The Garderobe of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  'Well, we'd better not detain you then. Could you just point us towards dungeon number two?’

  'I'll come with you.’

  'Really?’ Hermitage tried to sound grateful, even as the rest of his party sighed at his ineptitude in inviting the enemy on the rescue.

  'Yeah. I can say I'm searching the dungeons for the small guard. Otherwise they'll send me somewhere horrible to look.’

  'Aren't the dungeons horrible?’

  'This is Castle Grosmal. There are a lot more horrible things than dungeons here.’

  William led the way. Sigurd followed with Sigurd son of Sigurd in tow. Durniss was pulled away from trying to count the horses by Cotard, while Hermitage and Scarlan brought up the rear.

  Scarlan tugged Hermitage's habit. The monk leant over.

  'This is a disaster,’ said a very serious Scarlan.

  'Oh, I don't know,’ Hermitage replied brightly, ‘we're on our way to find Wat. This guard's not a bad fellow. He's obviously Saxon. I don't think he has any great loyalty to the Normans. He might even help.’

  'No, not him, the small guard.’

  'Oh well, as this fellow says, there probably isn't one.’

  'There is,’ Scarlan said pointedly.

  'Really?’ Hermitage was fascinated. He leaned in closer to Scarlan. 'Have you seen him?’ he whispered, hoping that no Normans would overhear.

  'He's our man,’ Scarlan nodded significantly at the word ‘man’.

  Remarkably, Hermitage got it straight away. 'Oh lord. The one on the inside, signalling?’

  'Yes. And we are now part of a Norman search party looking to expose our own spy.’

  'Yes, I can see that's a bit awkward.’

  'Awkward?’ Scarlan tried to do extreme outrage while keeping his voice down.

  As they followed the lead of William, the sights and smells of the Castle Grosmal introduced themselves. Hermitage had got used to them, but Scarlan’s face twisted and grimaced as if it wanted to get away. He regarded a filth-man, carrying a bucket out of the castle with disdain - then caught a glimpse of what was in the bucket, and almost cried out.

  A builder came their way, carrying a large piece of stone in his arms. It looked like the keystone of an arch, destined to play a vital role in the structure of the place. The man had his eyes firmly focussed on its destination and nearly dropped his load when he bumped into Hermitage.

  Swearing an oath never intended for a monk, the builder had to look sharp to save his own toes. Danger averted he glanced up again to re-establish where he was headed. He frowned as he scanned the stone-work, clearly trying to figure out where it was he had been going. He swore again as he turned and went back the way he had come, grumbling about having to start all over again.

  Avoiding several piles of various substances which lay in their path, some natural and recognisable and others not, Hermitage and Scarlan caught quickly up to William.

  'They clearly think your man’s the killer,’ Hermitage explained helpfully.

  'What?’

  'Oh yes. Why else would they be looking for someone small enough to fit down a privy?’

  Scarlan’s mouth opened, but he clearly didn't have any words lined up.

  'But if that's the case,’ Hermitage pondered, 'why are they still holding mister Wat?’

  'Oh, this is great.’ Scarlan was not impressed. 'Perfect plan, master monk. Now we've got both to rescue Wat and get our man out.’

  Hermitage frowned. 'Do you think your man is the killer?’

  Scarlan winked. 'Could be,’ he admitted, with some enthusiasm.

  Caput XVIII

  Two-o-clock: Noble Takes Lady

  Meanwhile, lord Robert Grosmal was pacing up and down in the great hall. He had issued orders to his men and watched them rush off in search of the small guard.

  As soon as he had issued the orders his questionable mind started toying with them – in the way a child who is going to grow up to be profoundly horrible, toys with a beetle.

  First he thought that he couldn’t possibly have a small guard, why would he have appointed one? Then he started think what sorts of thing he could get a small guard to do. And what sort of places he could send him. Small ones mainly.

  He then wondered how entertaining a fight between a small guard and large one would be. This was followed by a fight between a child and a small guard, then a dog and small guard, then the dog and the child.

  One of his most disturbing smiles played briefly across his lips, like the child who has found mice are more fun than beetles.

  Foella, who was still standing close enough to be at hand, thought this was an indication that the Norman was at last paying her some attention.

  ‘So my lord,’ she half breathed towards his ear.

  Lord Robert turned to her and looked her and the gown up and down.

  She smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Are you still here?’ Grosmal asked absently as he wandered back to the fire.

  …

  Unfortunately lord Grosmal’s orders consisted of a lot of screams in colloquial Norman French. His own men had leapt into action straightaway, but there had to be a lot of to-ing and fro-ing among people with varying language skills before the message got across to the local recruits.

  From Norman slang to court French, court French to Latin, Latin to English and English into the mumbling grumble that passed for speech in these parts.

  William le Morton had got it pretty quickly, but some of the local boys, the ones who were farm hands a few months ago, still didn't have a clue what they were doing. They did know the loony Grosmal wanted them to run around looking for something, however, so that’s exactly what they did.

  One of them even found something – but apparently it wasn't what they were looking for.

  …

  'Even if we find the small guard,’ Simon lectured his audience some time later as he stood with his back to the fire, 'I maintain it does not confirm this Wat fellow's innocence.’

  'Eh?’ said Grosmal, stopping mid-pace. 'You mean there were two of them down there?’

  'Ah no, sire.’ The condescension in Simon's voice almost patted Grosmal on the head. 'The Wat fellow may be in league with the small guard. It may be that the weaver issued the orders. He could be the master of misdeed.’

  'So we hang them both,’ said Grosmal, cheering up enormously at the prospect.

  'We shall have to see what the small guard has to say,’ Ethel interrupted, from his usual place by the door. 'That’s if we find him.’

  'I told you I saw him.’ Foella looked up from the table to snap the retainer's head off.

  Discussion during the wait for the result of the search had been ripe with the suggestion that Foella's mind was such that small guards might appear anywhere. Along with goblins, fairies and magic beans. She got quite annoyed at this, and was frustrated that there was no one to take it out on.

  'Of course you did, my lady,’ said Grosmal, but he still had a snigger in his voice.

  'I saw him and spoke to him.’ Foella stamped her foot.

  She paused for a moment, clearly weighing up whether she should reveal more. It would be a ghastly breach of confidence if the little man really was part of an organised resistance against the Normans. On the other hand, people were laughing at her.

  'He said he was part of the Brotherhood of the Sword,’ she announced.

  'The what?’ Grosmal had resumed pacing, but turned to look at the lady.

  'The Brotherhood of the Sword. Apparently it's some sort of club.’

  'Never heard of it.’ Grosmal resumed pacing.

  Brother Simon raised his eyes to the ceiling in thought, taking in this new information and nodding as he accommodated it into his analysis. Had she said sword or sort? And if it was sort, what sort? Brotherhood of the sort of what? Or perhaps a sort of Brotherhood? He frowned as confusion got the better of him.

  The look on Ethel's face was probably the one Death used just before he took a sinner's so
ul. It was directed at Foella and did not miss its mark.

  It was a combination of shock, outrage and anger. Absolute, flaming anger. It was so effective that even Foella squirmed a bit, but eventually she found her old self and glared back.

  Ethel's look did not soften, and if there had not been others in the room, one of whom was a mad Norman with a knife, something physical would have been done.

  Ethel's look bade Foella to silence in much the same way as cutting the throat of a sheep is an invitation to stop bleating.

  Her natural defiance at being told what to do by anyone would not stand for this onslaught.

  'Yes,’ she went on, 'that's what he said. Brotherhood of the Sword.’

  'Some blacksmith's association, perhaps, my lord,’ Ethel suggested.

  'He was too small to be a blacksmith,’ Foella countered.

  'Well, what does my lady suggest?’ Ethel attacked with all the innocence of a weasel babysitting rabbits.

  'I don't know,’ she parried. 'I don't concern myself with the pastimes of the staff.’

  'Of course not, my lady.’ Ethel bowed his head just the right amount to replace respect with impudence. 'But, as we have heard, Lord Grosmal does not have any small guards on his staff.’

  'That's right,’ Grosmal confirmed, 'and even if I did they certainly wouldn't be allowed to join a club. Not even a small one.’

  'I didn't say there were a club, I just said it might be like one. They were a Brotherhood and they're up to something.’

  Ethel stepped forward and approached Foella. He did so at a gentle pace and with natural grace, but he looked unstoppable.

  'These have been tiring events. Perhaps my lady would care to retire to her chamber?’ He made the invitation obligatory.

  'No.’ She tried to dismiss him with a wave of her hand.

  'All this talk of swords and murders and,’ he pointed the last word straight at her, 'death. It's perhaps not suitable for so delicate a constitution?’

  'Delicate?’ She laughed lightly, 'Oh mister, er, what was your name? I can deal with death at any time of day or night.’ She glared her own glare.

  'If this fellow is in a Brotherhood of some sort,’ Simon cogitated, 'there may be others.’

  'Other short guards?’ Grosmal found this hard to believe. 'I can imagine not noticing one of them being short, but don’t tell me there’s a bunch of them wandering about the place.’

  'They need not all be short, my lord.’

  'I don't think you can have a small guard who isn't short. I thought you monks were knowledgeable types.’

  'I mean that it may be a Brotherhood of different types. Not necessarily a Brotherhood of small guards. What did you say the name was again?’ he asked Foella.

  'Sword. Brotherhood of the Sword.’

  'There we are, sire. It's a Brotherhood of People who have Swords.’

  'Pretty big Brotherhood.’

  'Or maybe they like swords, or collect them, or polish them or something?’ said Simon, who clearly had very little experience of swords.

  Grosmal stopped his pacing and looked at Simon with a blank stare. He passed the glance to Foella and Ethel. 'And this is getting us where exactly? He's small, he has some friends. Unlikely I know, but it happens. I'm not interested in his Brothers. I want him.’

  'Perhaps the Lady Foella knows his Brothers as well,’ Ethel suggested lightly.

  He got one of Foella's hardest looks. The sort that normally sent Eleanor running for cover.

  She didn't grace the comment with a reply.

  'My lady?’ Grosmal asked.

  'What?’

  'Do you know this small man's Brothers?’

  'No, of course I don't. It's ridiculous to suggest that I know the first one. I met him, that's all. For goodness sake, I wish I hadn't mentioned it now.’

  'Too late,’ Ethel said, with feeling. 'I believe you told us earlier that you didn't speak to him. Yet now you inform us he told you all about his Brothers.’ He gave Simon a prompting look.

  The King's Investigator watched it go by.

  Ethel waited until the monk’s gaze wandered aimlessly in his direction and grabbed it with a look of intent. Brother Simon's eyes resumed their pointless meanderings before a spark drew them back to Ethel.

  'My thoughts exactly,’ he said profoundly.

  Ethel used his gaze to drag Simon's eyes over to Foella. He nodded an explicit ‘go on then’.

  Simon looked backwards and forwards a couple of times before Ethel's thought occupied the vacant space where his own ideas ought to be.

  'It seems to be the case that one person here has both seen this small guard and spoken to him,’ he said.

  Foella gave him a warning look, but like all hints, suggestions and not-so-subtle indications, it passed through Simon as if he wasn't there.

  'And it has been shown,’ he went on in declamatory mode, 'that where knowledge of one part of a thing rests, there rests knowledge of the whole.’

  'What?’ This was beyond Grosmal.

  'There is a great deal of learning that shows that if a person knows a twig he knows the trees.’

  'Are you feeling all right?’

  'I think the Brother is suggesting that our Lady Foella,’ Ethel bowed with some sincerity towards the seated Saxon, 'knows more than she is telling.’

  'How dare you?’ Foella was on her feet now, her temper getting the better of her.

  'And did not you mention, my lord, that the lady threw a knife at you earlier?’ Ethel asked innocently.

  'She did,’ said Grosmal with some enthusiasm. 'She accused me of killing her husband or something. Or was it de Turold? I forget. Anyway, she definitely threw a knife. Threw it quite well actually, for a girl.’ Grosmal nodded in satisfaction at the memory.

  This latest round of accusation got the legs moving under Foella. Her arms stretched out nicely and the fingernails extended.

  She went for Ethel.

  To get him, however, she had to pass Grosmal, and he simply thumped her on the back of the head as she went by.

  Lady Foella went down.

  …

  'Guards,’ Grosmal called, sounding rather resigned that he had to keep calling them to take people away.

  It was a moment before two of the nearest guards, those who had engaged in the hunt for the small man with very little enthusiasm, appeared at the door.

  Grosmal beckoned they should restrain the Lady Foella, who was now recovering her senses.

  'You hit me,’ she said in still-stunned outrage.

  'Of course,’ Grosmal shrugged. 'Can't have you damaging my property.’

  Ethel was back to his calm self.

  'Anyway, why would you attack him?’ The Norman went on. 'Perhaps you are involved in this somehow.’

  'My thoughts exactly,’ Simon piped in. He liked this phrase – it had seemed to work last time.

  'Involved in what?’ Foella snarled as she returned to the bench, rubbing the back of her head. The guard stood close, preventing any further outbursts.

  'You can explain, Brother,’ said Grosmal, waving a hand towards Simon.

  'Ah, erm, yes. Of course. Indeed, my lord.’

  Ethel folded his arms and watched with some interest.

  Grosmal made himself comfortable. The guards looked to the monk for some sort of explanation for what on earth was going on. Foella did some more glaring.

  'Well,’ Brother Simon paced off around the room, 'what we have here is a most interesting situation.’ He stopped and looked at each of the faces in the room. They looked back. He paced again.

  'The small guard.’ Brother Simon nodded with significance.

  'What about him?’ said Grosmal.

  'Him being the possible killer,’ Ethel helped along.

  'Precisely.’

  'And if the lady has knowledge of the small guard…’ Ethel tried to lead the King's Investigator by the brain. It was a struggle.

  'Yes?’

  'She knows his friends
.’

  'She knows his friends,’ Simon declared with a flourish.

  'And if she knows his friends…' Ethel went on.

  Simon hadn't expected more.

  'Yes, yes,’ he said, 'exactly. If she knows his friends…'

  'She would know what's going on.’ Ethel's control was tested to the limits.

  'Absolutely.’

  'The murder.’

  'Aha, yes, the murder.’

  'This is beyond me.’ Grosmal looked from monk to retainer and back again. His thoughts were wandering back to the various bouts of combat he might arrange. All this thinking and talking was getting tedious – never mind being unintelligible.

  'It's quite simple, sire,’ said Simon with a sigh.

  Ethel coughed.

  'Lady Foella here is the only one who has seen the small guard. It can therefore be concluded that she's involved in the murder.’

  'What!' Foella leaped to her feet, only to be pressed down again by the guards.

  'Bloody Saxons,’ Grosmal spat. 'Take her away.’ He flapped a hand to indicate the guards should remove her.

  The Lady Foella said a number of very unladylike things in a very loud and shrieking voice. She promised damage to Simon, Grosmal and, very explicitly, to Ethel. Even the guards winced when they heard some of her suggestions.

  Foella kicked and spat and struggled, but it was no use. These guards were not small. They were large, and they lifted the lady between them, her feet swinging above the floor.

  The noise slowly faded as the lady was taken below.

  'Well, I never,’ said Ethel, shaking his head in sorrow.

  'It's all quite clear.’ Simon nodded his head.

  'I thought she was a bit mad, but really...’ The lord of the manor sat down and stared into the flames of the fire. 'We still have one problem.’

  'What's that, sire?’ Ethel asked.

  'It's what you said.’

  'I?’

  'Yes. I mean we've got two Saxons in the cells now, which is obviously good. But will this get us out of trouble with the King tonight? There’s only one way I know to make sure they'll confess to William before we execute them.’ Lord Grosmal rubbed his hands in a most alarming manner. His unhealthy grin and disturbing eyes were already selecting the right tool from number four to make his guests spill not just their beans.