The Garderobe of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  William next turned to regard Aethelingus, who stood like a rabbit caught in a cart's torchlight.

  He went back to Ethel and held his hands out, conveying ‘what can I do?’ or ‘don't blame me, mate’ to anyone who saw the gesture.

  This time Ethel shrugged and whispered a few more words in William's pointy ear. The other one this time. It was even pointier.

  The King stood up from the huddle and said something quiet but decisive.

  Grosmal threw his hands in the air and stomped away.

  'Bring the man back from the fire,’ William instructed. It was clearly an instruction he wasn't keen on.

  'Well, well, well,’ Wat said to Hermitage. 'What on earth do you think brought that about?’

  Hermitage was fascinated as well. 'It's like the time we saw mister Ethel talking to that man outside the castle.’

  'It is, isn't it? What secret could Ethel possibly have that would persuade King William not to burn a witch?’

  'Well,’ Hermitage began, 'actually the Brotherhood of the Sward are not witches. They share a number of traits and behaviours with some of the Druidic movements, but…’

  'Yes, I'm sure they do,’ Wat expertly stopped the flow. 'But what would stop William burning anyone he was looking forward to burning a couple of moments ago?’

  'Ah,’ Hermitage realised, 'I see your point. Ethel must either hold some sway over King William or William owes him a favour.’

  'Good thinking,’ Wat nodded.

  Hermitage smiled.

  'I can't believe that Ethel has any authority over William. Who does? After all, the man's killed most of the nobles in the country, as well as bishops, freemen and anyone who gets in his way. It must be a favour. What could Ethel have done for William that came at so high a price?’

  'He didn't turn up at Hastings – perhaps William's rewarding those who stayed out of it?’ Hermitage speculated, knowing absolutely nothing about what nobles and the like were supposed to do in battles.

  'He didn't, did he?’ Wat said slowly. He thought some more.

  Aethelingus had now been released completely from his capture and was exchanging quiet words with Ethel. Logs stood loyally to one side, looking at the pile of wood that had been ready to take his life. There was almost disappointment in his face.

  'Just standing on the sidelines isn't enough,’ Wat concluded. 'There had to be more.’

  They stood in silent contemplation.

  'You know what I've always thought was odd?’ Hermitage broke the quiet and asked, as if he was about to comment on the finer points of church regalia.

  'What's that?’

  'Why William attacked when he did. When King Harold came to De'Ath's Dingle he was very angry that William had arrived unannounced. Harold had to come running down from the North.’

  'And?’ Wat wasn't getting this.

  'How did William know Harold was in the North?’

  'It wasn't a particular secret, and anyway these Kings have spies everywhere.’ Wat's sentence ended with wide eyes.

  'Do you think…?’ Wat asked Hermitage.

  'Oh, frequently,’ Hermitage replied, 'but it usually gets me into trouble.’

  'No, no. I mean, are you suggesting that Ethel is a Norman spy?’

  It was Hermitage's turn to look shocked. 'What? Good heavens no, of course not. Why would you think I was suggesting that?’

  'You asked how William knew Harold was in the North?’

  'Yes, it was just a general observation. As I said, it puzzled me. I mean, I like being puzzled, but I need an answer as soon as possible. I thought we'd finished talking about Ethel.’ Hermitage looked around, hoping that no one had heard this conversation.

  'But it fits,’ Wat conceded. 'If Ethel was William's spy it would explain why he's still alive and what favours he can call in.’

  'That's awful,’ Hermitage said as his despair returned in strength.

  The King's party were getting ready to go back inside.

  'Majesty, we have no one left to execute,’ Grosmal whined. He was fed up.

  'Ah,’ William recognised the problem. He scanned the courtyard and watched as everyone suddenly found something important to do, or look at.

  'Where's that other monk gone?’ Grosmal demanded, seized by sudden inspiration.

  'He ran off with Cotard,’ one of the guards called from the gate.

  'Oh, merde.’ Grosmal spat.

  William clapped him on the shoulder. 'Never mind, let's go and examine de Turold's body, ha ha. That'll cheer us up.’

  As the party left, Wat touched Ethel on the arm. The Saxon turned his meagre and disinterested attention to the weaver.

  'So, Ethel. You persuaded King William to change his mind, then?’

  'So it seems.’

  'You must have been powerfully persuasive. Must have been a significant favour he owed you? And all around the same time you and your brother never quite made it to Hastings. When William seemed to know that Harold was in the North.’

  Ethel just raised his eyebrows, clearly considering Wat's statement needed no response.

  'So?’ Wat wanted an explanation.

  Ethel sighed and leant into Wat, preparing to leave. 'Mister Wat. I'm still alive. You're still alive. Your monk friend is still alive and seems to have acquired a royal appointment. The little band of rebels without a hope is still alive, and yet you want to complain. Why exactly?’

  'I hope you can live with yourself,’ Wat bit back with feeling.

  'For many years. Someone has to keep Grosmal's estates under control.’

  'Keep Grosmal’s estates under control?’ Hermitage wasn't keeping up with the conversation anyway, but this made even less sense.

  Ethel tapped his nose. 'Grosmal is a dangerous loon. He has his uses to King William, though, and I am assured he will soon be off fighting again. Someone has to be steward of the estate while he's gone. Perhaps never to return. I'm told things like that can be arranged.’'

  'You old…' Wat tailed off in disgust.

  'It'll be nice to be in charge of the old place again.’

  Wat had to gape a bit before he could speak. 'Steward of your own estate? By God. Happy under a Norman yoke, eh?’

  Ethel shrugged. 'Don't forget, I only held the estate for Harold anyway. Steward under a Saxon king or a Norman king.’ Ethel held his hands out as if he were balancing two equal weights. Two weights of something equally distasteful. 'It's a life,’ he said, and wandered off after King William, his brother in tow.

  As the party disappeared into the castle, Hermitage and Wat watched Foella run after them. Her gentlemen's gown had acquired a few more rips at strategic places, and her hair had an unnatural lustre. A whiff of Ethel’s candles followed her.

  'So, King William.’ Foella simpered loudly at the King's elbow, fluttering her eyelashes and thrusting bits of herself forward. ‘It’s really lovely to meet you,’ she trilled. ‘Tell me, is there a Mrs William..?’

  [

  Epilogic Prologue

  Hermitage and Wat exchanged looks as the darkness of the courtyard took over from the departing crowd.

  The guards went back to guarding. Scarlan's band were in the cells, and the King's party were probably back by the fire.

  'I suppose we can go now?’ Hermitage suggested hopefully.

  'I suppose we can. And Athan let you go from De'ath's Dingle, remember, so there’s no need to go back there.’

  'Do you think that would be all right?’ Doubts were creeping back into Hermitage's mind. The events at Castle Grosmal had put his old monastery, and his old abbot, completely from his mind. How remarkable.

  'Yes, Hermitage, I do.’ Wat was emphatic. 'Do not go back to that place. You'd be defying your abbot's direct instruction. That must be a pretty serious sin.’

  Hermitage nodded and a smile broke his face. 'I suppose it would.’ He felt liberated and rather bad at the same time. Was he just taking advantage of the situation? He was sure that Athan had not meant him t
o simply wander off after the business at the castle had been resolved. Still, if Athan didn't know, how could he object? Hermitage couldn't decide if Wat was a good or bad influence. Or both. And what were his tapestries really about?

  'So,’ Wat said, rather awkwardly. 'I suppose this is it. The plan to not say a word and go our separate ways.’

  'Oh.’ Hermitage felt a shock run through his system. He had grown used to Wat's company and couldn't really imagine what he would do without him. If he didn't have a monastery wall around him, he imagined the problem would be what the world would do to him.

  'Where will you go?’ Wat asked, although Hermitage thought there was some reluctance in his voice.

  'Oh, er.’ Hermitage had absolutely no idea where he was going to go. Or how he was going to live. Or even for how long he was going to live.

  They were completely alone in the courtyard now, the silence of the night falling around them. Surely this was not the time to be going anywhere. Hermitage decided to find a corner of the castle to sleep in and see what the morning brought. He remembered he was now the King's Investigator. Perhaps some bread might come with that.

  Before he could say anything a lone man ran across the drawbridge and into the courtyard.

  The man stopped and bent double, getting his breath back from a long run.

  When he stood upright he looked around the space and saw Wat and Hermitage.

  'Is Wat the weaver here?’ the man panted.

  'Could be,’ Wat responded coolly.

  'Of course he is.’ Hermitage spoke up, wondering why Wat had given such an odd answer. 'This is Wat.’

  'Thanks, Hermitage,’ Wat muttered under his breath.

  'Thank God I've found you.’ The man strode up to Wat and rested a hand on his shoulder.

  'What is it?’ Wat asked with some resignation in his voice.

  'I've been sent. You have to come immediately.’

  'Sent by whom? Why? And come where? I don't do calls in the middle of the night. Nor can I turn out tapestries that quickly.’

  'It's the market at Baernodebi,’ the man said, as if this was sufficient explanation.

  'I'm sure it is,’ Wat sympathised, 'bit dark for a market though.’

  'We only found him when the market closed.’

  'Found who?’

  The man was sombre. 'There's been a death.’

  Hermitage and Wat's looks were a combination of shock and resignation.

  'Not another one? Are they following us around?’ Wat asked angrily.

  'It's Briston the Weaver – he's been murdered.’

  This really took Wat aback.

  'Briston? Bloody hell. How?’

  'Not nicely,’ the man responded.

  'We need to go, Hermitage,’ Wat said, sincerely saddened and worried.

  'Of course,’ Hermitage said, supporting his friend. 'As you said, it is a bit dark though?’ he added, looking with concern past the drawbridge towards the dark wood.

  Wat tutted.

  'Why did you come here?’ Hermitage asked the man, trying to move on from his natural caution. 'Are you seeking the aid of the castle? Why did you ask for Wat particularly?’

  'Special instruction. Briston left a note.’

  'So he could write?’ Wat was sharp in his surprise.

  'Obviously,’ the man retorted, rather rudely.

  'And you can read?’ Hermitage answered back, and immediately regretted it.

  'Yes,’ the man huffed. 'Well, the big letters. Some of them. The stonemason did most of the difficult bits.’

  'And this note said “if I'm murdered go and fetch Wat, he's at Castle Grosmal”, did it?’ Hermitage was incredulous.

  The man was very impressed. 'How did you know?’

  Finis

  For the next Chronicle of Brother Hermitage, see The Tapestry of Death in which is unravelled the murder of Briston the Weaver.

  As a tempting revelation - or not - the first chapter of this tale is below:

  The Tapestry of Death: Caput I Tie, Die

  The body of Briston the Weaver was tied up. Definitively, comprehensively, and indubitably tied up. All over. From head to foot, he was bound in close fitting cord; apart from his boots, not a peep of his body was visible. Not that Brother Hermitage wanted any peeps of dead bodies.

  Even though he didn't like to disturb the practical details of the world as they passed him by, he could see that someone had done this. It was not the sort of thing anyone could manage to do to themselves. In fact, there was more tying up than body, which raised interesting questions of nomenclature.

  The fellow who had summoned him and Wat the Weaver to this gloomy place stood respectfully by the entrance of the canvas mausoleum. Perhaps out of respect for the dead, but more likely because Wat had said, “Move and you're dead” when they entered the tent.

  'Not Briston.'

  Wat's voice was intense as he looked down on the tied up body.

  Hermitage gave his companion a few quiet moments for contemplation while he thought about this. Perhaps it shouldn’t be tied up Briston at all. Maybe Bristoned tying up?

  The dull light of an oil lamp hanging from the centre of the tent dropped slowly on to a sad scene, somehow made more poignant by being at this early hour of the night. Poor Briston's body had expired with the setting of the January sun, and his soul's journey faced the long darkness of a winter night. The lamp was old and the oil was cheap. The light was not comforting and seemed to press on Wat's drooping shoulders.

  'We've been forced to look into two deaths now, Hermitage, and I couldn't have given a hoot about either of them. But Briston?'

  Hermitage, still recovering from the rush to get here, didn't have the breath to chide his friend for thinking ill of the departed. Albeit that the particular departed they'd just dealt with had been an old monk due to die anyway, and a rather despicable Norman.1

  He also didn't like to interrupt. For once. There was real emotion in the weaver's words. Hermitage relied on Wat as his rock. A firm, steady presence in the face of life's travails. Wat could always find some note of optimism, even when Hermitage's execution was being arranged, usually for the deaths he was actually investigating.

  His lungs told him they hadn't been full since they set off at a run from Castle Grosmal, which was only round the corner really. He was still young, even a couple of years younger than Wat, but life had prepared him for mental rather than physical exertion. He saw his appointment as King's Investigator, first by Harold and now by William, as an opportunity for careful thought and analysis. If the job was going to involve a lot of running around, he might have to resign. He imagined resigning from a job King William gave him was quite straightforward. You died then you didn't have to do it anymore. If you weren't old enough for death, or just weren't keen on the idea, you simply carried on.

  'We go so far back.' Wat was shaking his head and running his hands over his face. 'And, he was my age.' Wat seemed to find this fact particularly unbearable. 'At twenty-something, you think you'd have a good ten years left at least.'

  On their journey, Hermitage had tried to get more information about the victim, about Wat's relationship with him, and about weaving in general. Wat always seemed reluctant to discuss his trade.

  'All will be revealed, Hermitage,' was all Wat would say. 'All,' he added, as if the Book of Revelation was going to be explained. But that needed no explanation as it was as clear as day to Hermitage.

  'You,' Wat snapped, emerging from his reverie and striding across the tent to the man by the entrance, whom he grasped firmly by the throat. 'What do you know about this?'

  Wat gestured to where Briston lay, like some awful caterpillar.

  The ex-weaver's tent was the last thing standing from that day's Great Market of Baernodebi, a title so adrift from reality it had floated over the horizon. It may have been great once upon a time, but certainly not in living memory. The truly great markets of Lincoln or Nottingham with their bustling business, bubbling w
ith the raucous energy of a hundred tradesmen, were magnificent places. Still further afield, markets in Norwich or the amazing London were simply dazzling. Exotic goods and people jostled with rich merchants, nobles, and the ordinary man. Even if you had nothing to buy you would go, simply to gawk at the marvels brought to your doorstep.

  If you wanted to gawk, you could also go to Baernodebi. You'd want to gawk from a distance, preferably up a hill and most certainly up wind, and if you did gawk close up, it was essential you didn't touch anything. Quite apart from the risk of disease, the merchants were a jealous lot. The slightest hint of a sale would have the purse out of your breeches before you could say, 'Do you mind?'

  Hermitage had noted the place was deserted when they arrived. Only Briston's tent remained standing in the small square field surrounded by hovels. If just three hovels can surround anything. True, everyone else had departed with the falling sun, but it had also been the case that Briston was the only trader who had a tent.

  'What do you know?' Wat repeated slowly, having had no reply.

  Hermitage gently touched his friend's arm and indicated that the man in Wat's grasp was being most effectively throttled and couldn't get a word out. Wat let the man go, but a glare kept him in his place.

  'Nothing,' the fellow croaked. 'I just brought you the news. I found him after the market closed. Everyone else had gone, but his tent was still up. I thought he was probably doing business and obviously didn't want to get too close.'

  Hermitage frowned at this piece of information. It sounded like some sort of contagion. It was only weaving. Perhaps Briston did business with nobles and well-to-do folk and so couldn't be interrupted. Hermitage remembered the market field and the hovels, and thought it highly unlikely a noble would come anywhere near the place. The Normans had been in the country for months now, ravaging, pillaging, and just plain stealing everything that wasn't nailed down. Even they hadn't touched Baernodebi market, and their standards were remarkably low.

  'And, when you did get close?' Wat demanded.