'I wanted to travel light. Speed of the essence and all that.’
'Who are all these people?’ Hermitage asked.
'Oh, just the usual,’ Aethelred gestured vaguely, 'victuallers, camp managers, porters, cobblers, tailors.’
'Tailors? Baernodebi's only round the corner.’ Wat found this incredible.
'One has to keep one’s clothes in good order.’
'Oh, one does,’ Wat agreed. 'And what about them?’
'Ah yes.’ Aethelred acknowledged the presence of a good sized contingent of armed men. They were clearly Norman, they were well equipped and be-weaponed and they looked ugly. Obviously they were all Norman ugly, but there was an underlying ugliness of spirit which rose like steam from a herd of sweating horses. Something in their movement said they were looking for something to be ugly to. Probably a Saxon something.
'I suppose they came along for the ride?’ Wat asked.
'Lord Grosmal wanted to make sure the journey was completed safely.’ Aethelred shrugged.
'I bet he did.’
'At least we'll make it,’ Hermitage put in.
'I wouldn't bank on that,’ Wat commented. 'I really don't think I can leave you with this lot, Hermitage.’
'Of course you can't leave,’ Aethelred said, a hint of worry in his voice.
'And that would be why exactly?’ Wat folded his arms and faced the thin man.
'This is Lord Grosmal's personal guard. Well, some of it anyway. They accompanied me here and their vassal was involved in my preliminary discussions with your abbot.’
'He's really only a prior,’ Hermitage said in high dudgeon.
Aethelred waved the objection away. 'He knows I'm to return with Brother Hermitage and a chap called Wat.’
'And if you don't return with them?’
'Out of the question really. I think if any of us consider going anywhere other than Castle Grosmal we'll incur the vassal's displeasure.’
'And he's a decisive sort of chap, I imagine.’ Wat glanced over at a very large Norman who was hitting some of the other Normans.
'Ghastly man,’ Aethelred explained. 'In my day I wouldn't have trusted him with the blunt end of a horse.’
'Not your day any more, though.’
'No, indeed,’ Aethelred sighed
'At least that solves my problem. I'm coming with you, Hermitage. Perhaps I could get your travelling cobbler to stitch my boots.’
Hermitage followed Wat and Aethelred out of the gate and into the train of people. They had sorted out bags, carts and horses and were now ready for the road. This was it. They were off. He turned to look back at the monastery.
'I shall miss the place,’ he said.
'You are joking,’ Wat responded.
'It's been my home for two years.’
'Yes, a horrible one as far as I can gather. You've been mistreated, attacked, had your property stolen and your superiors did their very best to execute you. I'd be happy to go if I were you.’
'Perhaps I'll come back one day.’
'Not if you've got any sense,’ said Wat. Then he smacked himself on the forehead as if he'd said something ridiculous.
…
The journey to Castle Grosmal began uneventfully and was very well ordered. The vassal and his band of decidedly un-merry men kept everything and everyone in order.
Wat found that Aethelred’s caravan was very well provisioned and feasted rather well from the back of a cart, out of sight of the Saxon. Hermitage was horrified, but Wat reasoned, really rather well for a weaver, that they were performing a function for the Castle and so were entitled to be fed.
Hermitage turned the argument over in his mind before reluctantly accepting a small piece of crust from one of Wat's loaves.
His stomach turned a very few minutes later as it was full of chicken, cheese, mutton and a rather nice pickled swede.
His guilt nearly made him bring the lot up as they passed the outlying districts of the monastery, where one or two hardy idiots still waited for alms from the monks. The starving locals emerged at the sound of a passing caravan, doubtless hoping that some generous spirit would spare them a morsel or two, and so keep death from their doors for another day.
They needn't have worried. The caravan spared them not a second glance, but one of the carts did run over a dog, so they all ate that evening.
…
It was only a matter of half an hour later, with the sun still struggling to top the lower trees, that the train approached the castle demesne. As the parade of Norman might and Saxon luxury which had cosseted their journey drew close to the edge of the woods, the lead Norman shied his horse to one side.
His fellows followed suit and there was much shouting and pointing in French. The shouting was in French, the pointing was universally understood.
'Oh, what is it now?’ Aethelred huffed from the place on his carriage, from which he looked down at the walking Wat and Hermitage.
'There seems to be some disturbance,’ Hermitage commented, craning his neck to try and see what was going on.
Aethelred climbed down and the three of them advanced, Wat muttering disgruntedly at the damage the path was doing to his boots.
When they arrived at the sight of the trouble, the Normans were gathered in a huddle far away from one tree in particular. They seemed to be arguing with themselves over something.
Hermitage looked at them and then at the tree.
'Oh, it's the Green Man,’ he said in a very relaxed and untroubled voice. He went over to the tree in question and indicated a large carving that had been made in the trunk. It was a man's face with a curly beard which went round and round until it came back on itself.
'Rather a good one,’ Hermitage said as he traced the carving with his finger and admired the effort that must have gone into it.
As soon as he touched the thing, the Normans gasped as one.
'What's wrong with them?’ Wat asked.
'They think it's an evil spirit,’ Aethelred replied with some contempt, sniffing his nose at the panicking Normans. 'They reckon if you see the Green Man you'll die.’
'What nonsense,’ Hermitage scoffed. 'They must have the Man in France, or something similar. It's a common image, very ancient. Obviously the underlying theology is fundamentally dangerous and evil and its protagonists will be punished by God, but some pagan concepts are understandable.’
'Really?’ Wat was surprised. 'I thought men of the Church burnt pagans.’
'Some do.’ It was Hermitage's turn to scoff. ‘But they are as ignorant as the pagans themselves. There is much knowledge of nature and the like which we could usefully harness.’
'I think if a Churchman heard you saying that he'd burn you first.’
'Very likely,’ Hermitage nodded. 'Obviously the Druids and the like have fallen from the path completely and will burn in the fires of hell for eternity,’ he said equitably, 'but there are some groups who care for the country without all the heresy.’
'Really,’ said Wat, with declining interest.
'Oh yes. In fact I made quite a study of the various groups at one time. An old abbot of mine said I could leave the monastery for many weeks to gather as much information as possible, so that appropriate prayers could be constructed to ensure their damnation.’
Wat just shook his head and granted himself a wry smile.
'There was The Ancient Gathering of Woodmen, The Circle of the Tree, The Green Man's Acolytes, The Brotherhood of the Sward, The..,’
'Yes, yes I'm sure,’ Wat interrupted. 'Whatever they do, they're scaring the life out of the Normans.’
'Foolish fellows,’ Hermitage concluded, 'be off with you.’ He shooed them along the path.
The guards eventually gathered themselves together, taking not the blindest bit of notice of Hermitage and hurried on. They completely forgot their charges and were keen to get back to whatever it was guards got back to.
…
As they emerged from the shadow of the woods Hermitage gazed in won
der at the building which leapt up before him. It was already abuzz with people coming and going, with guards guarding and with builders building. He thought he recognised a massive figure wandering among the tradespeople, holding his ruler up here and there to measure progress.
There were very few people in the world Hermitage found irritating, but Chirk the builder was one of them. The investigation into the death of Brother Ambrosius at De'Ath's Dingle required Hermitage to ask Chirk some questions. What appeared to be a simple task had driven him to real anger, as confusion, obfuscation and plain stupidity poured from Chirk like a leaky bucket. He hoped the builder wasn't involved in this death, but it was a bit of a coincidence.
Trying to ignore Chirk, Hermitage found the view of the castle a marvel. Stretching away on either side of their approach the main walls towered into the sky. They were still being extended, but they must have been at least six feet high. Directly in front of them, terminating the track they were on, was the drawbridge.
As far as Hermitage could recall, the usual Norman approach to building was to put up a pile of all the soil and rocks for miles around and stick a crude wooden fortification on top. There would be a moat of sorts around the pile and that was that. This construction was taking the whole concept into new realms.
At the bottom of this pile of soil and rocks there was a wall, going all the way round. Well, Hermitage was sure it would go all the way round when it was finished. In the middle of the wall was an arched gateway. A most unusual arch, being a half circle supported on two pillars built into the stonework. These Normans really were a peculiar people.
The main pile itself was simply huge. In years to come, people would probably mistake it for a hill. It must have taken the Normans months to build it – or rather it must have taken the Normans months to tell the Saxons to build it.
There was still a moat on the outside of the walls, a green and dank-looking moat, and it coagulated before the main entrance. The drawbridge was required to get across this filthy obstacle, but Hermitage couldn't actually see how it would draw. There were no ropes or chains attached, nor any holes in what must be the main gatehouse from which to pull it up. He put this down to his lack of knowledge.
Inside the arch of the gate, workmen were building what appeared to be a latticework of wood and iron. Hermitage had heard of these things, and was staggered to see such a sophisticated piece of equipment in real life. A portcullis. This would be a magnificent defensive mechanism. When it was finished. And installed. Hermitage could see the carpenter and the blacksmith directing the construction. Or at least he assumed they would be directing it once they stopped arguing.
He was slightly puzzled about how it was going to fit as it currently looked much too small for the gate. Probably they were still building it.
He also thought the moat might be less than effective as a group of children were playing in it, paddling up to their ankles.
Behind the walls, on top of the mound constructed for the purpose, the main tower of the castle emerged. Wooden scaffolding surrounded it and piles of stone lay around waiting to be hoisted into place.
To Hermitage’s untrained eye, bits of this tower appeared to be slipping down the slope, as they created unsightly bulges and deformities in the main shape. In places it even looked as if the builders had given up on the main construction and started again, further down the hill. It was very hard to tell which was a deliberate building and which simply a store of stone. Again he put this down to his lack of knowledge of the art of the builder, but the place did remind him a bit of De'Ath's Dingle.
Wat came up beside him.
'What a dump,’ the weaver commented.
'Really?’ Hermitage asked.
'Saxon's revenge,’ Wat whispered.
'Where?’
'Here.’ Wat gestured at the castle.’ I mean, look at it. One puff of wind and the whole place will come down. The drawbridge won't work, the towers are wrong and that portcullis isn't going to fit.’
'I thought it looked a bit odd. But why?’
‘I'm sure Chirk and his friends are taking their cut. Do a shoddy job the first time round and then get paid to do it again. Better still, get a contract to keep coming back and fixing things for years.’
'That's dishonest,’ Hermitage was horrified.
'Certainly is. Better still if you can do it to the invaders. They might have taken your land, but you still can make them pay.’
'A bit risky, I'd have thought.’ Hermitage nodded towards the last of the guards as they entered the castle.
'It is a bit. Good chance the lord will spot what you're up to and have your head. For the place to be in this much of a mess, they must have sized up Lord Robert as a complete pointy arse.’
Wat had a further thought. 'In which case the place might be good for business after all.’ He rubbed his hands.
'But Grosmal's reputation is horrible.’
'It might be on a battlefield. Dealing with hardened soldiers and the thick of war is one thing. Getting a bunch of builders to do what they’re told calls for much sterner stuff.’
They looked around for Aethelred to see what they should do next. He was nowhere in sight. The porters and victuallers were unloading the carts they'd only loaded up an hour earlier, while the cobblers and tailors went off muttering to themselves. As they passed Wat and Hermitage they raised eyebrows into foreheads in the universal gesture of those who are dealing with fools.
More scanning the site eventually located Aethelred coming out from behind a pile of masonry, obviously stacked and waiting to be put to use in the walls. Or waiting to be made into something that looked a bit more like masonry and a bit less like a pile of rock. The man was in earnest conversation with another. The second man wore a close-fitting cloth hat almost over his eyes. He was still a thin fellow, but when he stood next to Aethelred he looked positively porcine.
The two were in deep conversation, heads close and voices low. When the discussion finished the second man looked all around him. Then he slipped away from the site and off into the woods.
'Now what do you suppose that was all about?’ Hermitage asked.
Wat put his hands on his hips and gazed at Hermitage without speaking.
'What?’ Hermitage was bewildered.
'Hermitage, I'm proud of you.’ Wat patted Hermitage on his shoulder. The young monk stood up straighter and glowed.
'Really?’
'You're becoming suspicious. Well done.’
'Oh.’ Hermitage's shoulders fell slightly. 'That doesn't sound like a very good thing to be.’
'Depends on the circumstances. You don't want to do it all the time, but it can save your life. Work on it. What are you suspicious of?’
Hermitage knew that Wat meant well, but this felt like a very backwards step somehow. Wouldn't it be better if he just stuck to people who didn't do suspicious things?
'A secret,’ he said reluctantly. 'Aethelred's behaviour tells me he has a secret. He didn't want to be seen or heard talking to that fellow. The fellow didn't really want to be seen or heard at all, and is plainly not part of the castle household. None of which would be of the remotest interest if there hadn't just been a murder. And if Aethelred was not obviously a well-bred Saxon in a castle full of Normans.’
Wat gave a very respectful and polite round of applause.
'Marvellous,’ he said
'Awful,’ said Hermitage. 'Imagine thinking such things of people.’
'I'm afraid the number of people to be treated with suspicion outnumber the rest of the population.’ Wat shrugged.
'Truly awful.’
'Question is, what do we do about it?’ Wat prompted.
'Gosh, er, keep an eye on Aethelred?’
'Go on.’
'We don't know what they were talking about or who the fellow was. It could be entirely innocent. Aethelred might have been ordering new hose and doesn't like to discuss that sort of thing in public. If we notice him behaving strangely, then
perhaps we, erm, follow him?’
'Good.’
'Or listen in on his conversations?’
'Excellent.’
'It's all rather rude, isn't it?’
'More rude than killing people?’ Wat asked.
'I suppose not,’ Hermitage admitted. 'I don't see Aethelred as a killer though.’
Wat nodded. 'Interesting. Why not?’
'Well, he's a noble.’ Hermitage thought this bit of reasoning would be obvious to a sheep.
'Was a noble,’ Wat corrected.
'Oh yes. Still, I imagine he's not capable of doing anything himself. He might order someone else to do it, but does that count?’
'I think if you're a noble, even an ex noble, you can decide what counts.’
Hermitage nodded acceptance of this fundamental truth.
Aethelred was approaching now.
'Here's another option,’ Wat whispered to Hermitage as the Saxon joined them.
'Who was that then?’ Wat asked brightly.
Hermitage gaped at his insolence.
'I beg your pardon?’ Aethelred responded.
Hermitage's new-found observational skills could tell that Aethelred was completely thrown by the question. He was probably thrown by someone questioning him at all.
'That chap you were talking to. Well, whispering to. The one who snuck off into the woods after checking no one had seen him. The one you were hiding behind the masonry talking to. That one. Who was he?’
Aethelred now took all of the questions in and drew his bony shoulders back. From his great height he looked down at Wat and gave his answer. 'None of your business,’ he said and strode off into the castle, beckoning them to follow in his wake.
Wat grinned at Hermitage and Hermitage found himself grinning back. Then he felt ashamed again and stopped grinning.
What if Aethelred had something to do with the murder of the Norman? The Saxon would certainly have, what was the word he was looking for? Motive. That was it. Aethelred would have a motive to kill a Norman. Probably any Norman, given his fall from power, but particularly a Norman who was building a castle all over what was probably his old home. It might be too dangerous to kill Lord Robert himself, but finishing off a visitor might be just the thing.
The Garderobe of Death Page 5
