Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

by Howard of Warwick

  Wat contained a small scream. ‘We want you to open the gates so the three of us can come in and plunder the town.’

  ‘What?’ said the new guard. ‘One bloke, a monk and a girl?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Wat. ‘We’re very fierce.’

  ‘You’re certainly very something or other,’ the guard snorted.

  ‘So, can we come in?’ Hermitage asked, trying to sound meek and harmless - which in any event was his natural demeanour.

  ‘Please yourselves,’ the guard replied. ‘It’s opening time anyway.’

  ‘Argh.’ Wat let his scream out and walked round in a very small circle.

  The guard waved to someone below and the final sounds of the town’s night defences being moved aside drifted over the great wooden gates of Shrewsbury which swung majestically open. Well, they started to open before getting stuck, at which point two men appeared and put great effort into kicking the great wooden gates of Shrewsbury to get them moving.

  ‘We’re going to have to do something about those hinges,’ one of the men commented, taking no notice of the visitors waiting to come in.

  ‘Goose fat,’ the other replied.

  ‘Goose fat!’ the first one coughed. ‘That’s your answer to everything.’

  Ignoring the fact that the gates weren’t fully open, Hermitage, Wat and Cwen sidled their way past the struggling doormen and entered the town.

  Hermitage felt immediate relief at having walls around him instead of being in open country. He spent most of his time being nervous about something or other, but the three of them walking alone from Wales to Derby really gave him something to work with.

  Another wretched mission as King’s Investigator had sent him across the border and now he had to get back to Wat’s workshop in Derby to meet the Normans and confirm he had completed his work. [

  All explained in the volume entitled Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids, which is about Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids.] If he didn’t, they had promised they would kill everyone and burn the place to the ground. Of course they might do that anyway, it seemed to be their preferred way of letting people know they’d arrived.

  But they were ahead of time. There should be no problem getting to Derby so a sojourn in Shrewsbury was both affordable and a great relief.

  Hermitage looked at the simple, rough houses gathered around the gate. People were already on the move at this early hour and it felt good to be among friendly faces once more, with a large and solid wall of wood between him and the outside world.

  They would find lodgings, they would eat and drink and shrug the trials of the journey from their shoulders. Perhaps there might even be time for him to locate the nearest monastic house, find out about it and then perhaps consider paying a visit. Even Hermitage, in his innocence had learned to look before he leapt. He wasn’t going anywhere near a strange monastery without being well prepared; he knew what monks were like.

  His last house, the monastery in De’ath’s Dingle, had been the most appalling place, full of the most appalling people - all of them monks. He was still grateful not to be there anymore and would now hesitate before crossing the threshold of any monastery without some advance information. He was sure there would be people in the town who could help him.

  The three of them wandered away from the gate and towards the centre of the town. The streets sloped gently upwards and the houses became progressively finer. Merchant houses proclaimed their importance from great height, their upper stories extending over the street as if casting everyone into their shadow.

  More humble dwellings, the wattle and daub clear for all to see, nestled at the shoulders of their greater cousins.

  The street itself was as rough and dirty as any street would be, but at least it was dry, the summer heat having baked it hard.

  As the day shrugged off the infested blanket of night, doors were opened, businesses began their trade and the holler of the tradesmen started to fill the air.

  The people who passed on the street gave the new arrivals the attention any stranger would deserve: frank staring and a look of disbelief that there was someone they didn’t recognise. The examination was normal enough but something was not quite right. The stares did not linger long enough. The appraisals were not rude enough and the children did not point and laugh.

  Even Hermitage, seldom able to understand why people did any of the things they did, or pick up on the most blatant expressions of emotion, implicit or explicit, now noticed that the people were not behaving quite right. For him to pick up details of human behaviour was pretty unusual.

  He turned to Wat and Cwen who had clearly noticed this long before and were looking carefully at the faces of those passing them, or just going about their business.

  ‘What is it?’ Hermitage asked, quietly. He always turned to Wat for explanations of what was going on in the world around him. He had explanations of biblical texts or the issues surrounding the post-Exodus prophets to hand should the weaver ever want them. But the weaver never did.

  ‘They’re all odd,’ Cwen observed.

  ‘A whole town can’t be odd,’ Hermitage replied.

  ‘I can think of a few,’ said Cwen.

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ Hermitage rephrased his question.

  ‘Let’s ask,’ said Wat, piling straight in in his normal, confident manner. He reached out and grabbed a passing boy who was otherwise intent on some errand.

  The child looked surprised and shocked to be arrested so abruptly. He glared demandingly at Wat. This was alarming as there were tears streaming down the cheeks of the child, who must be at least ten and so should know better.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Wat asked. ‘What’s wrong with everyone?’

  The boy sniffed a bucket of something soft and sticky up his nose and choked out the words, ‘Gilder is dead.’

  ‘Gilder?’ Wat repeated, a worried look on his face. ‘Gilder of Shrewsbury? The great merchant?’

  ‘That’s him,’ said the boy, wiping the tears from his eyes. He took a swallow and then grinned broadly at them all. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ The tears of laughter sprang back to his face and he used Wat’s moment of surprise to jump away and skip off down the street.

  On his way, he bumped into an old maid who was coming up the path with a small load of kindling in her arms. She immediately dropped this and grabbed the child in a hopping dance. They pirouetted along the path, laughing and crying at the same time.

  Now they had some clue, they saw that virtually everyone had the same look of gloriously happy relief.

  There were tears everywhere but they were falling down broadly smiling faces. People were clapping one another on the back, shaking hands in happy congratulation at their luck and generally striding about the place filled with joy that Gilder the great merchant of Shrewsbury was finally dead.

  Caput II

  Fearsome Nuns

  The fearsome sister Mildburgh, having passed through the gate, leaving only her glare behind, scurried though the streets of Shrewsbury with a destination clearly in mind. Her scurrying was full of purpose and intent and woe betide anyone who got in the way.

  The people knew better than to get in the way of a nun on a mission. Or on anything else, really. In fact they crossed the road as soon as they saw the waggle of a wimple.

  This nun strode up the Foregate and turned into a small alley burrowing its way between leaning buildings. A few steps along it opened into a modest courtyard of stark cleanliness. Not a weed, a dirty window or household pest dare trespass on this ground.

  Two more nuns, in the same dress as the new arrival stood in the courtyard and nodded their acknowledgement. They were as stalwart as their fellow and looked just as capable of handling themselves if push came to shove-a-nun.

  They were not loitering in the space, they were watching it to make sure it didn’t get up to anything. Their backs were straight and their standing there looked like it was the result of very clear instructions. They were
posted either side of a plain wooden door, which one of them now stepped over to open.

  This sister frowned in horror at something she had seen and brushed a spider and its web from the upper corner of the door.

  Mildburgh looked at her in frank disappointment and folded her arms.

  The web-remover acknowledged her failure and bent to find the spider to escort it from the premises.

  Satisfied that standards were being maintained, Mildburgh ducked and entered the dark interior of the building. Passing through another inner courtyard she made her way to a simple room.

  This was a large space, rectangular and shaded from the summer sun by tightly drawn shutters. There was no decoration or diversion from its function of being a room. It knew what it was and had no ambition to better itself. It made the bare cleanliness of the outer courtyard look like the aftermath of a three day jesters’ ale festival.

  It wasn’t that it was soulless, it was just that anyone spending too long in it probably would be. The walls, floor and ceiling seemed to have some deep seated contempt for one another which coagulated in the middle of the space. Just where the chair was.

  And upon this chair was a figure in black. No nun, this one, but one who, by her demeanour, clearly considered the nuns of the order to be frivolous, dancing scatter-brains. She showed not the slightest acknowledgement that Mildburgh had entered the room and made no movement on what was plainly a hideously uncomfortable wooden seat.

  ‘I have seen him at the gate,’ said Mildburgh, without any preliminaries, ‘the one our sisters in the south sent word of.’

  This brought a frown to the already scowling face on the chair. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I don’t know who else it could be, in company with the other two. An unusual trio to be wandering these parts.’

  The figure in the chair bent her head and brought a hand up to stroke her cheek in thought. ‘Death attracts corruption,’ she said, with what might pass for pleasure.

  ‘Death?’ Mildburgh asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. ‘What death, Hild?’

  ‘I forgot,’ Hild replied, ‘you have been at Wenlock. How go plans?’

  ‘Plans go well,’ Mildburgh replied hurriedly. ‘What death?’

  ‘So you will not have heard.’

  ‘No,’ Mildburgh said, pointedly, ‘I will not have heard and I have not heard. What death?’

  ‘Did you not see the good cheer in the streets?’ Hild asked, with a deep distrust of such a thing.

  Mildburgh wouldn’t see good cheer if it took her eyeballs out to a dance.

  ‘Gilder is dead,’ Hild announced, with quiet satisfaction at announcing such things.

  ‘Dead?’ Mildburgh breathed the word.

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘When?’

  Hild waved the question away. ‘Recently,’ she explained. Not having left this room for as long as anyone could remember she was not in the best place to keep up with news. Refusing anyone else entry and punishing idle gossip meant that she was generally the last to find out about anything. Which suited her perfectly. It was very hard to avoid all the noise about the death of Gilder though. She had sent complaint to all her neighbours about the laughter which kept disturbing her abject misery.

  ‘Gilder is dead?’ Mildburgh checked.

  ‘I believe that’s what I said.’

  ‘This cannot be.’

  ‘Plainly it can. The man was a sinful wretch in life, it is only just that he go to his death. Suitable punishment will be waiting him, I am sure.’ Hild’s voice said that she had a few ideas about what suitable punishment might look like, and was quite looking forward to some herself.

  ‘What about our plans?’ Mildburgh asked, still trying to take in the fact that Gilder was dead.

  ‘You said they go well,’ Hild pointed out.

  ‘At Wenlock they go well,’ Mildburgh replied, irritation creeping through her control. ‘I mean here. What about our plans here?’

  Hild simply looked quizzical.

  ‘Gilder is dead,’ Mildburgh pointed out.

  As Hild already knew this, she had nothing to add.

  ‘The arrivals I saw at the gate cannot be a coincidence. Why would those three turn up if there was not some connection?’ Mildburgh looked at the seated Hild who, in turn looked blank. Thoughts rushed through the nun’s head, trying to make some sense of these momentous events. She came to a conclusion. ‘This is awful,’ she said.

  . . .

  ‘This is awful,’ Hermitage observed.

  ‘Doesn’t look very awful,’ Cwen noted, pointing out a well-to-do looking man happily giving alms to the poor.

  ‘But this fellow is dead,’ Hermitage insisted.

  ‘Gilder,’ said Wat, ‘Gilder of Shrewsbury.’

  ‘Alright, Gilder of Shrewsbury is dead. It’s still a death.’

  ‘Obviously a very welcome one.’ Wat smiled drily.

  ‘No death should be welcome,’ Hermitage mused. He turned to Wat. ‘Did you know him?’

  Wat seemed to need time to think about this. ‘Knew of him. Did a bit of business, but only as I would with any rich merchant. It was usually through intermediaries. Never actually met him.’

  ‘And what did you know of him? A peaceful man of God whose passing should be mourned I imagine.’ Hermitage arched an eyebrow at Wat but the shot seemed to land wide of its mark.

  Wat grimaced. ‘Hardly. Nasty piece of work from what I heard. Greedy, mean, deceitful, violent when need be. Marvellous merchant. No wonder people are glad he’s dead.’

  ‘Wat!’

  ‘Well, it’s only reasonable isn’t it?’ the weaver complained. ‘When someone great and good dies we mourn and wander about in sadness and despair. When someone horrible dies why shouldn’t we celebrate?’

  ‘I’ve never heard the like.’

  ‘What if he was a devil?’ Wat suggested, a gleam in his eye.

  ‘A devil?’

  ‘Yes, you know, a real live demon. Surely we’d be celebrating the death of a demon.’

  Wat had never engaged in any of Hermitage’s fascinating theological topics before. The whole question of whether during the forty days and forty nights in the wilderness the Lord got sand in his shoes, had passed the weaver by completely.[

  You can explore this question in The Heretics of De’Ath, the very first tale of Brother Hermitage - but it won’t help much.] This seemed an odd time to start debating the nature of evil.

  ‘The whole point is that it is not for us to determine what punishment someone deserves for their life. That will come from the Lord at Judgement Day. I am in no position to form an opinion on Gilder.’

  ‘You’re not going to fit in here then.’ Wat nodded to a young couple walking along the street smiling and kissing and hugging as hard as they could.

  Hermitage had an awful thought. And a lot of his awful thoughts had the habit of turning into reality and causing him no end of trouble. ‘What if some foul deed was done?’ he asked. He’d had far too much to do with foul deeds in recent times. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were starting to follow him round. Or in this case jump out in front of him.

  Perhaps it was because all the dead people he’d come into contact with since the Normans arrived hadn’t had the chance to await their natural demise. Death had been delivered, frequently on the end of something sharp.

  Wat exchanged a handshake with a grinning man who was shaking hands with anyone he could get hold of. ‘I think Gilder must have been pretty ancient by now. I’ve heard about Gilder of Shrewsbury for as long as I can remember. It was half a surprise to hear him mentioned at all. Probably just a very old man whose time had come.’

  ‘Then again,’ said Cwen, with a mischievous look, ‘if he was as horrible as Wat describes, it’d be no surprise if someone had done for him.’

  ‘Oh, this is outrageous,’ Hermitage protested. ‘First Wat says we should celebrate, now you suggest murder might be a good idea.’

  ‘I neve
r. Could be he was old and someone just helped him on his way. Or forgot to call the physic, that sort of thing.’ Cwen winked at Wat, which confused Hermitage no end. This was a serious subject.

  The monk shook his head in despair, which was a familiar experience. ‘This really is awful.’

  ‘Er,’ Wat thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps you should look into it?’ Now Wat was winking at Cwen.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You know, as King’s Investigator? What luck to walk into a town and have a death all lined up.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Hermitage, as firmly as he could. Which was about as firm as butter on a burning badger.

  ‘But if evil has been done?’ Wat was sounding quite excited at the prospect.

  ‘We don’t know anything of the sort. All we know is that an old man has died and everyone is quite pleased about it. Obviously that’s quite sinful of its own account but absolutely no need to go investigating anything.’ Hermitage seemed very sure.

  ‘But your duty?’ said Cwen with a wry smile.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure there’s any duty here.’ Hermitage held his arms out to draw attention to the happy inhabitants of Shrewsbury. ‘The King and Le Pedvin are on the other side of the country. No one in authority has given any instruction to investigate.’ Hermitage usually relied on people in authority to tell him what to do.

  ‘Hm.’ Cwen was less good with authority.

  ‘Well,’ said Wat, sounding reluctantly persuaded, ‘but only if you insist.’ Wat and Cwen both burst out laughing, which Hermitage was going to have to ask them to explain.

  ‘Come on,’ said Cwen, ‘let’s find a tavern. Take your mind off things. Chances are, if the town’s in a really good mood, we might be able to sell some tapestries. Even take a civil commission for a major work commemorating the departure of Gilder.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Wat, ‘they could hang it somewhere and everyone could come and have a good gloat now and then. Make it the centre of the city’s attention. Course, it would have to be big.’

  ‘And expensive,’ Cwen nodded and actually rubbed her hands as if she could already feel the gold.