'But why’s he got no clothes on?’ This point was obviously disturbing the lord. 'I mean, for Christ’s sake, who the hell would wander around with no clothes on in the middle of January? He wasn’t some sort of pervert, was he?’
Ethel arched his eyebrows at this statement of the obvious.
Casting around the room Robert located the dislodging pike, kept close at hand for any motions that missed their target. Keeping its crusted point away from him, he gave his erstwhile guest a gentle prod on the shoulder. Henri gave what appeared to be a resigned shrug and gently toppled forwards on to the floor. This did not appear to bother him in the slightest.
As the body slumped, Robert saw his chances of avoiding a conversation with King William diminishing rapidly. There were no marks on the body, no sign of any sort of struggle, no hint that Henri had made a valiant but ultimately doomed attempt to fight off his attackers, no sign of any violence done to the body at all.
Apart from the arrow sticking out of his anus, of course.
'My God.’ Robert stared. 'No wonder he’s dead. How on earth did he eat a whole arrow?’
Ethel sighed expressively. 'I think we’ll find the arrow is on its way in, not out.’
Robert frowned as he tried to take this in. 'Ow, what a way to go,’ he said with true feeling.
'The point is that he has gone, and it is an issue we have to deal with,’ said Ethel patiently, gazing down at the puzzled Norman.
Ethel was a tall man who carried a tall staff as his constant companion. In a dull light it could be hard to tell man from stick. He had the constant Saxon smell under his nose, which helped him to look down on everyone he came within sight of. If Ethel’s family hadn’t known your family, you were as the dust upon the ground. The fact that none of Ethel’s family was in a condition to know anything at all any more didn’t stop generations of inbred condescension finding a natural outlet.
'Well...’ Robert paused as he thought. The process was clearly an effort. 'We could bury him and that would be that.’
'Until the next time the King wants to go hunting and calls at Henri’s manor. “Is Henri in?” he’ll ask. “Afraid not,” replies the guard, “he got murdered at Robert Grosmal's place. Didn’t anyone tell you? Oh, I say, how rude.”'
'OK, we’ll just tell the King he died.’
'Of?’
'Of course.’
'No, I mean what did he die of?’ There was sincere concern in Ethel's voice. His lord might stand to lose his castle, but Ethel's fate would make Henri’s death look like a mild rebuke.
'Old age? I mean, it’s not as if there are any holes in him that weren’t there before.’ Robert was rather enjoying this.
'How old was he?’ asked Ethel
'Oh, positively ancient,’ his master replied. 'Twenty-five, something like that.’
'Old, but hardly at the close of life, eh? The problem as I see it is this.’
Robert listened intently. It was a very disturbing sight, but Ethel had got used to it.
'We can’t think of any natural causes that would account for Henri’s death. He was a fit young man, wealthy and a favourite of the King. Such men usually live to at least forty. He might have caught a chill or ague of some sort, but I think when we pull that arrow out of him it’s going to make rather a mess.’
'Couldn’t we just push it in some more?’
'An excellent suggestion, sire, but if the rumours I hear are true the King may well want to examine the deceased’s parts most closely.’ Ethel left the suggestion hanging in the air.
Robert picked it up. 'Oh, they’re true all right.’
'So we have to tell the King not only that Henri is dead, but that he was killed.’
'Well, you have to tell him actually,’ said Grosmal, without a hint of worry.
'Indeed, my lord', Ethel simpered, 'it occurs to me that one option may be to present the King not only with Henri’s body, but with his killer as well. That may redirect the King’s rage away from me, I mean us.’
'Oh, excellent idea, Ethel. Who did it then?’
'That’s just the point,’ said Ethel, despairing irritation at Norman stupidity creeping in to his tone. 'We don’t know.’
'Doesn’t matter,’ said Robert. 'We can just choose someone, kill them and give their bits to the King, well tortured. That ugly cousin of mine now, we could say he did it. I’ve never liked him.’
'A further problem occurs to me, my lord,’ said Ethel, having just saved a young man’s life.
'You are really boring today, Ethel,’ said Robert, idly picking at his fingernails. He had clearly lost all track of the serious situation.
'If we present a dead body to the King, he will ask how do we know it’s Henri’s killer? Not just someone we decided to kill and say he was the murderer…'
'Yes, the King does know me rather well, doesn’t he?’ Robert gazed at the floor and drew circles in the dust with his boot. 'Remind me to punish the garderobe dusting hags,’ he commented.
‘It would be best,’ said Ethel slowly, 'it would be best if we could find the real killer and offer him alive to the King to confess his guilt. By this means we might get away with a minor beating for poor security.’
'Great,’ said Robert, as if it was all decided and he could get back to his meal. 'All we have to do is find someone who’ll say they did it and dangle them in front of the King. Who shall we choose?’
'I don't think it will be that simple, sire,’ said Ethel, talking to the most simple thing in the castle. 'It isn’t the sort of role anyone is likely to volunteer for.’
'Oh, well, that's easily solved.’
'How?’
'Find out who really did it,’ his lord and master commanded with disarming simplicity. 'By tonight.’
The Lord of the Manor strode from the stinking room. He did not see Ethel’s knuckles whiten as the Saxon gripped his staff. Nor could he see inside Ethel’s head, where thoughts were of dealing with the master by putting his staff where Henri kept his arrows.
There was one thought that was clear in Ethel’s head. If this death had to be unravelled, there was a good chance the person doing the unravelling would end up in nearly as much trouble as the corpse. In situations like this there was only one solution. Get someone else to do it.
Hard on the heels of this consideration, an idea of where to get this someone else popped into his head. It was impudent, controversial and borderline insane, but it cracked the man’s face into a malicious smile. Where better? he asked himself, while simultaneously thinking of a dozen places better. Grosmal wouldn’t realise until it was too late.
He had some preparations to make though. He certainly wasn’t going anywhere near that place on his own.
Caput III
Five-o-clock: Saxon Lady
Elsewhere in the castle of Lord Robert Grosmal the great beauty Lady Foella was being not very beautiful at all.
'Where's that stinking puss hole de Turold?’ she screamed, her charmingly even face and wide brown eyes pinched into fury, drowning under waves of auburn hair.
Her maid, Eleanor, kept her distance. 'I don't know, my lady. I didn't see him last night,’ she squeaked in her ‘don’t blame me’ voice.
Eleanor had in fact lain awake in her straw most of the night, expecting the Norman to burst in at any moment, eager to fall upon her lady. While their chamber was ample, it wasn't as large as Grosmal's, and Eleanor's place at night was on the floor, close to her lady's bed. She had wanted to make sure she wasn't fallen on by mistake. Or as well. Only when the first, faint glow of approaching dawn crept into the room did she start to feel safe. That stopped with her mistress's first scream of the day.
'Well, why the hell not?’ Foella demanded.
'I'm sure I don't know, my lady.’
Foella drew breath for another scream.
'But I'll find out,’ Eleanor pre-empted, and scuttled from the room.
She closed the door gratefully on the familiar sound of things being throw
n about. Many of them far heavier than a lady ought to be capable of throwing. At one point she was sure she heard the bed move, but surely that wasn’t possible, not even for Foella at the height of her fury.
Muttering her usual litany of complaint about mistresses who were unfair, inconsiderate, harsh and plain loose in the head, Eleanor headed off in search of information. She hitched her thick skirt up a couple of inches to avoid all the varieties of muck on the floor and started looking for her favourite guard, William.
…
William le Morton was happy with his lot as a very minor guard in the employ of Robert Grosmal. He led a pretty unremarkable life and had a fortunate name, as his mother had perfectly well realised. Before 1066 William le Morton had been called Erik Slaymonger; he had enjoyed a safe life as the supposed descendant of a horribly violent Viking who might just pop back at any moment. It was a pity that his family was blissfully unaware that he was, in fact, a direct male descendant of Julius Caesar. Once the Normans arrived Erik swiftly became William, making himself available for various guard duties as required.
He was also a handsome young man, just Eleanor's type. He was big and burly, but as soft as week-old milk. And as pliable. She was seventeen now, and with him already twenty-two she could have a good few years and then be a respectable widow.
William was just the man for this job. There was no way she was going to approach de Turold's personal household to find out what was going on. That consisted of one grizzled old Norman who spoke no English, but had hands which could reach places she didn't know she had.
As usual she found William carefully guarding the fire in the keep. He was even holding his palms towards it to prevent it leaping from the grate.
'What's going on?’ Eleanor hissed as she sidled up, flicking her long blond hair expertly towards him.
'Oh, 'ello,’ said William, shifting from the warmth of the fire towards the warmth of Eleanor. 'Big trouble.’
'What?’
William looked around to check no one was listening to them. 'De Turold's dead. Murdered, they say.’
'Oh no.’ Eleanor paled and slumped in shock.
'Oh, I'm sorry,’ William said, obviously surprised at the reaction. 'Were you close?’
''No, of course not, but he was supposed to visit my mistress last night.’
'And did he?’
'I don't think so. I kept awake as long as I could and he didn't turn up. If he had done, I'm sure the noise would have woken me'
'Perhaps he arrived and they were quiet?’
'My mistress doesn’t do quiet.’
'Perhaps he turned up and she killed him,’ William joked.
Eleanor took the question seriously. 'She wouldn't. Not till after they were married, anyway.’
‘Married?’ It was William's turn to be knocked back.
'I know, horrible thought, but she's desperate. She’ll lose her father's estate to King William if she can't find a husband on the winning side pretty soon.’
'Good looking woman, your mistress. Shouldn't have any trouble, I'd have thought.’
'Oh, sure, nice enough to look at, but you try talking to her…'
'Difficult?’
'Doesn't even begin to describe her outer ramparts. She can scare the skin off a weasel, that one.’
'But de Turold was willing.’
'Oh, he didn't know. She might have told him on the wedding day. And once she's made her mind up, that's that. No point in arguing that he never agreed to marry her or nothing. Mind you, if he turned her down she'd get pretty cross.’
'And she kills people when she gets cross, does she?’ William exaggerated outrageously.
'Not usually.’
'Usually?’ William choked.
'Well, there was this once with a young nobleman.’
'She really killed him?’ William whispered and shouted at the same time.
'Nothing was ever proved, but they were both in company and were alive...’
'Yes?’
'And then they were alone together and he was dead.’
'Good grief.’
'She kills animals for no reason at all. She’s probably like them creatures what kill their mates after they've done it.’
'Spaniards?’
'That's them.’
William frowned. None of this sounded good. 'So you'd better tell her he's been found, see what she says.’
'Not me.’
'Who then?’
Eleanor stroked William's arm. 'You're a big, strong chap.’
William looked shocked, but he didn't take his arm away. 'But she's your mistress.’
'Yes, but you've probably got armour and stuff. I bet you have. Chainmail and that. And a pointy helmet.’ Eleanor sighed in happy reminiscence. ‘I like a man in armour.’
'Armour? You must be joking. The likes of me don't get expensive kit like armour. Our head guard says the best way to avoid someone stabbing you is to stab them first.’
'Sounds fair enough,’ said Eleanor. The topic of men in armour and stabbings gave her a lovely warm feeling inside.
'It would be if they give us any knives to stab with. All I get is me long stick.’ William picked up a long wooden staff which would have been a pike staff if it had a pike on the end. It didn’t. He held it out to Eleanor.
'Just the job for keeping my Lady Foella at a safe distance.’ Eleanor stroked his staff thoughtfully.
William was thinking too. 'I'm sure she'll find out soon enough – it's all over the castle. Just keep your head down here long enough, then you can pop back once she's heard.’
Eleanor shook her head. 'No good, she doesn't do castle gossip.’
'Too high and mighty, eh?’
'Nah – just that no one'll talk to her.’
William folded his arms. 'You got a problem then.’
'You could escort me.’ Eleanor batted more eyelids than she actually had.
'Eh?’
'Yeah. There's a dangerous killer on the loose and all helpless women are to be escorted by guards. She wouldn't kill me if you were there.’
William looked very doubtful.
'You wouldn't have to say anything, or do anything. Just stand behind me, looking guard-like. I'll tell her and then get out of the way.’
'You reckon?’ His tone said no. William was not stupid. He was not going to do it.
…
A few moments later they approached Lady Foella's door, having planned the approach.
They walked slowly, then in the last few steps rushed to the chamber, making as many loud and hurried footstep noises as they could. Eleanor knocked once and threw the door open.
'My lady, grave tidings,’ she called out in a panic, looking around.
Foella was sitting by the window, looking out on to the courtyard below, her red winter gown spread around her just like a damsel in a tapestry. Not the rude sort of tapestry either. Her hair hung loose and her neck was at just the right angle to catch the beams of the rising sun. Her beauty was turned away from them, but it penetrated the room like an aura, slipping from her pose to impress all those who gazed upon her.
'What?’ Lady Foella snapped, turning and pulling the final legs off the spider she'd been playing with.
'Henri de Turold is dead.’ Eleanor announced, faking a slight swoon back into the protective aura of William, who had himself taken a step back.
At the news Foella's face became expressionless for a moment. It was just a pause on route to becoming a thing of horror. She didn’t look as if she was just about to bite the head off a kitten; she looked as if she had just done so. Eleanor had seen that look before, on the face of a particularly stupid guard who had thought that kitten decapitation would impress her. It had, actually, but it made him taste funny when she kissed him.
'My lady,’ said Eleanor with worry in her tone. 'What are you going to do?’
'Robert,’ was all Foella would say, but she didn’t say it in a very nice way. 'Where’s Robert?’
&nb
sp; 'My lady, don’t do anything rash. Lord Robert is very powerful.’
So was Foella. She stepped across the room very quickly indeed and picked Eleanor up by the scruff of her neck. Then she threw her into the straw on the floor and strode to the door.
Striding to the door she brushed the large and heavy William aside with one arm, and swept out.
'Where's Grosmal?’ The lady screamed as if the stones would answer. They didn’t, but they rattled a bit.
Eleanor got up and joined William. They watched her disappear down the corridor.
'She's going the wrong way,’ William said.
'Good job,’ Eleanor responded. 'This is not going to end well.’
'I'll kill him,’ wafted down the corridor from Foella's departing form.
'See what I mean?’
William did.
***
The Lady Foella's journey through the Castle Grosmal was a testament to its design. It was long, repetitious and largely pointless. She had been given the full guided tour when she arrived, but had been so fundamentally bored by the whole thing she hadn’t paid much attention. Now she cast about wildly trying to find some recognisable landmark from which she could plan her search.
She clearly found each opening and passageway increasingly irritating as she mumbled and swore at them. Eventually settling on a direction for no particular reason, she pressed on.
The corridor Foella had chosen was narrow and curved slightly off into the distance so she could not see its far end. This had been shown to Foella as an example of the Castle's most accurately built and plumb passage, but that memory had been despatched.
A guard, whose duty it was to make sure the riffraff did not trespass into the nicer bits of the castle, saw Foella’s approach and prepared to avoid bumping into his lord’s most welcome lady guest. His first ever lady guest, in fact. Well, the first who had stayed more than one night.
Foella saw the guard as well, but he had about as much impact on her senses as Eleanor's personal problems – such being the way of the noble class. It was pure, inbred, unconscious reaction which delivered the appropriate words for the encounter.
The Garderobe of Death Page 2
