Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

by Howard of Warwick

  Hendig was now moving some of the straw around with the toe of his very nice shoes.

  ‘And you know all about Gilder’s business as well – including the nasty bits.’

  ‘Oh, Hendig.’ Balor shook his head in solemn disappointment.

  ‘But I didn’t kill him,’ Hendig defended himself. ‘Why would I? If he was paying me? I stand to lose a lot of business now he’s dead.’

  ‘You stand to lose a lot more than that,’ said Wat.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Now that Gilder is dead, what do you think all those people who got nasty messages from him would like to do to his messenger?’

  Hendig swallowed.

  ‘So,’ said Wat, apparently happy that Hendig would tell them whatever they wanted, ‘why did you go to Gilder that morning?’

  Hendig took one last look round the room, as if he might not see it again. ‘He told me to. On the Tuesday afternoon he said he’d have an important message for everyone, the monks, the nuns and the moot. But it had to wait ‘till Wednesday.’

  ‘The monks, the nuns and the moot?’ Hermitage wondered what Gilder could have to say to them all.

  ‘That stinking sycophant of a monk, that foul harpy of a nun and the dung swallowing idiots of the moot is what he actually said,’ Hendig quoted.

  Hermitage tutted at the unnecessary details.

  ‘And when you got there he was dead. No sign of anyone else at all?’ Wat checked.

  ‘No,’ Hendig shook his head, ‘even Eggar had gone. I thought that evil old man might have at least stayed around to rob the corpse.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you what the message was going to be?’

  ‘Never told me anything in advance.’

  ‘But you remember all the things he did tell you.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Hard to forget most of ‘em,’ Hendig acknowledged. ‘And I know full well why everyone hated him. They had very good reason.’

  ‘Had you taken messages to the monks, nuns and moot before?’ Hermitage asked.

  ‘Not together,’ Hendig replied. ‘Separately they all had a fair bit of exchange with the old man. None of it friendly.’

  ‘Not even the abbot?’ Hermitage checked. ‘I thought you said the abbot was in Gilder’s good books.’

  ‘He was,’ Hendig confirmed, ‘and Gilder hated that as well. He hated people who hated him, and those who didn’t. At least he was consistent.’

  ‘And the moot?’

  ‘Oh, he really hated the moot.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, some of them weren’t under his thumb. The Ealdorman is a rich enough merchant. Had no time for Gilder. As a result Gilder hated him.’

  Wat stood now and paced around the room, his face creased in thought.

  Hermitage scratched the back of his neck, and found that something from the straw had jumped up and was trying to eat him. He pinched the flea away with a grimace and threw it to the floor.

  Cwen stood with arms folded, examining the two young men as if the answer was written on their faces. ‘What message would Gilder have for all three?’ she asked the air. ‘The abbot might be about his rent, the nuns about their nunnery and the moot? Who knows? Maybe he’d got something over the Ealdorman at last?’

  There was more thought in the air as the three of them pondered the problem. Neither Hendig nor Balor seemed ready or willing to offer any suggestions.

  Wat broke the silence with a clap of the hands. ‘We shall just have to ask them,’ he said brightly.

  Hermitage marvelled again that the weaver always took the direct approach where he would be much more circumspect. Often so circumspect that he circled the problem completely and ended up back where he started without ever coming near to an answer.

  ‘All of them?’ said Cwen. ‘That could take some time. We have got to get to Derby, you know.’

  Hermitage had almost forgotten about Derby in the chaos of events.

  ‘We’ll split up then,’ said Wat. ‘I’ll do the moot, Hermitage can do the abbot and you can do Abbess Mildburgh.’

  Hermitage thought that seemed sensible.

  ‘Why do I have to do the nuns?’ Cwen demanded. ‘Just because I’m a woman?’ Her glare demanded an answer.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Wat, soothingly. ‘It stands to reason. Hermitage is a monk and will be best to talk to an abbot. I’ve had years dealing with merchants,’ he took a breath, ‘and you? Well, I don’t know about Hermitage, but Abbess Mildburgh scares the leggings off me.’

  Caput X

  Nuns in The Nunnery

  For a wandering order of nuns, the sisters of saint Mildburgh were rather difficult to locate. And it didn’t seem to be because they kept moving.

  After a very heated discussion with Wat about whether he was implying that Cwen was scary, and if he was she’d tear his ears off and then see what he had to say about her, she reluctantly accepted that he and Hermitage were probably best allocated to their respective tasks. Hermitage had also made it quite clear that one private conversation with Mildburgh was all anyone could be expected to cope with in one lifetime.

  Of course it was quite possible that the nuns wouldn’t even talk to a man, let alone admit one to their presence. Mind you, the abbess didn’t seem in the least perturbed at the prospect of biting the heads off the entire moot, who were all male and who all cowered in her presence. It was more likely that the men would not admit a nun into their presence, at least not without protection of some sort. As she thought about her mission more, she concluded she quite liked the abbess.

  The three of them had split up at Balor’s door, with strict instructions that neither of the young men were to leave town. To ensure this order was complied with, Wat went and got them a bottle of strong mead which they climbed straight into.

  The first person Cwen asked about the nuns simply crossed himself vigorously and ran away. And it had been a perfectly civil question.

  Next she stopped a woman who was clearly on her way to the market. The woman looked surprised at the question and appraised Cwen with a frank evaluation. She leant forward and put a comforting hand on Cwen’s elbow. ‘Don’t, dearie,’ she said, ‘you’re still young. No need for that,’ and she hurried on.

  Cwen looked after the woman, thinking that Hermitage might be right. The town was mad.

  Next she tried a boy, obviously in the middle of some urgent errand or other.

  ‘Nuns?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cwen, trying her best not to sound impatient. What little experience she’d had of children had not made their behaviour any more acceptable. They seemed quite charming at a distance, but when you got close they were revolting, especially the tiny ones. When they were babies their bottoms didn’t work properly and when they grew up it was their noses. It was like they were put on earth just to leak stuff. ‘They’re like monks who are women,’ she explained.

  ‘I know what a nun is,’ the boy replied impudently. ‘Ow,’ he added when Cwen smacked his ear.

  ‘So where are they?’ Cwen demanded, putting her face in direct line with the child’s.

  ‘What did you hit me for?’ the boy complained, rubbing his ear and taking a step back.

  ‘Because you were cheeking your betters,’ Cwen explained, trying to keep the snarl out of her voice.

  ‘I’m the one who knows where the nuns are,’ the boy retorted, before sticking his tongue out, dodging Cwen’s next blow and skipping off down the street making very rude noises and a wholly un-childlike gesture.

  Cwen took a deep breath.

  The next person was a young girl of a few summers less than herself. Probably about fourteen and in the first stages of womanhood.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, working very hard, ‘I’m looking for the nuns of St Mildburgh.’

  ‘What?’ the girl replied.

  It seemed a bit abrupt but perhaps Cwen had disturbed a train of thought.

  ‘The nuns of Saint Mildburgh?’

&
nbsp; The girl looked at Cwen as if she’d been accused of something. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I’m only asking,’ Cwen contained her impatience.

  ‘God,’ the girl exclaimed. It sounded like Cwen was the very last straw in what had been a very long and trying day.

  ‘Do you know?’ Cwen asked as quietly and sweetly as she could.

  ‘No,’ the girl spat back. She looked Cwen straight in the eye, ‘Stop bothering me.’

  Cwen hardly thought she’d been bothering the girl. It was one simple question.

  ‘I hate you,’ the girl concluded and flounced off.

  Cwen had not the first clue what the hell that had been all about.

  She looked up and down the street. ‘You,’ she called to a man of middle years who was just walking along minding his own business.

  He looked over at Cwen and smiled. Stepping across the street he drew close and doffed a floppy cloth hat he was wearing. ‘How may I be of service, dear lady?’ he asked, bowing slowly at the waist. He stood upright and smiled again, looking Cwen in the eyes and giving her a rather peculiar raise of the eyebrows.

  Cwen frowned. ‘I’m looking for the nuns of Saint Mildburgh.’

  ‘Really?’ the man said slowly, as if disappointed to hear this. ‘Do you know them, my dear?’ He touched Cwen lightly on the arm at this question.

  She resisted the urge to slap his face.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied firmly, ‘I know the abbess very well.’

  ‘Oh,’ the man almost squeaked. He stood upright, took half a pace back and put his hat on again. ‘You’ll probably find them at the hall of mistress Hild. She usually gives harbour, I mean shelter to the nuns when they are not about on their, erm, mission.’

  ‘And that’s where?’

  ‘Oh, er, up the street and away to the left. Can’t miss it.’ The man seemed in an awful hurry to get away.

  Scowling after him, and generally at anyone else close enough, Cwen walked on up the slight hill in the direction indicated. Word of what she was looking for seemed to have spread and several people crossed the road to avoid her.

  Further up the hill she came to a narrow passage that opened to her left and she peered down it, shaded as it was by overhanging buildings. It was more like a tunnel than an open street, but as she watched, someone came out and walked off down the road.

  This could be the spot so she entered and her eyes quickly adjusted to the light. They then adjusted to the sight of two nuns, standing like guards, outside a building on the right hand side of a small courtyard hidden at the end of the alley. They weren’t conversing with one another, nor did they seem to be taking any interest in anything around them. It didn’t look like they had come out of the building to relax or take the air. Relaxation was not an idea that would dare interrupt these two in whatever it was they were doing.

  ‘I’m looking for Abbess Mildburgh,’ she said, standing before them with hands on hips.

  One of the nuns looked at her, the other continued to stare at the building opposite.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ the nun asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cwen, a bit puzzled by the reply. ‘Is she in?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do,’ she made it quite clear, without understanding what on earth was going on here.

  The nun screwed up her eyes and appraised Cwen. ‘Novices are Monday,’ she said.

  ‘Are they,’ Cwen replied, her ire having a good old stir deep inside. ‘Fascinating,’ she added. ‘Now. Abbess Mildburgh. Tell her Cwen the weaver wants to see her, and it’s about the murder of Gilder.’

  The other nun now woke from her study of the architecture of the courtyard, looked at her companion, who nodded, and hurried inside.

  Cwen had never called herself Cwen the weaver before. Wat was the weaver, she was just Cwen. Now she’d said it out loud, she quite liked it. Be a bit confusing though if they were both called “the weaver”. Never mind. Wat would have to come up new name. Perhaps just “Wat”.

  After a moment’s wait, during which the remaining nun said nothing at all, her sister returned and beckoned that Cwen could enter.

  Giving what she hoped was a dismissive glance at the awkward nun, she entered the house.

  As was common to buildings such as this, the entrance itself was quite modest, but opened into a rather grand space of light and air. A small courtyard, with a single small tree growing in the middle, gave off to a number of rooms which opened onto the middle of the house. The place was immaculately clean, the floor was swept and the tree was neatly trimmed – almost unnaturally so.

  Without any indication that Cwen could detect there was suddenly a nun in the room. She controlled her surprise but was sure the woman hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  ‘I shall take you to sister Mildburgh,’ the nun spoke quietly but with a tone which said Cwen was going to be taken whether she liked it or not.

  She led the way through one of the courtyard doors into a large room, long, tall and lined with wood panelling. The floor, like the courtyard was as clean as it could be while windows high in the walls were shuttered to stop the sunlight cavorting in the space. The room contained two seats and two people, and that was it. Not a hint of decoration or comfort disturbed the austerity. The chairs looked functional and positively painful. Hermitage would love this, thought Cwen.

  The nun left Cwen and she faced the abbess and another woman.

  ‘Abbess Mildburgh,’ she began, not having really thought what it was she was going to say when she found these people.

  ‘Sister,’ the abbess corrected.

  ‘But,’ Cwen was confused, the moot had caller her abbess, and surely she was one.

  ‘I am a humble sister until our establishment is restored. If I am lucky enough to be alive for its dedication, only then shall I call myself abbess. Until them, I am Sister Mildburgh.’

  The response on the tip of Cwen’s tongue was “please yourself”, but this did not look like a woman who had pleased herself for quite some time. But another thought disturbed her. ‘Still alive?’ she asked. What did the woman mean “still alive”? Maybe she did have something to do with the death and was anticipating execution.

  ‘It may take so many years to complete that I shall have passed on the burden to my sisters,’ Mildburgh said, solemnly.

  To Cwen’s ear it sounded like this woman did everything solemnly and that her favourite thing was probably a burden. A good, heavy one. With a prickly undershirt.

  ‘And Gilder was to pay for this?’ Cwen asked. Get straight to the point, she told herself, then she can leave.

  ‘He was,’ Mildburgh nodded. ‘Although mistress Hild was to help.’

  The woman sitting with Mildburgh, who must be Hild, nodded in acknowledgement. For someone who was not a nun, she looked as miserable as one. Perhaps forty years old or so, her clothes were extremely plain but of very fine quality, Cwen could see that. They were also extremely black. These fine garments managed to hang on her as if they were just about to be taken down from the gallows and buried, the final twitches of life having departed.

  Hild’s body was interred in these layers of darkness but her face emerged, pinched and mean. It would have looked at home in a family of weasels; probably belonging to the aunt weasel who even the other weasels thought was a nasty piece of work.

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Cwen asked. ‘From what we’ve heard, he wasn’t the sort to throw his money around. Let alone to religious communities.’

  Sister Mildburgh stared at Cwen with plain astonishment. She was clearly not used to being questioned. Hild’s face had also transformed into a weasel shocked at the impudence of young weasels these days, the only appropriate course being to bite their heads off.

  ‘Gilder’s intentions are, I believe, nothing to do with you,’ Mildburgh said, the words just making it out between grinding teeth.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Cwen brightly, ‘as you know we’re investigating the murder.’ There was no way she
was going to let this sour old witch get the better of her. ‘With the King’s Investigator,’ she laid it on thick.

  ‘So, you still believe it was murder then,’ Mildburgh said with some satisfaction. ‘I spoke to your peculiar monk and told him I could see no reason for an investigation.’

  Cwen ignored her. Which obviously caused the most enormous offence. ‘And we’re looking into his affairs,’ she went on, ‘and the promise to the nuns seems odd.’ She raised her eyebrows.

  Mildburgh glared at Cwen. ‘He knew what was good for him,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Cwen. It sounded like a threat that if Cwen knew what was good for her, she’d stop asking questions.

  ‘If ever there was a man who needed to make recompense for his life on earth it was Gilder. What better way than to fund the restoration of our order?’

  Cwen thought for a moment. ‘Hm,’ she pondered, ‘was that his idea, or yours?’

  Mildburgh almost boiled over, which satisfied Cwen enormously. Even Hild twitched on her seat.

  ‘I fail to see,’ Mildburgh said very slowly, ‘what this has to do with the murder. I don’t for a moment imagine you are suggesting that we know anything about it. The murder is a tragedy, as all murders are, and it makes the funding of the nunnery more problematic. Although Gilder was a man of enormous sin, with the necessity for equally enormous repentance, his death is a matter of great regret. His maker will deal with him now though.’

  ‘Quite harshly I expect,’ said Cwen, ‘given that he didn’t have time to save himself by building a nunnery.’ She gave the statement a hint of question, it only occurring to her now that the nuns may have already got the money, by fair means or foul. Their complaints may be a ruse to divert attention and in a few months a mysterious nunnery would appear. No wonder Mildburgh had wanted to stop the investigation. Good heavens, she was starting to think like Wat and Hermitage.