'I see.’ Simon stroked his chin in thought. He even turned away from Foella and paced a little way up and down the chamber with his hands behind his back. He stopped pacing when he stubbed his toe on a set of Disturbing Irons.
'If he had come to your chamber you would have discussed arrangements for the marriage?’
'Yes, erm, something like that, I'm sure. Eventually.’
'This is very significant.’
The door was dragged back from its resting place and Grosmal walked back in. Ethel was at his heel as usual.
'So,’ the lord rubbed his hands together, 'all sorted?’
'Oh yes,’ Foella and Simon said together.
'Remarkable,’ the Norman commented. 'I only heard one shriek.’
'And that wasn't what you're thinking,’ Foella snarled in disgust.
'Well, Master Investigator, what's to do?’
Foella folded her arms in smug satisfaction that she would soon be released.
Simon adopted a declamatory pose.
'She did it,’ Simon's pose declared as he held out an arm and pointed at Foella.
'What?’ Foella shrieked again.
Simon ignored her and spoke to Grosmal. 'By her own confession she made an assignation with de Turold to discuss marriage. I suspect he turned her down and so she killed him and left him in the garderobe. We've already heard the privy hole was too small for anyone to get through, so he can't have been killed there.’
Foella was beside herself. 'I have just explained, you cow brain, I couldn't have done it. De Turold never arrived in my chamber. Anyway, the privy hole is big enough for the small guard.’
'My lady, you have told us that de Turold did not arrive. You have told us there is a small guard in the castle. As King's Investigator I have an option in situations like this.’ Brother Simon was all confidence with extra smug.
'Which is?’ Foella's voice had got some of the tremor back.
'I don't believe you.’
Caput XXI
Three-o-clock: Guard to Maid.
The guard who was summoned to lock the Lady Foella back in the cell had a much easier time of it. She seemed shocked and her only request was not to go in number three.
Closing and barring the door of number two, the guard nodded to Grosmal, Ethel and Simon. As they left, the lord and the investigator were discussing whether they should have a gallows ready for when King William was told, or whether that might be presumptuous.
Once they were out of sight across the courtyard, the guard's demeanour changed. 'Eleanor,’ William le Morton called out loud, as if the maid could hear him from the dungeon. With a look of worry on his face, he scurried away, 'they've locked up your mistress.’
Running and sliding around the corridors, William eventually arrived at Foella's chamber. He threw the door open to find Eleanor having a lovely time.
She generally had a lovely time when her ladyship wasn't there. Granted, Foella provided her with employment, food, shelter, protection and clothing. Without Foella, poor Eleanor would be just that – poor. Well, she was still poor technically, as she had no possessions of her own, but with Foella looking after her she didn't really need any.
Although she relied on Foella for absolutely everything in her life, Eleanor’s constant wish was that the woman would simply go away. She had long tried to think of an expression which summed up her employer, although the relationship was more like owner than employer.
Eleanor was not an intellectual, but she wasn't stupid either. She used her spare time, and the moments when Foella was driving her to utter distraction to try to create a picture of her mistress, using the most apposite words in the English language. A picture she would be able to use to distract her when things got really bad.
Eventually she had it. It was simple and obvious, and she had clearly been over thinking things. She'd almost ended up with essays in her head describing all the details of the Lady Foella's appallingness. All she needed was one word. Useless.
The lady Foella was useless. She was a useless human being, a useless woman and a useless noble. She was no imaginable use to anyone or anything in any circumstances. If she vanished from the face of the earth, the whole of creation would breathe a sigh of relief.
An apple was useless for lighting a fire, but at least it was good for eating.
Foella wasn't good for anything.
Or if she was good for something Eleanor hadn't spotted what it was, despite years of watching.
She couldn't talk to people or engage with them in any way that didn't drive them mad. She complained about everything. She'd spent all this time trying to get a man, and couldn't understand why those she approached ran a mile. Eleanor half suspected de Turold had found out about her intentions, gone to the garderobe and shot himself in the arse just to avoid her.
She couldn't manage an estate or be a lady of the court. She'd been to court once, but King Harold had thrown her out after an hour.
She couldn't dress herself or prepare her own food. She didn't know where clothes came from or how to tidy a room. She couldn't sew or paint or play music, write poetry, do tapestry. She couldn’t even just waft quietly about, looking beautiful.
Useless. Lady Foella was utterly, utterly useless.
But. She did have one overriding function which negated the rest of her pointless life. She kept Eleanor out of the cold.
Yes she was useless and nasty and thoughtless and selfish, but she was Eleanor's lady. And there were times when she wasn't about, and they were good times. A lot better times than if there had been no Lady Foella to come back and ruin things again.
This was one of those good times. It was good for William, too, as Eleanor was in the middle of working her way through Foella's wardrobe, trying on everything that would fit.
'That's pretty,’ said William, drawn up short by Foella's most expensive dress. The one that had taken a week just for the embroidery on the hem. The one that had finally cost the elderly seamstress her sight as it had to be completed for Christmas. The one Foella hated because it was too fiddly.
'Oh.’ Eleanor jumped. She had her excuses ready. She had noticed a slight tear on the dress last time Foella had worn it, but had been unable to find it again. She had to try it on to see if she could locate the hole from the inside.
She saw it was William and relaxed.
'You nearly frightened my head off,’ she accused him with a laugh.
'Nearly made you jump out of your dress, eh?’ William winked.
‘In your dreams.’ She swished up to him and let the skirts fly out, just as they had been made to do. The way that made Foella complain they flew out too much.
William took her by the waist and swung her round.
'Maybe we can make it just fly off all on its own.’
Eleanor beat him on the shoulders with absolutely no effect whatsoever. Just as intended.
He brought her to a halt and their faces were inches apart. He looked down at the slim and weightless treasure in his arms. He held her as if his strength could make her part of him.
She looked up at the shape that lifted her feet from the ground. She melted into his grip, becoming as soft and pliable as the dress itself.
They kissed.
Their eyes closed and the soft touch of lips was soon reinforced by the weight and presence of their bodies. Hands moved and limbs pressed. The kiss spread through them and prepared to move on.
'Oh, take me to your prison, you naughty guard,’ Eleanor growled. William's hands explored the fine cloth of Foella's dress.
'Oh, bloody hell.’ William withdrew, but didn't let go.
'What?’ Eleanor had offence in her voice.
'I knew there was something.’
'There is, let's find it.’
'Your mistress,’ William insisted.
'Where?’ Now Eleanor withdrew as well and turned to look out of the window.
'No, no. That was why I come up here. They've locked up your mistress.’
'Who has?�
�� Eleanor was slightly distracted.
'Grosmal and Ethel and that monk fellow.’
'Why?’
William paused for effect. 'They reckon she killed de Turold.’
'Oh, right.’ Eleanor didn't seem shocked by this.
'She didn't, did she?’ William was surprised by the reaction.
'Don't think so.’
'Think so!'
'Well, like I said, she could if she wanted. She's capable, believe me, but I don't think de Turold came to the chamber that night. Probably because he was already dead.’
'Perhaps because she'd already killed him?’
'She didn't sneak out while I was awake.’
‘What are we going to do?’
'I've got a few ideas.’ Eleanor swung the dress forward again.
William stepped back. 'They've locked your lady in the dungeon.’
'At least we know she won't interrupt us.’ Eleanor tried to look seductive, and succeeded.
'But…' William said, before his mouth was covered by Eleanor's.
'But what?’ Eleanor asked. She lowered her head, looked up at him and fluttered her eyelashes.
'Oh, nothing, I suppose,’ William mumbled as he licked his lips. 'We'll have even more time after they've executed her.’ He stepped forwards to take Eleanor in his arms again.
She had gone.
'They what?’ she demanded, all affectionate intentions despatched.
'Execute her, of course.’ William was getting confused by what seemed important and what didn't. 'If she killed de Turold and they've locked her in the dungeon, what do you think they're going to do? A night in the cells isn't enough for killing Normans any more.’
'We've got to get her out.’ Eleanor had started pacing the room and wringing her hands.
'Don't be daft.’
'Yes, yes. You can let her out. You'll have the keys.’
'There aren't any keys, just a bolt,’ said William, and wished he hadn't.
'Easy – you can just unbolt the bolt and let her out.’
'And then? What? She turns up again? Don’t you think even Grosmal might notice? “oh there's Lady Foella, funny, I thought I'd locked her in the dungeons”?’
'Well, I don't know.’ Eleanor was flustered and getting annoyed with William. 'We'll get her out and then think what do to.’
'We could get her out and then you could think what to do.’
Eleanor looked at William with disappointed eyes. 'I see. All right while I'm swishing round in my dress, but first sign of trouble and you're off.’
'It's not that at all.’ William held out his hands in supplication. 'Of course I'd want to help. Be a bit difficult for me though 'cos I'll be dead for having released a prisoner.’
'Typical,’ she huffed, 'one excuse after another.’
Eleanor thought some more. 'What if we get her out and run away?’
'We could, although I'd give Grosmal's personal guard about a day to find us and then we'll all be dead.’
'Oh, this is impossible.’
'I think that's the general idea when you lock someone in a cell.’
'We either leave her there to die. We get her out and you die, or we all run off and we all die.’
'That's about it. Personally I'd be in favour of the first option.’
'You would. Bloody men.’ Eleanor despatched the sex.
'I thought you hated her?’
'Of course I do. She's…' Eleanor paused to give the favoured word the right emphasis, 'useless. But she keeps me in frocks. She won't be able to do that if she's dead, will she? She ain't going to leave me anything in her will. More likely leave me to someone.’
'Women.’ William dismissed them all. 'Well, what do you suggest?’
'We've got save her.’
'We've been through that.’
'No, I mean save her. Get her out and stop her being executed.’
'Yeah,’ said William with a hollow laugh, 'that would about do it, I reckon. So? How?’
'By showing that she didn't do it,’ Eleanor said simply.
'But you said she could have.’
'Hum.’ Eleanor saw her own problem. She walked to the window and back, kicking out in irritation at her skirts as they flew out in all directions.
'Then if she did do it, we convince people she didn't.’
'Lord Grosmal, Ethel and this monk chap?’
Eleanor just glared at him. She continued her perambulations of the room before coming to a dead end at the wardrobe. She kicked it too. The door swung slowly open.
Eleanor looked at it and put her hand to her mouth.
'William,’ she called.
William came over and stood beside her in front of the wardrobe. Eleanor was pointing at the inside. He peered in.
'Very nice,’ he said, 'but it’s hardly the time to be playing with clothes.’
'No,’ she was irritated at his lack of insight, 'the wardrobe,’ she explained.
'Yes, love, it's a wardrobe.’
'The man in the wardrobe.’ Eleanor was insistent.
William looked at her from the corner of his eyes and shied his head away slightly. 'That's right, there's a man in the wardrobe. Come and have a nice sit down and I'll get you a drink.’
Eleanor batted him away. 'Not now. There was a man in the wardrobe.’
'What your lady gets up to in her own time is up to her. Weird lot, nobles.’ William had always thought so.
'There's a secret passage. A door in the back of the wardrobe. The man came through that and warned Foella not to marry Grosmal.’
'Blind me, she don't hang about do she? I don't think she's got much chance there though.’ William snorted.
'It'd be Grosmal who didn't have much chance if she'd made her mind up.’
'I think my Norman nutcase would beat your Saxon schemer.’
'Whatever. The point is the man who came out of the wardrobe claimed to be from the Brotherhood of the Sword or something like that. He should be able to help.’
'Uh, huh,’ William was clearly not convinced, 'so what do we do? Recite a spell or something? I'm not taking my clothes off.’
'No you dungstink. We walk through the door.’ She gestured him to go first.
Humouring her, he put his head into the wardrobe. 'Bloody hell, there's a big hole in here.’
'Yeah, let's see if the one in your head will fit through it.’ Eleanor pushed William forward and followed, closing the wardrobe door behind her.
As if to show its objection to all this non-wardrobe activity, the piece of furniture dropped its other handle on the floor.
Caput XXII
Half past Three: Dungeon to Wood
'Don't despair,’ Wat said with sincerity as he and Hermitage sat with their backs against a tree, looking out at the shambolic camp of Scarlan.
'But I do despair.’ Hermitage was very specific.
They had been left on the outskirts of the camp while Scarlan and his men discussed their next steps. Insult was added by the guard allocated to watch them.
Sigurd son of Sigurd marched up and down, a wooden sword over his shoulder. He told them he was a centurion, and if they tried to escape he would throw them to the lions.
Wat had moved once, thinking he could simply pick the child up and deposit him in a tree. They would then make their escape.
Sigurd son of Sigurd had screamed the place down. Sigurd the father appeared very quickly and informed Wat in some detail that even though his son's sword was made of wood, it would still smart a bit if it was inserted into the weaver. Which event would happen if he so much as breathed.
The captives sat quietly.
'I despair about everything,’ Hermitage went on in a low moan. 'First they kidnap me, then let me go, then rescue you, then imprison us again. I mean, it's so inconsistent. Obviously this situation is not a good one. That causes me to despair about our countrymen and the paucity of consideration they give to their fellow man.’
Wat nodded.
&nbs
p; 'But then I despair more generally.’
Wat hummed vaguely and nodded.
'My despair goes all the way back to the business with Ambrosius at De'Ath's Dingle. Those in authority turned out to be corrupt. Virtually everyone was telling lies of one sort or another, and then the only man to cut through it all, the King, went off to Hastings and got, well, you know.’
Wat hummed vaguely again.
'And then we come here and there's more despair. Someone has most definitely killed another human being. The Norman seems to be so touched by evil he's invited it to move in. That Ethel fellow is probably hiding something, and no one seems to care a twig about the poor man who's actually dead.’
Wat was silent.
'In fact the small fellow is positively boastful that he committed murder. I think I have every right to despair.’
Wat let out a gentle snore.
'Oh really!' Hermitage huffed. Even his despair put people to sleep.
'Oy,’ yelled Sigurd son of Sigurd in a high-pitched squeal. 'No sleeping,’ and he whacked Wat over the head with his sword.
Wat was awake in an instant. He grabbed the sword and yanked it from the child's hand. This brought the small shape into grabbing range and Wat wrapped one arm around young Sigurd and clapped his spare hand over the mouth.
Muffled mumbles and wriggles were easily contained by the weaver who stood up and beckoned Hermitage to follow.
'Ah,’ Hermitage hissed with some relief, 'you weren't asleep at all. It was a ruse.’
Wat grunted.
'It doesn't help my despair though, mishandling a child. It shouldn't be necessary.’
'A child who wanted to throw us to lions,’ Wat replied in a harsh whisper. 'A child who has a massive father.’
Hermitage shrugged and followed Wat in a crouching run towards the trees.
They had nearly made it to the edge of the woods when a shout went up from the camp and there was bustling among the tents.
Hermitage dared a look back to see Scarlan, Sigurd and the small man emerge from a tent. The small man was carrying something.
'Stop,’ Scarlan called.
'Why did he say that?’ Hermitage asked as he continued to run. 'Does he think we're likely to bring an escape to a halt simply because he calls out from a hundred feet away?’
The Garderobe of Death Page 20
