Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  Cwen was half hiding behind a large fellow who must be Tancard the blacksmith, off to the right of the table. Hermitage gave her a nervous smile.

  Wat nodded to her and tried to look encouraging. The tabard still proclaimed her a castle guard and no one seemed to be giving her any attention.

  ‘These murders then,’ said Lord Bonneville with a belch, ‘let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Ah, erm, yes my, erm Lord,’ Hermitage stuttered. He hadn’t really prepared for this moment. He’d thought there would just be a bit of a chat about it all, and an amicable agreement, not a whole performance.

  ‘You can explain how a blacksmith got an anvil for a head, and how a wheelwright ended up in his own wheel?’ Bonneville sounded like he would be impressed by this.

  ‘Oh, er not exactly.’ Hermitage had to admit.

  ‘Not exactly?’ Bonneville and Wat said together. Wat sounded the more alarmed.

  ‘I mean I can’t explain exactly how the anvil was moved and the wheel was built and all the sort of details.’

  There was a small moan of disappointment from audience.

  ‘But you do know who did it?’ Bonneville checked.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think so,’ Wat muttered into his hands, which were now cradling his face.

  ‘Yes,’ Hermitage tried to sound confident. An old Abbot had advised him to try and sound more confident. “Whatever old rubbish you’re talking about Hermitage, if you sound confident most people will believe you.” It didn’t seem right at all but had to be worth a try.

  ‘I considered the deaths and what they had in common,’ he began.

  ‘Dead craftsmen I’d have thought,’ Bonneville slurred.

  ‘Well, one craftsman and a tradesman,’ Tancard could be heard to whisper.

  ‘Indeed my lord,’ Hermitage agreed, ‘and that’s part of the solution, but it doesn’t explain who did the deed. No one in their right mind would murder the blacksmith and the wheelwright in any village, they’re important people.’

  ‘Not sure I’d go that far,’ Bonneville commented.

  ‘So then I considered how they were killed, and I still couldn’t come up with anything.’

  ‘Not doing very well so far,’ Bonneville took another drink.

  ‘But then it was something Cwe,.. er one of your guards said that made it clear.’

  ‘Well good for the guard.’

  ‘Quite,’ Hermitage was being put off his flow by the drunken noble who seemed to have to comment on everything.

  ‘There was one feature of the murders which was common.’

  The crowd in the hall fell silent, enthralled by what the feature might be. Someone at the back suggested “death”, but he was quickly silenced.

  ‘One thing, which gave me a simple question to ask.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ Wat muttered.

  ‘Ah yes. I asked myself this…’

  Wat sighed impatiently but the hall was gripped.

  ‘Who was the one person in the whole of Cabourg, probably the whole of Normandy, if not the whole world,’ some in the room were leaning forward now, ‘who would, upon committing a murder, do the one thing no one else would even consider?’

  The silence was hanging in the air, waiting for the answer like everyone else.

  ‘They tidied up,’ Hermitage announced.

  Every face in the room, Lord Bonneville himself, every guard, commoner, peasant, baker, garderobe cleaner, even the castle cat, although probably for different reasons, turned to look at Norbert.

  ‘What?’ Norbert demanded from his position by the door, it was clear he hadn’t really been listening, but was instead scowling at the messy, scruffy peasants.

  ‘Norbert?’ Poitron asked in disbelief.

  ‘Who else?’ Hermitage asked, ‘who else would lay the blacksmith out with the anvil neatly placed where his head should be? Who else would kill a wheelwright with part of his own wheel, and then finish the thing off?’

  ‘What about Lallard?’ Wat asked before he could stop himself.

  ‘Lallard as well,’ Hermitage explained, ‘I’m not as certain about the reasons for his death, but once again, who would go and tidy up the scene of a murder because it was messy?’

  This time the hall whispered the name as if seeing the sense of it. A circular susurration carried the word with growing confidence. ‘Norbert.’

  ‘What?’ Norbert asked, standing even more upright to receive some order or other.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Poitron laughed at the suggestion.

  ‘What is?’ Norbert asked.

  Hermitage had more to say. ‘Not only is master Norbert excessively organised and unnaturally tidy, but I suspect he is also truthful, finding a falsehood as unbearable as a dirty bucket.’

  Poitron glared at Hermitage, who wanted to say “so why don’t you ask him,” but it seemed rude.

  Instead, Poitron answered Norbert. ‘The suggestion that you killed the blacksmith and the wheelwright.’ he scoffed.

  ‘Ah,’ said Norbert, pausing in his standing very upright, ‘that.’

  ‘What do you mean, “ah, that”?’ Poitron was looking round the room in shock and there were some “oohs” and “ahhs” from the crowd.

  ‘You didn’t did you?’

  ‘Erm,’ Norbert clearly could not bring himself to lie, but he was having some trouble with the truth, ‘I had to.’

  ‘You had to?’ Poitron was staring at the man, ‘you had to kill them but you let me run around trying to figure out who did it?’ Poitron seemed more offended that his time had been wasted, than this man was a murderer. ‘What do you mean you had to?’

  ‘I suspect that’s true,’ Hermitage put in.

  Poitron looked from Hermitage to Norbert, clearly preferring an explanation from a soldier than a monk.

  ‘They was killers,’ Norbert explained, ‘they’d come to kill Lord Bonneville, they had to be stopped.’

  Poitron just gaped.

  ‘He’s right,’ Hermitage confirmed.

  Eyes were darting all over the room now, not sure where the next action was going to come from. Only Lord Bonneville appeared to be taking all this in his stride. Hermitage assumed you could do that if half of your insides were made of wine.

  ‘They had come to kill Lord Bonneville?’ Poitron was disbelieving, ‘a blacksmith and a wheelwright had come to kill Lord Bonneville?’ This was plainly ridiculous.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Hermitage, ‘Le Pedvin sent them.’

  Caput XXVI

  The Killer’s not a Killer

  The gasps from the assembly took on more worried tones, and several heads turned towards the door, anxious that the dread name might appear in person.

  ‘Le Pedvin sent them?’ It was Wat who asked this question, ‘what do you mean Le Pedvin sent them? He sent us to find out who did the murders. Why would he? I mean, how could he? I mean…’ Wat ran out of questions that made any sense.

  ‘Because he didn’t send us to find out who the murderer was, he very specifically sent us to investigate Lord Bonneville, and see him condemned. Our instructions were to prove Lord Bonneville was the killer.’

  This sent more whispers round the room, which was in danger of vanishing in its own gossip.

  ‘But he isn’t,’ Hermitage insisted, detecting that this crowd would believe anything.

  He looked over to Lord Bonneville, who was still deep in his jug of wine but didn’t seem at all disturbed by any of this.

  ‘Erm?’ said Wat.

  ‘The real Cabourg blacksmith and wheelwright turned up at Le Pedvin’s camp and that gave him the perfect opportunity. Two strangers could arrive in Cabourg without anyone asking too many questions. So he sent his own men to be the new craftsmen, but their real mission was murder.’

  ‘I wondered why they weren’t very good,’ one of the voices round the hall piped up.

  Hermitage’s face lit up and he raised his finger in the air. ‘I’ve just realised something else. The
fake craftsmen came here and were dealt with by Norbert before they could do anything, and no one has been able to find the blacksmith’s head.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What did you do with the head master Norbert?’ Hermitage asked in a tone that said he already knew the answer.

  ‘I sent it to Le Pedvin,’ Norbert confessed rather proudly.

  Wat guffawed, ‘I bet he wasn’t happy about that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Hermitage explained, ‘that’s when he came up with his plan to send us. A good plan as well. There were real murders to investigate and a good chance we’d believe Bonneville was a killer, our experience of Norman nobles being pretty consistent in that area.’

  ‘If he wants Lord Bonneville killed so much, why doesn’t he simply come and do it himself? He doesn’t usually make things so complicated when he wants someone dead. Quick flurry of his sword and Robert’s your deceased uncle.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that bit,’ Hermitage acknowledged. His enormous relief at the fact he’d been right about the killer gave him some confidence. At least now he could relax in the knowledge that the assembled crowd were not going to drag him bodily from the hall and do something unspeakable. ‘Le Pedvin wants Lord Bonneville dead but maybe William has forbidden it? Or perhaps it’s a personal feud and Le Pedvin can’t get involved, now he’s the servant of a King. Or maybe he just couldn’t get away?’

  ‘Couldn’t get away?’

  ‘Yes, you know, too busy? Things to do, people to deal with, no time to get back to those little things you keep putting off.’

  ‘Like killing another noble.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It’sh not that.’

  Hermitage turned in some surprise, not expecting Lord Bonneville himself to speak up.

  The words were pretty slurred but were heavy with resignation. ‘It’s mush more shtraightforward than that. Routine noble business, that short of thing, never do an act yourself if you can instruct someone to do it for you. Particularly if there’s a chance of it coming back and biting your head off in a few years. In fact I thought you two had come to finish the job.’

  ‘Us?’ Hermitage was shocked at this. If people thought that a monk would have anything to do with murder, well he didn’t know what the world was coming to.

  ‘Of course,’ Bonneville said quite brightly, ‘you turn up here shaying you’ve come from Le Pedvin? What elsh am I shrupposed to think?’

  ‘So you knew Norbert had dealt with the first two?’

  ‘Well,’ Bonneville was a bit more evasive now, ‘I knew they’d ended up a bit lesh alive than previoushly, but I didn’t like to arshk too many questions. You know, if challenged I could say I hadn’t got a clue.’ Lord Bonneville’s face said it was trying to recover some memory from the depths of his wine butt mind. ‘I do recall helping him move an anvil somewhere I think.’

  ‘Hm,’ Hermitage scowled at this, and was gratified to see Bonneville look down in shame.

  ‘And of coursh I didn’t really care they were dead,’ the noble concluded with a belch.

  Hermitage’s disappointment at this was given further sustenance when it became clear the noble had been looking down for a new bottle, which he found and displayed with glee.

  ‘So what is it then?’ Hermitage asked, ‘if it’s not a feud or Le Pedvin’s personal animosity, why has he gone to all this trouble?’

  Bonneville stood uncertainly and rocked gently from side to side. He grasped his wine flask and held it up to the hall, as if offering a toast. ‘The Duke of Normandy,’ he called.

  A few muttered the name in response, but most seemed confused and embarrassed by their master’s behaviour.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hermitage, ‘very loyal I’m sure, but it doesn’t explain…’

  ‘No,’ Bonneville insisted, ‘The Duke of Normandy.’

  ‘We understand.’ Hermitage thought the poor fellow was now so drunk he was rambling and would any moment fall over. Then they’d never discover what this was all about. And the thought of not being able to explain everything made the inside of his head itch.

  ‘The Duke of Normandy,’ Bonneville pressed, ‘I’m the Duke of Normandy.’

  ‘Right,’ said Wat, with a hollow laugh, ‘and I’m pope. Which one are we on now?’ he asked Hermitage

  ‘Alexander.’

  ‘Alexander? I thought he was Greek?’

  ‘That’s a different Alexander.’

  ‘You’ve got two popes? Are you allowed two?’

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ Hermitage hissed, nodding his head vigorously back to Bonneville.

  ‘No, really,’ Bonneville stuck to the assertion through all the wine, which slurred his words together. ‘I’m the Duke of Normandy. The rightful Duke of Normandy. Not that I wanna be the Duke of Normandy. Don’t wanna be Duke of anywhere. Just wanna be left alone. But you can imagine William doesn’t like the idea of there being a real Duke of Normandy, now he’s a king and everything.’

  ‘You’re the Duke of Normandy?’ Hermitage asked, not getting this at all. The poor fellow was living under some delusion.

  ‘I am,’ Bonneville hiccoughed.

  ‘And while William was just a Duke, you were in far off Brittany and your uncle was Lord Bonneville, it didn’t matter,’ Wat seemed to be taking this seriously.’

  ‘’xactly,’ Bonneville was not looking very well at all. ‘But then he goesh and becomes King. And my wretched uncle goesh and getsh himself killed, and shruddenly here I am. I mean I’m quite happy to shtay here, the wine’sh good,’ he took a swig, ‘the winesh very good indeed, you should try it. The people are,’ he paused, ‘all right I shuppose. Mostly. I’ll shwear loyalty and all that. Whatever he wantsh. But oh no. Not good enough for King William and his Le Pedvin, they want me dead.’

  ‘So you can’t challenge for the throne,’ said Hermitage, now seeing that this really would be a troublesome position. He still wasn’t convinced it was true though.

  ‘Don’t want the throne.’ Bonneville swayed so much he had to sit down again. ‘S’rotten, having a throne. Bad enough having a ducal throne, never mind a whole country. Fishing.’

  ‘Fishing?’

  ‘I like fishing,’ the noble smiled to himself. ‘I’ll go fishing. William can be king. Good luck to him.’

  ‘But,’ Hermitage had to ask, ‘how come you’re really the Duke?’

  ‘Bashtard,’ Bonneville spat. And then looked down and tried to wipe it off the table.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Hermitage thought that was unnecessary.

  ‘No, no’ Bonneville waved a correcting finger at Hermitage, ‘bashtard, William the bashtard. They call him that for a reason you know. The reason being,’ Bonneville gathered himself, ‘he’s a bashtard.’

  ‘His parents.’ said Wat.

  ‘Ish the only way I know of becoming a bashtard,’ Bonneville nodded agreement, ‘whereas my rotten parents, and uncles and aunts and everyone. All properly married.’ He paused again. ‘Bastards.’

  There were a variety of reactions around the hall to this. Hermitage noticed that Poitron and Norbert were more interested in the crowd than their leader, which must mean that they knew all of this already. Most of the villagers were getting into little groups, muttering to one another. At the moment it seemed to be in awed interest, but you could never be sure with muttering groups, they might turn ugly at any moment.

  ‘So your line is legitimate?’ Hermitage asked.

  ‘I know,’ Bonneville replied in high dudgeon, ‘dishgusting, isn’t it?’

  ‘And you’re in the royal line?’

  ‘Yup,’ Bonneville swigged in hopeless abandon, ‘trace my lineage right back to good King Rollo. Worse luck. ‘Coursh I’m a dishtant cousin, half removed or something, but if William reckons I’m in the way? Out I go.’

  ‘What about your uncle though? Shurely, I mean surely he would have been a threat as well?’ Hermitage had trouble understanding the behaviour of other people at the best of
times. Normal, ordinary people were a mystery, he knew he had no hope with the connivances of nobles.

  'Yersh,’ said Bonneville slowly, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe that explainsh why old uncle ended up dead soon as William had won the field.’

  ‘This is awful.’ Hermitage couldn’t think of any other summary.

  ‘You think I don’t know?’ Bonneville nodded agreement.

  ‘Le Pedvin wants you dead. His assassins end up dead. We get sent to see you dead. And you don’t even want to be Duke at all.’

  ‘Thash righ’.’ Bonneville lolled back in his throne and looked like he wouldn’t be getting up for some time. ‘And I thought you’d come to finish the job off.’

  ‘Us?’ Hermitage was horrified anyone could even contemplate that.

  ‘Well of coursh,’ Bonneville explained, ‘you shay you’ve come here to deal with the murder and you’ve been shent from Le Pedvin. What elsh am I shupposhed to think? The fun was over, I’d have to take it like a man.’ Bonneville held up the wine and drank to his own health, which seemed to be diminishing with every mouthful.

  ‘Fun?’ Being pursued by assassins and having dead bodies pop up in your log store was nowhere in Hermitage’s definition of fun.

  ‘Yersh,’ Bonneville laughed drunkenly, ‘all those things you want to do before you die? When you know you’re going to die you try them out.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Chopping down trees in the summer, ploughing up perfectly good crops.’

  There was a rumble of discontent from the audience at this, mainly from the woodsmen.

  ‘Insisting the castle was scrubbed from top to bottom and that people wiped their feet,’ Bonneville giggled at this but there was a howl of discontent from Norbert.

  This took Hermitage’s attention back up the hall to where Norbert was still standing. ‘I know the false blacksmith and wheelwright were killers here to do evil, but they shouldn’t have been murdered.’