Wat nodded another congratulation to him. This time for keeping quiet.
'Oh, right.’ Aethelingus was off again. 'We've added up that if the use of the garderobe continues, in three years the entire country will be covered in human waste to a depth of two feet.’
'What rubbish.’ This time Hermitage couldn't help himself.
William raised his eyebrows at this interruption.
'He does seem a bit learned, Majesty,’ Grosmal explained, as if being learned was deeply shameful.
William nodded that Hermitage could go on.
Hermitage took a moment to take this in. He was actually being encouraged to argue a point. In public. With people watching and everything. People who weren't going to get up and leave. People who weren't allowed to get up and leave. How marvellous.
'How many more people are there in the country now than there used to be?’ he asked Aethelingus.
'Many,’ Aethelingus replied confidently.
'I hardly think so,’ Hermitage responded.
'What about all the Normans?’ The Saxon nodded at the King, Grosmal and the guards.
'And what about all the people who aren't here any more as a result of the Normans arriving?’
William and Grosmal exchanged grins at this.
'So?’
'So there isn't suddenly a huge number of people producing waste that wasn't here before.’
'But they're doing it in garderobes.’ Aethelingus clearly thought this was enough of a killer argument.
'Instead of doing it straight on to the land. If anything the garderobe is going to reduce the amount of waste on the land. Well, it will do if they're built wrong like this one.’
'I beg your pardon?’ Grosmal bristled, but Hermitage was off.
'It's the same amount of waste, just in a different place. You've calculated as if every garderobe was a person. In fact many people will use one garderobe. Your adding up is completely wrong.’
Aethelingus was looking at the ceiling and mumbling numbers. He expressed them by waving his hands around and making chopping motions.
'And for this you shot a Norman up the backside.’ William was contemptuous.
'Er,’ was all Aethelingus could say. He clearly couldn't get the sums straight in his head any more.
'So,’ said William brightly. 'On with the execution bit then.’
Caput XXIX
Half past Six: Capitulation
At a nod from Grosmal the guards ushered everyone from the room. There was a bit of an argument between Grosmal's own men and those of the King about who was in charge of ushering, but it didn't really make any difference to those being ushered.
After several mis-usherings, which drove people down entirely wrong corridors and into dead ends from which they had to be removed, the King's men gave up and handed over to those who knew the place.
The entire party almost immediately emerged into the courtyard, causing some in the King's troop to speculate they had been deliberately misdirected.
This speculation was quite loud and covered the lineage of Grosmal's men in some detail. These men in turn responded with some very disparaging remarks about the decline in the quality of King's guards the days.
No one confessed to striking the first blow, but Le Pedvin, William's scarred retainer, struck the final one very quickly. As one of Grosmal's men was taken away for burial, the group looked at what the courtyard had become.
'Where did that come from?’ Hermitage hissed to Wat as a large gallows imposed itself on their view.
'He probably keeps them made up ready,’ Wat replied, grimacing at the structure.
Next to the gallows was a pile of kindling that looked more than ready to kindle someone personally. Next to that was a simple tree trunk, with a not so simple executioner's axe embedded in it.
'I thought we'd have a selection.’ Grosmal smiled and laughed with William as they strode into the scene and headed for an observation station which consisted of a wooden platform, raised above the mud of the floor.
'Do we have enough for one of each?’ William asked.
'I think we might,’ Grosmal considered. 'We could hang the one who killed le Prevost. That's a fairly straightforward murder. Then we could burn the one who did for de Turold. I think there's something a bit suspect about protecting the trees. Sounds like witchcraft to me.’
'And the axe?’ William asked.
'Oh I don't know,’ Grosmal speculated. 'Perhaps we could chop the head off the useless monk. You know, the other one?’
Brother Simon looked around the crowd for another monk. Then he realised everyone else was looking at him.
'What is this about monks?’ the King asked. 'Why does everything here have to involve a monk?’
'Ah that's very interesting, your Majesty.’ Grosmal, having embarked on an explanation, rapidly lost his way. 'Monk,’ he called to Hermitage, 'explain to his Majesty.’
'Erm?’ Hermitage said from the courtyard floor as he looked up at the King and Grosmal. 'Explain about what sire, I mean King, er, Majesty?’
'This King's Investigator business.’ Grosmal was brusque.
'Ah.’ Hermitage stole a glance towards Brother Simon. The glance was arrested as Simon was nowhere to be seen. Casting his eyes around, Hermitage spotted a habit sidling towards the main gate.
'King's Investigator?’ William enquired. 'I never knew I had one.’
'Indeed, sire,’ Hermitage humbled himself, 'King – erm, your, erm, predecessor saw fit to appoint me his investigator. Someone who would look into matters of confusion. Murders mostly, it seems.’ Hermitage looked inward and gave a resigned shrug at the evil necessity of telling a new King that he could investigate murders for him. 'Although I've only done one,’ he hastily added, having an awful presage of where this might be leading. 'And that had a lot of help from other people.’ He paused. 'Anyway, that appointment is obviously null and void with your, erm, arrival?’'
William regarded Hermitage with a serious eye. He seemed to contemplate this statement carefully and considered his response.
'Well,’ he said, 'if Harold had one, I want one.’
'Majesty?’
'This King's Invest-in-mater.’
'Yes, sire?’
'You're it.’
'Oh.’ Hermitage's heart sank. So much for welcome obscurity. So much for not saying a word about any of this. He looked to Wat for encouragement.
Wat did not give out encouragement. He gave out desperation and resigned hopelessness. His look said simply, ‘Hermitage, did you have to?’
Hermitage shrugged. What were you supposed to do in front of Kings who had just conquered your native land? ‘No thank you, sire, I’d rather not’ was hardly an option. He simply nodded and slipped back to stand next to Wat, whose expression did not change.
…
'So,’ said William with gusto, ‘who shall we do first?’
'I always find a hanging starts things off nicely. Perhaps the beheading next and then the fire to warm us for the night,’ Grosmal suggested. 'Should we hang the murderer first?’ he gestured offhandedly to Magnus.
'As you please.’
'Bring up the little man,’ Grosmal commanded.
'Get your hands off me.’ Magnus thrust out at those who came to take him to his final opponent.
Before he was delivered to his death, he was presented to the king.
Scarlan, Sigurd and his son looked defiantly on, daring Grosmal to name them as well. Durniss appeared to be admiring the construction of the gallows. [AQ could he have got together with Chirk the builder – imagine they would get on well? Or could Chirk be there, waving his ruler around for some last-minute measuring?]
Cotard, on the other hand, was near the gate and on the verge of departure. He seemed to be idly chatting with Brother Simon.
'William,’ Magnus called as he was taken, with very little resistance, towards his silent stage.
'Uh, huh?’ William was suddenly shy.
'I defy you to my last. I take your sentence of death and cast it in your face. Come here and I will fight you.’ Magnus's face lit up with realisation. 'In fact I challenge you to trial by combat.’
'Yargh!' Sigurd yelled from somewhere at the back.
'Don't be foolish little man,’ Grosmal laughed. ‘The King will not fight a convicted murderer in combat.
'I will fight you in combat,’ William shouted. The prospect of action had knocked shy off its perch and stamped on it.
'The King will fight you in combat. Magnificent!' Grosmal applauded.
At a gesture from William, one of the guards gave Magnus a sword. He swung it round once and it clashed on to the ground. It was clearly too big for him.
'Where's my sword?’ Magnus demanded.
'Where is his sword?’ William called.
After much mumbling amongst the crowd, one of them eventually produced something that looked like a cross between a sword and a dagger.
'I was only looking after it,’ the guard who had been holding it whined.
'Present it to the man and clear a space,’ William commanded as he stepped down from the dais. He held out his hand and a uniformed guard slapped the most enormous weapon into his glove.
It was the sort of sword that takes weeks of training just to lift.
The crowd gasped.
William swung the thing round his head a couple of times to loosen his muscles. The action also loosened a lot of the air as it gave a low whoop, getting out of the way of the passing blade.
It was clear that if this thing hit you, you would be dead. It was clear to the crowd that if this thing hit small Magnus the results would be spectacular. They gathered closer.
Magnus looked at the whirling tree trunk of metal death which scythed above him.
'Typical,’ he said defiantly, 'bloody Normans.’
He crouched into a fighting stance and held his sword at the ready. The thing looked like a device for scraping the mud off the grip of William's sword. 'Come on then,’ he snarled at the Norman King.
William looked at the man in front of him and lowered his own sword. He put one shoe forward and rested the point of his weapon on his foot, not wanting to blunt the killing edge on the ground.
Several people grimaced at this and wiggled their toes in sympathy.
From its upright position, William's sword looked down on Magnus. Probably by a good two feet.
The crowd waited for William to bat his opponent across the floor with a simple flick of the wrist.
'Ha ha,’ William roared, 'I like you, man. You have guts.’
'I'll have your guts,’ Magnus retorted.
William roared again. 'Le Pedvin,’ he called, and the scarred old man was at his side immediately.
'Sire?’
'This little chap's a vicious bastard. He has no fear and very little sense. I reckon we could use him.’
'Sire?’ Le Pedvin did not seem so sure.
'He could get into all sorts of places unnoticed and then…’ William made the ever familiar knife-across-a-throat gesture.
Le Pedvin nodded.
'I'll never work for you, you Bastard,’ Magnus spoke through gritted teeth. 'I'll protect England to my last breath.’
'Very right and proper,’ William replied. 'But what if I gave you a piece of England of your own? Quite a large piece. You could protect that.’
Magnus was still. Magnus was thinking. Magnus lowered his sword. 'Yes, I could do that,’ he said, neatly balancing his morals against the weight of William’s argument. Not to mention his sword.
'Magnus,’ a plaintive wail came up from Scarlan.
'Traitor,’ Sigurd barked.
'Who said that?’ William commanded. There was a moment's silence. 'Come on, who said that?’
Guards were bounced aside as the figure of Sigurd strode centre stage. 'I did,’ he boomed, quite back to his old self now. He even bashed his own chest again.
'I thought I recognised the voice,’ William muttered to himself. 'Sigurd!' he cried with some joy, and stepped forward to embrace Sigurd in a mighty clasp.
'William,’ Sigurd replied, with a lot less joy.
'Oh, now come on, Sigurd. What’s this “William”? It was always Wills and Uncle Sigurd.’
'Uncle Sigurd?’ Scarlan's wail was now disbelieving. 'You're his bloody uncle?’
'Not a real one,’ Sigurd defended himself. 'His father just knew my father and they sort of, well, got on.’
'I don't believe this,’ Scarlan cried out. 'First one gives up for a parcel of land and the next one turns out to be the enemy’s bloody family.’ He wasn't having a good day.
'Sigurd son of Sigurd, you dog. So you're the enemy, eh?’
'I am.’ Sigurd stood his ground.
'Sigurd son of Sigurd?’ Wat whispered to Hermitage with a slight snigger. Hermitage thought this was not the time for jollity.
'That means his son is Sigurd son of Sigurd son of Sigurd.’ Wat smiled broadly. 'I'll have a guess what his father was called as well.’
'Ah,’ William stepped back and looked at Sigurd with a friendly face. 'Always good to have family on the end of your sword. Makes it all a bit more personal. So you're with this bunch, are you?’
'I am. And you've turned out to be a bad lot, William.’
William leant in close, but spoke so that everyone could hear. 'Turned out to be a bad lot William, your Majesty,’ he said, emphasising the final words.
'Humph.’ Sigurd acknowledged the title reluctantly.
'I could tell you a few home truths about your precious Harold if you really want to know,’ William promised.
'He was the King.’
'Always a loyal family, the Sigurds. Your father, Old Sigurd, would be proud '
'Told you,’ Wat hissed at Hermitage. He had.
'Well, we can't be executing you, can we? Being family and all. Banishment, that's more like it. What about the rest of your band? Don't seem to be much of a threat any more.’
'Never were,’ Grosmal laughed.
'Really?’ William asked in interest.
'Completely useless, the lot of them.’ Grosmal cast his eyes around the courtyard. 'Their leader is a craphead who only knows the way to the back of a battle. Then there's one who usually runs away.’ He scanned the crowd, not seeing Cotard. 'In fact guess what, he’s run away already. There's a big fellow who doesn't know which end his head is, [AQ: perhaps more colourful? ‘his arse from his elbow’?] the little one you've already taken and that leaves Sigurd and his son.’
'Sigurd son of Sigurd, I assume?’ William gave Sigurd a knowing look.
Sigurd just nodded.
'You're going to have to stop that some time, you know,’ he said kindly.
'Tradition,’ the old fighter mumbled.
'Tell you what,’ William announced, 'I will not execute this band, who it seems are very little trouble anyway; they certainly didn't kill de Turold. Instead, they shall be exiled.’
There was not much reaction to this. Scarlan was resigned, Sigurd was stoic and Durniss clearly didn't know that what was going on had anything to do with him. [AQ having a measuring lesson from Chirk?]
'They clearly nurture loyalty to the usurper Harold, along with a hatred of all things Norman,’ William went on. ‘So my decision is this.’ He left a dramatic pause until he had everyone's attention. The Normans did PR. 'I banish them – ' another pause for effect – 'to Normandy!'
'Oh, bloody hell,’ Scarlan called out in the offended tones of a child punished for something he hasn't done.
Sigurd took out his sword and threw it on the ground in disgust.
The rest of the courtyard had a good laugh, which Durniss joined in with.
He stopped when a number of guards grabbed his arms and escorted the band to the cells to wait removal. As he was still carrying Chirk’s ruler, Chirk stopped laughing too.
…
Grosmal was looking a little crestfallen. No hanging, no axe man. The day was turnin
g out very poorly.
'Well, Majesty,’ he said, 'we'd better get on with burning the witch.’ Before that goes belly up too, his expression said.
'Ah yes,’ said William with enthusiasm, rubbing his hands. 'Bring forward the witch,’ he commanded.
Two of his own guards brought Aethelingus to the front and stood holding him firmly, if cautiously. They seemed fearful of becoming infected with witchcraft if they got too close.
'Put him on the fire,’ William gestured.
'I say,’ Aethelingus protested as the guards dragged him towards the kindling.
At this moment Ethel sidled away from Grosmal and towards the King’s pointy ear. He had had it shaped like that to echo his helmet. It wasn’t a good look.
William noticed him approach. He frowned.
Wat, ever watchful of Ethel and his movements, nudged Hermitage to pay attention.
Ethel leant in close to the King and whispered some short words into his ear.
'What's going on now?’ Wat whispered.
'I imagine mister Ethel is pleading for his brother's life,’ Hermitage speculated.
'Doesn't look like there's much pleading going on to me.’
William had heard Ethel's words and turned to look at the man. There was surprise on his face and he looked Ethel up and down as if sizing him for a new tunic. Which would certainly be a good plan.
With a wave of the hand, William halted the procession towards the pyre.
'Hello, here we go,’ said Wat to himself.
William next gestured to Grosmal, who stepped over. The three men got their heads together in a huddle. There was whispering so quiet it was hard to tell if anything was being said at all. Their bodies said some of the whispering was quite fierce.
At one point Grosmal's head emerged from the huddle and looked at Aethelingus. He then took half a step back and looked at Ethel. He looked backwards and forwards between the two men a couple of times before shrugging and rejoining the discussion.
The Garderobe of Death Page 28
