The stranger pressed his way into the middle of the room, surveyed his audience and nodded a slight bow to Ethel. Wat noticed this, and sidled over to the stiff stick of a retainer. The new arrival faced Grosmal and, with slightly less of a bow, he spoke. 'I am of the Brotherhood of the Sward and I am the killer of Henri de Turold.’
Magnus grumbled some more.
'Are you really?’ Grosmal demanded, wondering if everyone in the room was going to claim the credit given long enough.
'Yes. And I'm terribly sorry.’
'Sorry?’
'It was an accident.’
'Oh well, that's all right then. If it was an accident... Tell you what: you accidentally killed a Norman so I will deliberately execute you. How's that?’
'Obviously I'd rather you didn't. This other fellow seems rather keen on that option.’ The man nodded towards Magnus.
'I've changed my mind,’ Magnus retorted.
'Well, that's settled then.’ Grosmal said, rubbing his hands together and standing up. 'A small queue of people wanting to have killed de Turold. I'll just pick the one who stood up last. What do you think, monk?’
Hermitage looked around the room. All this reasoning was fine and, well, reasonable. He'd almost enjoyed some of it, and the figuring out of what could and could not have happened. But now? Now it was leading to execution. Someone might die because of his wretched reasoning. Wat was right. If they ever got out of this, they would never speak of it again.
At least it wasn't him being threatened with execution this time, but even so...
He caught the eye of the man in the middle of the room who nodded encouragement that this was all right. It wasn't Hermitage's fault and he shouldn't blame himself.
'If this man is from the Brotherhood of the Sward, it would seem to be the reasonable conclusion,’ Hermitage finally mumbled, his head down.
'Excellent,’ Grosmal beamed. ‘The King will be here at any moment, so we can arrange the execution of, erm. I suppose we'd better know your name?’ He raised an eyebrow to the most recent confessed murderer.
The man held himself upright and took on a somewhat haughty stance. 'I am Aethelingus,’ he announced. 'Aethelingus of Saxmundham.’
'Is he?’ Wat whispered into Ethel's ear, 'not very dead then, after all? Perhaps he had the same commitment that prevented you fighting for your King when you were asked?’
The room was totally silent.
Caput XXVIII
Six-o-clock: King’s Gambit
There was a disturbance outside the doors of the main hall before they were flung almost off their hinges and some really impressive guards entered.
These had colourful uniforms bearing a coat of arms. They bore shining weapons and wore the very latest in armour. Flowing red capes hung from their shoulders.
‘Oh, they’re smart,’ said Eleanor, turning her back completely on William.
The new arrivals brushed the guards of Grosmal aside like swans taking over a duck pond.
Forming an honour guard, they cleared a passage from the door to the fireside, squeezing the existing occupants of the room even closer together.
Even Grosmal got to his feet. He brushed his clothes with his hands and madly twiddled his fingers.
Foella flicked her hair back and tried to look especially beguiling.
There was a moment of silence before, striding down the middle of the space, came another man in uniform. He had his helmet under his arm and surveyed the room. Satisfied with what he saw, he left again and there was some muttering outside.
A further figure entered, an older man with a bald head. Scars socialised on his unshaven face which glared at everyone, daring them to speak or move. No one did.
He gestured back to the door where two more of the smart guards appeared and stood either side of the door.
'How many of you people are there?’ Magnus's voice floated out.
The older man made a gesture to one of the honour guard who disappeared into the crowd to do something to the speaker.
Standing to one side, the man brought himself to attention. 'The King,’ he announced.
All the Normans in the room bowed their heads.
Scarlan's men did not.
Magnus would have shouted something abusive if he hadn't had an honour guard's fist in his mouth.
Hermitage and Wat exchanged awkward glances from their position immediately behind the front row of the honour guard.
King William entered the room.
…
Hermitage looked at him and weighed him up. He took account of the man's bearing, his clothing, his manner of walking, the way he entered the room and his reaction to the other people there.
Oh dear, he thought. Oh dear, oh dear. This man looked the sort who took no nonsense. Or rather he would probably take nonsense round the back of his castle, where he would beat it to death.
Even Hermitage could see this was a soldier's soldier. That usually meant he could kill anyone who faced him, and would probably enjoy it.
William had the standard Norman haircut, but on him it just added a horribly violent authority rather than a touch of humour. Hermitage thought that if this man even glimpsed a touch of humour he would grab it and break its fingers.
He exchanged another glance with Wat. From the look on the weaver's face, his assessment of the man was much the same. He had the sort of upside down smile on his face that said, 'oh ’eck, here comes trouble.’
On meeting King Harold, Hermitage had been impressed by the man's natural authority. He had been small, but he commanded the room with presence alone.
King William commanded the room because he bloody well said so.
…
After two paces William stopped. Grosmal scurried forward like a starving rat that has spied bread. He knelt at his King's feet and lowered his head.
'Your Majesty,’ he said.
'Yes.’ King William acknowledged the title. He looked around the room. 'Rather a large reception party? I sent word that I wanted peace and quiet.’
'There have been events, Majesty,’ Grosmal simpered. 'All dealt with now, but I had to take action against a number of Saxons.’
'Action, eh?’ William clearly liked the word. He beckoned Grosmal to stand.
'Yes, Majesty.’ Grosmal got back to his feet. 'We are to have an execution.’ He said this as if announcing presents at a children's party.
'Ah.’ William’s response suggested that he expected presents, but was rather bored with them always being the same. 'Why?’ he asked.
Grosmal took half a step back and lowered his head. 'A shameful murder has been committed, Majesty.’
'Not usually anything shameful about a murder,’ William said brightly.
'This was of a Norman of your court, by a Saxon,’ Grosmal said. He went on rapidly before William could react. 'However, I have resolved the matter. I have found the culprit and have been keeping him for your justice.’
William was not happy. His lack of happiness radiated from him, blackening the room as a candle of darkness would blight the sun.
'Who has been killed?’ William asked in specially pronounced words. Each one carrying more than its own weight in menace.
Grosmal took another step back, helped himself to a deep breath and let it out. 'Henri de Turold.’ He half closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion of rage that could take everyone in the room with it.
'Who?’ William said, in a much lighter tone than expected.
'Er, Henri de Turold?’ Grosmal repeated. Hope raised a cautious eyebrow in his brain.
William dropped his chin in thought. 'No, can't say I know him.’
'Really?’ Grosmal tried not to sound too delighted. Wat and Hermitage exchanged a wary glance.
'De Turold.’ William tried the name out, as if putting it in his mouth and chewing on it would help his memory. 'Rings a vague bell.’
'I, erm…’ Grosmal hesitated. Should he help or not? 'I, erm, thought he was your favourite
fletcher?’ The lord of the castle's voice went up to a squeak at the end of the sentence.
'My favourite what?’
'Fletcher? The chaps who put feathers on arrows?’
'I know what a fletcher is, you impudent dog. Why the hell would I have a favourite fletcher?’
'I'm sure I don't know, your Majesty. Maybe he makes specially nice arrows?’
'Good God. There's probably a man who makes the points, a man who makes the shaft and a fletcher. I don't care who any of them are as long as the arrow goes into people and kills them.’
'Aha, yes, quite, your Majesty.’
William puzzled a bit more.
'Who told you he was my favourite fletcher?’ There was a frown on his face as if something was coming back to him.
Grosmal looked to Ethel, who did nothing, probably because he had just noticed a spot of dirt on his boot.
'I, er, I suppose he did,’ Grosmal muttered. This was not going so well. Hope closed both eyes and groaned softly.
'Hum,’ William rubbed his chin. 'Did this fellow tell you he was a hunting companion of mine as well?’
'As a matter of fact…' Grosmal started.
'Le Pedvin,’ William called to the old man of scars who stood by the door. He approached and bowed.
'What was the name of that idiot who went round telling everyone he was a close friend of mine? The one who got people to put him up as a guest, claiming he had my ear so would put in a good word?’
'Ah yes, Majesty.’ The old man's voice had scars in it as well. He clicked his fingers as he tried to bring the name to mind.
'He had a month in the house of Langlois. Cost them a fortune until he just disappeared one night.’
'It'll come to me, Majesty.’
'The captain of the guard, the one with the helmet under his arm, leant forward from behind. He whispered briefly in the old man's wizened ear.
'Ah yes,’ the man spoke up. 'De Turold.’
'De Turold,’ William said with relief. 'I knew I'd get it. You've been fooled, Grosmal.’
Grosmal’s face and body were in an awful state. It was clear that he wanted to do something. He needed to do something, and if his King had not been there he would have got straight to it. It would have involved shouting, hitting, stabbing and causing the widest variety of pain to anyone within reach.
As his King was there, however, he had to show restraint. And this was killing him.
'Ha, ha,’ the King laughed.
'Ha, ha.’ Grosmal made the same noise, but it certainly wasn't a laugh. 'At least he's dead now,’ he snarled through his chuckles.
'Good job too,’ William said. 'Stop him bothering people. If he'd carried on I'd have had to do something about him myself.’ A thought occurred to the King. 'You've done me a favour, Grosmal.’
Robert Grosmal beamed at this, all uncontrollable murderous rage forgotten.
'There was another death as well. A Saxon shot one of my guards.’
'Oh well,’ the King was still happy, 'these things happen. Let's execute him then.’
…
Through all of this conversation, the audience had been silent. And rapt.
Hermitage was particularly fascinated. As usual. He thought it absolutely fascinating that de Turold turned out to be the bad man. This was a new revelation. The bad man could also be the victim. He would have to remember that if he ever had to deal with anything like this again.
Please God he never had to deal with anything like this again.
He looked at Wat. The weaver's eyes were wide in surprise as well.
All that fuss trying to find out who did it. All the threats. From both sides. Dragged out into the country, being held prisoner, escaping, being shot at. Worse than that, all his careful investigation, his analysis, his piecing together a complex web of facts, and no one cared. At the end of the day it didn't matter. How infuriating.
He didn't hear Magnus piping up, claiming to be the killer of de Turold any more. Probably because he didn't want to be seen doing King William a favour. He'd still be executed for killing the guard, though. That would keep him happy.
Hermitage did reason that Lord Grosmal would not be pleased at being duped. Might be best to slip away if the opportunity came. Still, it had been a most interesting investigation which all turned out well in the end.
'Anyway,’ the King was saying in a happy tone to Grosmal, 'you say you've got de Turold's killer. How did you do that?’
'I had a monk,’ Grosmal responded. 'Where is he? He cast his eyes about the room.
‘Oh,’ thought Hermitage with some resignation, ‘it's all going to end horribly after all.’ His stomach gave a familiar twist.
'Here I am, Majesty.’ The monk spoke up loudly and stepped through the rank of guards to stand before the King.
'Not you,’ Grosmal said to Brother Simon, 'you're an idiot. I meant the other one.’
'Erm, here I am, sire.’ Hermitage raised a hand and hoped that he could stay where he was. Grosmal beckoned him to join them. One hope dashed.
Squeezing between guards, who melted away before him, Hermitage made his way to the presence of the King.
'And there was another character with him. Better dressed.’ Grosmal cast about the room.
'I am here, sire,’ Brother Simon called insistently.
'There.’ Grosmal pointed to Wat.
The weaver turned and scanned the crowd, apparently anxious to help Grosmal locate the person he sought.
'Get over here,’ Grosmal said simply. Wat reluctantly complied.
'So,’ the lord said, once they were gathered, ‘explain to the King.’
'Well, sire,’ Hermitage began, 'some time ago in the monastery of De'ath's Dingle…'
'I think lord Grosmal means about the garderobe,’ Wat interrupted. 'Not the full history of the monastic movement in these parts, the development of techniques for the identification of miscreants and accompanying observations on the authority of scripture. Just a thought.’
'Oh,’ Hermitage stopped. He paused. He gathered his thoughts. He despatched most of them and worked out what really was the kernel of the matter. It didn't make for a very illuminating version of events, but he supposed kings like William preferred things short. He didn't look the type to enjoy a good chat. Or appreciate the beauty of carefully crafted argument. Shame.
'In short sire, the Brotherhood of the Sward put a crossbow down the privy. Henri de Turold accidentally set it off and it killed him.’
'Very good,’ Wat complimented quietly.
The King was looking with wide eyes. 'You mean he shot himself up the arse?’
'Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Hermitage thought this was an unnecessarily crude description of events, even if it was accurate. But Kings were probably like that. This one, anyway.
'Or rather this Brotherhood,’ William spat out the word, 'made a Norman shoot himself up the arse?’
'I suppose so, yes.’
The room held its breath and waited.
William's mouth seemed to twitch of its own volition. Thoughts could be seen bobbing in his eyes, which narrowed. Guards prepared themselves for action, ready to cast more death around at his word. Eventually he drew a breath. And burst out laughing.
The room relaxed, and some hardy souls laughed as well.
'Serve him bloody well right.’ The King honked. He had a most peculiar style of laughter. It probably only ventured out when horrible things had happened, and so didn’t mix with the laughter of ordinary people.
…
When William had recovered, he spoke to Hermitage again. 'And what sort of Brotherhood is this that goes around putting weapons in privies?’
'Erm…' Hermitage began.
'We protect the country,’ Aethelingus's voice came from somewhere deep in the crowd.
'No, we protect the country,’ Magnus objected. There was another thump from his vicinity. He stopped objecting.
'Bring that man out here,’ William called. 'I must s
ay Grosmal, this is most entertaining.’
Lord Grosmal beamed a beam wide enough to hold up a whole new castle wing.
'When do we get to the execution?’ the King asked.
'As soon as you like, Majesty. Perhaps we could have two?’ he offered, as if pressing William to another pear.
Aethelingus now stood before the King. It was getting to be quite a crowd.
Grosmal looked at him and a frown came to his face. 'You look a lot like Ethel,’ he said, switching his gaze from one man to the other.
Ethel had cleaned his boot, but he’d now found something interesting at the back of the crowd to examine.
'So, Master Brother of the, what was it, Sword?’
'No, Sward,’ Aethelingus said. He sounded rather bored with making this correction.
'What, the greenery and stuff?’
'The spirit and body of the land.’
'Ah,’ William recognised the description. 'Druids,’ he nodded.
'We are NOT Druids. Why does everyone think we're Druids?’
'If it walks like a Druid and talks like a Druid?’ William left the question to answer itself.
Aethelingus just snorted.
'Whatever you are, what are you doing putting crossbows in privies? Dangerous and stupid as far as I can see.’
'We are preventing the evil of the garderobe.’
'I know some of them can be pretty rank, but evil?’
'We’ve calculated,’ Aethelingus began.
'You've what?’
Aethelingus was puzzled. 'Erm, sorry?’
'You said you've done something.’
'Yes, we've calculated.’
'What does that mean?’
'Oh, er.’ Aethelingus searched for a better word. 'I suppose, added up.’
'Well why don't you say “added up”? It's a perfectly good expression. Why make up a new one just to show how clever you are? Typical Saxon doggerel.’
Hermitage thought about pointing out that ‘calculated’ was the original word, coming from the Greek as it did. It was a shame for a King to be ignorant. Then he looked at William and concluded he probably didn't want to know.
The Garderobe of Death Page 27
