Caput XIX
Two-o-clock: Wood to Dungeon
Down in the cells the Wat rescue party had reverted to sneaking again. This time Sigurd son of Sigurd really was best. He was so light on his feet that he made not a sound. The problem was he would sneak in the wrong direction, or tiptoe in the most extravagant manner out into the middle of the corridor.
Eventually Sigurd picked his son up and clamped a hand over his mouth to stop the consequent squeals.
Scarlan peered around one corner and saw the gaoler sitting at his table, dozing. He gestured to Durniss.
The big man came up and looked. He looked back at Scarlan.
Scarlan nodded his head towards the gaoler. Durniss nodded back.
'Go on,’ Scarlan hissed.
Durniss looked blank. Scarlan mimed creeping up behind the gaoler and thumping him on the head.
Durniss smiled and nodded. He crept up behind the gaoler and thumped him on the head with one of his barrel-sized fists.
The table on which the gaoler dozed collapsed under the impact, leaving the unconscious gaoler slumped in the wreckage.
Durniss looked on in horror at what he had done. He knelt and gently picked up pieces of the table and tried to put them back together.
Scarlan slapped his hands away and the rest of the party approached.
At this moment the lock-up boy appeared around a corner. He looked at the five people who had brought a small child to the dungeon. He looked up at the size of Durniss. Then he looked down at the body of his master in the wreckage of the table.
He assessed the situation and weighed up his options. He lay down on the floor, curled up, closed his eyes and started making loud snoring noises.
No one moved. The lock-up boy opened one eye, raised an arm and beckoned them to carry on with whatever they wanted while he went back to snoring.
Sigurd put Sigurd son of Sigurd down again. The little boy went straight to the sleeping form of the boy and smacked him on the head with a tiny fist. He turned and raised his arms in triumph. They all applauded politely, but very quietly.
''Where is Wat?’ Hermitage asked Scarlan.
'I don’t know. Our man just said he was in dungeon number two. Place doesn't look very big, so he shouldn't be hard to find.’
The dungeon was indeed not very big. There were two doors opposite the collapsed gaoler and a short corridor to his left, in the middle of which the lock-up boy snored.
The party advanced and found the corridor revealed a dead end with two more doors in the wall.
Hermitage approached the door nearest to them, assuming that even Normans would put their numbers in the right order.
'Master Wat?’ he whispered as loudly as he dare. There was no reply. Perhaps Normans had a different system of numbering. Perhaps in Norman two came before one? What a fascinating concept. What if every country used numbers in different ways, like they spoke different languages?
'Ow,’ he hissed as Scarlan clipped him on the back of the head to get him out of his reverie.
He rubbed his head and made a note to think about numbers when all this was over. If he still had the capacity to think at all by then.
He moved on to the next door and repeated the process with the same outcome. He completed the set and turned back to Scarlan. 'He's not here.’ Hermitage looked worried.
Scarlan was standing with hands on hips. 'He's hardly likely to hear you through a cell door. Why don't you just open them?’
'There might be all sorts of people inside,’ Hermitage fretted.
'Prisoners of the Norman invader, you mean,’ said Scarlan with points.
'Ah yes, of course. Let's open the doors then.’ Hermitage gestured that Scarlan could go first. Who knew what was inside these doors – there could be mad men and all sorts. Hermitage couldn't deal with either mad men or all sorts. Hopefully Scarlan could.
Scarlan drew the bolt of the first door and swung it open. The room inside was not much bigger than the door itself, but it was empty.
The second door was very stiff and Durniss had to help. The poor man seemed very nervous about damaging more furniture.
He pulled at the handle of the door without success. He then adjusted his stance, prepared his shoulders and heaved at the handle. He staggered backwards as the thing came off in his hand. He looked at the hardware in horror.
'Shoddy Norman workmanship.’ Sigurd spat.
Durniss held the detached handle out for Scarlan. The leader knocked the thing to the floor, 'for goodness sake try and stop caring about horses and equipment. Care about your country and your downtrodden fellows.’
Durniss looked rather hurt.
‘How will we open the door now?’ Hermitage asked. 'Wat could be trapped in there for ever.’
They all gathered around the dysfunctional door and looked for some other way of opening it. Sigurd suggested setting fire to it. Cotard suggested that he should go back to the camp for a lever of some sort, and Sigurd son of Sigurd attacked it with hands and feet shouting “ha” and “yargh” and the like.
'We must do something,’ Hermitage said anxiously, expecting guards to appear at any moment.
They all stood back and stared at the door.
…
'Are you looking for me? Wat's voice came from behind and made them all jump. Cotard stayed trembling for some time, while Sigurd son of Sigurd burst out laughing.
'How did you get out?’ Hermitage asked, just resisting the urge to leap forward and throw his arms around the weaver.
Wat stood and held up the hammer and iron he had used to remove the hinges from his cell door.
'Decent of them to provide these,’ he said, dropping them to the floor. ‘Where have you been anyway?’ he asked Hermitage.
'Master Wat the Weaver,’ Scarlan cried, stepping forward, shaking Wat's hand vigorously. 'Great admirer of your work. Great admirer.’
'Ah,’ said Wat in some embarrassment, glancing at Hermitage.
'The Coventry triptych.’ Scarlan shook his head in awe.
'Ah, yes.’
'A masterpiece.’
'Thank you.’
'So many images in the one space. So much going on.’
'Is that the one of Saint Paul?’ Hermitage asked. 'I thought that was a painting.’
'That one is,’ Scarlan explained. 'I'm talking about master Wat's tapestry triptych. Full of detail and every square inch of it absolutely...’
'Yes, it did take a while,’ Wat interrupted. 'What are you all doing here anyway?’
'We've come to rescue you,’ Scarlan announced proudly.
'Rescue, rescue, rescue,’ said Sigurd son of Sigurd, jumping up and down to give each word emphasis.
'Well, that's very kind,’ said Wat, frowning at the presence of the small boy. 'I think I would have been all right though. They’re all out looking for some small guard who could have done it.’
'I've heard about him,’ Hermitage replied. 'Apparently he's one of Scarlan’s men.’ The monk nodded his head to indicate Wat's fan was Scarlan. 'He's obviously suspect.’
'Yes' said Wat, 'but...’
'I rather think we should be leaving now?’ Scarlan interrupted this time. 'Perhaps we could have this conversation somewhere other than the dungeon of a Norman castle?’
'Ah yes, said Hermitage, 'probably wise.’
'We camp in the woods,’ Sigurd son of Sigurd explained with some enthusiasm.
'Do you?’ Wat bowed to speak to the child.
'And we sneak and rescue and everything.’
'Very good.’
'And we'd better get back there about now,’ Scarlan said, leading the way out of the dungeon past the still sleeping gaoler.
'I'm not sure just leaving is going to help much,’ said Wat as he followed.
'Well, it's better than staying here,’ said Cotard, with considerable enthusiasm.
'Grosmal will only send men after us. Well, after me specifically.’
'But he can't think you
're still involved, not after he heard about the small guard?’
'There's a new factor you're not aware of,’ Wat said seriously.
'What?’ Hermitage asked, a trace of worry appearing as he saw the weight in Wat's face.
'Not a what, a who. Brother Simon.’
'I know,’ Hermitage sounded worried. 'We found out from the small guard, er, spy, um, man. That's what prompted us to come. Heaven knows what will happen with Simon's, erm, how can I put it?
'Idiocy?’ Wat suggested.
'Perhaps,’ Hermitage granted. He paused in contemplation for a moment, 'Brother Simon,’ he sighed, 'dear God.’
'And he has the ear of Grosmal.’
'Who's Simon?’ Scarlan asked.
'We must leave,’ Hermitage responded immediately.
They had arrived back in the courtyard now. A few guards still wandered about, rather aimlessly looking for the small guard, but no one took any notice of the rescue party. Sigurd son of Sigurd was picked up and held quiet again. Scarlan pointed Durniss away from the horses and Cotard headed straight for the gate.
'Brother Simon presents himself as the King's Investigator,’ Wat explained in a harsh whisper.
'But he's not.’ Hermitage was clear.
'We know he's not, but Grosmal isn't sure,’ Wat explained. 'The simple word ‘King’ seems to have put the fear of God up him.’
'Investigator?’ Sigurd asked. 'Scarlan said it was something to do with tracking?’
'I didn't know what it was until recently,’ Wat responded. 'It's someone who looks into things. Murders and the like. Figures out who did what to whom. Follows their tracks, if you like.’
'Very clever. Then he kills them.’
'No, he hands them over for justice.’
'Ah, justice,’ said Sigurd with enthusiasm, patting the pommel of his sword. Pretty much the same thing.
'And the King has his own, does he?’ Scarlan asked, snarling out the word ‘King’. It was clear that anyone who did anything for King William was as bad as the man himself and deserved the same fate. Which was something worse than death.
'Not this King.’ Wat dropped his voice as a couple of guards ambled by, looking up as if small guards fell from the sky.
'It's a very messy picture,’ the weaver went on as they walked out of the castle as nonchalantly as they could. 'There was a murder at De'Ath's Dingle. The bishop's office was involved and they told Simon he was the King's Investigator. Then, when it all got sorted out, the King himself turned up.’
'Harold,’ Scarlan said in awe. 'You saw him?’ His eyes were wide and watering slightly.
'Oh, I've met him before,’ Wat dropped in.
Scarlan was speechless.
'Anyway, when the King turned up, the murder was solved by Hermitage.’
'Well, sort of,’ Hermitage responded modestly.
‘And King Harold sacked Simon, who he never knew about in the first place,’ Wat went on, ‘and appointed his own Investigator.’
'Not Simon?’
'Definitely not Simon. Brother Simon, as I say, is an idiot. An arrogant, overbearing, self-important dolt who wouldn't recognise a murder if it was his own. He just jumped at the title, not realising that people with more brains were simply using him. He hadn't got a clue what was going on. Just wandered about accusing everyone he saw. Now he's doing the same again.’
'So who did King Harold appoint?’ Scarlan asked as they walked through the castle gate.
'Hermitage here,’ Wat nodded to the monk.
Brother Hermitage smiled a weak smile and shrugged.
Scarlan stopped walking. He looked at Hermitage in awe and knelt, bowing his head. 'I never knew, sire, I never knew. We'd never have kidnapped you if we'd known.’
Sigurd stood by holding son of Sigurd, trying not to be noticed.
'Kidnapped?’ Wat asked.
'Oh, my dear fellow, get up, get up.’ Hermitage pulled Scarlan up by the shoulders. This was embarrassing as well as dangerous. Hermitage looked around, hoping none of the Normans had noticed.
'I'm not a sire, I'm not an anything. Just a monk who was able to help out.’
…
They walked on, Scarlan now at Hermitage's side, gazing at him as if the sun was hidden in his habit.
'But the King's Investigatrum…' Scarlan breathed.
'Investigator,’ Hermitage corrected, 'and it hasn't been much of a job. King Harold appointed me and then set off for Hastings. We all know how that turned out. It's just bad luck that this de Turold chap got killed right next door to De'Ath's Dingle. Lord Grosmal doesn't know I had anything to do with King Harold. I don't think he'd be very happy if he found out.’
'He shall not hear it from me, sire.’ Scarlan bowed again.
'I told you, I'm not a sire. And if you keep bowing someone will spot us.’
'My lord?’ Scarlan asked.
'Certainly not.’
'I can't just call you monk; it wouldn't be respectful.’
'My name is Hermitage.’
'Odd name for a monk.’
'Yes, a lot of people say that.’
'The Honourable Sir Hermitage?’
'Just Hermitage.’
'Well, I'll give it a go.’
'What's this about a kidnap?’ Wat asked as they got so close to the woods that they could run if anyone came out of the castle after them.
'Ah yes,’ Scarlan averted his eyes. 'Complete misunderstanding. We thought my lor–, erm, Brother Hermitage here was Grosmal's priest, and that if we held him we could get a ransom.’
'Not from what I've seen of Grosmal.’ Wat laughed a bitter sort of laugh.
'So we gather. Anyway, that's all forgotten now. We've got you out of Grosmal's grasp. We're free men again and never need to see the Norman pig again.’
'So what is the plan now?’ Wat asked warily.
'The life of the honest outlaw,’ Scarlan breathed out as they entered the shelter of the woods again. 'We take up life in the woods and forests and attack the Norman invader at every opportunity. We are the Brotherhood of the Sword, after all.’
'Excellent,’ said Wat, stopping before they moved much further into the cover of the trees. 'Well, good luck with that. I think we'd better be off. Lots of business to see to. Just have to hope Robert Grosmal doesn't get out much. We shall have to avoid this part of the country, but it's the towns that provide the profit anyway.’
'You can't go,’ Scarlan said, stopping as well and turning back to look at Wat and Hermitage with a broad smile, cheer in his voice. 'You'll become part of the band. You can make tapestries of our deeds which will live down the centuries. And Brother Hermitage, King Harold's Investigator, will be our priest.’
'No, no, really. It's very kind and I'm most grateful, but the weaving business won't run itself, and Hermitage really ought to get back to being a monk.’
Hermitage wasn’t at all sure getting back to being a monk was a good idea. Particularly if it meant De’Ath’s Dingle. He thought Wat seemed as anxious to get away from Scarlan as he was to return to his daily toil.
‘I'm sure I can get a work depicting your band produced at some point though.’ Wat gave a cheery smile.
'You can't leave.’ All the cheer had gone from Scarlan’s voice now, and Sigurd's hand was on the pommel of his sword as he stepped round behind Wat. 'Brother Hermitage will be our priest and you will make the record of our fight to the death.’
Hermitage let a small whimper escape. 'To the death?’
'Of course.’
'But Brother Hermitage is the King's Investigator. King Harold's own appointed man.’
'And an excellent martyr he will make. He'll probably get sainted.’
'But…' Hermitage felt the too familiar cold of fear shudder through his frame.
Scarlan was cheerful again. ‘You said yourself Grosmal would do something horrible by this evening if you hadn't performed your duties. Look on the bright side: stay with us and you could live for days. Maybe even wee
ks.’
Hermitage noticed that Wat had become very serious in his appraisal of Scarlan. He turned once to look at Sigurd. The weaver's eyes narrowed and he was clearly weighing up action.
Hermitage took half a step away from Wat to give him room for whatever he was planning. 'If we were to return to Grosmal,’ he said, dragging Scarlan’s attention in his direction, ‘might we not still act as spies?’
'And find out who killed de Turold? Scarlan asked.
'Well, yes,’ Hermitage thought this would be a good thing.
'That would be a very bad thing.’ Scarlan was sneering slightly.
'Really?’ Hermitage wasn't sure why finding a murderer could ever be a bad thing.
'Of course,’ Scarlan said.
Wat chose this moment to move. He took one step forward and pushed Scarlan back, while at the same time slipping his left ankle behind the Saxon’s right. Scarlan went down, but Wat kept moving forward. After two more steps he turned and as expected faced Sigurd who had moved, albeit rather slowly.
Wat dropped backwards, reaching up to grab Sigurd by the waistcoat as he did so. He pulled the large man over as well, sliding neatly to one side at the last moment to avoid being crushed.
Sigurd son of Sigurd joined the fray, but Wat picked him up by the scruff of his neck and deposited him on top of his father – thus preventing Sigurd senior from getting up.
Wat grabbed Hermitage and they took three steps back towards the castle before they stopped.
From behind a tree a small man with a bright and pointing sword emerged. He held it at the height of Wat's stomach.
'Like I said,’ Scarlan was in full sneer now as he got up, 'I insist you stay with us. We most certainly do not want you telling Grosmal who killed de Turold.’
'Why not?’ Hermitage insisted.
The small man with the sword spoke as he waved his weapon in a flourish around his head. 'Because I did it.’
The Garderobe of Death Page 18
