The Garderobe of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  'I found it in the upper chamber of the garderobe, but it started in the lower one.’

  'And it jumped up all on its own, I suppose?’ Grosmal was clearly angry.

  'No, it was thrown up when the torches made the big fire. I think this is what killed Henri de Turold.’

  That made Grosmal stop in mid-flight. 'What?’

  'Well, it's clearly a crossbow.’

  'No, it isn't.’

  Wat was too stunned at this to respond immediately. He looked at the object again. 'Yes, it is,’ he said, as it was blindingly obviously a crossbow. 'I don't know whether you've ever seen one before, but this is just what they look like. The arrow sits in here,’ he gestured to a slot down the top of the body of the thing, 'and the string went across here. It's broken now.’

  'Just a toy,’ Grosmal said dismissively. And unconvincingly.

  'No, it isn't. It's a real crossbow. What is the problem with it being a crossbow?’

  'It's a secret,’ Grosmal said.

  'Secret?’ Wat felt like he had walked into entirely the wrong conversation. 'What's a secret? That this is a crossbow? I can see it's a crossbow. A man dies on the garderobe with a crossbow bolt up his arse. In the chamber below there's a crossbow. Not much of a secret to that.’

  'There is, if I say so,’ Grosmal said. Points danced on each of his words.

  'The arrow that killed him must have come from the pit underneath, and this was in the pit underneath. It also means someone was in there to fire it.’

  'Nobody should have one of those.’ Grosmal gestured to the dirty bow.

  Revelation dawned on Wat. 'I get it,’ he said,’ you think crossbows are a secret. You think the Saxons don't have them.’

  'Of course they don't. King William assured us that the Saxons had no weapons at all to speak of. And certainly nothing like the magnificent Norman crossbow.’

  'We've had them for years,’ Wat delivered the plain truth.

  ‘No, you haven't,’ Grosmal responded with his plain truth.

  Wat shrugged. The man was in charge – let him have whatever truth he wanted.

  'So no one could have shot de Turold from below, with this weapon.’ Wat feigned deep thought. 'Oh, except a Norman, of course.’

  Ethel took a step back.

  'What are you suggesting?’ the lord of the manor asked. His tone indicated that Wat had better not be suggesting anything at all.

  'Just that someone had this weapon in the garderobe and shot Henri with it. If no one is supposed to have one except a Norman, then it must have been a Norman.’

  'What sort of thinking is that?’

  'It's called intelligence,’ Wat explained. 'It's all the rage. Hermitage uses it all the time.’

  'Who's Hermitage?’

  'The monk,’ Wat prompted.

  'Oh yes, where is he?’

  'He was examining the lower chamber of the garderobe.’

  'Disgusting.’

  'And I think if the thing hadn't gone bang he'd have found this down there.’ Wat waved the bow.

  'So he was down there. Perhaps he did it,’ Grosmal suggested.

  'Not again,’ Wat groaned before he could stop himself.

  'What do you mean, again?’ Ethel jumped in now.

  'Hermitage is a monk. A real, believing, honest and innocent monk. Hard to believe there is such a thing, I know, but there you are. He was accused of something before and he didn't do that either.’

  'So he has a reputation?’

  'Yes – for not killing people.’

  'But he was down in the garderobe looking for his bow.’ Grosmal was in accusatory mode.

  'Today he was looking for a bow. He doesn't posses one of his own, and even if he did he wouldn't know how to use it. Especially not something like this. Anyway that was just now. De Turold was killed last night when Hermitage was with me in the monastery. So he couldn't have done anything.’

  'And that's more of your intelligence, is it?’ The Norman was contemptuous.

  'No, that's called common sense,’ Wat replied.

  'Perhaps you're in it together?’

  'You sent Ethel to get us!' Wat's patience was wearing thin. 'And that was when de Turold was already dead.’

  'So you say.’

  'No, so you say.’

  'You could have been in the garderobe already, waiting for your moment. You kill de Turold, run back to your monastery and wait to be summoned.’

  'No,’ Wat said simply. He looked at Ethel. 'When your servant arrived we knew nothing of the death.’

  Ethel had found something fascinating on the ceiling to look at.

  'Perhaps Ethel was in the garderobe, killed Henri and then came to get us.’

  That got Ethel's attention all right.

  'Ethel?’ Grosmal burst out laughing. 'Don't be ridiculous. Ethel was a weak-willed, ineffective girls' bonnet when we arrived. He didn't even have the gumption to defend his own house. He certainly couldn’t sneak up on a Norman and kill him. I doubt he even knows which end of an arrow points forwards.’ The laughter went on for some time.

  Wat regarded Ethel with eyebrows raised. The servant stood in silence, but his lips were tight enough to strangle a horse.

  Grosmal eventually calmed down. 'Well, this is all going terribly well.’

  'Is it?’ Wat asked.

  'Of course. I've got you and the monk. If no one else turns up I'll tell the king you did it and we can all get back to normal. You are Saxons, after all, it was most likely one of you. It’s been ages since I executed a monk.’

  'And where did we get this thing?’ Wat dropped the bow on to the floor.

  'Clearly stole it from somewhere.

  'But if we find who really did it?’

  'You can if you like. If no one's come up by tonight, then that's that.’ Grosmal dismissed them with a wave.

  'I think we need to talk,’ Wat hissed to Ethel as they left the chamber.

  Caput XI

  Half past Ten: In My Lady’s Chamber

  'Eleanor!’ The Lady Foella slammed the door to her chamber and her dulcet screams ran from the room to circulate the castle, kicking the stonework and abusing the ears.

  'My lady,’ Eleanor replied, emerging from the small dressing area which was part of the room.

  'I've been calling you for hours.’

  'Really, my lady? I've been here.’

  'And I've been stuck somewhere in this ghastly castle. Wandering around lost, calling for my maid who was nowhere to be found.’

  'Sorry, my lady.’

  'In the breeches of some guard or other, I shouldn't wonder.’

  'My lady! Did you find Lord Robert?’ Eleanor seemed keen to change the subject.

  'Yes, I did. He claims not to have killed de Turold, but I don't believe him for a moment.’

  'Why not, my lady?’

  'He's a liar.’

  'Ah yes. But you didn't, erm, do him any harm?’

  'Not yet. He even had the temerity to accuse me of murdering the man.’

  'Ah,’ Eleanor paused for a moment. ‘And did you?’

  'No, I did not.’ Foella stared at her impudent maid.

  'Well, there was that business with the son of Urik of York.’

  'That was an accident, as everyone agreed.’

  'Eventually.’

  'What are you suggesting?’ Foella demanded.

  Eleanor sighed. These conversations were always difficult. Sometimes her mistress could be a howling demon to whom saying good morning was a risk to life and limb. At other times, and this seemed to be one of them, she could be reasonable and engaging and would talk to Eleanor as a friend and confidante. Well, perhaps just a confidante. The problem was she would leap from one state to the other without any indication of what was coming.

  'Just that it was suggested the son of Urik turned down your, erm, advances before he had his accident.’

  'So?’

  'And your temper may have got the better of you.’

  '
I have got a temper, haven't I?’ Foella almost giggled.

  Eleanor took a breath and a step away. Giggles were never a good sign.

  'You have, my lady,’ she agreed, 'but no one believed a woman could do what Urik's son had done to him. If Henri de Turold turned you down as well, you may have got…' Eleanor searched for the right phrase, 'carried away?’

  'Stop saying people turn me down,’ Foella snapped, almost back to normal now.

  'Yes, my lady.’

  'Anyway de Turold did not turn me down. He didn't even turn up. You know that.’

  'I was asleep some of the time, my lady.’

  'Well, he didn't.’

  'That's what I'll say if anyone asks.’

  'Who the devil is going to ask?’

  'Oh, there's some people arrived who are trying to find out who killed him.’

  'Why?’

  'We're not supposed to kill Normans any more.’

  'Oh yes. Well if they do ask, you make sure that's what you do tell them.’ Foella fixed her maid with a steely glare.

  'Yes, my lady.’

  'Or I'll make sure you have trouble talking at all any more.’

  'Yes, my lady.’

  'And now,’ Foella brightened straightaway, as if the previous conversation had never taken place, 'get my gentlemen’s gown out.’

  Eleanor looked surprised. 'The gentlemen’s gown? The one with not much top and the unfortunate tear down below?’

  'The fortunate tear down below. That's the one.’

  'I've only just put it away from the last outing.’

  'It worked on de Turold – let's see if it'll work on Robert.’

  'Grosmal?’ There was real horror in Eleanor's voice.

  'Going to be a noble, I hear,’ Foella explained.

  'My lady, he's awful. He's ugly, he smells, he does horrible things to people and even worse ones to women. I've heard of all the servants Robert Grosmal has ever had, the dead outnumber the living.’

  'Going to be a noble,’ Foella repeated.

  'But, my lady, surely he's married.’

  Foella beamed with the good news. 'Only to his sister. That doesn’t count.’

  Eleanor didn't bother trying to untangle that one. 'Will he take kindly to a bride who’s just tried to kill him?’

  'Who cares? Just get the gown.’

  'Yes, my lady.’ Eleanor went to retrieve the gown, notorious for revealing far more of Foella than was necessary.

  'Shame it doesn't reveal the inside of your head,’ she muttered as she opened the rough wardrobe where her mistress’s gowns hung.

  Her own scream rent the air as she leapt back from the door, tripping over her own heels and falling on to her back.

  Lady Foella, hearing her maid's agonised cry, did absolutely nothing. A man stepped from the wardrobe and leant forward to help Eleanor up.

  'You get away from me,’ Eleanor squealed, scrabbling backwards across the stone floor.

  'Come, my dear,’ the man said, 'let me help you.’

  His voice was warm and authoritative. He was reasonably well dressed in a thick jerkin and matching trousers. He had rough leather shoes with no holes and he was tall and big and strong. So far, so good. Eleanor let herself be helped. She was helped so much that once she was on her feet she fell into his arms.

  'Eleanor, put him down,’ Foella instructed. 'What are you doing here?’ she asked, recognising the man from the log store who was now standing in her chamber.

  Eleanor stepped back from the comforting strength and looked at her mistress.

  Foella was standing, hands on hips, in her insistent stance. Most of her stances were insistent, but this one was for people who weren't going to be allowed to leave until they explained themselves. And maybe not then.

  'I have come to warn you, my lady,’ the man said.

  'You do a lot of warning me. Why don't you stay and play with your logs? How did you get in here anyway?’ Irritated, Foella looked around. 'Were you in my wardrobe?’ she demanded, as if the man had been caught fumbling in her underskirts.

  'There are many secret paths in the castle. Some known to many, some known to a few.’ The man from the log store was still mysterious.

  'And what's the one to my wardrobe? I do hope there hasn't been a troop passing through.’ Foella clearly intended to get the names of the troop so they could be eliminated.

  'Known only to me, my lady, and I have not used it until today.’

  'Hum.’ Foella didn't sound convinced. 'What do you want?’

  'Don't marry Robert Grosmal,’ the man said simply.

  'Yes, thank you very much. Good morning.’ Foella gestured that he could return to the wardrobe.

  'It will do you no good, my lady.’

  'I think that's for me to decide.’

  The man walked over to a window rudely knocked in the castle wall and gazed out of it. Mysteriously.

  'I appreciate your plan for the Norman, my lady, and of course I approve.’

  'I don't recall asking for your approval, or needing it.’

  'Indeed, but the case of Grosmal is unique. I must give you more information that I would normally release. I realise that I should have told you more at our first meeting, and so I am here. '

  'Well, you can shut up now and bugger off,’ the Lady Foella suggested.

  'You think that marrying Grosmal will protect your estates and give you a title. A title to be enjoyed in your widowhood, which we all hope would be speedy.’

  'So far, so obvious.’

  'I have to tell you that we have plans for Grosmal.’

  'What, you and the man who's turning into a log? I think I'll take my chances with Grosmal.’

  'There are more of us.’

  'In the log store?’

  'No, not in the log store.’ The man came away from the window, a touch of exasperation getting the better of his mystery. 'All over the land.’

  'The Brotherhood of the Sword?’

  The man stepped back and looked at Foella in real shock. 'How do you know? Not that it's pronounced quite that way.’

  'Never mind how it's pronounced. I've already met one of your number. Well, probably half of one, come to think of it.’

  'Where?’

  'Oh, I don't think I can tell you that. It's a secret after all.’ Foella was enjoying herself.

  The man did his best to recover his composure. 'Well, that's good, you know that we are real and that we are active.’

  'Not that I can get anyone to tell me exactly what any of you have done or are going to do. You just go round telling everyone you're a secret. So secret you don't even know one another.’

  'It's vital for our safety.’

  'Even if you're in the same castle.’ Foella adopted her famous ‘folded arms in contempt’ pose.

  'Obviously. The point is that Robert Grosmal is not going to be a noble.’

  'From what I hear of your aims I can't imagine you have much influence over King William.’

  The man spat on the floor at the name.

  'I hope you're going to clean that up,’ Foella snapped at him.

  The man ignored her. 'Our plans for Robert Grosmal mean that William the Bastard will never ennoble him.’

  Eleanor had been standing looking backwards and forwards between Foella and the man, not having a clue what was going on. She coughed to let them know she was still there. She didn't want to hear any more of this. Plans and nobles and secrets always led to sorry ends. And when the nobles came to a sorry end, they usually took their servants with them. That’s if they didn't actually send them on ahead.

  'Get out,’ Foella helpfully proposed.

  Eleanor scurried out of sight. But not out of earshot. It was best not to be involved in any plans, but knowing about them could be a life saver.

  'You can do what you like to Grosmal after he's ennobled and I'm his ennobled wife,’ Foella said quite distinctly.

  'That is not our plan.’

  'Make it your plan.’
/>
  'We must make an example of Grosmal so that his kind will see the error of their ways. They are destroying our country. He will die in ignominy at the hands of his own people.’

  'And how are you going to make that happen?’

  'The death of de Turold,’ the man began, and then stopped himself.

  'What about it?’

  'I have said too much.’

  'Well, say some more. What about de Turold? Did you kill him?’

  'Suffice to say the death of de Turold will be the lever which tips Grosmal to his doom.’

  'Very devious, I'm sure.’

  'It is. Death is too good for Robert Grosmal.’ The man said this in a very dramatic voice and took a slow step back towards the wardrobe. He felt for and opened the door and put his left foot inside. As he stepped back into the cupboard, he let his words ring out. 'For his crimes he will be utterly destroyed. He will be shamed and disgraced and we will have our victory.’

  He started to close the door behind him, but Foella stepped forward and gave it a good kick.

  'Ow,’ the man screamed as his fingers were smacked by the heavy oak door.

  'Just stay out of my wardrobe,’ Foella shouted at the furniture.

  As if frightened into following Foella’s screamed instruction, the wardrobe threw its handle on the floor.

  Caput XII

  Eleven-o-clock: Monk to Woods

  Brother Hermitage felt his head had been slammed in a door. Being dragged backwards from the garderobe was not comfortable, and he had tried to struggle to his feet.

  …

  'If you don't stop struggling, I'll club you,’ the rough voice had said.

  Hermitage stopped struggling, but the rough voice had clubbed him anyway.

  Now he was waking up and his head pounded with the blow. He found he was propped against a tree. A painful opening of his eyes revealed the edge of a large clearing, in what appeared to be a substantial forest. The clearing was only some hundred feet square and contained a few tents of various designs and condition. The condition was consistently poor.

  One of the tents occupied the centre of the space and caught Hermitage's attention. It must have been rather grand in its day – probably during the reign of King Alfred.