‘My name,’ said the small man or small guard with great pride, ‘is Magnus.’
Hermitage could not control his guffaw.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Magnus?’
‘Yes.’ Magnus glared at Hermitage. ‘You got a problem with that?’ he strode right up to Hermitage and glared even harder.
'Not at all,’ Hermitage said hastily. 'Did you want to say something?’
‘Of course I do. I simply want to say that I killed Henri de Turold.’ Magnus pulled himself up to his full height and stuck out his chest.
‘Excellent,’ Lord Grosmal clapped his hands. ‘And you’ll say as much to King William?’
‘With great pride. And I shall spit on William the Bastard’s shoes when I do so.’
There was a muted round of applause from Scarlan's band.
‘Even better. The execution will go really well.’ Grosmal was clearly relieved at this news.
‘He may hang me. He may take an axe to my neck, he may burn me and dance in my ashes, but I shall curse him to my last.’
‘Oh, this is really good, this is marvellous.’ Grosmal positively glowed with excitement. It was not a pleasant sight. Or smell.
There was a general aura of relief around the room as those who had been in the Norman’s firing line sighed. The silence was disturbed as one by one those in the room noticed that Hermitage had his hand up.
Hermitage also had some thoughts in his head. They were new thoughts. They were troubling thoughts. He gave his thoughts some thought, and considered keeping them to himself. He immediately knew this was out of the question, but it would mean contradicting most of the things he had just told Grosmal.
For some reason, looking at the small man made all the information he had fall into place. Different strands, different facts, apparently random and disconnected, suddenly came together into a coherent picture. And he saw the truth.
It was still a pretty despicable picture, but it made sense. It was the only picture that made sense.
But it was the wrong one. Lord Grosmal would not be pleased.
‘Ah, my favourite monk,’ Grosmal beamed across the room, pointedly ignoring Simon. ‘Have you something to add to this great moment?’
‘I do sire,’ Hermitage was hesitant. He knew things were going very well. As well as they possibly could. Perhaps not so well for Magnus, but even he seemed happy. Hermitage hated to put a dampener on things, but his thoughts were a real problem. Problems could not be ignored. Not, at least, by Hermitage.
…
‘It’s about the murder.’
‘Yes?’ Grosmal was still smiling broadly.
‘And who killed Henri de Turold.’
'I've got a sinking feeling about this,’ Grosmal muttered to himself. He was not alone.
‘I killed Henri de Turold.’ Magnus beat his chest and strode round in a little circle, showing his strength to the world.
‘No, you didn’t,’ Hermitage said simply.
'I beg your pardon, mister monk,’ said Magnus, highly offended, 'but yes, I bloody well did.’
'No, you didn't, you couldn't have.’
'That's as maybe, but I did.’
Hermitage hated people saying things like that. 'If you admit that you couldn't have done it, you can't then go on to say you did. It doesn't make sense.’
'You don't make sense,’ Magnus laughed.
'What?’ Hermitage was getting lost.
Most of the audience laughed with Magnus. Wat looked more grim.
'Master monk,’ Lord Grosmal said in the voice he used with people who weren't going to disappoint him any more because they'd be dead, 'you told me he did it.’
'I said he confessed, sire.’ Hermitage was turning pedantry into a martial art.
'That's good enough, surely?’
'But he confessed to something he couldn't have done.’
'So?’ Grosmal clearly couldn't see a problem with this. 'If he wants to confess, let him get on with it.’
'But we could execute the wrong man.’
'I don't follow.’ Grosmal was clearly confused.
'If Magnus did not commit the murder…' Hermitage led him slowly.
'Yes?’
'And we execute him…'
'Yes?’
'We'll have killed an innocent man.’
Grosmal paused in thought. 'Nope,’ he looked completely lost, 'still don't see why that matters.’
'The real killer would be free.’ Hermitage tried coming at it from Grosmal's distorted point of view.
'But we'll have had an execution,’ the lord replied, as if this was all that mattered.
'But,’ Hermitage began – and stopped. He didn't know where to go. How could you argue with someone who was so fundamentally wrong? In so many ways?
'What do you mean, he couldn't have done it Hermitage?’ Wat asked.
Hermitage found it much easier to talk to Wat. 'Two main reasons. The first is he's a rotten shot.’
'I am not.’ All the humour had gone from Magnus.
'Yes, you are,’ Hermitage reassured him. 'You had two shots at me when we were escaping from your camp. The first one was difficult, quite a distance, so I wasn't surprised you missed. It was a bit shocking how much you missed by though.’
'You were moving and I had to fire one off quickly,’ Magnus defended his marksmanship.
'But then the second time…' Hermitage went on.
The audience perked up again. They seemed to be enjoying the humiliation of the great freedom fighter.
'That was just awful,’ Hermitage said sincerely, 'you had a clear shot from about ten feet. You even had time to kneel and take a good sight down the crossbow. All you managed to hit were some leaves.’
The laughter of the room was now at Magnus rather than with him.
'The child put me off,’ Magnus sulked.
'Didn't, didn't, so didn't,’ Sigurd son of Sigurd put in. 'I never did. You're rotten you are, can't shoot.’
Magnus growled at the young Sigurd. His father took hold of him and placed a parental hand over his mouth.
'He missed me as well,’ Cotard put in, 'right up close he was. Missed completely. Shot some other bloke.’
'He killed le Prevost,’ one of the guards shouted.
'Ha,’ Magnus called. 'Magnus Norman killer.’ He beat his chest again.
'At least we can hang you for something,’ said Grosmal.
'But not for the death of Henri de Turold,’ Hermitage said. 'With that record of accuracy in the use of the crossbow, I doubt you could hit a tree if you were sitting in it.’ Hermitage didn't intend this as an insult. It was a simple statement of fact.
'Do you mind?’ Magnus seemed to have given up on his prowess as an archer.
'So the chances of hitting the backside of de Turold through a small hole, from below, in the dark? As I say, you couldn't have done it.’
'You just stand there, point and shoot,’ Magnus explained. 'I might have been a bit lucky, but I got him.’ He raised his arms again, but there wasn't much reaction this time.
'Well, that's the other problem. You couldn't have got below him anyway. The hole in the privy is too small for you.’
'I can do some remarkable things,’ Magnus boasted.
'He is small, Hermitage,’ Wat intervened. 'If anyone could have got in…'
'I grant the fellow is not tall, but he's very fat.’
'Oy,’ Magnus bridled. 'Do you mind not talking about me as if I'm not here?’
'Oh sorry,’ Hermitage apologised. 'I was just saying you're very fat.’
'Yes, I heard you.’
'So what’s the problem?’ Hermitage was confused. Why did people have to be so confusing when they spoke?
'What's my girth got to do with anything?’ Magnus rested his hands on either side of his girth. They were quite far apart.
'It's your girth that has to get through the privy hole, not your height. You certainly wouldn't fit sideways.’
'All right, don'
t go on about it.’ Magnus seemed on the verge of giving up. 'Ah,’ he came up with something else. 'I didn't say I killed de Turold on the privy, did I? I killed him somewhere else and then put him on the privy. Just to put you off the scent.’
'Interesting expression in these circumstances,’ Hermitage observed. 'And why would you want to put me off the scent when you're very proud of the fact you killed him?’
'So I did kill him! You said so!'
'No, you didn't. De Turold was killed on the privy.’
'How do you know?’ Magnus sneered.
'Because I know how it was done.’
The crowd in the room seemed to be quite enjoying this. Even though the happy grin had gone from the face of Grosmal. Although that could be because he was having to brush Foella’s attention from his breeches quite regularly. He was engrossed by the tale. Even though he probably wasn't following it properly.
'He was shot from below?’ Wat asked.
'Oh yes,’ Hermitage nodded, 'absolutely. That much is right. He was shot from below, and it was with a crossbow.’
'So who was down there to pull the trigger?’ Wat looked around the room as if expecting someone to make a run for it.
'No one.’ said Hermitage.
'Oh,’ Wat thought about this for a moment. 'Erm, didn't someone have to do it? Or have they invented a crossbow that can pull its own trigger?’
Someone in the audience snorted at a Norman euphemism.
'Oh, someone pulled the trigger. What I mean is, no one was down in the privy. How could they have got out?’
'Back up through the hole?’
'We've already seen the hole isn't big enough. I don't think even young Sigurd could get through it. And if he did he certainly couldn't heft a crossbow. No one could have come out through the door below, because even burly guards couldn't get that open.’
'The secret passages?’ Wat suggested.
'A good suggestion,’ Hermitage nodded. Wat smiled.
'But wrong.’
Wat's smile vanished.
'We know there are passages in the castle, but they're all new. Made as a result of Lord Grosmal's building programme.’
Grosmal nodded magnanimously at this acknowledgment of his achievement.
'The old priest's chamber was just that. An old chamber. Part of the original castle, and so there was no passage. Plus if anyone had stood in the lower chamber they would have been covered in filth. Look what happened when the place went bang? There would have been a trail leading from the privy. Or someone would have been noticed because they were covered in muck up to their waist.’
'Hang on a minute.’ Magnus rejoined the conversation. 'You're saying no one got into the privy below de Turold?’
'Correct.’
'And that he was shot from below.’
'That's right,’ Hermitage was pleased someone was keeping up.
'Ha,’ Magnus gave a great laugh. 'You are an idiot, sir monk. Accept the simple fact: I did it.’
'No, you didn't. I thought we'd covered that?’ Hermitage shook his head, his hopes dashed. The wretched little man hadn't been paying attention after all.
'So,’ Wat's eyes narrowed as he thought very carefully before he asked the next question, 'how was the trigger pulled?’
'That's exactly the right question,’ Hermitage beamed at Wat, who beamed back.
'If we could get on?’ Lord Grosmal interrupted, 'the king is coming at nightfall and I’ve got an execution to arrange?’
'Sorry, sire.’ Hermitage got back to the topic. 'Wat is right. The first question is, how was the trigger pulled? The second question is, who put it there to be pulled?’
'An answer to anything would be welcome at the moment,’ Grosmal growled. He was clearly getting a bit bored and might revert to executing whoever was closest.
'Who pulled the trigger is clear,’ Hermitage nodded to himself.
'And that was?’ Grosmal snapped.
'Oh, sorry. It was de Turold.’
There was a silence while everyone thought about this.
'He must have had very long arms,’ Foella piped up. Everyone stared at her and she glared back.
'The man shot himself in the arse?’ Grosmal asked.
Eleanor giggled.
'Not on purpose,’ Hermitage explained. 'It was the candle.’
'The candle shot him in the arse?’ Grosmal was consumed by confusion.
'The candle was the trigger. I found this in the garderobe chamber when I went in.’ Hermitage produced a piece of twine from his habit and held it up for all to see.
To a man, the company shied away from a piece of twine that had been found in a privy.
'And, of course the pieces of the crossbow were found above.’
'All very entertaining, I'm sure.’ Grosmal was getting more and more bored. 'Some string from the privy and bits of a crossbow. I hope this is getting somewhere.’
'It is, sire,’ Hermitage said, for once recognising impatience in those who might do him some damage. 'My reasoning goes thus: No one could have entered the lower chamber as the hole was too small. Yet de Turold was shot from below. The pieces of the crossbow were down there, and came up when the place went bang. So, how did a crossbow get down there? Someone put it there.’
'You don't say.’
'I do indeed, sire. Someone leant down through the hole in the privy and lowered the crossbow on the two sturdy ropes. They had cocked the trigger before it went down, and held it in place with the light string here.’ Hermitage held the string up again.
'And the candle?’
'We have heard and seen that the candles are very heavy. The one nearest de Turold was used to hold the string in place. I imagine it had melted low and the wax…'
'It's not actually wax,’ Grosmal commented. His face had a shifty look.
'Oh.’ Hermitage paused for thought, He didn't like these thoughts, so quickly moved on. 'Well the, er, whatever, had probably stuck the candle to the floor. The string was held under this, and there was a weight on the other end of the string. It was planned that when the candle burned down completely, the string would release the weight. Then the weight would pull the trigger and the bolt would shoot up through the hole. This would frighten people out of using the place again.’
'It certainly stopped de Turold,’ Grosmal chortled happily.
'What about the other candle Hermitage?’ Wat asked. 'There was one that was on the floor, one that de Turold brought along and another one.’
Hermitage surprised himself with his picturing-the-scene skill once more. Now that he had explained events to his own satisfaction, all the pieces fell into place. He supposed it was because he knew what he would do if he wanted to shoot a Norman on a privy.
'It was left there so people would see the damage of the crossbow. When the trigger candle expired, it would have released the twine to fire the bolt. It would also have left the garderobe in darkness. No one would have been able to marvel at the audacity.’
'But didn't they think someone would notice a dead body with an arrow up its backside? Sounds pretty audacious to me,’ Grosmal put in. But then horses seemed pretty audacious to him. So did the castle’s cat, on a bad day.
'I do not believe they expected someone to sit on the garderobe and then set off the crossbow.’
'This is all very fanciful, master monk,’ Grosmal sighed as he spoke, 'and it could well be true. Frankly, who cares? The point is, I need to know who did it so I can present them to the King. I already have a little man who wishes he had done it, and that's good enough for me.’
'We did do it,’ Scarlan and Magnus spoke up together. The smaller of the two went on, 'I told you already that I did it. So I put the crossbow down the hole like the monk says. Still killed de Turold, didn't it?’
Hermitage was horrified at such naked untruth. 'No, you didn't,’ he insisted. 'You didn't have a clue about any of this. If you had killed him, you'd have said how you did it. Now you're just making it up.’
<
br /> Magnus didn't have an answer, so he just mumbled to himself. 'Still did it. I wanted to do it, that's what counts. Bloody monks, always twisting things.’
'So who did it?’ Grosmal was getting loud and demanding now.
Hermitage had an idea in his head. It was a strong idea and it fitted the facts, but he had no evidence. He could not imagine for one moment expressing a view for which he had no evidence. It would be like trying to speak without your tongue. He got the shivers at the very thought, and was not prepared to sacrifice his lifelong intellectual standards for the sake of satisfying a Norman's curiosity.
One could not speculate. Speculation was the devil's own instrument. Speculation was the key to the gates of hell and would lead the unwary to heresy and damnation.
Grosmal drew his dagger and pointed it nonchalantly at Hermitage.
The monk speculated. 'Well, sire. There's very little evidence for this, but if I were asked to risk a,’ he swallowed at the word, 'guess…’ The word left a nasty taste in his mouth.
'Yes,’ Grosmal responded, 'you are.’
Hermitage sighed. He would have to pray for forgiveness later. 'From what I have seen: the threat to the garderobe itself rather than to a person; the fresh carving of the Green Man on the tree outside the castle; the coincidence of the Brotherhood of the Sword being here...’
'Getting to the point would be good,’ Grosmal prompted. He showed which bit of his dagger had the point.
'If I didn't know better, I would say this is the work of the Brotherhood of the Sward,’ he said, reluctantly.
'I told you,’ Scarlan called out.
'Not Sword, not you lot. I mean S-w-a-r-d,’ Hermitage pronounced it carefully. 'I studied their ways. They're trying to protect the country and seem to have a thing about modern developments – laundry rooms, kitchens, garderobes and the like. They think we should all live in the woods.’
'Just like us,’ Scarlan insisted. 'It doesn't matter how you pronounce it.’
'It most certainly does.’ A new voice boomed out from the back of the room, and the well-dressed man from the wardrobe stepped forward. He was followed by Logs, holding a log.
'Who the hell are you?’ Grosmal barked. ‘Just how many more strangers are there skulking around my castle?’ He glared at the guards, who shuffled uneasily.
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