holding her breath.
‘’Ow do Tancard,’ Blamour said with a nod and smile, ‘you’re back then?’
‘Oh, er, ‘ow do Blamour,’ Tancard replied, completely confused by the greeting.
Blamour gave a nod to Cwen, ‘And this must be Caradoc our new shepherd. Funny outfit for a shepherd. I was up at the old tree and I says I hear we’ve got a new shepherd, and they says yes, and I says Harboth won’t like it, and they says Harboth’s got his tithe to work as a guard and I says he’ll get out of that if he can and be back with his sheep soon as you can say tup.’
‘Aha, yes, got that right then Blamour,’ Tancard interrupted the flow, ‘well I must be getting on.’
‘Yes, I expect,’ Blamour nodded, ‘lots to sort out now you’re back. Glad to see you made it alive though. You wouldn’t believe the things been going on here while you’ve been away.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Tancard quickly, ‘catch up with it all later eh?’ He indicated to Cwen that they should move on quickly, before Blamour gave the whole history of the world, translated into “I says-he says”.
‘That’s Blamour then,’ Cwen observed as they moved on, ‘they warned me about him.’
‘Quite right too,’ Tancard gave a little shiver, ‘like I say, word will be all over the village by the time we’ve got the castle.’
‘It’s odd though isn’t it?’ Cwen observed, raising her eyebrows to Tancard, imaging that he must be wondering about the same thing.
‘That he talks like a gossip? Always has done as far as I know.’
‘No, not that at all. Don’t you think it’s odd that he wasn’t put out by the fact that the dead blacksmith is walking down the path?’
‘Oh,’ Tancard seemed to get it now, ‘yes that is a bit strange.’
‘A bit strange? Really? Just “a bit strange”? The man clearly doesn’t think you’re dead at all.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And if the village gossip doesn’t think you’re dead, the rest of them probably think the same.’
‘But that means…’ Tancard began, clearly not too sure what it did mean.
‘It means that you needn’t have been hiding under the bed at all. No one thinks you’re the dead blacksmith.’
Tancard stopped walking and Cwen paused with him, ‘Then who is?’ he asked.
‘That’s what we’ll find out when we get to the log store. Whoever it is must have been smithy while you were away.’
‘I don’t know who that’d be,’ Tancard’s voice was offended at the thought of someone taking over from him, ‘there isn’t another in the village.’
‘Must have been an outsider then.’ Cwen had a horrible thought. ‘Perhaps that’s why he was killed?’ She couldn’t really believe this was the sort of village that killed outsiders, she’d been taken in after all. But she had to admit they were all a bit odd.
‘Or perhaps someone’s wants to kill blacksmiths,’ Tancard said in horrified recognition, ‘and now I’m back I’ll be next.’
‘Yes,’ Cwen said thoughtfully, not really paying attention to Tancard’s suggestion. Another question buzzed in her mind to bother her. ‘Where is it you’ve actually been? Why did Blamour say he was glad you made it alive?’
‘Oh that,’ said Tancard dismissively, ‘the guild sent me to England, I was smithing for the army,. He didn’t sound as though this had been his own choice.
‘Have you?’ Cwen asked cautiously, a connection waving at her from the recesses of her mind.
‘Yup,’ said Tancard, clearly relieved to not be with the army anymore, ‘not that it made it any better, but I was smithy to Master Le Pedvin’s own contingent.’
‘Were you?’ said Cwen, eyes wide and thoughts dropping into place. They still made no complete sense but this couldn’t be just a coincidence. ‘I know Le Pedvin,’ she said very carefully.
‘Really,’ Tancard laughed lightly, although he did seem a bit surprised that a stand-in shepherd should know one of the leaders of the Norman army, ‘he’s a bit mad isn’t he?’
Caput XXIII
The Castle Slovenly
They wandered on up the lane towards the castle while the thoughts circled in Cwen’s head like a dog trying to locate the perfect spot to lie down. She was already sure this was no coincidence. It may be true that England was full of Normans, and probably just as full of Norman smiths, tending to the weapons and the horses. How many of them would be working directly for Le Pedvin though? And she’d bet the nice piece of meat floating on top of Mrs Grod’s pot that only one of them was from Cabourg.
Cabourg, where the same Le Pedvin had sent them. Sent them to investigate a murder, which turned out to be of a blacksmith. A blacksmith who was working with Le Pedvin. And who came from Cabourg. No, the thoughts had gone round in another circle and she was back where she started.
Le Pedvin, Cabourg, blacksmith. Cabourg, blacksmith, Le Pedvin. Blacksmith, Le Pedvin, Cabourg. It wasn’t helping. Why would Le Pedvin send them to Cabourg to investigate the murder of a blacksmith? A blacksmith who was actually with Le Pedvin at the time?
Maybe Le Pedvin didn’t know the victim was a blacksmith. When this whole ghastly business had started, he had claimed not to know who the victim was, or even if there actually was one. Maybe the man really had heard that there was murder in Cabourg and wanted Hermitage to look into it before anyone else got killed.
She used her mental powers to slap herself round the face. What a ridiculous suggestion. This was Le Pedvin she was thinking about. The vicious, lying, greedy, violent and generally awful Norman who was ravaging her land and threatening her Wat. If the man ever found a generous thought in his head he would have it taken out and executed.
There was something going on. Le Pedvin was in the middle of it all, and Hermitage and Wat were being used as bait. It was outrageous and she wouldn’t stand for it. She wasn’t quite clear what not standing for it actually involved at the moment but it would come to her, and it would be loud and demanding.
All this complication was just the sort of thing to keep Hermitage happily occupied for hour
s. Maybe it was best to leave the investigation to him after all. At least she would have something to tell them when she got back to the dungeon.
‘When we’ve been to the log store, I’ve got some friends who’d like to talk to you.’
Tancard nodded at this and then stopped in thought. ‘What friends? You’ve only just got here.’
‘It’s complicated,’ she waved his question away. If she started to explain that two people in the Bonneville dungeon would like to have a chat, the blacksmith would be away and back under his bed quicker than a cat out of a bread oven.
They were at the castle gates now and paused to check for any activity. The place was still deserted.
‘What is going on here?’ Cwen asked Tancard, ‘I don’t think I’ve seen anyone patrolling this place since I got here.’
‘Well you’re the one who’s supposed to be patrolling.’ Tancard nodded at her uniform.
‘Yes, but I’m a total stranger who borrowed a tabard off a strange shepherd boy. What sort of castle recruits its guards like that?’
‘Things have gone a bit downhill with the new lord,’ Tancard admitted. ‘Like I said, old Lord Bonneville was a harder man. He’d have you whipped to the river just for being a stranger. The young lord just don’t go in for that sort of thing The blacksmith made this sound like a disappointing failing.
She couldn’t let on she knew anything about this place or its murderous people. ‘Didn’t his father beat him the right way?’
‘Didn’t beat him at all.’
‘What? That’s ridiculous, don’t Normans know how to bring up children?
‘It’s only ‘cos old Bonneville wasn’t his father.’
‘Really?’ Cwen sounded intrigued, as best she could.
‘No. Old Bonneville’s son was a cut off the old log. Brought up proper and came down on people like a rotten limb from the top of a very tall tree.’
‘But then?’
‘He went off to England with William. Do his duty, enjoy himself and come back a lot richer. That was before some Saxon chopped his head off.’
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 22
