Hermitage could not leave the ghastly experiences of the last days behind that easily.
‘Yes,’ Le Pedvin confirmed, looking up, ‘good.’
‘What do you mean good?’ Hermitage’s sleeve was really being tugged quite strongly now and whispered words from the weaver included “quiet” and “shut up”.
Le Pedvin directed his attention to Hermitage and raised questioning eyebrows.
‘You wanted us to investigate murder and bring news which would see Jean Bonneville brought to justice,’ Hermitage complained.
‘Hermitage,’ said Wat in a bright but rather strained voice, ‘if the gentlemen is happy with outcome let’s leave it at that, no need to bother him further.’
Le Pedvin’s look invited Hermitage to follow this advice. ‘And Jean Bonneville is gone?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Hermitage.
‘Completely,’ Wat confirmed, ‘thoroughly, comprehensively and permanently gone.’
‘Beheaded and buried I hear,’ said Le Pedvin, turning back to his parchments.
‘I, you, what?’ Hermitage was at a loss. He spent a lot of time at a loss.
‘That’s it,’ Wat nodded happily.
‘That’ll do then.’
‘That’ll do then?’ Hermitage didn’t know where to begin, ‘what happened to murder and justice and…, and the pope?’ Hermitage was having the usual sinking feeling that everything he had gone through for the last few days, all the dungeons, the threats, the washing, had been for nothing.
‘How did you know?’ Hermitage couldn’t help himself, ‘how did you know he’d been beheaded and buried?’
Le Pedvin sighed and looked with sympathy at Hermitage, ‘It’s Normandy,’ he explained, ‘I know everything.’
Hermitage’s mouth went up and down but the words wouldn’t come out. There were so many and he realised most of them were dangerous so it was probably just as well.
‘Jean Bonneville is out of the way, yes?’
‘Yes sir,’ Wat confirmed while Hermitage still gaped.
‘There we are then. Right result. Doesn’t really matter how it comes about, as long as it comes about.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ This wasn’t a question from Hermitage, it was more of a resigned whimper.
‘Exactly,’ Le Pedvin moved back to his pile of parchment.
‘Hermitage,’ Wat breathed encouragingly as he pulled the monk to one side.
Hermitage woke from his stunned annoyance at the way Le Pedvin was behaving, and gave his attention to the weaver. ‘Hmm?’
‘I think we’re probably best leaving it there,’ Wat nodded encouragement.
Cwen stood close by and gave Hermitage her encouraging face.
‘Leaving it there?’ Hermitage hissed back, ‘the man made us go all the way to Normandy to deal with his mess and he doesn’t care how it turned out.’
‘Oh he does,’ Wat was serious, ‘and I think he’s being very reasonable.’
‘Very reasonable?’ This really was unbelievable, was Wat turning to Le Pedvin’s way of thinking? The sooner they got away from the influence of the awful man the better.
‘Yes. You heard what he said. He knows everything that happens in Normandy.’
‘Yes but…’
‘Everything Hermitage, he knows everything.’
Hermitage couldn’t see why Wat kept repeating the word. Of course the man would claim to know everything.
‘He probably had other spies in Cabourg than Lallard, which means he knows everything,’ Wat pressed his point home.
Oh. Hermitage got it now. That was worrying, if Le Pedvin knew everything.
‘You mean he knows… everything?’ He asked Wat
‘Everything. He knows Lallard is in the ground and Bonneville has gone fishing and he’s prepared to leave it at that. So I suggest we do the same.’
Hermitage pondered this; it did seem for the best, but the shameful principle of letting sleeping dogs lie seemed to have taken over the world. He much preferred waking sleeping dogs, even if most of them bit him for his trouble.
‘It’s not very loyal to Lallard is it?’ Hermitage asked, offended that even the bad people didn’t look after one another.
‘I suspect Lallard was not hired for his longevity. And anyway, the sword would be more than enough payment.’
‘For a man’s life?’
‘Oh, more than one man I should think.’
‘Ah, here we are,’ Le Pedvin called out, having found the parchment he was looking for which he waved in their direction.
Hermitage and Wat turned back to face Le Pedvin and Cwen returned to her listening post.
Le Pedvin was momentarily distracted ‘Who’s the one left in charge in Cabourg?’ he asked, ‘Parton? Porlon?’
‘Poitron,’ said Wat.
‘Poitron, Poitron,’ Le Pedvin repeated the name as if trying to dreg it from the depths of his memory.
‘Very capable sort of chap, organising the crops and the like, new idea for everything,’ Wat prompted.
‘Oh him,’ now Le Pedvin had him, ‘got it. Poitron, yes. His people are from Anjou way.’
‘Are they?’ Wat feigned interest quite well.
‘Yes. Harmless bunch, always do what they’re told. Course that’s not his family name.’ Le Pedvin gave a short laugh, which was more short than laugh. ‘Safe enough to leave him in charge though, his lot hardly likely to be a threat to the English throne.’
It was an unnecessary question but unnecessary questions bothered Hermitage and he had to know, ‘What is his family name?’
‘Plantangenet,’ said Le Pedvin.
It meant nothing to Hermitage.
Le Pedvin had his parchment now and Hermitage looked over but couldn’t quite make out the detail of the writing. There was a small map in one corner of the sheet with some images around it and scrawled text.
As Le Pedvin sat again, he laid the document on his lap and smoothed it out. Hermitage did recognise one word now and it drove all thought of the horrific and wasteful experiences of the last days from his mind.
‘I’ve got another job for you now,’ Le Pedvin said brightly.
Oh no, thought Hermitage, not that. Not if the parchment had anything to do with the job. He would refuse. The time had come, he really needed to stand his ground and this was the perfect opportunity. There was no way even Le Pedvin could ask this of any reasonable man.
‘So,’ the Norman held them both with his gaze, ‘what do you two know about Wales?’
Finis
Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids
The fifth Chronicle of Brother Hermitage
In which Hermitage and Wat meet some Druids.
The lone Norman was scrambling back down the scree-sided hill much faster than he had gone up it. With each half stumble and blow from some bouncing piece of specially sharpened rock, he cursed himself for ever having gone up there in the first place.
Perhaps he’d be able to see his way out of this God-forsaken country if he climbed one of its interminable hills? Stupid idea.
He should have just followed one of the rivers to the sea. But that would have meant passing through the habitations of the completely mad people who lived here. And he’d seen how that ended up. From a distance, thankfully.
He glanced back over his shoulder to see if the pursuit was still with him. Of course it was. That was the way his luck ran. Of all the endless, deserted stretches of rain-battered, bog-filled land to choose from, he selected the very bit with some lunatic living in a cave. A very jealous and very lunatic lunatic, judging from the reaction.
All he tried to do was get out of the wretched rain for five minutes. The stuff fell out of the sky pretty much constantly so surely he could be spared a bit of cover.
How was he to know the cave was occupied? It was a miserable hole in the side of a hill which no one in their right mind should be living in. And there was no one in their right mind living in it. No one in their right mind who had got a sword from somewhere. A swo
rd? In a cave? With a lunatic?
He kept running.
The stones under his feet were bouncing up to hit his calves and ankles, and the stones from his pursuer were raining down on his shoulders and back. And the rain was falling on both.
He knew a mission from King William was not something to be ignored, or managed badly. The things the King would do to him would make falling down a rock strewn hill in the rain chased by a mad man with a sword feel like a stroke from a jester’s bladder. But the King was miles away. More miles away than the Norman thought possible. The man with sword was right behind him.
He knew where his priorities lay. He would explain the situation to the King later. Later meant he could spend all the intervening time still being alive.
Just then, the wretched hillside fell away under his feet. The hill had been steep enough as it was. Now it tipped even further and he went down. Down onto the sharp stones.
He felt the cuts and grazes on his hands as he slid down the slope which might as well have been paved with broken glass.
Looking in the direction of travel he saw the scree drop straight into the waters of a small but deep and dark lake. He could see it was dark, he just knew it would be deep. Perhaps, once in the water, he would be able to swim away. Or sink with the rest of the stones. Probably the latter.
While still moving he managed to dig his right hand into the ground and slowly spin his body round that he was going down backwards. There was no point trying to protect his hands, which were doubtless already cut to shreds.
As his feet dug into the scree he began to slow. Relief spread through him as he realised he would be able to stop before the water. The relief was only momentary as he now had a good view of his pursuer who was handling the steep slope very well indeed and holding his sword high at the same time. Most impressive.
At least his last sight would be of the mad man who was going to do for him. Better the sword than the lake, he thought.
He looked up into the eyes of the cave-dwelling swordsman. ‘You!’ he exclaimed, with more surprise than he had felt for a very long time.
Caput I
A Murder, A Curse and Wales
With more outrage than he had felt for a very long time Brother Hermitage put his hands on his hips. ‘Wales?’ he asked. He had felt a lot of outrage for quite a while now, and it was stirring quite unfamiliar feelings in his sedate character. He was never easily provoked, as his brother monks, who spent a lot of their time trying to provoke him, could testify. His emotional range normally stretched from mildly annoyed to moderately satisfied, and he rarely reached those dizzy extremes. Now, he was feeling positively testy.
He could only gaze at Le Pedvin, King William’s second in command and chief frightener of Saxons who had mentioned the dread place.
Hermitage had been given his own personal prophecy about Wales and it didn’t end well. Of course he really only believed in prophesies from the Old Testament prophets, and they never mentioned Wales. This had to be a coincidence. If it wasn’t a coincidence he was in real trouble. The sort of trouble that only gets mentioned in prophesies.
‘Yes, Wales,’ said the Norman, an inaccurate map of Britain dangling from his right hand as he lounged in a comfortable chair in his camp tent. The tent with his attendant soldiers, the ones with all the knives and swords.
Hermitage’s mouth was open but wouldn’t work properly it was so outraged. He appraised the figure of Le Pedvin, hoping this was some sort of joke. He would have to admit the Norman was not known for his jokes, or humour of any sort really. Apart from ill-humour of course, the man had a lot of that.
Even appraising the figure was a problem as Le Pedvin didn’t really have one. His face was as ragged as a week old corpse and the patch over one eye only enhanced the impression that the man had started dying some time ago, but hadn’t quite finished yet. His reputation for wielding a sword was hard to believe. Wielding it for hours on end straight through people who stood in his way, apparently.
Le Pedvin’s lone eye examined Hermitage in return and it was clear that the sight of the young, even-faced and bright-eyed monk gave it no pleasure.
That eye moved on and fell upon Wat the weaver. A few years older than Hermitage, much better dressed and with considerably more experience behind the eyes and under the mop of curly dark hair. The weaver was trying to look bored at being asked about Wales – and was failing.
The eye paid no attention to Cwen, the third person facing the Norman’s chair and the youngest of the group. He’d met her before and even cuffed her out of his way once, but as she appeared to be a servant, she didn’t register. If he’d been told this young woman was a talented weaver, and spent most of her time ordering the others about, he’d have laughed heartily; a hearty laugh from Le Pedvin being akin to the terminal wheeze of a ferret choking to death on baby rabbit bones.
‘We’ve only just stepped back in England,’ Hermitage protested, seeing where Le Pedvin’s finality was about the send them. And they had only just stepped back; off the boat from Normandy, where they’d been looking into another one of the murders that seemed to follow Le Pedvin around. Hermitage found himself wondering if, one day, he’d be asked to look into the murder of Le Pedvin himself. That would be nice. No, it wouldn’t, he reprimanded himself. All murder was evil.
‘You’re just in time then, and heading in the right direction,’ was all the Norman had to say.
‘Not more murder?’ Hermitage asked, familiar despair preparing itself for a bit of a romp around his head. Being dispatched by Le Pedvin to investigate a murder in Normandy had been appalling and their encounter with the man at the castle Grosmal had been awful1 . Hermitage had little confidence Wales would be any better.
‘No,’ Le Pedvin replied sharply.
‘Really?’
‘Well,’ the Norman hesitated, ‘yes. Probably.’
He nodded a silent order to one of the men of arms who stepped smartly out of the tent. It was clear Le Pedvin had sent the man for something, hopefully a better map. Hermitage folded his arms and waited. It was an unusual feeling, being in demand, having something Le Pedvin wanted, which Hermitage felt put him in a position of strength. Of course he knew that anything Le Pedvin wanted, the man would take, probably by force. Still, it was nice to bask in the moment.
After a very short time the guard returned, dragging something along as he backed his way into the tent. Definitely not a map then. Perhaps a trunk full of maps. That would be interesting. The backward travelling man elbowed them out of the way and deposited his burden at their feet.
‘Ah,’ they all said, as they saw what it was.
Wat’s “ah” was a knowing and simple confirmation that this was exactly the sort of thing he’d expected.
Cwen’s was a stifled “ah” from someone who didn’t want to appear surprised by anything.
Hermitage’s was a much more normal “ah”. The sort of high-pitched noise that the person hopes will propel them rapidly away from the dead body that’s just been dumped in front of them.
‘What’s that?’ Hermitage followed his “ah”. His voice still up with the bats.
‘It’s a body,’ Le Pedvin seemed puzzled by the question, ‘surely you’ve seen enough of them to know what one looks like.’
Hermitage had seen enough bodies. More than enough. He’d have been happy to stop before the first one. ‘I have seen far too many,’ he tried to make the criticism stick on Le Pedvin, but the man was far too slippery. ‘Where did it come from?’ he demanded, still thinking it was the most outrageous thing to throw before him.
Le Pedvin frowned, ‘Outside,’ he said, ‘you just saw the guard bring it in? I do wonder how you manage to investigate anything sometimes.’
‘I know it came in from outside,’ Hermitage laid his contempt on thick, which was still pretty thin, ‘where did it come from before that?’
Le Pedvin looked at Hermitage as if the monk was speaking a foreign language. ‘Wales?’ he asked,
clearly unhappy that Hermitage had not been paying attention. ‘One of our number went to Wales and now appears to be dead. You’re going to find out what happened to him and who made it happen.’ He explained, as if to a child.
‘Appears to be dead?’ Hermitage was squeaking again. ‘He doesn’t appear to be dead. He’s actually doing it. Right here.’ He held out his arms to draw attention to the corpse on the floor. ‘As far as I’m concerned this poor fellow doesn’t come under the category of maybe a murder, he’s a firm yes.’
‘I don’t mean him,’ Le Pedvin was full of scorn for the monk’s stupidity.
‘There’s another one?’ This shocked Hermitage, although he tried to tell himself he shouldn’t really be surprised.
‘That’s what you’re going to find out.’ Le Pedvin rolled his eyes across the ceiling. ‘This is just a messenger,’ he nodded to the body on the floor. ‘Staggered in from Wales, delivered his message and died.’ Le Pedvin scoffed at the inadequacy of the modern messenger.
Hermitage offered a silent blessing to the one who had now departed to deliver his very final message.
‘Had he run all the way?’ Hermitage asked sympathetically. If that was the case it was no wonder the poor man had died.
‘Could be,’ Le Pedvin acknowledged without interest. ‘Although it was probably the curse that killed him.’
‘The what?’ Hermitage asked, very slowly and very carefully.
‘The curse,’ Le Pedvin confirmed, as if everyone knew this, ‘the druid curse.’
Hermitage could tell he had turned pale, even from the inside. The little blood that usually kept his face on the light side of pallid, had left for somewhere safer. Somewhere the discussion didn’t involve druid curses. ‘The druid curse?’ he asked, unhappy to let the words pass his lips.
‘That’s what he said,’ Le Pedvin nodded towards the deceased again.
Hermitage gaped.
‘Well,’ Le Pedvin explained, ‘more sort of screamed repeatedly, to be honest.’
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 29
