'My lord,’ said Foella, in her best come-hither voice.
Robert stayed thither, unmoved.
'Yes?’ he said, eventually checking the alluring figure of Foella up and down.
She wiggled slightly.
'No knife now, then?’ Robert observed, going back to his toenail.
'Er, no.’ Foella was clearly disappointed at the reaction. She stepped closer and sat next to Grosmal on the bench.
'How goes it, my lord?’
'What?’
'How goes it?’
'Yes. How goes what?’
'Oh, you know.’
'No?’
'Well, erm, the, erm…’ Foella floundered around for a topic of conversation. Murder seemed the best option. 'De Turold?’
'Still dead.’ Robert left his toe at this. He looked Foella straight in the eye, which wasn't where he was supposed to be looking at all. 'You said I'd killed him.’
'Ah, well. We all make mistakes.’
'And that he was your husband.’
'Husband to be.’ Foella fluttered her eyelashes.
Grosmal looked at her with a slight frown, as if she had something in her eye.
'But when one door closes…' she suggested.
'What?’
'When one door closes.’
'Which door?’
'It's an expression. When one door closes, another one opens.’
'Are they connected somehow?’
'It means when one opportunity has gone, another one presents itself.’ Patience was not Foella’s strong suit, but this was a special occasion.
'Does it?’
'Oh, yes,’ said Foella, in a sultry tone of voice intended for another time and place all together.
Grosmal at last noticed her gown. 'What's happened to your dress? If one of my staff has damaged it I can have them punished.’
'It's supposed to be like this,’ she said, showing him particularly which bits were supposed to be like what.
'Aren't you cold?’
'My lord,’ said Foella in a very business-like way, putting her hand on his knee.
…
'My lord,’ Ethel called as he and Wat scurried into the room through the kitchen door to the hall.
'What do you want?’ Foella shrieked. 'Get out.’
'But my lord,’ Ethel pleaded to his master.
'Out.’ Foella's shriek, which couldn't have got any higher, got higher.
Grosmal shrugged, indicating Ethel had better do as the lady wanted.
The retainer took Wat by the arm and led him back out of the room, the weaver whispering fiercely in his ear.
'Where were we?’ Foella asked Grosmal, who was the last one to know.
'My lord,’ a whining, simpering voice slid across the floor from the main door and disturbed Foella again.
'O-u-u-t-t-t!' she yelled and stamped her foot for emphasis.
The voice took no notice at all.
'I am the King's Investigator, Brother Simon,’ the voice intoned.
Foella was about to scream again when the word ‘King’ penetrated Grosmal's head. He brushed away Foella's hand, which had made quite a significant ascent from the level of the knee, and stood up.
'King's what?’ He asked.
'Investigator.’ Brother Simon imbued each syllable with its own pomposity.
'What's an investigator?’
Brother Simon seemed a bit puzzled by the question. 'I am commissioned by the King to look into things.’
'What sort of things? Boxes and the like?’
'No, no. Matters.’
'Matters?’
'Matters.’
'People who make mats?’
Something akin to a giggle emerged from the doorway through which Wat and Ethel had recently passed.
'No, no my Lord. Matters. Matters of import, matters of mystery, matters of question. Those sort of matters.’
'And the King wants these things looked into, does he?’
'Oh, yes, my lord.’
'Well I don't think I've got any matters here, so I'll bid you good day. My regards to the King.’
'But my lord, I have heard of a death in this place.’
'So? People are always dying, all over the place. I don't think that counts as a matter.’
'An unusual death, my lord. Possibly a murder.’ Brother Simon gave this word all the significance he could.
Grosmal paled considerably. ‘Did the King send you to look into it?’ he gulped.
'Not directly, my lord. Fortunately I was in the district, giving instruction to the monks of De'Ath's Dingle. Brother Athan, who seems to have installed himself as abbot – with little authority that I can detect – reported the event to me and suggested I should hurry to assist.’
'Ha!' burst from Wat, before he could stop it.
'And why are you a monk? In fact, why are you all monks?’
Simon looked around, apparently puzzled that there weren't any other monks in the room.
'It is my calling, my lord, but there's only me.’
'What about the other one?’
'Other one?’
'Yes. Ethel got me another monk to look into matters. I don't think I need two. Surely the first one can tell you what happened and then you tell the King?’
Simon frowned heavily. 'What is the name of this other monk, my lord?’
'How the hell should I know? I don't keep a book of monk's names.’
'This is very suspicious. Did this other monk have anyone with him?’
'Yes, there were two of them, but the other one wasn't a monk.’
'The monk was a rather young and stupid fellow?’ Simon asked. ‘And was the one with him well dressed and impudent?’
'That's them.’
'Oh, my lord, I fear we have a serious problem. But we may have the answer to the murder.’
There was a clatter behind Simon which made him turn. The sight of Wat the Weaver with a most unfriendly look on his face made the King's Investigator step back towards the safety of Grosmal.
'King's Investigator, eh, Brother Simon?’ Wat asked as he advanced menacingly on the monk, ignoring Grosmal, Foella and Ethel.
'Indeed, you know this to be the case, Mister Weaver,’ Brother Simon sneered.
Grosmal stepped between them and beckoned Ethel. ‘If you have business with the King's Investigator, you shall answer to me,’ he glared at Wat. His glare was always most effective, being that of a madman.
'Which King?’ Wat asked mildly.
'Eh?’ Grosmal didn't understand the question. 'King William, of course.’
'I think not,’ Wat responded. 'Why don't you explain, Brother Simon?’
'There's nothing to explain. I am the King's Investigator.’
'The King who doesn't know you're here and doesn't even know he has an Investigator?’
'You said…' Grosmal started, turning to Brother Simon.
Wat interrupted. 'And I recall you being replaced by the King. Because you were useless. Remember that?’
'Nonsense.’
'Who was King when he was appointed?’ Ethel asked Wat in all innocence, seemingly as a matter of polite conversation.
'Oh, erm, let me think. I know. It was, erm, oh, what was his name? Began with an H. Harold. That’s it, Harold,’ Wat responded.
At the sound of the name Grosmal changed. The lurking beast that floated like scum on the pools of his vacant eyes woke and took control.
Ethel gently tugged Wat backwards out of the way as Robert Grosmal launched himself at Brother Simon.
'Eek,’ the King's Investigator said. He neatly side-stepped as the Norman hurtled by.
Grosmal turned back towards his prey, crouching slightly with arms outstretched as if to prevent Simon escaping. He was breathing heavily and had turned a strange shade of crimson.
'There is no King Harold,’ he snarled.
'No, no, of course not,’ Brother Simon whined as he swayed about, trying not to be wherever the next attack was
going to land.
'The King of this God-forsaken, frozen, piss-puddle of a country is William.’
'Yes, yes, King William. God bless him,’ Simon said very hurriedly.
'So you claim to be King William's Investigator?’ There was a slight undertone of sanity in the Frenchman's voice now.
'Of course, of course.’ Simon nodded with enthusiasm.
'He says not.’ Grosmal pointed at Wat, keeping his eyes all the time on Simon.
'I er, I became his Investigator as soon as our gracious Lord William became King.’
'Eh?’
'I sort of go with the job. I was King's Investigator under King er, the previous incumbent, and so I get passed on to noble, valiant, all-conquering King William.’ Simon seemed quite pleased with this reasoning.
'That doesn't follow,’ Grosmal growled.
'Oh?’ A squeak came from Brother Simon.
'A lot of people who were something under the usurper are nothing now. Isn’t that so, Ethel?’
Ethel simply stood, expressionless.
'In fact,’ Grosmal went on, relatively calm now, 'a lot of people who were something under the usurper aren't even people any more. Well, not living ones. Why should you be different?’
Simon looked around the room for help. It certainly wasn't coming from Wat or Ethel, and Foella was looking on as a completely disinterested observer. So disinterested that she had started fiddling with her gown to see if she could show off any more of herself.
'Well, I, er, wasn't appointed directly by the usurper, of course, it was purely an administrative post. My appointee was the Bishop.’
'Which one?’ Grosmal asked, his voice heavy with suspicion.
'The Bishop of Lincoln, Odo.’
'Also not what he used to be.’
'Really?’ Simon's voice was getting higher and higher.
'Not a Bishop any more. Still living, I think, but not very well.’
'Oh, ah, well, if erm, circumstances have changed then naturally I am at my lord's disposal.’ Simon's thinking found some solid ground and he planted his feet on it. 'In fact, I am only too glad to wait noble King William's pleasure to confirm my position.’
'Really?’ Grosmal insanity was being reigned in.
'Oh yes. And if in the meantime I am able to offer my humble service to your lordship in this matter it would be most gratifying.’
'Oh, knock it off, Simon.’ Wat was contemptuous.
'What services?’ Grosmal asked.
'My investigation skill.’
'Hermitage says it's investigative,’ Wat interrupted with a snort.
'And what good would that be exactly?’ Grosmal's eyes narrowed.
'I could investigate this murder for you, my lord.’
'I've already got someone doing that.’
'Ah, but not someone with my experience. Surely you don't have someone who really was appointed by the usurper?’ He threw this question sideways to Wat, who kept his peace. It was clearly a struggle for him, but he kept it.
'And anyway,’ Simon went on, 'I already know who committed the crime.’
'You do?’ Grosmal was impressed now, 'this is more like it.’ He glared at Ethel. 'Who was it, then?’
Simon drew his spindly shoulders back and thrust forward his spindly nose. 'He did.’ He pointed at Wat.
'You idiot,’ Wat retorted in despair at Simon's stupidity.
'Him and the other monk.’
Wat put his hand on his hips. 'Simon, you've only just walked in the place. You don't know who's dead, how he died or where anyone was at the time. Who knew him, who hated him or who benefits from his death? You know nothing. But then that's pretty normal, isn’t it?
Simon ignored him. 'They are a notorious pair, my lord. Had you but been involved with the matter I have resolved at the monastery in De'Ath's Dingle…'
'Ha!' burst from Wat again. He felt he had several more to come.
'If you had just resolved the most heinous crime perpetrated by this man and his supposed companion, you would have no doubt.’
There was a silence in the room. Wat was shaking his head in disbelief, stunned by the barefaced dishonesty. 'You had nothing to do with it and you know that for a fact. I'm afraid, my Lord Grosmal, that you have before you a monk who lies.’
Simon was standing with a smug look settled comfortably on his face. Ethel was as neutral and disinterested as usual. Foella had finished undoing her dress and was smiling at Grosmal. The Lord of the Manor was thinking.
It was clearly a complex task and was taking up most of his capacity. There wasn't enough power in his head to do thinking and keep an expression on his face, so his features had dropped and his mouth hung open. As the thought processes wound their way to completion his head moved. Slowly his features rolled themselves up again. He looked from Wat to Simon and back again.
He drew breath, 'I knew it,’ he said, staring hard at Wat. 'Guard, take this murderer away.’
Caput XV
Midday: Wood to Castle
Brother Hermitage was disappointed with the rescue party. He would have been disappointed had the gathering been a party in the scriptorium to celebrate his old mentor Brother Timothy's completion of page four of the Book of Genesis. And Brother Timothy was a notorious recluse who had taken a vow of silence.
That it even constituted a party at all was a matter of debate. There were six of them eventually, including Hermitage.
Only six was a worry, and Hermitage thought there ought to be a minimum requirement for this sort of activity. The best first principle he had to go on was that two was company and three was crowd. On this basis Wat was going to be rescued from a heavily defended Norman castle by two crowds. One of these contained Hermitage himself, and he had to admit castle-storming and rescuing were not skills he could call upon.
He had read about them, of course, but in recent times he’d discovered that reading about things was insufficient preparation for when the things themselves turned up. Things in real life were very complicated and had never read the same books.
He was sure castle-storming should have more people. He tried to consider what the collective noun for a crowd would be and was quite pleased with his reasoning until he came up with a crowd of crowds. And even that was only nine people.
On several occasions Hermitage had tried to point out that Wat wasn't in fact a prisoner, that he was just at the castle to investigate the death of de Turold and so didn't really need rescuing at all. Strangely this seemed not to matter to Scarlan.
He had suggested they just go up to the gate and ask to speak to Wat. Someone would probably go and get him. Again, this was not good enough for Scarlan. He said that Wat was a symbol and this was the time for action.
His little band of men were roused by this, and Hermitage rather suspected that was the point. They had all looked a bit lacklustre and frankly bored when Hermitage had first seen them. They clearly needed a purpose in life, and Wat was providing one.
Hermitage's concern was that while the cause may be glorious and just, as Scarlan insisted, their lives would be pointless and short if they tried to extract someone from a fully armed fortress. Someone who didn't need extracting in the first place.
Sigurd was in the vanguard, of course, and he matched the requirements of the role perfectly. Hermitage imagined he could climb ladders, leap across gaps, hit people, everything the modern castle-stormer required.
Scarlan drew up the rear and Hermitage did not find this surprising. The man was clearly intelligent and would be directing activities from a place of safety. All well and good, but with Scarlan and Hermitage out of the melee that left Sigurd plus three.
The three did not bolster Hermitage's confidence that their assault on the castle would do anything to the Normans other than entertain them.
The two he had seen by the fire were Durniss and Cotard. Durniss looked like a man of the fields – strong as an ox, and with about the same level of tactical skill and mental prowess. Hermitag
e was sure he could despatch a few guards, or knock down a door or two, but once he was through the door he would likely have to wait for someone to point him in the right direction. He seemed to need reasonably clear instruction on how to put one foot in front of the other.
Cotard had begun the campaign by offering to stay behind and look after the tents. Almost every step of the way he raised the topic of another essential task at the camp which he had really better go back and complete. He had gone into the bushes to relieve himself at one point, only for Sigurd to have to go after him when he was spotted a quarter of a mile away heading in the other direction. Hermitage suspected he was not fully committed to the rescue.
It was the last of their number who nailed the lid on the corpse of Hermitage's hopes. This was another Sigurd, son of the larger Sigurd, who was clearly being raised in his father's image. He would be a great warrior and would vanquish all who stood before him. He would be just the sort to storm a castle and rescue a prisoner, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. That time was for the future. The present worried Hermitage, as the new Sigurd son of Sigurd was only four.
Sigurd, father of Sigurd son of Sigurd, would hear nothing of Hermitage's objections to taking a small child on the mission. He pointed out that he had stormed his first castle when he was six, although Hermitage's brief interrogation revealed that had been in a company of six hundred. Young Sigurd had been escorted into the castle and been allowed to kill a guard of sorts. This appeared to be a guard dog which was already wounded and was held down by three large women.
Scarlan seemed confident their mission would be a success despite these shortcomings. Eventually he told Hermitage to shut up whining and concentrate on their magnificent journey.
Their magnificent journey, the great trek that would take them across hostile territory, under the eyes of the enemy and the constant threat of death, was completed after half an hour's stroll through a rather nice wood.
Hermitage's forebodings came to full and vibrant life as the band peered out of the woodland at the questionable sight of Castle Grosmal.
Cotard's oft-stated concerns at the perilous nature of the journey were transformed to a frosty silence by the vision of the enemy stronghold. A frosty silence warmed by his regular breaking of wind.
The Garderobe of Death Page 14