Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  'Nah, permanently in the house of Margaret now, he is.’

  'Aha,’ the cart man sniggered.

  Hermitage and Wat looked to one another, each convinced that this was all very interesting and was just the sort of thing they would want to explore, just not now. Not until their bodies, inside and out, had recovered from being dragged across the known world.

  Wat waved a hand to indicate they would enter the building and led the way through the door.

  The space inside was mostly unremarkable, being a plain dwelling for two people. A cot in one corner, big enough for a man and his wife, an inglenook fireplace for cooking and heat, and a rude table and chairs resting on the dirt floor.

  Various tools of the kitchen and the field were either propped in corners or hung from convenient beams. Sprigs of dried and drying herbs were scattered here and there and a loaf of simple bread lay on a small stool in the fireplace.

  Above the fireplace hung something far from simple, something which stopped the place being completely unremarkable.

  A sword. Wat's mouth was open, and Hermitage looked at the weapon with a puzzled expression.

  Swords of all shapes and sizes gave him the shivers but this one, in this place, struck him as an anachronism. He was as nonplussed as the time he’d burst into an old Abbot’s chamber with exciting news about the Apocrypha, only to find him chastising a woman of the village in a manner that looked far from biblical.

  As he reasoned his way through his reaction he concluded that he had been in many humble places, frequently a lot more humble than this, and he had never seen a sword. In fact he very seldom saw a sword from anything other than the pointy end.

  And wasn't it the case that peasants weren't allowed to have weapons? Being a monk he had very little knowledge of the proprieties, but he’d observed the standard peasant defence against a sword was some sort of stick. Usually a rather poor one, which lasted no time at all. He tried to get his mind back on the topic in hand.

  While this interesting internal inquiry continued, Wat walked up to the fireplace and raised his arms to lift the weapon down from the hooks that held it in place.

  Hermitage observed that Blamour and the cart driver were looking at the thing with some awe.

  Wat brought it down and turned to display it to the audience, doing so in the manner of a proud father showing his newborn son.

  Now Hermitage had a close look at the sword it did look like quite a good one.

  'Where the hell did he get this?’ Wat asked, his voice prodded back into operation by the sight of the sword.

  Blamour and cart man offered no explanation, they stood looking at the weapon, looking from some distance, as if afraid the thing would leap out of Wat's hand and kill them of its own accord, such was its quality. They shook their heads.

  'What's a peasant doing with the sword of a knight?’

  Ah, thought Hermitage with some satisfaction, he was right about peasants and swords then.

  ‘This thing's worth more than his house,’ Wat shook his head in wonder.

  That did surprise Hermitage. It was a great disappointment that a weapon of death should have more value than the home of a humble man, but his betters had frequently explained that this sort of thinking was just part of the whole Hermitage problem, as they called it.

  The sword was nice though. It shone as if it had been carefully polished, not like the sword of the humble soldier that, though sharp, was not really for display. Those weapons were variously used for hitting people, killing animals, digging roots, cutting up wood and stirring pots. The fine metal in Wat's hand had never lowered itself to such menial tasks.

  The handle of the thing was a simple cross piece to protect the hand of the user, so why it needed to be set with sparkling jewels was beyond Hermitage. But then sword manufacture was not one of his subjects.

  'Did he steal it?’ Wat asked in disbelieving tone.

  There was no reply from either of the locals.

  'Unlikely,’ Hermitage put in, 'I imagine the penalty for such an act would be quite severe.’

  The others nodded grimly.

  'And a thief would hardly be likely to display the thing in so prominent a spot,’ said Wat.

  ‘He found it?’ Hermitage offered.

  ‘If you find a thing like this,’ Wat explained with some feeling, ‘you hand it in. Straight away. And hope you’re allowed to keep your hand.’

  'It belonged to him?’ Hermitage didn’t think that was likely at all. He nodded a thought through his head. 'Perhaps it was a family inheritance? The last thing left from a once powerful family fallen low?’

  'Lallard?’ Blamour laughed heartily, 'there's nothing powerful about the Lallard family. Unless you count the smell.’

  Hermitage raised his eyebrows at the man, encouraging him to continue.

  'If Lallards was nobles they’d have a motto. Probably be “Find a good days work and avoid it,”' Blamour and cart man had a good laugh at the expense of the dead man.

  'Well what did he do?’ Hermitage pressed, 'he must have had some function, he has a hovel all to himself after all.’

  'Aye,’ Blamour nodded, 'he did have some skill at the hunt, supplied game to the Bonneville table mostly. Kept bits for himself of course, but he could fell deer and snare rabbit pretty smartly.’

  'And that's why he lives here?’

  'Poitron give him this place,’ Blamour didn't seem impressed at such blatant favouritism and unnecessary largesse.

  'Poitron?’ Hermitage wondered what a Poitron was.

  'Lord Bonneville's man, manages most of the place for the big house, doles out hovels and jobs and the like.’

  'Ah, I see. And he gave this place to Lallard in return for supplies to the table.’

  'That's about it. Always did have ideas above his station did Lallard.’

  'Maybe the sword was a gift?’

  'A gift?’ Wat rejected the idea with a snort, 'who'd give a rabbit catcher a sword worth five years’ work? Doesn't sound like anyone even liked him very much.’ He raised an eyebrow to Blamour, who did not disagree.

  The discussion lapsed into silence as the men gazed at the sword with awe and puzzlement. No more suggestions were offered to explain the presence of this magnificent thing in so unmagnificent a place.

  'Could he have made it?’ Hermitage asked, reasoning that swords had to be made somewhere, by someone.

  Three snorts threw this suggestion away.

  'He may have been able to kill a deer but he couldn't put the third leg on a stool without it falling over.’ Blamour noted.

  'And where's he going to get a forge, and the metal, and the jewels?’ Wat added, he looked closely at the blade, 'good God this thing's pattern welded.’

  Blamour and cart man stepped up to gaze closely as well.

  Hermitage desperately wanted to know what on earth pattern welded meant but didn't like to ask three men who clearly knew very well.

  'It means many layers of metal have been beaten together, over and over again to make the blade,’ Wat explained to Hermitage's grateful nod, 'it takes months and costs a fortune. This sword isn't worth more than Lallard's house, it's worth more than most of the village.’

  Hermitage lapsed back into thought.

  'Reward,’ he said.

  'Reward?’ Wat asked. At least this suggestion wasn't squashed at birth.

  'Yes,’ Hermitage went on, 'he didn't steal it, it wasn't his to begin with and he didn't make it. What other means would you have for getting a sword?’

  'You could be stabbed by it?’ Cart man offered.

  'You don't normally get to keep the sword that stabs you,’ Hermitage pointed out.

  'Unless it goes a long way in somewhere very nasty,’ Blamour snorted a crude laugh.

  'In which case you're hardly likely to be in any condition to display the thing on your wall,’ Hermitage dismissed the unhelpful speculation. 'No, the other reason you get a sword like this is someone gives it to you, as a rewar
d.’

  'Like a knight?’ Wat asked.

  'Exactly,’ Hermitage followed the thought, 'a knight performs some noble deed for his lord, or his time comes to inherit his title and he gets his sword.’

  'Well yes,’ Wat accepted, 'but I don't think we're in the home of a knight.’ He looked around at the piles of humility in the corners of the room.

  'Obviously he wasn't a knight,’ said Hermitage, agreeing with Wat's observation, 'so perhaps he performed a service for someone and they gave him the sword?’

  He thought for just a moment longer and then realisation jumped up and down inside his head, waving its arms. He felt his face light up and saw Wat reach the same conclusion at the same time.

  The weaver’s face was instant warning but Hermitage’s mouth was already open with the conclusion dangling from his lips. He saw the look and bit his tongue, which was quite painful but at least stopped him speaking.

  'Had erm, Lallard done any great deeds for the Bonnevilles?’ Wat casually asked Blamour.

  'Lallard hadn't done any great deeds for anyone, ever,’ the old man was confident, ‘and anyway, while the Bonnevilles aren't actually a bad lot and might reward someone, I don't think even they're rich enough to go throwing swords like that at someone who does them a bit of a favour. Even a great big one.’

  Hermitage now wished the two men would go away so he could discuss all this with Wat. It was clear to him why this Lallard had been given the sword, and by whom. The two locals seemed in no hurry to leave though, staring at the sword as if it was giving off heat.

  'Well,’ said Hermitage, rubbing his hands in the manner that tells your visitors you’ve got something far more interesting to do than spend any more time with them, ‘we’d better be getting on with the investigation. Perhaps we’ll go and see Lallard’s wife, what was her name?’

  ‘Cottrice.’

  ‘Yes, Cottrice, she may be able to tell us something.’

  ‘Ar, suppose,’ said Blamour, acknowledging that their time in the company of the lovely sword was coming to an end. 'Course,’ he went on, clearly having something to add, ‘we don’t know if this has anything to do with the other murders.’

  'Other,’ Hermitage said, but his voice stopped working after the first word. He started to sit again and Wat just managed to take one hand off the sword and move the stool from the fireplace so it sat under the falling figure of the monk, who descended neatly onto the household loaf of bread.

  'Murders?’ Hermitage squeaked, 'other murders?’ He didn't know which word was worse, murders or other.

  'Oh yes. Come to think of it, we reckon one of them was done with a sword.’

  'One of them,’ Hermitage was in a daze and his words were confused.

  'Ar. A sword or something like it. Big and sharp anyway. We're not quite sure how the other one was done at all, given the nature of it. Very peculiar.’

  Hermitage and Wat's looks were shared alarm and worry. Alarm that there had actually been murders and worry that Le Pedvin might have been right. They were now in a village where the lord of the manor went round killing people.

  'Oh,’ Blamour said with some realisation.

  'What?’ Hermitage quaked.

  'It really is a good job you're here isn't it. Only just occurred to me. You can vertigate all the murders in one go.’

  Caput VIII

  The Old Men of the Tree

  'All the murders Wat. The man said we could investigate all the murders.’ Hermitage was sitting on the stool in Lallard’s fireplace while Wat sat on the cot, nursing the sword across his knees.

  'I know,’ Wat replied, deep in his own thoughts.

  Hermitage's thoughts were deep, but so deep he was drowning in them. There were so many, all of a uniformly ghastly nature that it was as much as he could do to breathe normally.

  'It's only a small place, how can they have murders in the plural? And they don't even know how one of them was done.’ Hermitage's outrage was at the village, the murderers, the victims, and Le Pedvin as well as the cart and the boat that brought him to this awful place. That no one knew how one of the murders had been done did stir his interest, but he told it to clear off and leave him alone.

  Blamour and the cart man had finally left them to their own devices. Blamour had promised to go and see how Cottrice was, and whether the King's Vertigator could ask her any questions. He assumed that as Hermitage was a King's Vertigator he could do whatever he wanted.

  Hermitage had shrugged, not even having the energy to correct his title.

  The cart man had simply vanished, probably gone to perform some other awful mission of despair for his master.

  'Le Pedvin was right.’ If Hermitage could have slumped any more he would have done.

  'We don't know that,’ Wat protested, but he didn't sound convinced.

  'He said there'd been murders and there have.’

  'Yes but don't forget Le Pedvin said lots of things, we don't know how many of them were true. Anyway, it sounds like this Lallard chap only died today. Le Pedvin couldn't possibly have known about that.’

  ‘But we know why the poor man had a magnificent sword don’t we?’ Hermitage’s enthusiasm at his deduction had been snuffed out by more deaths.

  ‘Le Pedvin,’ Wat nodded.

  ‘Lallard was Le Pedvin’s man and got the sword for his trouble.’

  ‘A sword probably taken from the dead of Hastings.’

  ‘And one maybe used to commit murder here?’ Hermitage was in two minds about this. On the one hand murder at the hands of a great big sword was pretty awful, but if the murderer himself was dead the whole thing would be a lot easier. Well, a lot less risky anyway.

  'We don’t know that, or that any of the murders are anything to do with the Bonnevilles. Blamour said they were quite a nice bunch. He hardly seems to be living in terror of them, which I'm sure would be the case if they murdered anyone who crossed their path.’

  'Hum,’ Hermitage hummed.

  'Come on,’ the weaver tried to sound encouraging, 'let's not think the worst unless it happens.’

  'I'm only preparing for its inexorable arrival,’ Hermitage stared at the floor, ‘it always seems to be waiting round a corner somewhere.’

  'Let's go,’ Wat stood up and held the sword out in front of him.

  'What?’ Hermitage wondered what his friend had in mind.

  'Why sit here waiting for the world to come to us when we can go out and get it. I've got a mighty weapon and you're the King's Vertigator. I think Blamour's right, we can do whatever we want. Not sure it's a good idea to be letting everyone know you're the King's anything though, particularly if the Bonnevilles are a bad lot.’

  'Couldn't agree more,’ said Hermitage, wishing once again that he wasn't a king's anything, ‘although Blamour’s probably told everyone by now. And what is it we want to do exactly?’ He simply wanted everything and everyone to go away. He wanted the world undone to some indeterminate point in the past when things were clear and straightforward and didn't give him cause to fear for his own wellbeing. He wasn't sure when this point was, or even if it had ever really existed at all, but there had certainly been times when he was less involved in murder than he was now. Certainly less of them.

  'Find things out,’ Wat was trying to sound bright, 'isn't that what you live for, finding things out?’

  'Yes but not things that go round killing people.’ Hermitage wasn't as bright as a candle that went out yesterday.

  'Better that than they come up behind us.’

  Hermitage assumed this was supposed to be a humorous comment.

  'The least we can do is scare people with the sword and see what they can tell us.’ Wat stood and held the thing in front of him, point on the ground as if he was about to engage in some sort of tourney.

  Hermitage looked up from his gazing at the floor, which did little to keep the events of the world at a decent distance, and shrugged reluctant agreement. In any event he would rather be with Wat and a
large sword than on his own in a hovel surrounded by murderers.

  'Right, the middle of the village would seem the best place to start,’ Wat used the sword to point towards the large oak as they stood outside the Lallard hovel.

  He swung the weapon onto his shoulder and set off down the track, Hermitage shuffling along after.

  The hovels of Lallard and Blamour were really little more than sheds, but they did sit alone on the outskirts of the main habitations. The track was only short and led up a very slight incline towards the large buildings which appeared to have turned their backs on the track, looking inwards to the main space of the village which nestled between them. It wasn't a few moments before Wat and Hermitage passed along the rear of one substantial construction, its thatched roof coming close enough to the ground to be touched without stretching. There were only small windows on this face, probably for defence rather than any domestic purpose. If anyone coming down the track wanted to take this place, they would have to come round the front.

  They passed through the narrow space between the end of the building and the great oak tree, probably another deliberate arrangement to stop any attackers getting to the village in force. Make them pass through one at a time and you could pick them off one at a time.

  'Oh that's a big one,’ a voice from under the oak called out as monk and weaver passed by.

  Hermitage turned and saw four old figures in the shade of the oak. They were perched on the trunk of an old tree and looked for all the world as if they were part of it. He was sure that if they didn't move soon, ivy would start to creep up their legs.

  'It certainly is,’ Wat agreed, turning to the old men and bringing his sword back down from his shoulder, 'seen it before?’ He asked, holding the handle out.

  The men appraised it, each in turn, without any obvious recognition.

  'Nope,’ the man who appeared to be the leader announced.