Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

by Howard of Warwick

  With Wat and Cwen happily discussing the size and cost of the tapestry they were sure they could persuade the town to buy, Hermitage dwelt on his situation.

  It was true that no one was asking him to investigate anything, and that he should be very happy that here was a death he was not going to have to look into. It could just get on with it without him going around asking questions and finding out a lot of things he’d really rather not know.

  Since being appointed to his role he had discovered that people could be really rather unpleasant and do some quite revolting things. Surely it was best not to go digging up any more of them.

  But then there was his natural curiosity. Or rather, his unnatural curiosity. There had always been something urging Hermitage to find out about things and it had been getting him into trouble since he’d been able to frame his first impertinent question. But they were frequently harmless questions, even if people usually took offence. The name of a prophet, the interpretation of scripture, why his mother spent all her time with the woodsman, that sort of thing.

  Perhaps this investigation business had ingrained itself too deeply. Mayhap he would never again be able to hear of a death without having to look into it. How awful. And how insufferable for anyone grieving a dear one to have some strange monk wandering up, investigating it all.

  If this was the case, now was the point to resist any temptation. If he started investigating things when no one had asked, goodness knew where he’d end up. He’d go round poking his nose into perfectly innocent business and probably get in even more trouble.

  He felt that if he did this thing, on this occasion he might never be able to stop. It would become some sort of habit, an insatiable urge to investigate all the time. No one would be able to have a simple word with him without him looking into their family, their private life, their friends and enemies and dragging them through the gutter. No. It had to stop here.

  His careful consideration meant that he walked straight into the back of Wat, who had stopped in front of him.

  Wat frowned at him, hard. ‘We’re at an inn now, Hermitage. Get inside and let’s forget all about the death of Gilder.’

  That suited Hermitage no end.

  The inn was a very comfortable place. The doors and windows were flung open to let the summer sun stream in and clear the fog of the previous night. It looked like it had got pretty foggy in here last night.

  Hermitage made the connection from the happiness in the streets to the possibility that last night had been one of celebration. He knew that it was common practice to mark good news with a tankard or two of ale. And to note the arrival of bad news. And to pass the time when there was no news at all.

  From the smell of the place he judged that the news of Gilder had required very large quantities of ale. This would not be the only inn in Shrewsbury and the rest were probably just as bad. The people of the town had clearly gone long into the night marking Gilder’s departure.

  A young girl was sweeping up. Matted straw, sticky with ale was being washed away with the contents of a bucket which were not much cleaner than the floor. She was careful to sweep around the few people of the town who had marked Gilder’s passing so effectively that they could no longer find the way out.

  To the right of the door a large open fireplace sat cold and grey, waiting for the first chill nights to arrive before being summoned back into action. It now contained a dirty old fire dog, two rusty lumps of metal holding the tools for the fire, and two dirty old townsfolk, snoring loudly.

  At the back of the room the barrels of ale crouched. To Hermitage’s mind it looked like they were cowering in the face of some ferocious attack. Two of them were up-ended, indicating that they were empty. One was still in its place, tipped slightly on wooden wedges so the tap was low. Against this another man slept. This one wore the apron of a landlord and he looked like he had been defending the last of his supplies.

  ‘Quite a night by the look of it,’ Cwen observed.

  The girl doing the sweeping looked up. ‘We’re shut,’ she barked. She could only be about fourteen, but already knew how to shout at drunks.

  ‘We’re looking for lodgings,’ said Wat with a smile.

  ‘Hm,’ the girl frowned. ‘What you doing with a monk?’

  Hermitage thought this was quite rude but understandable. Monks in taverns were frequently bad news. They either castigated the clientele or drank the place dry.

  ‘Brother Hermitage,’ he introduced himself. ‘I know,’ he added, quickly, ‘funny name for a monk.’

  ‘If you say so,’ the girl didn’t seem concerned. ‘He’s your monk, is he?’ she asked Wat.

  ‘No, no,’ Wat explained, ‘he’s his own monk. We’re just sort of, together.’

  ‘Oh, ah?’ the girl cast a suspicious eye at Cwen.

  ‘Lodgings?’ Cwen asked with a very firm tone in her voice. So firm it was ready to cross the floor and slap the girl’s face.

  ‘You’ll have to wait ‘till old grumble guts wakes up.’ She nodded towards the sleeping landlord. ‘And that could be a week.’

  Wat surveyed the scene. ‘Everyone happy that Gilder’s dead then?’

  ‘You can say that again. They been going on like this for three days now.’ She was obviously very unhappy at what must have been three days of continuous sweeping.

  ‘Good for business,’ Wat sounded bright.

  ‘It is ‘till you start running out of ale. Then they get nasty.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘There’ll be hell to pay if we don’t have more by tonight.’ She looked at the new arrivals again and seemed content that they weren’t here for ale. ‘Which road you come in by?’

  ‘Over the border,’ Wat explained.

  ‘Ah,’ the girl wanted a different answer. ‘We’re supposed to be getting another cartload of ale from down south but you won’t have seen it. Rumour is it’s been robbed anyway.’

  ‘Footpads in the forests?’ Wat enquired.

  ‘Nah, most likely the Ferret and Falcon at the south gate. Crooked bunch, that lot.’

  Wat nodded, acknowledging the problem that was nothing to do with him. ‘Well,’ he said, trying to sound helpful, ‘when you do run out of ale, why not send everyone to the Ferret and Falcon?’

  ‘And if they haven’t got the ale?’ the girl enquired cautiously.

  ‘That’s their problem.’ Wat chanced a grin.

  The girl smiled in a very unpleasant manner.

  ‘And then you can ask old grumble guts for extra pay, considering all the money he’ll have made.’

  The girl nodded in a very knowing way. Quite inappropriate for a fourteen year old.

  ‘In fact I’d get him as soon as he wakes, when his head still hurts and he’ll do anything to get you to shut up.’

  ‘Lodgings you say?’ the girl asked, now in a much happier frame of mind.

  Hermitage was giving Wat one of his disappointed looks, but the weaver was well used to batting these aside.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Wat.

  He looked to the others and noted that Cwen was kicking off one of the townsfolk who was trying to use her foot as a pillow.

  ‘Preferably not here?’

  ‘There’s a good room out the back,’ the girl offered. ‘How long you here?’

  ‘Oh, just a day I should think. Set off again tomorrow.’

  ‘And you come from Wales?’ the girl sounded impressed.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where you going then?’

  ‘Heading for Derby.’

  The girl sighed, ‘I always wanted to travel.’

  ‘It’s not much fun, I assure you,’ said Hermitage. ‘Far better to be safe behind the walls of a town.’

  ‘Don’t know how safe we’ll be now Gilder’s gone. It was him kept the wolves from the door.’

  This raised some questions in Hermitage’s mind, which always maintained a ready supply. ‘So why is everyone happy that he’s gone?’ he asked.r />
  The girl snorted. ‘Because he was horrible.’

  ‘Horrible?’

  ‘Yes, you know, horrible. Looked horrible, said horrible things, did horrible things, liked horrible things. Horrible.’

  ‘I see. If that was the case perhaps he did not die naturally?’ Hermitage couldn’t help but ask the question.

  Wat sighed and Cwen muttered, ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Shouldn’t think he did,’ said the girl.

  ‘Really?’ Hermitage felt his stomach turn, but couldn’t tell whether this was excitement or worry.

  ‘Didn’t do anything natural, him. Even the grim reaper would think twice about going near Gilder’s place. Rumour was he had a magician up there who kept death at bay with rituals.’

  ‘What sort of rituals?’

  ‘Horrible ones.’

  Hermitage hesitated, he could see the trouble opening up in front of him, but plunged ahead anyway. ‘So, someone could have killed him?’

  The girl laughed, which seemed odd. ‘Killed Gilder? Ha ha. There’s plenty tried over the years. They all ended up having something horrible done to them. No one would dare kill Gilder. We just had to wait until the old devil went of his own accord. And that took long enough.’

  Hermitage felt a relief at this. It wasn’t particularly pleasing to hear that murder had been attempted, but then attempted murder was not his area at all. It was only after the attempt had been successful that he stepped in.

  Hermitage chanced a smile at Wat and Cwen, perhaps this was all the information he needed about the death of Gilder. A very old man had simply died and so there was nothing to be done.

  Just then, the door of the inn was thumped aside and a mass of bodies burst into the place.

  Hermitage was startled and Wat and Cwen stepped quickly aside.

  The girl laughed again. ‘What you up to now, Tom?’

  The press of the crowd pushed against them all and Hermitage relaxed as at least eight children, none of them above seven or eight, shouted and stomped about the place, disturbing the resting patrons who moaned and groaned in their painful sleep.

  ‘We got a new one, we got a new one,’ the child who must be Tom cried out, jumping up and down heavily on both feet at the same time.

  ‘Go on then.’ The girl gestured with a broad grin that the children could take the floor. She smiled at Hermitage and the others and beckoned them to step back.

  Hermitage wondered what on earth was going on.

  The children gathered themselves in a line, each holding the hand of the one next to them.

  At an unseen signal they joined together and started a circle dance, the main step of which was a jump in the air and a crash on the floor with both feet together. In fact that was the only step, and while Hermitage could see the enthusiasm and joy in the faces of the children, he wondered if there was going to be any more to it than that.

  After two or three jumps, the children began a raucous song, shouted in the tuneless voices only children could manage.

  ‘Gilder is de-ad,’ they sang.

  Oh, really, Hermitage scowled. The tune, such as it was, and the underlying sentiment were clearly happy and carefree and that really was not the right sort of thing at all.

  ‘Gilder is de-ad,’ the children repeated, with more jumps and stomps.

  Hermitage shook his head in gentle disappointment.

  ‘God came down from hea-ven.’

  Well, that was perhaps more suitable.

  ‘And bashed him on the he-ad.’

  What?

  The children carried on circling and jumping and stomping and singing and laughing until their own excitement got in the way of their coordination and they collapsed into chaos.

  All the noise had been enough to wake the landlord who was living up to his name and had started grumbling in a threatening manner.

  ‘Out, out.’ The girl shooed the children out of the door with a laugh, and they exited to continue their entertainment in the street.

  As the last was leaving, Hermitage reached out and tapped Tom on the shoulder.

  The boy stopped and turned, his grin turning to puzzlement as he registered the monk.

  Hermitage squatted down to be at the same height as Tom and smiled, which seemed to put the boy at ease.

  ‘That’s a lovely rhyme,’ Hermitage noted.

  ‘We made it,’ Tom announced proudly.

  ‘Very good,’ Hermitage nodded. ‘But at the end of it you say Gilder was bashed on the head?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tom with a happy nod.

  Hermitage wasn’t clear whether Tom was referring to the song or Gilder himself.

  ‘Which I expect you made up to make the song more exciting.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Tom was sombre at this challenge to their reporting. ‘Bashed to bits he was. Head all over the place they say,’ and he skipped from the room.

  Hermitage turned to the others, both of whom had their faces in their hands.

  Caput III

  Definitely Not Suspicious

  ‘You had to ask, didn’t you?’ Wat accused Hermitage when they gathered in their room at the back of the inn. He and Cwen sat on the rough cot, while Hermitage paced up and down the small space.

  ‘You couldn’t just leave everyone happy that he’s dead,’ Cwen joined in.

  Hermitage looked at them both in some confusion. ‘It was only information.’

  ‘Information you didn’t want. You’re not investigating Gilder’s death.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Hermitage with a light laugh. Of course he wasn’t investigating Gilder’s death. What a thing to say. He was just finding some things out. He liked finding things out. That was alright, wasn’t it? Of course, having found out about the bashing on the head, there were now some other things that needed finding out. But that wasn’t the same as investigating. Not at all.

  ‘He was bashed on head by God who came down from heaven to do it,’ Wat pointed out.

  ‘And only then in a child’s song,’ Cwen actually waved her finger at Hermitage.

  ‘Quite. But if Gilder was bashed on the head,’ Hermitage began, interested on a purely intellectual level.

  ‘Which we don’t know,’ Cwen interrupted.

  ‘There would probably be someone who did the bashing.’

  ‘About which everyone is perfectly content,’ said Wat.

  ‘And about which, we do not need to know,’ Cwen added.

  ‘Oh, quite, quite,’ Hermitage reassured them. ‘Still,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you shouldn’t really have people being bashed on the head. It’s not right.’

  ‘So you’d like to know if he was bashed on the head, and if so who did it?’ Wat asked.

  ‘Well,’ Hermitage thought about this. Yes, it would be nice to know. But then things in general were nice to know.

  ‘Investigate, you mean?’ said Wat, with heavy emphasis.

  ‘Oh, er, no, not at all,’ Hermitage objected.

  ‘Sounds like investigation to me,’ Cwen addressed Wat. ‘Take one dead person, find out how they died and who did it? Pretty much what Hermitage does, isn’t it?’

  ‘Because if an evil deed has been done, we simply have to find out about it,’ Wat replied. The two of them seemed to be ignoring Hermitage altogether.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Cwen, ‘I get the evil bit, it’s the we I’m not so sure about. Why do we have to do it? You, me, Hermitage, us, we.’ Cwen waved her arms about to make sure Hermitage knew who she was talking about.

  ‘Well, we don’t,’ said Wat, conclusively, ‘because we’re not investigating.’ Now he turned to Hermitage. In fact they both did. ‘Surely not just because we’re here?’ Wat asked the question of the air. ‘That hardly seems a good reason. By that argument anyone could be excused any action at all as long as they were there at the time.’

  Hermitage was ready to point out the fallacy of that reasoning.

  ‘And just because Hermitage is King’s Investigator? That doe
sn’t stand up either. After all, Hermitage doesn’t actually want to be King’s Investigator.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Hermitage interrupted, not really too sure what was going on. ‘I don’t want to investigate at all. I’m not. I’m only asking.’

  He was only asking and that wasn’t his fault. If someone had had their head spread about the place, it was only right that it should be asked about. That didn’t mean he was investigating.

  ‘Sounds like a job for the sheriff,’ said Cwen.

  ‘The what?’ Hermitage asked.

  Cwen sighed. ‘The shire reeve,’ she said with exaggeration.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Hermitage, tutting. Young people just didn’t speak properly anymore. Then he thought he wasn’t much older than Cwen himself. Those few years between what, seventeen and twenty-something, seemed to make a world of difference.

  ‘No one calls them shire reeves anymore,’ Cwen snorted her derision at old people who couldn’t keep up with the times. ‘It’s pronounced sheriff these days.’

  ‘But the spelling says shire reeve,’ Hermitage pointed out. ‘How is the language going to end up if we start saying things other than the way they’re spelled?’

  ‘Change the spelling?’ Cwen suggested.

  Hermitage was so horrified at this idea that he didn’t know what to say. ‘You can’t change the spelling of a word,’ was all he came out with. Even as he said it he realised it wasn’t a very good argument. Of course you could change the spelling of a word. It was just that you shouldn’t. Not ever.

  ‘Alright, you spell it your way, and I’ll spell it mine,’ Cwen concluded.

  ‘But, but,’ said Hermitage. This was simply unthinkable. What was going on?

  ‘However we spell him,’ Wat stepped in, ‘he can do the investigating and we can not do it. There you are.’

  Well, that doesn’t solve the problem at all, thought Hermitage. But yes, the shire reeve could do it. He did feel relieved at that. ‘We can speak to the,’ he tried the word, ‘sheriff then,’ such impropriety gave him the shivers.

  ‘And why would we do even that?’ Wat asked.

  ‘It is our simple Christian duty to see that there are no suspicions around Gilder’s passing.’