Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  The lord turned his head to face the direction of the voice, a movement which, it immediately became apparent, was a major mistake. He quickly rolled his body back in the other direction and was sick over the back of the table.

  Cwen turned up her nose. ‘Oh really.’ She folded her arms and waited for the man to sort himself out.

  There was much moaning and groaning, grumbling and mumbling, sighing and belching, before the Lord Bonneville dragged himself round to face his attackers.

  He swallowed several times and smacked his lips as if tasting something very nasty. He dragged his eyes in their direction and forced them into focus. ‘What do you mean by…’ he began and then paused.

  Cwen looked to Tancard, expecting that the noble stomach was about to expel its contents again, this time in their direction.

  ‘Tancard?’ Bonneville asked, ‘what are you doing with your head on?’

  Caput XXV

  An Audience

  ‘My Lord I have come from England,’ Tancard explained.

  Bonneville looked puzzled at this. ‘You’re supposed to be in the log store. How did you get to England without a head?’

  Cwen looked backwards and forwards between the two men. Bonneville had clearly seen her as his eyes had passed her over on their wandering way around the room towards Tancard. She assumed that as she was dressed as one of his own guards, she didn’t warrant any of the man’s attention.

  She could see why he was called young Bonneville. Probably barely in his twenties, he looked completely out of his depth. She knew nobles, the ones like Le Pedvin who simply took it for granted that everyone in the world existed simply to serve them. She also knew the old Saxons who did exactly the same because they thought it was their birthright. At least Le Pedvin was a bit more honest about it somehow. He did it because if people didn’t serve him he would do something horrible to them.

  This young lad had a look in his eyes, apart from horrible and shocking sobriety, a look of panicked resignation. A look that pleaded with anyone to get him out of here. To take this life away and give him one much more suited to his nature. His eyes still had a hint of bright youth in them, a sparkling brown hidden under the hazing effects of wine, but that would fade over the years and he’d become just like all the others. His hair flopped around his head, the last vestige of untroubled youth, and a long face was already starting to show signs of drawn worry. What a shame.

  ‘It’s not me my Lord,’ Tancard explained.

  ‘That’s very odd,’ Bonneville’s voice was recovering its natural tone, which was high and light.

  ‘It’s a different blacksmith.’

  ‘It would be,’ said Lord Bonneville. He gradually came to more and more of his senses, while they made it clear on his face that they did not like being disturbed. ‘And what about the wheelwright?’

  ‘Don’t know my Lord,’ said Tancard, before Cwen nudged him hard in the ribs. ‘But I might have a friend who does.’

  ‘Really?’ Bonneville was fascinated by this but it wasn’t clear which aspect he was fascinated by, that someone knew about the murders, that Tancard might know this person, or that the blacksmith had a friend.

  ‘Yes my Lord, two people sent here by Master Le Pedvin.’

  ‘Oh them,’ Bonneville was despondent again, ‘yes I met them. They seem to have gone though, don’t know where.’ Lord Bonneville looked around the room. ‘Has anyone got a drink?’

  ‘I believe they’re are in the dungeon my lord.’

  Bonneville looked very doubtful about that, ‘Not sure they’ll find anything in there. If the murderer was in the dungeon already we wouldn’t have anything to worry about.’

  ‘I think master Poitron put them there my lord.’

  ‘Ah yes, he would.’

  Cwen could not prevent a loud sigh escaping, which did get the lordship’s attention.

  ‘Do you know anything about this, soldier?’ he asked, turning his attention to Cwen but then frowning.

  ‘No my lord,’ Cwen said as gruffly as she could.

  ‘Are you a…?’ Bonneville started but then doubted his own question and shook it from his head.

  He turned back to Tancard. ‘This friend of yours knows about the murders and he came from Le Pedvin you say?’

  ‘Yes my lord.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me, someone from Le Pedvin being familiar with murder. How do you know this person anyway?’

  While Bonneville searched the table, above and below, for a flask that still contained some liquid, Tancard had a hasty and whispered conference with Cwen.

  Bonneville’s eyes lit up as he weighed a jug in his hands and then took a long, consuming drink from it, as if pouring water back down a well. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said, as he shook his head and shivered all over.

  Cwen looked at him, wondering how much longer he’d be alive if he carried on at that rate.

  ‘I’ve been in England too my lord,’ Tancard relayed the lines Cwen had given, ‘as Master Le Pedvin’s blacksmith. You remember me going off?’

  Bonneville frowned; memory was clearly not his strong point just at the moment. ‘So you’ve come from Le Pedvin as well as the others.’

  ‘That’s right my lord.’

  ‘Everyone’s come from Le Pedvin,’ Bonneville sighed. ‘What about you soldier?’ he asked Cwen as if she was a tavern companion, ‘have you come from Le Pedvin as well?’

  She opened her mouth to say something non-committal but Lord Bonneville answered his own question. ‘Course you have. The whole place has come from Le Pedvin.’ He shook his head and took another drink, clearly thinking that people coming from Le Pedvin was what was wrong with the world today.

  ‘Well,’ he said, clapping his hands together, ‘let’s get it over with. Bring your friend up from the dungeon and he can tell us all about the murders.’

  Tancard nodded a very formal nod and Cwen smiled, she hadn’t thought it would be that easy.

  ‘And you soldier.’

  ‘Yes my lord.’

  ‘Gather everyone else.’

  Cwen imagined that “everyone else” meant the Bonneville household, but of course she didn’t have a clue who that was.

  ‘Everyone my lord?’ she tried.

  ‘Yes man, everyone,’ Bonneville insisted, as if it was perfectly clear, ‘Poitron, the guards, the villagers, everyone. It’s important they all hear this.’

  ‘Er, yes my lord,’ Cwen raised alarmed eyebrows at Tancard who looked equally puzzled.

  ‘It better be good,’ Lord Bonneville commented before returning to his bottle and waving them away with an aristocratic hand.

  Once out of the hall, Cwen and Tancard had a worried conversation.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Cwen demanded, ‘what does he mean get everyone?’

  ‘I think it’s quite clear what he means,’ Tancard snapped, ‘get everyone.’

  ‘The whole place though?’

  ‘Round these parts that’s what we mean when we say everyone. It happens now and again, Christmas and the like. Lord Bonneville clearly wants the murders explained to the whole village at the same time. Makes sense.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Cwen admitted, ‘but it’s not what I expected.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Tancard, quite clear that Cwen’s disappointment affected him in absolutely no way whatsoever.

  ‘How do I get everyone?’ Cwen asked, ‘they’re all over the place.’

  ‘Ring the chapel bell,’ Tancard explained, ‘the Bonneville chapel is on the other side of the castle. That’s what gets everyone together.’

  ‘And you’ll get Hermitage and Wat?’

  ‘I’ll have a go. I doubt if the guards will believe me but I can always try Poitron if I have to.’

  ‘Right.’ Cwen turned to leave.

  ‘Course he won’t believe me either and will go to Lord Bonneville, and they’ll have a go at me, and say how everyone would be happier if I just stayed in my smithy.’

  ‘I see’ sa
id Cwen, quite clear that Tancard’s relationships with the community of Cabourg were of absolutely no interest.

  They split up, and it wasn’t many minutes before the bell of the Bonneville chapel tolled out across the houses and fields. Heads were raised and quizzical questions exchanged before people accepted that the ringing wasn’t going to stop, and made their way slowly towards the castle. The atmosphere quickly became almost festive. The opportunity to lay down the toil of the day was always welcome, but it was clear something much more exciting was going on. The last time the bell tolled was for the death of old Bonneville on the battlefield. Perhaps the young one had been up to the usual in his chamber, and had drowned.

  The only surprised reactions were those of Poitron and Norbert. The former was back at the long field, finding all the weeds that the haphazard peasants had completely missed. His head shot up at the first ring of the bell. By the time the second arrived he was already running for the castle.

  Norbert was prowling the dungeons, probably looking for some mess to shout at, and his first reaction was alarm, quickly followed by anger that someone was ringing the bell without his permission, and doing it in a very disorderly manner.

  Only Harboth heard the bells, raised his head and then went back to what he was doing. Obviously he couldn’t leave his sheep, never mind what the people at the castle were getting up to. Some things in life were simply too important. Anyway, he’d only counted his sheep eleven times so far, and he had to do thirty one every day. One for each sheep. He tutted at the distraction of the bell, which had put him off his counting and made him forget where he was. He smiled then at the pleasure of having to start all over again.

  The ringing of the bell wormed its way into the deepest dungeon of the castle Bonneville where it was greeted with great relief.

  ‘That’ll be for us,’ Wat rubbed his hands together.

  Hermitage hoped that was the case, but as usual, alternative thoughts bothered him. ‘Unless Cwen’s been discovered as a Saxon woman and not a Norman guard at all?’

  ‘Thank you Hermitage,’ said Wat, ‘let’s stick to the first possibility shall we?’

  ‘Right,’ said Hermitage. He always admired Wat’s general optimism and must ask the weaver how he did it.

  After a few moments there were scuffles outside and the sounds of voices.

  Hermitage recognised one of them, and placed it as the blacksmith who had been talking with Cwen. He also recognised the other one as the dreadful Norbert character. He did hope they weren’t going to have their heads washed again before seeing Lord Bonneville.

  ‘It’s madness,’ Norbert could be heard as the voices came nearer, ‘just leave ‘em in here to rot then there won’t be any more murders.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Tancard was replying, ‘all I know is Lord Bonneville says to bring them up and gather the whole village. I’m only doing what I’m told.’

  ‘And what does Master Poitron have to say about this?’

  ‘No idea, I expect he’ll turn up as well.’

  Norbert’s grumble became incoherent but there was a scrape at the door and the sound of bolts being drawn.

  ‘Alright you lot,’ Norbert called as he swung the door of the dungeon open.

  Hermitage wondered for a moment if there were some other people hiding in the dark dungeon. It was a rather alarming thought but he quickly realised Norbert meant both of them.

  Wat lead the way and they emerged from the damp, dark cave, into a damp, dark corridor.

  ‘You’re to go before Lord Bonneville,’ Norbert announced, ‘again. Wholly unnecessary if you ask me, but if Lord Bonneville wants you, Lord Bonneville gets you.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ Wat agreed enthusiastically, ‘and as the rest of the village are coming as well, I imagine there’s no need to wash.’

  Hermitage could see the sense of this. He couldn’t picture Norbert dunking every village head in his trough.

  ‘How do you know the rest of the village is coming?’ Norbert demanded with utmost suspicion.

  ‘We could hear you two shouting about it all the way down the passage.’

  Norbert gave Wat a sidelong glare, as if the weaver’s ears had been out of the dungeon without permission.

  ‘Just move along,’ Norbert responded, pushing them both in the back to make them go in the right direction.

  ‘The whole village is coming,’ Hermitage said to Wat in worried tones.

  ‘And no talking,’ Norbert interrupted.

  ‘Going to be a bit hard explaining the murder to Lord Bonneville without talking,’ Wat replied smartly.

  ‘Once you’ve explained it and I’ve chopped your head off it’ll be very hard to explain anything.’ Norbert’s humourless smile could be felt on their backs.

  ‘What’s the problem with the whole village coming?’ Wat hissed at Hermitage.

  Norbert simply grumbled this time.

  ‘Well what if I’m wrong?’ Hermitage asked. He didn’t like the thought of being wrong at all, but doing it in front of a lot of people would be embarrassing.

  ‘What if you’re wrong? What do you mean what if you’re wrong?’ Wat said in some alarm, ‘you aren’t wrong are you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so? This is not the time to be thinking so. You said you knew. Not only who but why.’

  ‘Well yes.’ Hermitage suddenly had doubts now. There was very little evidence for his conclusion, but a lot of circumstances would have to be seriously awry if there was another explanation. ‘I mean I have put it all together into a situation that makes sense, but of course there could be things I’m not aware of.’

  ‘Right,’ Wat said slowly and with a lot of resignation, ‘well, telling it to the whole village will be a fine opportunity to find out if you’re right or not.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Hermitage as he trod his worrisome way towards Lord Bonneville.

  The main hall was already thronged with people by the time the main performers arrived. The thirty or so, who constituted the village of Cabourg, had been ambling gently to the castle until one of them decided to speed up so he would get a good view. A good view of what, he wasn’t entirely sure, but it had to be worth the effort.

  This prompted the person behind him to speed up as well, and then the one behind that. Pretty soon the entire population was sprinting towards the castle to be first at whatever it was they were sprinting towards. Many thought there must be free food, or money and so were quite ruthless in their dealings with the old or infirm.

  The men of the village tree and old Blamour would be lucky to get there before whatever it was, was all given away.

  The guards and castle staff had no distance at all to travel and so were gathered around the walls of the room. As regulars, they knew it was more important to be near the exit than to be at the front, where someone might ask you to do something.

  The room was crammed to bursting, villagers pressed against soldiers, none of them wanting to encroach on the central space, when there was a commotion at the door that included quite a lot of bleating.

  Harboth had clearly overcome his disinterest in the goings-on of people, and the rushing population had troubled him. He wanted to know what was happening so he set off to join the party. Of course he couldn’t leave the sheep to their own devices, so they had to come too.

  Despite the protestations, some of which were quite personal to both Harboth and his sheep, he drove the flock into the hall, where, not generally used to indoor events they ran about looking for the way out. People were knocked aside, guards tried to arrest the sheep as they passed by and Harboth quickly came to acknowledge this might have been a mistake.

  With the aid of his crook and a couple of lads from the village, who probably thought they could make off with a sheep or two if this went their way, he managed to corral the animals in one corner of the room. He piled up the straw from the floor, which was there for quite a different purpose, and pushed it t
o his flock which ignored it completely. Instead they stood stock still and wide eyed, staring in trepidation at Cwen.

  Lord Bonneville remained sitting casually on this throne behind the table, smiling at the people and taking regular swigs from a fresh supply of wine, seemingly not in the least concerned that there was now a flock of sheep in his room. A rather breathless looking Poitron stood just behind him, whispering urgently in the noble ear. He did look up when the livestock arrived, but clearly thought his priority was to advise Lord Bonneville properly.

  ‘Ah,’ Lord Bonneville announced to the room, seeing Wat and Hermitage thrust forward by Norbert, ‘our friends from Le Pedvin. Come, come.’

  Norbert’s reaction to the population of the hall looked like it was going to kill the man. He changed colour several times as he observed the crush in the room, most of which was caused by a large number of sheep, many of which had done what sheep do naturally, all over his nice clean floor.

  ‘Get those things out of this hall,’ he screamed at everyone. ‘You,’ he pointed very deliberately at Harboth, ‘what are you doing here? You should be on guard duty.’

  ‘Hurt my foot sir,’ Harboth replied, lifting his foot up to demonstrate the pain, ‘stand-in shepherd took my place.’ He gave Cwen a glare.

  ‘I don’t care if the cows took your place, I want those animals out of his Lordship’s presence or there won’t be mutton pie on his dinner table, there’ll be shepherd’s pie.’

  Harboth touched his forelock and moved behind his flock to urge them back towards the door. The crowd helpfully cleared a path and the sheep seemed quite keen on heading for the daylight once more. With a couple of claps from Harboth, the animals made straight for the exit and out into the daylight.

  ‘Tell us what happens,’ Harboth called as he ran after his charges.

  ‘Idiot,’ Norbert barked. He surveyed the rest of the hall. ‘And no one leaves until this place is cleaned up,’ he ordered, which brought grumbles from the crowd.

  Hermitage followed Wat up the middle of the room, alarmed at the number of people there were, and the fact they wouldn’t be able to run for it if things got nasty. To put the seal on his concern the great doors of the hall were banged shut by Norbert, who stood before them, looking slightly more upright than the woodwork, almost certainly a stalwart defence against any sheep who thought about sneaking back in.