The Garderobe of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  'No one needs to find out,’ he said instead.

  Eleanor swallowed a sob.

  'I mean who knows, only you and me?’

  Eleanor seemed to take some comfort from this.

  William thought for a moment. 'And the man who put us here, of course. And his chief.’

  Eleanor set to howling again.

  'But they won't tell.’

  She took breath.

  'I won't tell and you won't tell obviously. And they won't tell 'cos they put us here against our will.’

  'Really?’ Eleanor blubbered slightly.

  'Oh yeah,’ said William full of confidence. 'Go very bad for them if they was found out. It's all right knocking people on the head. You have to do that sometimes. Putting them in bed, though? That's not on.’

  'Do you think so?’

  ''Course I do. And, like I said, we was put here against our will. No one could hold it against you. You was dumped here. Not like you climbed in.’

  'I suppose,’ Eleanor sniffed. 'And you really won't tell?’

  'Course I won't.’ He patted the part of the bed where he thought her knees might be. 'Anyway, if the worst comes to the worst…' he left the sentence unfinished.

  'What?’

  He swallowed. 'I could always marry you.’

  Eleanor stopped all her sobs and looked across at William. He was smiling encouragement and comfort, and there was a light of hope dancing in his eyes.

  She patted the covers where she thought his knees might be. 'Ha, ha,’ she laughed, 'very kind. Except of course I could never marry you now,’ she gestured to the bed, 'not after this.’

  She threw back the covers and sprang from the bed.

  William controlled his sob.

  Eleanor walked across the floor and very carefully opened the door to peek out.

  'Come on,’ she hissed at William, beckoning him to join her.

  ''Right,’ William humphed without moving.

  'What's the matter with you?’

  'Oh nothing,’ he said with big points on it, 'nothing at all, I'm sure.’

  Eleanor shook her head in puzzlement.

  'Oh, bloody hell.’ She closed the door quickly and quietly.

  'What?’ William was still in bed.

  'It's that Ethel. He's in the corridor and it looks like he's coming here.’

  This did get William out of bed and he smoothed it over, trying to make it look unused. 'On the floor,’ he said.

  'Not now,’ she snapped at him.

  'No, on the floor, like we haven't woken up yet. Like we've been knocked out and dumped here.’

  'Oh right.’ She got the plan and joined him at the foot of the bed where they lay on the floor, waiting for Ethel.

  'Only not in bed obviously,’ William whined sarcastically, ’cos that would never do.’

  'What is your problem?’ she demanded in a whisper.

  William never got the chance to reply as the latch was lifted, the door opened and Ethel walked in.

  He took in the sight before him and let out a light sigh. 'For goodness sake,’ he said, 'try to be a bit discreet. I mean, I know you're young and all, but really.’

  William did a very good groan-of-pain and slowly raised a hand to the back of his head.

  Eleanor saw him and copied his groan.

  'What's going on?’ Ethel said, in the tone of a man who was not going to be taken in by some charade.

  'Oh, sir,’ William said, dragging himself to his knees, 'we've been attacked.’

  'By one another, it would seem.’ Ethel folded his arms.

  'Oh no, sir. In the log store, it was. Look.’ He gestured to the back of his head where he hoped there was a large wound.

  Ethel came closer and looked.

  Eleanor was moving now. Helpfully she pointed to the back of her head as well.

  'The log store, you say?’ There was still disbelief in Ethel's voice, but it was wavering.

  'Yes, sir. They said they was the Brotherhood of the Sward.’

  'Sword?’

  'No, Sward. Definitely Sward. They was going on about the trees and the land and stuff, and how the Normans was spoiling it all.’

  This gave Ethel some pause for thought. He was all seriousness now. 'And who exactly were these people?’

  'There were two of them.’ Eleanor had got to her feet now and was swaying quite convincingly. 'A little odd one who looked like one of his own logs, and a big fellow, well dressed.’

  'And why did they leave you here and not in the log store?’

  'Don't know, sir,’ William replied. 'There's a passage from the Lady Foella's wardrobe down to the log store. They must have brought us back up it.’

  'And why did you go down it in the first place?’

  'The big man,’ Eleanor explained with some reluctance. 'He came to my lady's chamber and told her not to marry Lord Grosmal.’

  'A commendable suggestion,’ Ethel observed.

  'So I thought he might be able to get her out of the dungeon.’

  'I'm on my way to do that now. It seems she didn't kill de Turold.’

  'Oh, what a blessed relief,’ Eleanor sighed. 'See,’ she said to William, 'I told you she never did it.’

  'No, you didn't,’ William said honestly.

  'I said she could never have done anything like that,’ Eleanor went on.

  'No, you didn't,’ William was a bit more animated now, 'in fact you said it was perfectly possible...’

  'Do you know what?’ Ethel interrupted in a quiet voice that made them stop and listen.

  'What?’ Eleanor asked.

  'I don't care. I don't care what you said or what you thought. Or even who you are. The fact is Lord Grosmal has instructed Lady Foella to be released and I have come to get a coat for her. She's been locked in the dungeon for some time and was in a fragile state when I left her.’

  'I'm her maid, Eleanor. I'll fetch her winter wrap, that'll keep the chill out.’

  'Not the sort of chill she's had,’ Ethel snorted, 'but it'll have to do. Bring it along.’

  Eleanor went to fetch the coat from the wardrobe, picking it out very cautiously in case there was anyone in there.

  'And your excuse?’ Ethel asked William.

  'Oh, er, yes, erm...’

  'I thought so,’ Ethel turned to the door. 'You'd better come as well. Lady Foella can be excitable, and if she is, she can do it to you.’

  'Thank you, sir,’ said William, not entirely sure what he was being grateful for.

  Eleanor emerged with the coat, and the three of them hurried from the room.

  …

  Through winding ways and tortuous tracks the band made its way to the dungeons. William led the way, and knew some shortcuts Ethel wasn't aware of, but he took careful note. Bypassing the courtyard completely, which Ethel swore wasn't possible, they popped out of a wall near the steps down to the cells.

  They could already hear Foella.

  Cries of rage and wails of despair alternated so quickly that the Saxon lady had invented a whole new way of expressing two contrasting emotions at the same time. It sounded like it was doing her mind no good at all.

  'Oh, lord,’ Eleanor winced. 'I've never heard her make noises like that before.’

  'I don't think I've heard anything make noises like that before.’ Ethel looked worried. 'Guard. You can go first.’

  'Thanks,’ William grumbled.

  'You're very impudent for a guard.’ Ethel's voice was sharp now, ready to stab something.

  'Don't mind him, sir,’ Eleanor stepped in. 'He's in a funny mood. Has been since he was hit on the head. I think it might have affected him.’

  'I can affect him some more if he doesn't do what he's told.’

  'Oh he will, sir.’ Eleanor pushed William in the back.

  'Oh yes, William, do as you're told,’ William mumbled so that only Eleanor could hear. 'Do this, William, do that William. Never mind what William wants.’

  Eleanor made the mad man sign
to Ethel and raised her eyebrows.

  William stepped cautiously down the steps, into the full force of the howling wail.

  'She's in number four,’ Ethel called out from the top of the steps where he and Eleanor had stopped.

  'With all that stuff?’ William questioned. 'Was that wise?’

  'Funnily enough…’ Ethel paused for William's response.

  'Funnily enough what?’

  'I don't care again. Just open the door and get her out.’

  The mumbles of William were not nearly enough to drown out the screams of Foella, but they added a bass note which gave the whole cacophony a life of its own.

  'My lady?’ William called through the locked and barred door. 'Lady Foella?’

  The screaming stopped. William hoped. The door resounded to an almighty crash from inside.

  'Bloody hell, she's strong,’ William called out as he leapt back.

  'Yeah,’ Eleanor called down. 'Make sure there's nothing heavy she can throw.’

  'In there?’ William's voice rose. 'Do you know what's in there? There are things in there what are built for throwing at people. And doing them damage. How am I supposed to get her out?’

  'Quickly,’ Ethel instructed.

  'My lady,’ William spoke to the door. 'I've got Eleanor here, your maid.’

  'Don't you bring me into this,’ Eleanor called down.

  William ignored her. 'She wants you to come out. It's all right now. Everything's been sorted. We know you didn't kill mister de Turold.’

  Words emerged from the cell. They were clearly words, William recognised them as words. They were very bad ones, though and he didn't want to see the thing that made them.

  'Who killed him?’ the words growled through the woodwork, probably killing worms as they passed.

  'Who killed him?’ William called up the steps.

  'A small guard,’ Ethel called back.

  'Really?’ William asked. 'Have we got any?’

  'No, but apparently…' Ethel stopped himself. 'Never mind the explanation, just tell her.’

  'It was a small guard, my lady,’ William repeated.

  'Ha!' The word alone was almost enough to shake the door again. 'I told them. I told them there was a small guard, but did they believe me? No, they didn't.’ Sanity crept its way back into the voice as it went on. And on.

  'And now what? Now I've been humiliated, locked in a dungeon without just cause? Now they come up with the small guard. I'm a Saxon, Lady Foella, a noble: my word should be enough but is it? No, it isn't, it seems. By God, I shall have my retribution for this insult,’

  There was a long pause behind the door, so long that William got worried again. 'My lady?’ he asked.

  The calm voice of the Lady Foella was entirely sound and measured now. William could tell that she was straightening her hair and her dress, preparing to rejoin civilised society. She coughed lightly and in a very ladylike manner. 'So,’ she said with some pleasure, 'Grosmal will have to marry me now.’

  Caput XXVII

  Half past Five: End Game

  As the light of a most eventful day finally faded gratefully into the west, the courtyard of the Castle Grosmal became the confluence of those with an interest in the death of Henri de Turold.

  From the fields and forest the group of individuals that had been the band of Scarlan was herded in by laughing Normans.

  The band was not a band any more.

  They were all injured in one way or another, the only one to escape a direct assault being Sigurd. He was back on his feet, but seemed in no condition to do anything other than put one of them in front of the other. The Son of Sigurd still tagged along, but, infected by his father's malaise, the young boy was withdrawn and quiet. Without his father going ‘yargh’ every now and again, he didn't have a lead to follow.

  The robust clip around the ear he got when he told Carac he was going to boil them all in oil might also have curbed his enthusiasm.

  The small guard was still struggling and threatening, his threats distributed equally between the Normans and Scarlan. The things he said he was going to do to the Normans were still worse that those waiting for Scarlan, but not by much. He was clearly not impressed by the man's leadership. Nor by his plans, courage, conviction, strength, foresight, honesty, nobility and just plain decency. He expressed his view repeatedly and accompanied each failing with a specific promise of physical retribution.

  Scarlan, wincing with every step, could not respond. He was also clutching himself, having sustained injuries of a very personal nature.

  'I've surrendered,’ he had said in outrage after the first blow.

  'We know that,’ his attacker had said, just before the second blow.

  Cotard, as usual, was at the back. Due to the death of le Prevost he still had the helmet and shirt; in fact he was trying to melt into the body of the Normans in the hope he would be forgotten.

  Durniss, strolling along and looking in fascination at all that was going on around him, seemed unaware of his injuries. Most were superficial, but there were an awful lot of them. The Normans had eventually got bored and tired of trying to bring the big man down. He had followed meekly when they told him what to do.

  As the guards meandered their captives through the main gate, Ethel emerged from the dungeon steps.

  He was followed by Foella, looking at her most haughty, with Eleanor and William bringing up the rear.

  ‘’Allo, Ellie,’ called one of the guards in Scarlan's escort.

  It was not the innocent ‘’allo Ellie’ of a friend or relation. It was an ‘’allo Ellie’ full of meaning, much of it crude.

  'What does he mean, “’allo Ellie”?’ William demanded indignantly.

  'I’m sure I don't know,’ Eleanor responded, but she gave the caller a little wave.

  William grunted.

  …

  'Where do you want them?’ Carac called, seeing Ethel to hand.

  'Main hall I think,’ Ethel replied, lord Grosmal was there, bound to want to see them all.’

  Carac used this instruction as excuse to move his captives along by kicking them heartily. Even though they were already going in the right direction. Well he kicked Scarlan and the small man. He took no notice of Sigurd, thought better of kicking Durniss but did look around for Cotard.

  'Get that man out of our clothes and bring him to the front.’

  Cotard was relieved of his disguise and bundled in with the others. 'I was only looking after them,’ he grumbled.

  …

  Arriving at the Great Hall Ethel looked around for his master. He saw the place was empty.

  'Bring them all in here and let nobody leave,’ he instructed as he went off to find Grosmal.

  The guards assumed this instruction meant them as well, so there was quite a bit of pushing and shoving as a huge number of people squeezed into the great hall. The guards outnumbered everyone else about five to one, and caused most of the trouble as they brushed people out of their way.

  Foella did her bit as she tried to make sure she got to the fire. As close to where Grosmal would be as possible.

  Eleanor and William took up space far from the front and stood quietly. William took hold of Eleanor's hand and tried to hold it conspicuously in front of his colleagues. She snatched it back and moved half a pace away.

  'Cow,’ said William and folded his arms.

  Scarlan's erstwhile band growled at the guards and muttered a bit, but that was the extent of their resistance.

  Their leader had to sit down to nurse his injuries as standing made the chafing unbearable. He tried to look haughty from his seat, but it was difficult as he had to keep one hand in his crutch to stop the pain spreading.

  Durniss was battered, but seemed not to care. He looked around the place, seemingly in wonder at being indoors.

  Cotard limped into the room and forced himself to remain standing. Standing as near to the door as he could, that is.

  The walk must have done Sigurd, w
ho had recovered his composure and physical presence, the world of good. With the small man, who had only suffered bruising from being thrown about a bit, kicked and trodden on, sometimes by mistake, strode across the floor as if taking possession of it.

  Sigurd son of Sigurd held his father's hand and made rather half-hearted stabbing motions towards the guards.

  They all waited and the time dripped by. Eventually a murmur of conversation started as people realised Grosmal wasn't about to walk in.

  'Typical bloody Normans,’ the small man's voice piped up from the middle of the room. 'Turn up early for a battle when no one's ready, but can they ever start a meeting on time..?’

  There was a pronounced thump from the middle of the room and the small man fell silent.

  …

  Finally Grosmal's party entered and the guards did some more pushing and shoving to make room for him.

  He was followed by Ethel, as usual. Hermitage and Wat brought up the rear. Brother Simon tailed along, looking with apparent fascination at the structure of the roof.

  'I expect you're wondering why I've brought you all here,’ Grosmal announced, once seated comfortably in his chair by the fire.

  There was a bit of muttering which indicated that yes, they were wondering a bit.

  'The monk will explain,’ Grosmal said simply.

  Simon looked shocked for a moment until Hermitage stuttered, 'oh, er, right, yes,’ as he became the centre of attention. He clammed up.

  'The death,’ Wat hissed at him, 'de Turold? You're going to explain?’

  'Ah, yes,’ Hermitage got his speech back. 'I am going to explain the death of Henri de Turold,’ he announced and stopped again.

  The small man stepped forward from Scarlan's group and held up a hand for silence.

  There already was silence, so he just looked a bit ridiculous.

  Hermitage regarded him with some surprise. 'Oh, ah,’ he muttered some more. 'Erm, mister – what is your name actually?’ he asked. ‘We can’t go on calling you the small guard.’