The Garderobe of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  'What good will that do?’

  'I could tell him that I want you looked after, that I'll be coming back, and if any harm comes to you I'll hold him accountable.’

  'That's what King Harold said before he left.’

  'Yes, but I'm not going to a battle, am I?

  'Well, if you think it would help…' Hermitage was disconsolate.

  'Oh for goodness sake, Hermitage pull yourself together. You've decided not to leave and this is the best I can offer. You want me to stay here forever?’

  'That would be nice.’

  'Excellent, no problem.’

  Hermitage brightened enormously.

  'You can pay me the penny a day then.’

  'A penny a day?’ Hermitage gasped at such wealth. 'Every day?’

  'That's what I'm losing by being here.’

  'Oh dear.’ Hermitage's head fell.

  'Come on, let's go and see Athan.’

  …

  Wat led the way through the meandering stonework of De’Ath’s Dingle towards the abbot's chamber. Hermitage followed, impressed that Wat had learned the ways of this rambling place in as little as five months. He even knew to avoid the passages where the stonework had recently collapsed under its own weight. Its weight plus the complete absence of planning, skill or mortar in its assembly.

  As they went the weaver greeted a number of monks personally, even exchanging a few pleasantries. This was more than Hermitage had achieved in two years at De’Ath’s Dingle. He was lucky if a week went by without some practical joke being played upon him.

  There was even an exchange with Brother Stoop, who complimented Wat on the fine stitching of his jerkin. They stopped for a few minutes and discussed the finer points of cloth work, Stoop obviously having some experience of the trade.

  Hermitage felt bitter that this was the same Stoop who regularly sat through the orders of the day poking Hermitage in the side with a specially sharpened stick. Keeping the young Brother's mind on the Lord, he called it. If that was the case, Hermitage felt, there was no need to cackle with every poke.

  As they parted Stoop produced the stick from somewhere in his habit. He waved it at Hermitage with a grin.

  …

  Drawing closer to the abbot's study, occupied by Athan within five minutes of the previous owner's departure, Hermitage started to feel more nervous than usual. For most people this level of terror would be debilitating, but it was pretty normal for him.

  It had been bad enough visiting the study when the old abbot was there. But then that man was just plain insane, so there was no telling what he was going to do. Hermitage knew what Athan wanted to do. The man had even offered to learn to write just so he could give Hermitage a note about it.

  'I'm not sure about this,’ his voice quavered in Wat's ear.

  'Don't worry.’ The weaver clapped a bracing hand on Hermitage's shoulder.

  'Oh, don't do that,’ the monk cowered away.

  Wat did the shake of head in despair which had become almost automatic. Hermitage, who had come to recognise the gesture over the months, tried to do as Wat instructed him. Breath deeply, close your eyes and let the fear flow out of your fingertips. The only trouble was whenever he closed his eyes someone did something to him. Or put his fingertips in something unpleasant.

  He couldn't understand how Wat approached situations without an apparent care in the world. He answered people back, spoke when he wasn't spoken to and pointed his finger at people much bigger than him. Remarkable.

  Wat demonstrated his style by knocking firmly on the study door, then pushing it open before he'd even been invited.

  Hermitage drew in his breath, ready to hold it for as long as necessary. He entered the room and let it out straight away. He didn't recognise the place. It was clean and didn't smell of piss any more. The holes in the walls and ceiling had been patched, fresh straw was scattered on the floor and a fire even had the temerity to dance in the grate. Athan had gone soft.

  Most alarming of all, there was a stranger in the room. There had never been strangers in the study. This put Hermitage completely off his stride. It knocked his attention off his immediate peril and kicked his brain into action.

  The stranger was very well dressed and as thin as ink. He had been in conversation with Athan, but when Wat and Hermitage burst in he moved his head rather slowly round to face them.

  'Ah, what luck,’ said Athan. The friendly smile on his ugly face really put the wind up Hermitage. 'These are the two I was telling you about.’

  'Good morning,’ the stranger intoned in a very educated Saxon accent. 'You must be a monk,’ he said to Hermitage.

  'Er, yes.’ Hermitage looked at his own habit and wondered why there was any question.

  'And how long have you been a monk?’ The stranger asked, making polite conversation.

  'All my life,’ Hermitage responded naturally.

  'Really? I didn't know you could do that.’

  'I had a previous life, but that is gone now.’

  'Ah, I see, very commendable. And you, mister er…'

  'Wat.’

  'Indeed. And I see you are not a monk.’

  Athan butted in. 'He says he's a weaver. Not that anyone’s seen him do any weaving.’

  'Wat the Weaver, eh?’ The visitor recognised the name, and seemed rather disdainful of it. 'I think my brother commissioned, erm, a piece from you.’

  'Really?’

  'Yes. Aethelingus of Saxmundham?’

  'Ah yes, I remember the work.’ Wat spoke directly to the man. ‘In all its detail.’

  Hermitage was fascinated by the tone of this conversation. It seemed a good chance to try the new technique Wat had told him about. ‘Paying attention’, he called it. He said it might avoid Hermitage getting into difficulties quite so frequently with his fellow monks.

  In this case he thought Athan's guest was insulting Wat somehow. He certainly didn't have a high opinion of the weaver's work. The word ‘piece’ had come out as if it was a piece of something really rather nasty.

  Wat's response had also been very pointed – as if somehow blaming the stranger's brother for the work. It must be a fascinating tapestry. Hermitage would have to ask Wat about it later. The weaver was always reluctant to describe his work to the monk. Modesty, Hermitage supposed.

  The stranger went on. 'I'm surprised to find such as you in a place such as this.’ He nodded to indicate the monastic garb worn by Athan and Hermitage.

  This really was fascinating. The stranger was suggesting that De'ath's Dingle was too good for Wat. How bizarre. De'Ath's Dingle wasn't too good for anything Hermitage could conceive of.

  'Ah well, strange chain of events really. And if you're Aethelingus's brother, and therefore a freeman, I'm surprised to find you here as well. Did you miss the King's call to Hastings?’

  'I had other commitments.’ The man dismissed Wat's innuendo with a wave.

  'I never got to meet your brother in person; he had people to do most things for him. How is he?’ Wat seemed keen to press the subject home.

  'Dead.’

  'Ah.’

  'Like so many.’

  'But not all.’ Wat raised his eyebrows, apparently wondering why Aethelred wasn't dead as well.

  'Shall we get on, or we going to start reminiscing about the good old days of the Vikings?’ Athan brought the conversation back to the present with a thump.

  'Absolutely,’ the stranger nodded.

  Athan waited.

  The stranger smiled.

  'Perhaps you could explain?’ Athan said, glaring at the tall man in that way he had. The way that always made Hermitage take a step back.

  'Ah yes, of course. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aethelred of Baernodebi.’ The man said this with an upward lift of his head, as if announcing his arrival at court.

  The nearest village to the monastery would not have held any court. The place was not as grim as the monastery, but it was even more pointless. It only existed as a
marker on the route from Lincoln to the Humber: a single small manor house, the Castle Grosmal and a collection of hovels. A small collection at that.

  'Don't they call it Baernodebi le Wold now?’ Hermitage asked innocently.

  'Some do.’ Aethelred let the words drip out.

  'And what is that brings you to De'Ath's Dingle, Aethelred?’ Wat asked.

  'There has been an incident.’

  'An incident?’

  'Well, a bit of a death really.’

  'A bit of a death?’ Hermitage was puzzled. 'Don't they come in wholes?’

  Wat and Athan exchanged the look of despair.

  'It's a figure of speech, Hermitage,’ Wat explained. 'But what can this have to do with us, or this monastery? We're not associated with the village.’

  'Oh, absolutely. It's just that the Lord of the Manor where it took place wants matters resolved.’

  'I'm sure the local priest could carry out a burial,’ Hermitage offered.

  'Resolved?’ Wat said, emphasising the word. 'What do you mean, resolved? When you say a bit of a death, do you mean a bit of a suspicious one?’

  'Ah, yes. Well, to the nub of it, eh?’

  'Who's dead?’ Wat was being quite blunt now.

  'Chap called de Turold.’

  'Never heard of him.’

  'Well, I don’t expect you move in King William's personal circle.’

  'Oh dear.’ Wat seemed to consider this to be very serious.

  'Quite.’

  'What?’ asked Hermitage, for whom subtlety was a word beginning with ‘S’.

  'Hermitage,’ Wat said, facing his friend, 'you have really got to start paying attention. I know this sort of thing is new to you, but try and learn something, particularly after the last occasion.’ At this he cast a significant glance at Athan, who stared back, daring him to go too far.

  Hermitage started to ponder. 'I shall think it through.’

  'That's the spirit, and try not to think the best of everyone while you do it.’

  'So we're faced with a death, which it appears is suspicious,’ Hermitage began.

  'Good.’

  'And the victim, this de Turold chap, seems to be known to King William.’

  'Therefore?’

  'One of King William's circle has possibly been murdered, and the King probably doesn't know yet.’

  'And when he finds out?’

  Revelation dropped in on Hermitage. 'He won't be happy. And if the King isn't happy, he'll do something to someone. So we need to find out what did happen so that we can tell the King. Before he finds out.’

  'Are you sure about this?’ Aethelred frowned at Athan as Hermitage's reasoning gathered pace.

  'Once he gets going it's quite impressive,’ Wat said.

  'Well, I hope he gets going a bit quicker than this. The King is due to arrive tonight.’

  'Ah,’ said Wat in a very knowing sort of way.

  'Where was de Turold when he died?’ Hermitage's tone was much more business-like now.

  'What does that matter?’ Aethelred snapped back.

  'Ah, somewhere significant then? Was he at home, does he live in Baernodebi le – er, village?

  'No, he was visiting.’

  'Did many people know where he was?’

  'A few, I suppose. I don't follow.’

  'Well, if the murder, let's assume it was a murder,’ Hermitage almost added ‘just for fun’ as he was enjoying this, 'if this murder took place when few people knew where de Turold was, it narrows the possible suspects. Unless it was an accident, of course?’

  'No, no accident,’ Aethelred replied, squirming slightly.

  'I see.’

  'Well, I won't detain you further,’ Athan jumped in. 'You all clear off and deal with this little matter and, erm, let me know how it turns out. If you have to.’

  'I can leave?’ Hermitage's spirits leapt and he shot a pleadingly hopeful look at Wat.

  'You can both leave,’ Athan replied. 'I've recommended the pair of you for this, er, mission. Hermitage can sort it all out and mister Wat can make a tapestry out of it.’

  'Why us?’ Suspicion dripped from Wat’s words.

  'Aethelred here is looking for learned men to study the event and find out what happened. Naturally he came to a monastery.’

  'This one?’ Wat was aghast.

  'Watch it,’ Athan hissed. 'We were closest,’ he explained. 'Naturally when I heard the tale I thought of Hermitage and his little weaving friend, and their remarkable powers of investy-whatnot.’

  'Investigation,’ Hermitage explained.

  'Exactly. Who better to send?’

  'Send where exactly?’ Wat said slowly.

  'The site of the death, of course,’ Athan said with a very large grin.

  'And that would be exactly?’

  Aethelred replied, 'The home of my…' He paused and managed to drag the word out, 'master.’

  'Please, someone, give me a name?’ Wat looked to them both.

  Simultaneously, one in happy tones and one very far from that, Athan and Aethelred replied, 'Lord Robert Grosmal.’

  There was a silence which Hermitage broke with a sob. 'Jesus save us.’

  Caput V

  Half past Seven: Monk to Castle

  Brother Hermitage didn't really know what to do with himself. He was naturally delighted to be escaping the clutches of Athan. He knew what those clutches were like, and what damage they could do.

  He was also delighted he would be spending more time with Wat. He recognised his reliance on the weaver for his supply of information on the norms of behaviour outside of the monastery. Or common sense, as Wat called it.

  Wat himself had not seemed so keen on the passage of events. Obviously the poor man wanted to get back to his trade and this expedition would be a distraction. Hermitage had helpfully suggested that the new Norman nobility might like to commission works from Wat, and the weaver agreed this was a possible upside. If they liked what he did, and some of them were bound to, there would be a whole new market to cater for.

  However, as Wat had then unhelpfully pointed out, the Normans had so far shown a pattern of seeing things they liked and simply taking them. Usually leaving the previous owner in a very poor condition.

  All of Hermitage's positive thinking was being rudely brushed aside by the recognition that he had another journey in front him. Even though this would be a very short one, he did not like journeys. If they didn't start badly, they ended badly. Or they had bad bits in the middle. Sometimes all three. It was only Wat's intervention during his last excursion to Lincoln that had saved his life. At least he would have the man with him from the start this time.

  There would also be Aethelred, of course. Not that he seemed fully engaged with anything. Hermitage knew he could be a bit distant at times, but Aethelred was positively vacant. He answered questions and engaged in conversation, but his mind always seemed elsewhere. The events around him were real enough, but he just wasn't interested in them.

  'So,’ Wat announced as he appeared at the opening to Hermitage's cell, 'ready?’

  'Absolutely.’ Hermitage picked up a small bundle from his cot. Or rather from the space his cot used to occupy until it disappeared one afternoon. It was only as he looked down at the vacant space that he remembered some of the firewood in Athan's study had looked very familiar.

  'Let's go then.’

  Hermitage could tell from Wat's tone of voice that he was not happy. This was one of the new skills he had picked up from the weaver.

  As they left the cell and headed for the main gate Hermitage spoke up. ‘You're not happy.’

  'Well done, Hermitage. No, I'm not.’

  'Why?’

  'I should have left weeks ago when I first said so. Then I wouldn't have been here when the skinny Saxon turned up and I'd be back at my workshop now, making money.’

  'And I'd probably be dead,’ Hermitage added, 'crackling on Athan's fire to keep his feet warm.’

  'The
re is that, I suppose,’ said Wat. It didn't sound like he found the argument persuasive.

  'I don't actually see why you have to go,’ Hermitage said as he thought about their situation.

  'Eh?’

  'As far as I can see Aethelred came here to get a monk to look into this death. I'm sure Robert Grosmal,’ at the name he crossed himself, 'isn't expecting a weaver as well. I could go on and you can go to your work.’

  Wat frowned. ‘A moment ago you were begging me to stay.’

  'Ah yes, but that was because of Athan who wanted to kill me. Aethelred doesn't want to kill me and Robert Grosmal,’ another cross, 'hasn't met me, so won't want to kill me for ages yet.’

  'The murder's got to be solved though.’

  'I can do that.’

  'Really?’ Wat didn't sound convinced.

  'Probably.’ Hermitage didn't sound convinced either. 'I could give it a go.’

  'The place will be full of soldiers and Normans and ordinary people. The type who aren't open to a reasoned argument or a well turned debate. The type who stab first and ask questions later. If they bother to ask questions at all. I'd feel worse leaving you to a place like that than I would leaving you to Athan.’

  'How far away is your workshop?’

  'Derby.’

  'Well, that's not too far. You could head off there while we go to Baernodebi and then catch up with us later.’

  'Not too far? Derby? Have you any idea of geography?’

  'Not really, no.’

  By this time they had reached the main gate where the gatekeeper, Mad Thomas, hopped about shouting at the gate and the people gathered around it.

  There were a lot of people gathered around it. Ordinary working people in ordinary working rags. Aethelred stood out like a stick in a field without any other sticks in it.

  'What's going on?’ Wat asked as they drew up to the man.

  Aethelred gave them his usual disinterested look. 'We're leaving,’ he said simply, 'aren't we?’

  'What, all of us?’ Wat gestured to the throng that was gathered.