Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  Wat screwed up his face in thought, ‘Cwen can do it.’

  ‘What can Cwen do?’ Cwen asked from the ground above.

  ‘Get us in front of Lord Bonneville,’ Wat instructed.

  ‘Right oh,’ Cwen replied as if she’d just been asked to fetch the milk. ‘Oh wait a minute,’ she paused in realisation that all the milk was drunk yesterday, ‘I’m a Saxon woman, impersonating a local shepherd. I’m dressed up as a guard in this lord’s castle and I’d like his prisoners released?’

  ‘You’re a what?’ Tancard had abandoned his squatting position to fall over backwards.

  ‘You’re dressed up as a guard?’ Wat asked himself with a lot more interest.

  Cwen looked over to Tancard as if he was just being silly reacting in this way, and spoke to the grill again. ‘I think I see one or two problems.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Wat replied, ‘Lord Bonneville is drunk out of his head most of the time, he won’t care whether you’re a guard, a sheep or talking tree. Probably won’t even notice.’

  ‘But I suspect those around him might have a few questions.’

  ‘You’re a woman?’ Tancard asked in horror.

  Cwen waved him away.

  ‘A real woman?’ Tancard was having a lot of trouble.

  This did make Cwen give him her attention, ‘What do mean a real woman?’

  ‘I, er.’ He clearly didn’t know quite what he meant.

  ‘Is that Harboth?’ Wat’s voice called from below.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Cwen snapped back, ‘this is Tancard, the blacksmith, the not dead one.’

  ‘And where did you find him?’

  ‘Under the bed,’ Cwen replied with deliberate provocation.

  ‘Under the what?’ Wat could almost be heard trying to climb out through the grill.

  ‘He was hiding there from the blacksmith killer.’

  ‘Can he get us before Lord Bonneville?’ Hermitage asked.

  ‘I want to know what he was doing under the bed,’ Wat could be heard quite clearly.

  ‘Perhaps we can investigate that when we’ve finished with the murders that have put us in the dungeon?’ Hermitage hissed back.

  Cwen looked at Tancard, expecting him to respond to the question but he was gazing at her with a puzzled look.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ she asked, ‘never seen a woman before? What do you want? Proof?’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Wat called.

  ‘Well?’ Cwen asked, ‘can you get us before Lord Bonneville?’

  ‘Er,’ said Tancard.

  ‘It isn’t a difficult question.’

  ‘Guildsmen coming to the village are supposed to present themselves to the Lord but why would I?’ Tancard had found his senses and his voice, ‘if, like you say, you’re a Saxon, and a woman, and not really a guard at all. Why on earth would I take you before Lord Bonneville? Why wouldn’t I go and get Master Poitron to come and throw you in the hole in the ground with your friends? Which, by the way, I know is the dungeon, I’m not entirely stupid, because I repaired that grill last winter.’

  Hermitage, his ear directed towards the outside world, thought this was a very good question.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I simply go and report a Saxon in our midst, for which I would probably be a hero?’

  That was a good one as well.

  ‘Because my dear Tancard,’ Cwen replied as if she had a very good answer, ‘only Hermitage down there knows who has been killing the craftsmen and might be in a position to stop it happening again.’

  Ah yes, thought Hermitage, I do don’t I. That was a good answer.

  ‘And how do I know it isn’t you lot?’ Tancard replied.

  ‘Can you take that chance?’ she put serious and sombre into her voice, along with a bit of implied threat and danger, ‘get me thrown in the dungeon and you’ll never know. You’d have to spend every night under the bed because the killer might be looking for his next blacksmith. Every creak of the door, every blow of the wind, might be the anvil coming down on your head.’

  Tancard frowned at the thought and scowled at Cwen.

  ‘And Hermitage won’t tell until we’re in front of Lord Bonneville, will you Hermitage?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Hermitage called, although he was bursting to tell someone.

  ‘How do I know that he knows?’ Tancard wasn’t there yet.

  ‘You’ll find out when we’re in front of Bonneville,’ Cwen tried to drive the point home.

  ‘How do you know?’ Tancard called down the hole.

  ‘It was something…,’ Hermitage began, before he was silenced by Wat’s hand over his mouth.

  There was a silence, which was clearly waiting for Tancard to say something.

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Cwen, ‘we’ll not bother. You can go back under the bed, I’ll head back to England and Hermitage and Wat can starve in their dungeon.’

  ‘Oy!’ Wat cried out.

  ‘I could just clear off again,’ Tancard suggested.

  ‘But you might be followed,’ Cwen raised her eyebrows, ‘and anyway, what’s the worst that can happen? We’re not asking you to speak up for us, just get Hermitage in front of Bonneville and he can explain it all. If Bonneville doesn’t believe us, we end up in the dungeon and you’re still the hero. Of course the killer is still out there but I’m sure you can handle that.’

  Tancard gazed from grill to Cwen and back again a few times. ‘And you really know who did it?’

  ‘I do,’ Hermitage replied, ‘and I know why now as well.’

  ‘What?’ this came from all of them.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Hermitage, it’s quite simple really,’ he paused, ‘well no, it isn’t I suppose, but it all makes sense.’

  ‘And am I in danger?’ Tancard asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Hermitage replied brightly, ‘very much so.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Tancard drawled out.

  Cwen smiled that the decision was made.

  ‘How do we do this then?’ Cwen asked Tancard as they left Hermitage and Wat to the pleasures of the dungeon and walked back towards the gate.

  Tancard was not happy, but at least he seemed resigned to the plan. ‘I suppose I could turn up at the gate, and you, as the guard,’ he snorted at this, ‘you take me to Poitron and I ask to make my appearance before Lord Bonneville.’

  ‘And what about getting Hermitage and Wat up as well?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Cwen bit her lip in thought while Tancard continued to stare at her, as if still not believing what she was.

  ‘Le Pedvin,’ she said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You can say that you’ve come from Le Pedvin.’

  ‘Well I have.’

  ‘I know, that’s what makes it easy. And you say that you have information about the murders and need to see the monk and the weaver Le Pedvin sent ahead of you.’

  ‘Ha,’ Tancard clearly thought this was either very funny, or ridiculous, or both.

  ‘Which is also true,’ Cwen said blankly and waited for the reaction.

  ‘Course it is,’ Tancard scoffed.

  Cwen said nothing.

  ‘If you expect me to believe…’ Tancard began, but the look on Cwen’s face said that yes, she did expect.

  ‘They were sent here by Le Pedvin?’ Tancard wouldn’t have looked more surprised if a swallow had flown by, carrying his anvil back to the workshop. ‘Why didn’t they say so?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe they did. Doesn’t matter, they’re still in the dungeon.’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Tancard said, and the wavering, wobbling voice said that he really didn’t like it.

  ‘You do have a choice,’ Cwen pointed out, her impatience with this timid blacksmith doing its best to express itself in the normal manner. She restrained herself admirably.

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Of course. You can do something you don’t like; go to Lord Bonneville. Or you can do
something you really don’t like; hide under the bed again. Or you can do something you really, really don’t like; get your head made anvil-shaped.’

  ‘Not much of a choice,’ Tancard grumbled.

  ‘I didn’t say it was much of a choice.’ Cwen put hands on hips, waiting.

  ‘Oh let’s get it over with.’ Tancard looked around for someone in the castle courtyard they could present themselves to, but of course there was no one. ‘We’ll have to knock on the door.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cwen as she marched towards the main door of the castle.

  ‘Not that one,’ Tancard called in alarmed horror, ‘guildsmen don’t knock on the front door.’ His voice said this should be obvious, even to Saxon women pretending to be shepherds.

  ‘Sillly me,’ Cwen replied, ‘which one then?’

  ‘The craftsman’s door.’

  ‘Oh, of course, the craftsman’s door,’ she nodded as if chastising herself for making such a basic mistake.

  ‘It’s round here,’ Tancard pointed round the corner of the castle, clearly not taken in by Cwen’s apparent ignorance of proper etiquette.

  Around the side of the main castle building, a small, low door was set into the wall. It was down a couple of steps below ground level, doing its best to look very humble.

  ‘Right,’ said Cwen when Tancard stopped before the door, ‘go on then, knock.’

  ‘What do I say?’

  ‘What would you normally say?’

  ‘I’d say that I am Tancard the blacksmith and I come to present myself to Lord Bonneville.’

  ‘Say that then,’ Cwen was gripping tightly to the material of her tabard to stop her palms leaping out of their own accord and smacking this man round the ear.

  ‘But what do I say after that?’

  ‘Say what you like.’

  ‘I mean about your two friends in the dungeon.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ Cwen ground out between her teeth, which now wanted to bite one of Tancard’s ears off for good measure, ‘say something like, “My Lord, I bring news from Master Le Pedvin about two fellows he sent here. If you would consent to have them brought before you, we can explain the recent murders.”’'

  ‘My Lord, I bring news from Master Le Pedvin,’ Tancard began to recite.

  ‘Something like that,’ Cwen said fiercely, ‘use your own words for goodness sake. You sound like a mummer.’

  Tancard took two or three deep breaths and used the time to gaze at Cwen. ‘When this is all over? If these murders are sorted out and your friends are out of the dungeon? Will you leave Cabourg?’

  Cwen couldn’t see what this had to do with anything, but she was rapidly going off the place and its irritating people. ‘Probably,’ she replied.

  ‘Good,’ said Tancard as decisively as he’d ever said anything. Which took Cwen back a bit.

  He knocked on the door. Then he hammered on the door. Then he picked up a small rock and bashed it against the door.

  ‘Not many people follow the proper process,’ he explained to Cwen, whose impatience was now almost a second person, standing beside her.

  ‘What is it?’ A voice came from somewhere behind the door. The sort of voice that had been disturbed from doing something quite pleasant. Disturbed by some pointless activity, which, it would turn out, was a complete waste of its time.

  ‘It is a guildsman, come to present his credentials to Lord Bonneville,’ Tancard called in a very formal and entirely unnatural voice.

  ‘Tancard? Is that you?’ the voice called as it drew closer to the door.

  ‘It is Tancard the blacksmith.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the front door?’ the voice asked in puzzled annoyance.

  ‘I am presenting myself at the craftsman’s door, as required by the orders of the guild.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ the voice was understanding now, ‘you flop gizzard.’ All understanding departed. There was rattling from the door, followed by the sounds of bolts being drawn, handles being turned and strong muscles being applied. ‘This thing hasn’t been opened in months,’ the voice complained as it struggled with the woodwork.

  ‘Nonetheless, this is the route by which the orders of the guild say that…’ Tancard began.

  ‘You’re not related to Norbert are you?’ the voice complained as the door opened about an inch.

  Fingers appeared behind the door and tugged at the thing with little effect. Tancard and Cwen stepped forward and put their shoulders to the task. Eventually there was a gap big enough for them to get through.

  ‘I am Tancard the blacksmith…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know who you are for goodness sake,’ said the guard, whose face appeared around the door. It was just like the voice, plump, slightly flushed and had clearly been doing something far more interesting than door opening. ‘I’m never going to get this thing shut again,’ he kicked the door, ‘you can come back and bloody fix it yourself.’ He turned and led the way into the castle, Tancard followed and Cwen drew up the rear, grateful that the recalcitrant door had diverted attention.

  ‘Why you have to do this I don’t know,’ the guard was muttering loudly as he walked along dark and twisting passages, ‘all the other trades are quite happy just to turn up and do business. Every time you go away for half an hour you have to come back and present yourself to Lord Bonneville.’

  ‘I’ve been gone for weeks and weeks,’ Tancard protested.

  ‘We know,’ said the guard, as if it was a happy memory, ‘that’s why the door’s stopped working. It’s not even as if Lord Bonneville is bothered,’ he went on, paying little attention to Cwen or Tancard, ‘complete waste of everyone’s time if you ask me.’

  ‘If you will just take me into the presence of Lord Bonneville,’ Tancard insisted rather officially.

  ‘I know the routine,’ the guard mumbled.

  ‘And summon Master Poitron.’

  ‘What?’ this surprised the guard.

  ‘I need Master Poitron, I have news.’

  The guard stopped and turned to look at them for the first time. Cwen moved behind Tancard. ‘I am not disturbing Poitron for one of your little speeches. Do you think I’m mad?’

  ‘It’s important,’ Tancard pressed.

  ‘Then go and find him yourself.’ The guard resumed his passage. ‘Honestly Tancard. I mean it’ll be handy having a blacksmith back, after the last one turned out to be so, erm, short lived? But we’d all forgotten what a plop you are.’

  ‘I like to do things properly,’ Tancard protested, half turning to give Cwen a shrug. She tried to smile encouragingly.

  ‘And don’t we know it,’ the guard said despairingly. ‘Here we are then. Lord Bonneville. Don’t be long.’

  They had come to the main hall and stood before the huge doors into Lord Bonneville’s chamber. The guard turned quickly on his heels, muttering about the inconveniences of life, the chief one of which was Tancard.

  ‘Well that was easy,’ said Cwen as the guard left them to it, ‘we could do whatever we want.’

  ‘What we want is for me to announce myself to Lord Bonneville,’ said Tancard, ‘properly.’ He waved Cwen to stand back a couple of paces.

  When she was at a suitable distance, Tancard knocked twice on the door. Somehow he managed to do it in a very ceremonious manner.

  There was no reply.

  ‘There should be a reply,’ Tancard complained.

  ‘Perhaps his lordship is indisposed,’ Cwen suggested. It seemed impolite to say drunk. ‘Maybe we’d better just go in.’

  She could see that Tancard was about to express horror at the suggestion, so she stepped forward and pushed the great doors open.

  It was impossible to tell whether Lord Bonneville was indisposed or not. The noble was laying flat on his back on his crimson clad table, snoring loudly, surrounded by the wreckage of a sizeable vintners’ shop.

  ‘My Lord,’ Tancard called officially, ‘I come to present myself.’

  ‘He’s asleep.’ Cwen
pointed out the blindingly obvious.

  ‘He usually is,’ Tancard replied, and the fact seemed not to put him off his stride at all. ‘I am Tancard the blacksmith.’

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ Cwen stopped the man in mid flow, ‘you mean you come and announce yourself to a sleeping noble?’

  ‘Like the guard said, his lordship’s never usually that bothered about tradesmen.’

  Cwen found that she had to walk round in a small circle waving her arms. She didn’t know what good it did but it made her feel better somehow. ‘Well that’s no good is it? We need him awake so we can get him to call Hermitage and Wat.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about him being awake.’

  ‘And how exactly did you think he was going to understand the explanation about the murders if he was snoring all the way through it?’ She glared one of her most substantial glares at Tancard.

  He shrugged a shrug of “don’t care”.

  ‘We have to wake him,’ said Cwen, striding down the hall towards the recumbent aristocrat.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Tancard whispered as loudly as he dared, setting off after Cwen.

  ‘Watch me.’ Cwen reached the table, and with the same respect she gave all those who fell asleep when she wanted to talk to them, she gave the noble a hearty shake.

  Tancard froze in his tracks as if Lord Bonneville would shatter.

  Lord Bonneville simply moaned a bit, so Cwen shook him again.

  ‘Will you stop that,’ Tancard hissed insistently.

  ‘Come on your lordship,’ Cwen called heartily, ‘wakey, wakey.’

  Tancard’s look ran around the room, expecting someone to come barging in demanding they explain themselves. Either that or the roof of heaven to fall on their heads immediately.

  Instead the Lord Bonneville moaned. Then he moved a bit. Then he opened his eyes and gazed at the grand ceiling of his chamber. Then, as wakefulness and recognition crawled slowly into his expression, a look of horror and pain contorted his features. ‘Oh my head,’ the young Lord Bonneville cried in a voice that croaked like a frog who’d been drinking rancid pond water for a fortnight. ‘Who woke me?’ the lord demanded in a rather rasping manner.

  ‘She, er, he did,’ said Tancard, pointing where his lordship was not looking.