It was tall and had an opening high enough to let a man walk in without bending. At its crown was a carved wooden boss. From the front, two poles held a canopy over the doorway. The thing wouldn't have looked out of place at a king's joust, if its colour hadn't faded to match the mud in which it stood. The ragged tears in the side would be unacceptable to any self-respecting king, though, while the few remaining tassels, dangling from the edges of the roof like bodies from a gallows, had been growing their own moss for some considerable time.
Hermitage looked up and gauged that it was still only morning. He had not travelled far. A small fire was burning away the last of the night's chill and a couple of men were lounging by it. Another was just bringing some wood in from the forest.
Hermitage assumed the rest of the camp must be either still asleep or off on some errand or other. He didn't like to think what sort of errands the people who lived here might get up to.
He raised his arms and gently touched the back of his head. The contact made him wince and he brought his hands to his face, expecting to see blood. There was none, but his fingers told him a lump the size of a second head had sprouted where he had been hit.
'Aha, with us again then, monk? You have a monstrously thin skull for a thinking man.’
This was the rough voice again, although it was a lot less rough now. It was clearly Saxon and belonged to a man who was striding across the clearing from the tents.
Hermitage appraised him quickly, anxious that a matching blow might be about to land on the front of his head. The man was clearly ready for a fight. He was very stocky and of average height, wearing an extremely thick jerkin which looked like it could turn an arrow in flight. The way his arms could not rest at the side of his body but stuck out slightly, as if he was about to wrestle a boar, told Hermitage that most of the stock was muscle.
The legs were like pillars and the whole image was topped off by a completely shaven head. Where the hair had been removed, a nasty, aggressive-looking tattoo had been made which showed a snarling boar. Probably one the man had wrestled.
The tattoo was showing signs of age, and the man was not young any more. He was still more than a match for Hermitage – but then who wasn't? The lines on his face may have said the very best of his fighting days were behind him. But the fighting days still in front were enough for Hermitage. He recognised the type and cowered as best he could.
'And you're thin as a boar's nipple, no weight to you at all.’
The man now arrived at Hermitage's resting place and held out his hand to pull the monk up. Hermitage took it and was yanked upright with such strength and speed that the inside of his head stayed where it was. He swooned slightly.
'For goodness sake, monk,’ the man was not impressed. 'No guts inside you either, I'll warrant.’
The man stood back for a moment while Hermitage got his senses back and was able to look the fellow in the eye.
'Sigurd son of Sigurd, Brotherhood of the Sword.’ The man introduced himself with a thump to his chest.
Hermitage's mind leapt to wakefulness. 'Brotherhood of the Sward? How fascinating. I've made quite a study of your…'
'What?’ Sigurd stopped him.
'I said, I've made quite a study of…'
'No, no. Brotherhood of the what?’
'Oh.’ Hermitage paused for a moment. He knew fighting men didn't require great knowledge, but he thought remembering your own Brotherhood for five minutes was a reasonable demand. 'The sward, Brotherhood of the Sward.’
'What do you say it like that for?’
'Because that's how it's pronounced: s-w-a-r-d.’
Sigurd looked puzzled now. 'No, it isn't. I mean I know monks are learned and all that, but really. A sword is a sword, not a s-w-a-r-d.’ To emphasis the point he patted the sword hanging at his side.
'Oh you mean sword?’ Hermitage realised his mistake.
'What else would I mean? What's a sward?’
A simple ‘sorry, my mistake’ would have sufficed at this point. But if there was a complex option available, Hermitage would choose it every time. 'It's the life all around us, the fields, the pasture, the trees,’ he explained
Now Sigurd really was lost. 'And have they a Brotherhood then?’ The concept was beyond him.
'Oh yes.’ Once more Hermitage prepared to deliver a detailed report on his studies. 'Many of the Brotherhood's fundamental tenets revolve around the need for people to live and work as part of their surroundings. They see the role of man as subservient to the spirits of nature. All of man's activities, his constructions, his behaviours, even his thoughts must be natural.’
'Erm.’ Sigurd looked like he wanted to stop Hermitage, but didn't know how. Many would have sympathised with him. Wat, for a start.
'The clear flaws in their system of belief stem from a number of Druidic interpretations…’
'Ha.’ Sigurd saw his moment. 'Druids.’ He beat his chest.
'Oh they aren't actually Druids, but...’
'Druids,’ Sigurd repeated, more loudly. He felt on sure ground now.
Hermitage wasn't sure whether ‘Druids’ was a good thing or not. But it seemed to mean quite a lot to Sigurd – who was, after all, the big man in front of him with a sword. He finally realised that this was the moment to stop talking.
'Druids.’ Sigurd leaned forward and said the word with significance.
Hermitage didn't have a clue what the significance was, so he just nodded. 'Indeed,’ he said, not knowing what he was agreeing with.
'Do you have a name, monk?’
'Er, Hermitage,’ Hermitage replied, with a modest bow of the head.
'Odd name for a monk.’
'I suppose it is,’ Hermitage replied, not really wanting to engage in any more conversation with this fighting machine. 'Brotherhood of the Sword, you say?’ He thought moving the conversation on to Sigurd's ground might help.
'Aye, fighting off the Norman invader.’
'But I thought they had invaded. And conquered.’ Hermitage reasoned.
'No need to stop fighting,’ Sigurd replied with enthusiasm.
Hermitage thought it was a very good reason to stop fighting, but also thought it best not to say so.
'Why have you brought me here?’ Hermitage asked. 'You obviously don't want to kill me or you'd have done it by now.’
'Kill you? Good Gods above, we don't want to kill you. Quite the opposite.’
Hermitage was about to point out that ‘quite the opposite’ of killing someone was bringing them back to life, but this fellow had already demonstrated a lack of interest in intellectual matters.
'Good,’ he said instead.
'You're a hostage of the Brotherhood of the Sword.’
'A hostage!’ Hermitage's voice squeaked with surprise and alarm. 'Good heavens, who's likely to ransom me?’
'That boil on the pox ridden arse of his race, Robert Grosmal.’
'Oh, I don't think so,’ Hermitage said brightly, although he immediately thought he probably shouldn’t have. He imagined people who were held for ransom, who turned out to be the wrong people, didn't get held for long. And they probably didn't get released either. He gulped. 'Presumably you think Grosmal would pay reparations for the recovery of someone he valued.’
'Absolutely, it's a grand plan.’
Hermitage tried not to say anything, but his deep frown gave him away.
'You think not?’ Sigurd asked, in quite a reasonable tone.
'I think your plan falls on two main pillars.’ Hermitage couldn't stop his tone of instruction sneaking out.
'Really?’ Sigurd looked a bit puzzled now and Hermitage reasoned that erudite debate had probably not played much of a part in his upbringing.
'Yes,’ said Hermitage. He knew he would have to choose his next words carefully. He also knew that choosing words carefully hadn't been part of his upbringing. 'You see, Robert Grosmal is not the sort of person who would pay reparations for anyone he valued. This is primarily because he d
oesn't seem to value anyone. I have met him and he strikes me as the type who would sell his own children.’
Sigurd didn't seem worried about this. 'Ah well, who hasn't sold children at some time or another,’ he chuckled. ‘But seriously now, we've heard all the Normans are making sure they don't go to hell for invading God's own place on earth.’
'Jerusalem?’ Hermitage was puzzled.
'England.’ Sigurd spoke as if this was obvious.
'Ah.’
'Aye, and they're keeping priests to pray for them night and day.’
'Not in Grosmal's case.’
'Bastard.’
'Indeed. And even if he was and even if I was praying for him, he wouldn't pay anything for me. We've only met the once, and if I don't do what he wants he's going to kill me himself.’
Sigurd looked puzzled. 'But you're his priest.’
Hermitage knew his next comment was not going to help the situation. He knew quite clearly that he should be saying yes, he was Grosmal's priest. Yes, he would be sorely missed by the Norman and yes, he would doubtless pay a vast sum of money to get his priest back. This lie would be perfectly justified as it would keep Hermitage alive.
'No, I'm afraid I'm not,’ he said instead, which was the truth. Which must be always a much better thing to say.
'You were coming out of his priest's chamber.’ Sigurd seemed offended that Hermitage was contradicting him.
'That's true, but it hasn't been his priest's chamber for some time. It's his garderobe now.’
'His what?’
'Garderobe. It's a sort of privy that you have inside a castle.’
'Ye gods.’ Sigurd was clearly horrified at the very idea.
'And this garderobe wasn't even built properly. All the muck fell into what used to be the priest’s chamber and it was still there.’
Sigurd contemplated this for a moment. 'I thought the place was a bit of a mess, but then who knows what filthy habits Normans have got? What the hell were you doing in it then?’
'That's complicated.’
Sigurd looked at Hermitage with a mixture of suspicion and disgust. He then threw his muscular arms as high as they could go and walked in a small circle away from Hermitage and then back again.
'I told Scarlan this was a stupid plan. We should have just attacked.’
'Grosmal does have lots of guards,’ Hermitage informed his captor.
'That's what Scarlan said. Coward.’
Sigurd stared hard at Hermitage as if some revelation would spring from the monk.
'So Grosmal won't pay for you?’
'No.’
'Or give us weapons and victuals?’
'Definitely not.’
'Or surrender the castle and leave this land taking the Norman horde with him?’
'That one's a bit optimistic, isn't it?’
'That's...’
'What you told Scarlan,’ Hermitage finished off. 'No, I'm afraid not.’
'Bugger.’ All the enthusiasm and energy had fallen from Sigurd. He looked at Hermitage with his massive shoulders sagging.
Hermitage didn't like to ask the next question, but as usual he couldn't keep his questions to himself. ‘Erm, what are you going to do with me then?’
Sigurd gave him the look people give lame donkeys. He shrugged. 'Kill you, I suppose.’
The bottom fell from Hermitage's bottom. ‘Oh, er, do you have to?’ he squeaked.
'I suppose we do. You know too much.’
'Not really,’ Hermitage's reasoning had a pleading tone. 'I've no idea where we are as you hit me on the head. I've only seen you and have no knowledge of your plans. Anyway, I may not be a priest, but I am a monk, and you're really not supposed to kill monks.’
'Hum.’ At least Hermitage detected a hint of doubt in his captor's mind.
'And there's nothing to benefit from killing me now.’ Hermitage had put himself in the position of a kidnapper. He was rather proud of managing this. 'If I was a hostage and had been paid for, you'd have given me back to Grosmal alive.’
Sigurd frowned in deep concentration. ‘I don't think that was Scarlan's plan,’ he said with another shrug.
'That's very deceitful,’ Hermitage said in a disappointed tone, realising that he'd missed a whole plank of a kidnapper's personality.
Sigurd hung his head slightly. ‘Well, what do you suggest?’
'You could just let me go.’
'Then you'd find out where we are and tell Grosmal.’
'Oh, I wouldn't do that I assure you. As I said, he's no friend of mine.’
'Yes,’ Sigurd said slowly, thinking slowly as well, 'you said he was going to kill you if you didn't do something. What’s that all about?’
'I'm investigating a death.’
'Yeuch,’ Sigurd spat, 'first a room full of poo and now fiddling with dead bodies.’
'No, not the body, the death. I'm investigating the death.’ Hermitage could tell that the word meant nothing to Sigurd. 'I'm trying to find out who killed someone else.’
'Ah, a trial.’ Sigurd brightened as understanding arrived.
'Sort of.’
'By combat.’ Sigurd smacked his own chest again.
'No, there's no combat involved.’
'Oh.’ Sigurd was clearly disappointed. 'Who's dead then?’
'Henri de Turold.’
'Never heard of him.’
'He's a Norman.’
'Excellent, a dead Norman. I like them.’ Sigurd's thought processes went on a bit. 'Why do you care who killed him?’
'I don't care. Robert Grosmal cares.’
'I thought you said he didn't value anyone.’
'That's very good reasoning.’ Hermitage was impressed – at least the man was taking something in. Sigurd's chest swelled a bit.
'The problem is Grosmal values himself. It turns out this de Turold was a friend of King William. If the King finds out that de Turold is dead and it was partly Grosmal's fault, he's likely to take it out on Grosmal.’
'Get one thing straight, monk.’ Sigurd was all seriousness now and had hold of the scruff of Hermitage's habit. 'William is not the king.’
'Ah no,’ Hermitage gurgled, 'of course not.’
Sigurd put him down again and was calm once more. 'Anyway, if William the Bastard does Grosmal in, so much the better. Two dead Normans is an even better outcome.’
'Not for me. If I don't find out who did it, he’ll do something horrible to me.’
'Hm.’ Sigurd stroked his stubbled chin in thought. 'How was the Norman killed?’
'He was, erm, shot. Arrow.’ Hermitage didn't like to go into the personal details.
'Ah well, probably us then.’
'You?’
'Yeah, Brotherhood of the Sword. We're always killing Normans, we are. It's what we do.’
'I see.’ While Hermitage thought it couldn't be this straightforward to find out who the killer was, his heart rose for a moment. It fell again when he remembered where he was and that he wasn't in a position to do anything about it. If the killer came forward and presented his dirty shoes, Hermitage could hardly take him to Grosmal. He imagined the rest of the Brotherhood would be rather cross if he tried something like that. They would probably do something to him which involved swords.
'We'll ask Scarlan. He knows who kills most of the Normans round here.’
'Ah, marvellous,’ said Hermitage, although he felt the opportunity to meet such a man was not very marvellous at all.
Sigurd scanned the clearing until he saw the man he wanted. 'Scarlan,’ he yelled and beckoned a figure to join him.
Hermitage followed the gesture and saw what appeared to be a large weasel on two legs standing by the main tent.
The man, for it plainly was a man, being too big for a real weasel, raised his arm in acknowledgement. Hermitage watched him approach and took an intellectual interest in the man's extraordinarily short legs, paddling back and forth under a body that must have been stretched on a rack. The arms were shorter tha
n normal as well, but the man's head did him the worst favour. Rather pointy with a long nose and small eyes, it was also questing forwards all the time, as if smelling the air.
As Hermitage watched he concluded that someone should tell Scarlan not to wear a light brown coat which didn't close at the front. This revealed his pale cream jerkin, very effectively completing the weasel ensemble.
A thought entered Hermitage's head that this man should be followed by a skipping band of real weasels, dancing in the wake of this giant of their race as he led them to weasel paradise.
He shook his head to get this bizarre thought out. Perhaps the blow on the head was still having some effect.
'I see our captive is roused?’ The giant weasel whined in the sort of voice that should come out of a giant weasel.
'Aye,’ said Sigurd, 'but not good news. He says he's of no value to Grosmal.’
'Well, he would say that, wouldn't he?’
'I suppose so, but he says he's doing something with a dead Norman.’
'Investigating,’ Hermitage explained.
'Investigating eh?’ Scarlan pointed his beady eyes at Hermitage. 'Interesting word. From the Latin vestigare, to track? Why are you tracking a dead body? I shouldn't think it's going anywhere.’
Hermitage was impressed. He castigated himself for making a judgment about this fellow based solely on his appearance.
'I am tracking the cause of his death so that the person responsible can be brought to justice.’
'Oh, we don't want that,’ said Scarlan. 'We don't want people who kill Normans brought to justice. Want them rewarded.’
'Er, yes, absolutely.’ Hermitage nodded his best enthusiastic agreement. 'It's just that Grosmal said I should find the killer or I'll be the next body.’
'Typical Norman reasoning,’ Scarlan spat on the ground. 'If you're the suitable person to investigate, how can you do it when you're dead?’
'Exactly,’ said Hermitage. He was warming to Scarlan.
'Still, you're out of it now. Let him look for the killer himself. Not that he'd be capable, of course.’
'Ah.’ Hermitage saw where this reasoning was going.
'You can stay with us. We need a priest.’
'There is a problem,’ Hermitage reluctantly put in.
The Garderobe of Death Page 11
