The Garderobe of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  'What are you doing?’

  Hermitage realised that Wat was talking.

  'Like we did with the death of Brother Ambrosius, I'm re-creating.’

  'Ambrosius was in a nice clean refectory.’

  'In De’Ath’s Dingle?’

  'A relatively clean refectory. Relative to this place anyway.’

  'But this is where de Turold died.’

  Hermitage came over to the door, turned his back on it and walked into the room. He bypassed the candle and sat on the nearest seat.

  'Interesting,’ he said.

  'Really?’ Wat was not convinced.

  'Oh yes. De Turold would have sat here.’

  'Why?’ asked Wat.

  'Nearest to the door and closest to the candle. Who'd want to go on the next seat, further into the dark?’

  'Not me.’

  Hermitage looked about and hummed, pretending that he was using the facility. He moved about a bit to get comfortable. He then started to get up, feigned a look of intense pain and shock and collapsed back on to the seat, head drooping.

  'So I was right,’ he said, ‘the arrow did come from down there.’

  Hermitage parted his knees and pointed downwards into the hole.

  Wat really did gag this time.

  'And given that there is a chamber below, rather than the outside air, whoever shot at Henri may have left some trace. Footprints perhaps.’

  Wat gave up all pretence and hurried to the spare hole. He hung his head over it and threw up.

  'I bet no one ever thought of using them for that,’ said Hermitage, fascinated.

  'Can we leave please?’ Wat said as he righted himself.

  'Of course,’ said Hermitage. 'You never had this trouble when we were examining the corpse of Brother Ambrosius.’ He looked at his companion with a mix of curiosity and sympathy. ‘That'd been decaying for days.’

  'I can do death, rotting vegetables, silage, gangrene and putrid pheasant. I cannot do poo.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Hermitage with some weight to his words.

  'What do you mean?’ Wat asked with suspicion.

  'Well, we need to continue the investigation.’

  'Yes?’

  'Move to the source of the instrument of death,’ Hermitage gestured to the holes. 'Down there,’ he said, with some glee.

  Wat returned to deposit the rest of his stomach contents.

  Caput VIII

  Nine-o-clock: Lady to Guard (small)

  Lady Foella had calmed down somewhat. She followed the directions, after a fashion, and emerged into the populated parts of the castle.

  She picked on the first person she saw, a small, humble-looking man, and demanded to be taken to her chamber.

  The small, humble man didn’t speak a word of English, but recognised the threatening nobility when he met them. He trotted along random corridors, hoping he was meeting this alarming woman’s requirements in one way or another.

  ‘Stop,’ Foella eventually shouted.

  He understood this.

  ‘Do you have the faintest idea where we are?’ she yelled.

  ‘Je ne comprends pas,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Oh, bloody marvellous.’ Foella waved her arms about in frustration, clipping the man on the side of the head in the process.

  ‘Bloody well find me someone who speaks English,’ she shouted even louder.

  He shrugged again, but she pushed him away down a passage. ‘Go on.’

  The humble man still didn’t have a clue what she wanted, but being pushed away was always a good thing. So he went. As fast as possible.

  ‘I speak English, my lady.’ A voice came round the corner of the corridor. It was an odd combination: someone was trying to sound powerful and gruff, but didn’t have the lungs for it. It sounded more like a boastful crow than anything. It was definitely Saxon though.

  Foella peered, and the voice was soon followed by a guard. A much smaller one than was normal.

  ‘At your command, my lady.’ The small guard was laying it on thick. ‘We need to stick together.’ He bowed low, at the same time tapping his nose.

  ‘What is it with this place and Saxons crawling out of the woodwork?’

  ‘Have you met others?’ the guard asked, quickly.

  ‘I’ve only just got away from a couple of them in the log store.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ Foella said clearly, ‘a stupid one and a devious one. Which sort are you?’

  ‘Straightforward, my lady.’ The guard sounded offended and stood up as straight as he could. As this meant his head came to somewhere around Foella’s chest, it wasn’t much of a statement.

  ‘Well look straightforward Saxon, I am not in a good mood. I have been looking for the idiot Grosmal, but have got lost and ended up in a woodshed. Now I'm accosted by a miniature guard. When I’m not in a good mood, bad things tend to happen to those around me. I now want to get back to the main part of this God awful, so-called castle and you are going to show me. Are we clear?’ The retelling of her short adventure was kindling to the fire. Foella’s temper started to bubble once more.

  ‘As water that’s not been pissed in, my lady.’

  ‘Good.’

  The guard leant forward and checked the corridor for listeners. ‘But I am not a guard.’

  Foella relaxed. ‘Well, I’m not surprised really. I didn’t like to say anything, but I shouldn’t think even Grosmal is stupid enough to employ guards who can’t see over the battlements.’

  The small not-a-guard was clearly annoyed at this. ‘I mean, I am in disguise. I am not in Grosmal’s employ at all.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t know.’ Not-a-guard was getting huffy. ‘What would be the point of that?’

  ‘Don’t you get clever with me.’

  ‘Sorry, my lady,’ the guardish one controlled himself. ‘I trust you won’t tell him?’

  ‘Certainly not. I have as little to do with jumped-up peasants like him as possible.’

  ‘But you’re his honoured guest.’

  ‘It’s not much of an honour, believe me. And we don’t have much choice about things any more, do we?’

  ‘No, indeed, my lady.’ The guardly one seemed happy with this. ‘The fact is, I have infiltrated the castle.’

  ‘Well, that’s not exactly hard. The gate doesn’t work and anyone can wander in as far as I can tell.’

  ‘Be that as it may, my presence in the castle is of significance.’ He narrowed his eyes and nodded gently.

  Foella looked the man up and down, which didn’t take long. ‘No, it isn’t,’ she said, explaining the situation to him with as much sympathy as she could muster. Which was none at all.

  ‘You don’t seem to be grasping the situation. Can you be trusted, my lady?’ He leant forward and whispered as conspiratorially as possible.

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ He scanned the corridor yet again. ‘I am in fact Lord Grosmal’s enemy.’

  ‘Also not hard. I think most of the county’s included in that band.’

  The guard nodded knowingly, but paused for breath as he was clearly intending to say something significant. ‘I am of the Brotherhood of the Sword.’

  ‘The what?’ Foella missed the significance.

  ‘The Brotherhood of the Sword,’ the man hissed.

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘We are a secret society.’

  ‘You certainly are.’

  ‘Dedicated to the overthrow of the Norman invader.’

  ‘Really? Which one?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Fat chance,’ Lady Foella snorted. ‘There's hundreds of them. Are those log store men Brothers of the Sword then?’

  ‘Log store men? Of course not. Whoever they are. We are men of action – we don’t skulk around in log stores.’

  ‘You’re skulking in a corridor.’

  ‘That’s different. If they were Br
others of the Sword I’d know.’

  ‘How? If they’re secret?’

  The man had clearly not expected this sort of conversation and he shook his head to make it stop. ‘They are not the point. I shall deal with them later. I am in Grosmal’s castle on a mission.’

  ‘What, to convert him?’

  ‘Not that sort of mission.’ The small non-guard was showing signs of frustration and a temper of his own.

  ‘What sort, then?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Not you too. I think those log men are your Brothers, you just don’t know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they think they’re up to something and they can’t tell anyone either. It’s no good having a plan if you don’t know what it is – you won’t be able to complete it.’

  ‘I know what it is, for goodness sake. I just can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why? Is it in French?’

  ‘Oh, heavens. Look, I am a Saxon on a secret mission against Grosmal. I’ll show you where you want to go and then get back to business. I had thought, as you’re Saxon, you might be interested and want to help. I can see that’s probably not a good idea. What were the men in the log store up to?’

  ‘Haven’t I just told you they wouldn’t say? Why don’t you have some sort of meeting? You can all work out what the hell it is you’re supposed to be doing and get on with it.’

  ‘I might just do that.’

  ‘Are you going to kill him?’ Foella asked seriously.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Grosmal, who do you think?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Not again.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Only if you were going to kill him, I would like to help.’

  ‘Why? You’re living the good life with him.’

  ‘Hardly. Here out of necessity and the necessity’s just been done to death.’

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘Henri de Turold.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the small man nodded and smiled. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘I was here to wed him.’

  ‘Also nasty.’

  ‘Just to save my family estates,’ Foella justified herself. ‘Now he’s dead and I’m sure Grosmal had something to do with it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he has something to do with most deaths around here.’

  ‘True.’ The man nodded and there was a moment’s silent contemplation of the deaths that the Norman plague had brought to the country.

  ‘He probably had an argument with Grosmal over something,’ Foella speculated. ‘Which one had the bigger sword, that sort of thing. Grosmal got offended and killed his mate. Happens all the time.’

  ‘But killing Grosmal will leave you even worse off.’

  ‘I’ll feel a lot better, though. And if you killed him I wouldn’t get the blame.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘I’ve got to give him some sort of horrible fate for putting me to all this trouble.’

  ‘Why don’t you marry him then?’ The Brother of the Sword couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘Who?’ asked Foella, missing the barb of the comment completely.

  The man stumbled on. ‘Grosmal? He’s got a castle, well sort of. He seems well thought of by the king.’

  ‘But he’s not noble, is he?’

  ‘He could be soon. William’s taking titles off everyone at the moment and dishing them out to his friends. Grosmal’s already got estates in France, I hear. He could be in line for something. ’

  Foella was all ears now. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘But what if he’s married already?’

  ‘Him?’ The guard was aghast.

  ‘Could have some ghastly French mare somewhere.’

  ‘No, I’ve heard the servants talking. Apparently he was married once, but the Pope annulled it.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Turns out the bride was his sister.’

  ‘Gosh, and he never knew?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he knew.’

  ‘Why did he marry her then?’

  ‘Fancied her apparently.’

  Foella shivered and pulled a face which expressed her heartfelt loathing of Normans, of Grosmal and everyone to do with him and of everyone else as well. The look stayed on her face as she contemplated the things this despicable Norman was capable of, and how loathsome they all were. The foul-minded, stinking, deceitful, murdering dung heap drew upon wells of hatred in Foella which were seldom plumbed. Just to picture the appalling man’s face was enough to inspire waves of nausea.

  ‘So he’s not spoken for then,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Marry ‘em while they’re still alive.’ The man tapped his nose again.

  Another figure appeared down the corridor, a full-size guard this time. Foella and the small no-guard began a gentle amble along, talking about the weather.

  ‘Here we are, my lady,’ the small man said, gesturing that she was back in the main upper hall of the castle. Her chamber was along here somewhere.

  ‘Yes,’ said Foella; her upbringing rendered her incapable of saying thank you. She checked the corridor now. ‘And don’t kill ‘em until they’ve been married, see?’ she hissed.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, my lady.’ The small man tapped the side of his nose in an overly familiar manner and pattered away down the corridor.

  Foella pondered as she made her way back to her chamber. Wasn’t it amazing how a day could start with a dead husband and have a new one installed before breakfast? Yes, Grosmal was truly revolting in so very many ways, but if he was revolting, married to her, and dead, that would be fine.

  She would just have to make sure that the small guard did his part of the job before the horrible thought of consummating the marriage got anywhere near Grosmal’s pointy head.

  Caput IX

  Ten-o-clock: Monk to Garderobe

  William le Morton had backed off as far as he could, but the crumbling stone was stopping him going any further. ‘You want to do what?’ His eyes were wide and his voice was squeaking.

  'It's a simple request.’ Hermitage wasn't going to repeat himself a third time.

  'You want to go into the garderobe? The bottom bit?’

  'Exactly.’ Hermitage folded his arms and waited for his wishes to be met.

  'Why in God's name would you want to do that?’

  'None of your business,’ Wat stepped in. 'What is your business is making it happen. Either that or we go and ask Lord Robert to find a more cooperative guard.’

  'All right, all right.’ William gave in. 'I'm as cooperative as the next man, but there are limits,’ he mumbled.

  'You want to go down through the hole? Like a turd?’

  'Preferably not.’ Hermitage thought the fellow was being unnecessarily crude. 'I imagine there is another way in, as the space below used to be a chamber?’

  'Oh yes,’ William nodded knowingly. 'It was the priest's room in the old house. Grosmal just built on top of it.’

  'Just like a Norman to kick a priest out of his own chamber,’ Wat snorted.

  William snorted louder. 'More like a Norman not to tell the priest what was happening until he realised it wasn't blessings raining down on him.’

  'Oh, my goodness.’ Hermitage felt his horror at what men were capable of was fully justified.

  'Anyway,’ William went on, 'the old entrance is outside the castle, on to the field.’

  'Not very defensive,’ Wat observed.

  'Tell me about it. Why Robert is turning this place into a castle is beyond me. It's useless.’ William shrugged and led them away.

  He took them by a circuitous but probably direct route round the outside of the tower to a small wooden gate in the castle's outer defences. The ‘outer defences’ were in fact two small wooden fences which could be easily climbed over, making the gate largely superfluous. However, Robert’s outer defences had to have a gate, and so they got one.

&n
bsp; 'You two,’ William beckoned to two more dozing guards who should have been marching briskly along the defences. 'Lord Robert's personal guests have a task for us.’ The sentence contained all the words necessary to generate the proper level of engagement.

  'I think we'll need torches,’ Hermitage said. 'It's going to be pretty dark in there.’

  'What's going to be pretty dark in where?’ one of the guards asked.

  'You don't want to know,’ William replied.

  One of the men ran off to get the torches while William led the way round the field. He brought them to the door which opened into what had been the priest’s parlour, and which was now the access to the garderobe depository.

  …

  It was a normal door. Vertical planking braced by cross pieces and a large round iron ring for a handle. It was patterned and worn with age and weather, and in fact looked rather dignified. A perfect counterbalance to what lay inside.

  It was as difficult to open as the sort of door that keeps secrets should be. The second guard returned with the torches which he stuck into the ground.

  William stood back and took some pleasure in directing the work of the others. The two burly guards, who had been hired for their burl not their brains, pulled on the old door handle for a few moments. Eventually they sorted themselves out and synchronised their efforts.

  After a few hefty tugs the door began to move. Once there was a small gap, the garderobe smell – appalling at high level, but positively sentient in the depths – made for the outside world. Burly Guard number one was breathing out at the time, but his colleague was breathing in.

  'Get him out of the way,’ said Wat. He watched with some surprise as one of the burliest people he had ever seen slid unconscious to the floor.

  'Perhaps you'd better step back a bit, mister Wat,’ said Hermitage, realising what was about to emerge from the chamber.

  Wat did so. He turned on his heels and ran a good forty yards away.