Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

by Howard of Warwick

  The smithy was adorned with the very latest thing in horse footwear. Very modern cast bronze horseshoes with integrated nail holes and scalloped edges hung above the entrance, enticing trade to come in just to look at these marvels of invention. A couple of small boys were standing in the street pointing at the wonderful things, probably dreaming of owning one, never mind four and the horse to go with them.

  Trade was brisk. Those entering the town from long journeys, or stopping on their way past, would need fast attention to their beasts. Those leaving might want a last check or repair before venturing onto the road.

  Cart wheels were propped against the outside wall, either waiting work or collection and the stable to the side was a thoroughfare of horses and grooms.

  The heat of the place could be felt even in the street and Hermitage smiled at the honest labour that must be going on inside. It was a shame that smiths couldn’t work like St Elgius, who simply took the whole leg off the horse, fixed the shoe and then put the leg back on again. Perhaps those days would come with advances in medicine.

  They ventured to step inside and joined the back of a small queue of customers.

  ‘How much?’ a man in the middle of the space was almost screaming at the smith who seemed not in the least put out. ‘I only want one shoe, not a whole herd of horses flying on golden slippers!’

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ the smith said, turning to his fire and his bellows.

  He did not fit Hermitage’s mental image of a smith. That was a giant of a man, bare chested and powerful, thumping shape into metal by his enormous strength alone.

  This smith was quite a small man. Yes, he was solidly built and looked strong, but he was also wearing a very high quality leather apron, with barely a mark on it.

  As Hermitage looked about the place he saw that there were several fires running at the same time, each with a more regular smith at work. The master, for so he must be, now strolled from fire to fire giving a direction or an instruction here and there, but not actually getting his hands dirty at all.

  Ignoring the unhappy customer in the room, the smith came over to the next man in the queue who gave his request.

  The smith shouted into the room, ‘One cart rim, forty inches by two, plain finish, nailed.’

  ‘Yes, Smith!’ one of the smiths at the fire shouted back, and the customer was directed to attend that fire.

  How very organised, thought Hermitage, who liked things very organised.

  The next customer had come to collect and was handed a small package, wrapped in simple cloth. He opened this and examined a very fine broach, probably of gold to Hermitage’s eye, and inset with fine stones. The customer smiled and nodded and handed over an enormous sum of money.

  This smith was clearly an establishment of quality. If the man could work horseshoes, cart wheels and fine gold, his skills must be of a very high order. Hermitage imagined he did the best work himself and left the drudgery to his staff.

  ‘Yes, gentlemen?’ the smith asked as he now approached them.

  The offended customer took even more offence at being ignored and stormed out.

  The smith gave his attention to Wat. His appraisal of their worth was blatant. A monk and girl clearly wouldn’t be able to afford him, but Wat looked the part.

  ‘We’re looking for a Hendig?’ said Wat.

  ‘Hendig!’ The smith threw his arms in the air. ‘If you find that boy bring him to me and I will stoke the fire with him.’ The smith had gone from being very calm and welcoming to outrageous anger.

  Hermitage stepped back. They were in the right place then.

  ‘He’s yours then?’ Wat asked.

  ‘Not any more,’ the smith’s histrionics climbed the scale. ‘Do you know how many fires were out after he had supposedly been tending them all night?’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Wat, not really interested.

  ‘How am I expected to run a smithy, produce the high quality work my customers demand and make a decent living if the most stupid boy in the world is tending the fires?’ This didn’t seem to be a question the smith wanted answered. ‘And how difficult is it to tend a fire for goodness sake? All you have to do is keep the bloody thing alight. Put something that burns on it, that usually does the trick. But oh, no. Not Hendig. Couldn’t light a fire with a burning stick. Well, I’ve had enough of him. Enough I say.’

  The smith stomped off down his workshop leaving Hermitage, Wat and Cwen in some bemusement as to what they were supposed to do now.

  On his way he berated a couple of smiths for something or other, using language Hermitage didn’t think was appropriate even for a smithy. He came back, breathing deeply.

  ‘What do you want him for?’ the smith demanded, quite rudely, Hermitage thought.

  ‘We just need to talk to him,’ said Wat.

  ‘Well, good luck with that then. He’s probably still drunk after announcing the death of Gilder.’ The smith did not seem happy about that either. ‘Ah, there was a customer,’ he sighed and nodded. ‘Money no object.’

  Wat tried to get him back on track. ‘So where might we find Hendig, do you think?’

  ‘What?’ The smith was angry again. There was no telling with the man. One minute he was calm and solicitous, the next he was having a screaming fit.

  ‘Hendig?’ Hermitage asked, perhaps the smith would be easier with a monk.

  ‘Probably in his cups with that idiot Balor,’ the smith snorted.

  ‘Balor?’ said Hermitage. ‘Balor, the son of Gilder?’

  ‘Exactly,’ the smith snapped at him. ‘They’re always together. Although what the son of Gilder wants to do with an idiot apprentice like Hendig is beyond me.’ A thought could be seen travelling through the smith’s eyes on the way to his head. ‘Balor, son of Gilder, yes.’ His anger had dissipated and an expression that could only be described as low cunning arrived on his face. He put a friendly hand on Hermitage’s shoulder. ‘When you find him, you tell young Hendig to come back to work where his old smith has been worried about him. No harm done, bit of a lark at the death of Gilder, it’s been happening all over town. Nothing to worry about.’ He smiled a smile that looked like it could lift your purse from your breeches at fifty paces.

  Well, that was a bit of a turnaround, thought Hermitage. Was there no one in this town he was going to be able to understand?

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Hermitage, as they stood outside the smith once more.

  ‘At least we know where to find Hendig and Balor,’ said Cwen. ‘Bit of a coincidence those two being together wouldn’t you say? One who finds the body and one who gets the money? They could be in it together.’

  ‘Oh, Cwen,’ Hermitage chastised in a friendly tone, ‘you really mustn’t simply suspect everyone we hear of. I am sure that Balor is saddened by the death. What son would not feel some sense of loss at the departure of their father, even if he was not well-loved?’

  . . .

  The singing that was coming from the house they were reliably informed belonged to Balor did not sound like that of a grieving son. It was a well-known ditty, often given air by carousers as they fell further into their cups. Hermitage knew that it concerned a wandering priest, a farmyard and the contents of a well provisioned brewery, but he had never heard verses with quite such intimately personal details. All of which seemed to be entirely unnecessary.

  There were two voices bellowing the disgraceful lyrics into the street and they were in almost perfect disharmony. Every now and again they would manage to hit the right note together, which only served to make the rest of their caterwauling even more unbearable.

  Cwen scowled her discomfort. ‘At least asking these two questions will stop them singing.’

  Wat hammered on the simple door, which the singers seemed to find hilariously funny for some reason.

  There was clattering and clashing from inside, and even the yowl of a cat who had got in the way, before bolts were drawn.

  They were then drawn again when one of
the voices said, ‘No, no. Now you’ve locked it.’

  Eventually the door was pulled open, although it appeared to be such a complex task it took two of them to manage it.

  On the threshold stood two young men. They were of about the same age, probably soon to leave their teenage years. One was much better dressed than the other in fine cloth and expensive looking shoes. He had a neat and clean look about him, dark hair cut short, but cut well. The other, while not exactly dressed in rags, was getting the most out of one set of clothes, probably his only set by the look of them. His hair was much lighter and looked like it had been trimmed by the sheep shearer.

  The first of them was clearly well fed and had a healthy and content look about him. The other appeared to be trying his best not to touch his clothes from the inside for fear of wearing them out. If Hermitage had seen this lad on the street he would want to give him alms.

  As to drunkenness they were neck and neck.

  ‘What d’ya want?’ the smart one sang, waving a rough bottle in his right hand, while his left was propped against the door to stop him falling over.

  ‘Balor, son of Gilder?’ Hermitage asked the lad.

  ‘Not any more,’ the young man replied with a grin.

  Hermitage looked at him quizzically.

  ‘No Gilder to be son of anymore, is there?’ He threw his arms wide, presumably to demonstrate that in the whole of the world there was no Gilder to be son of. There was no Gilder in the street and he didn’t have one hidden in his jerkin.

  ‘You will always be his son,’ Hermitage pointed out.

  In that way that only drunks seem able to master, the young fellow beckoned Hermitage to draw close.

  He did so, reluctantly.

  The lad put his hand on Hermitage’s shoulder and spoke to him frankly and honestly. ‘Not me,’ he said, ‘him.’ He nodded his head towards his scrawny companion, who took a short bow.

  The bow appeared to be a mistake and it was some time before the bow could be unwound and an upright posture resumed. Even then it seemed at risk of imminent collapse.

  ‘You’re Balor, son of Gilder?’ Hermitage asked in some surprise.

  ‘S’right,’ Balor replied. ‘Except instead of being Balor, son of Gilder the merchant of Shrewsbury, I’m now Balor, son of Gilder the dead. Ha, ha, ha.’

  The two young men held one another up as their laughter got the better of them.

  ‘Gilder the dead,’ the other, who must be Hendig, howled. ‘Balor, son of Gilder the dead.’

  They now indulged in a little dance in the doorway to a tune clearly entitled Gilder the Dead, which they sang over and over again.

  Cwen threw a bucket of water over them.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ Hermitage asked, surprised and shocked by Cwen’s actions.

  ‘Next door,’ said Cwen. ‘They were only too glad to help.’

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Balor complained, ‘We’re all wet now.’

  ‘Looks like you need the wash,’ said Cwen. ‘We’re here to ask about Gilder.’

  ‘Gilder?’ Balor didn’t seem to understand why anyone would want to ask.

  ‘Your dead father,’ Wat reminded him.

  ‘I know who he is. Was,’ Balor corrected himself. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘It appears that he was murdered,’ said Hermitage, with all due seriousness.

  ‘Certainly does,’ said Balor. ‘Made a real mess of the bedding. I think I’ll have to throw most of it out.’

  ‘You could sell it,’ said Hendig, clearing the water from his face and hair as if this sort of thing happened all the time. ‘I reckon people will pay richly for bedding with Gilder’s blood on it.’

  Balor poked his friend in the chest. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘And I’ll use the money to buy some new clothes. That’ll teach the old hoodpick.’

  Hermitage had thought he was getting used to the most inappropriate behaviour, but it seemed to be worse coming from the mouth of the son.

  ‘And you, Hendig,’ he looked the other in the eye, ‘you were the first to find him.’

  ‘Who knows? I was the one with the honour of announcing the fact to the town, but he’d been dead for a while when I got there. And all the servants had gone.’

  ‘All the servants,’ Balor was mocking. ‘He only ever paid for one. Old man Eggar. And if it had been me, I’d have bashed them both on the head.’

  This was too much information all at once for Hermitage. He tried to stick to the path he’d laid out in his head. He’d been all ready to question Hendig first, having Balor there as well was confusing him. Ideally he’d have an hour or two to rethink his approach.

  ‘What were you doing there?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I get around, me. Errands here and there. Any little tasks need doing, as long as there’s reward in it.’

  ‘I thought you were the blacksmith’s apprentice,’ Cwen challenged.

  ‘Now and then,’ Hendig acknowledged. ‘Not much money in that, to be honest. Make a lot of good contacts though.’

  ‘And what little errand were you doing that took you to Gilder’s that morning?’ Wat asked.

  Hendig looked at them all and a dark frown addressed them. ‘What is this? Who are you people and what are you asking a lot of questions for?’

  Hermitage thought he heard Cwen mutter “good question” but he could have been mistaken.

  ‘If a murder has been committed,’ he pointed out, ‘there must be a murderer.’

  ‘I imagine that’s the usual arrangement,’ said Hendig with some impudence.

  ‘And a murderer must be brought to justice.’

  ‘Now you’ve lost me.’ Hendig grinned. ‘Anyway, I don’t think killing Gilder counts as murder. More like an act of mercy for the rest of us.’

  Balor and Hendig snorted with laughter at this.

  ‘Now really,’ said Hermitage, chastising them in his usual imperceptible manner.

  ‘Look,’ said Balor, addressing the group from a relatively upright position, ‘I am the son of Gilder, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hermitage confirmed.

  ‘And I can understand that someone like a monk would not want murderers wandering around the place.’

  He was the first person to make that connection.

  ‘But I am not in the least bit interested. He’s dead and that’s that.’

  ‘You don’t want to find out who killed your father?’ Hermitage couldn’t understand this at all.

  ‘Father!’ Balor almost spat, his drunken contentment seemed to have left. ‘He was the one who sired me and that was that. As far as I’m concerned he was worse than a stranger. At least strangers leave after a while. Gilder just stayed here being horrible. You can see that the town is glad he’s dead. I’m glad he’s dead as well. If you want to find out who killed him, go ahead. Just don’t bother me with it.’

  ‘Did you kill him then?’ Wat asked, bluntly.

  ‘What?’ Balor seemed both shocked and amused at this. ‘Me? Me, kill Gilder?’

  Balor and Hendig went straight back to drunken laughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Cwen asked.

  ‘Me, kill Gilder?’ said Balor through his giggles. ‘I wish I had.’

  ‘Master Balor!’ Hermitage’s outrage made it as far as his voice this time.

  ‘You have most to gain,’ Wat pointed out.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ Balor snorted. ‘Do you think I’d be living like this if I had the courage to kill that dretch? I’d have done it years ago. The man put the fear of God up me and everyone else he had dealings with. It was as much as I could do to look him in the eye, never mind take the back of his head off.’

  Balor and Hendig started laughing once more at this happy thought. They even did a little mime of someone having the back of his head taken off, while he was still using it.

  ‘It must be a lot of money,’ said Cwen, implying that this could overcome Balor’s fear.

  ‘I certainly hope so,�
� Balor replied, with a broad smile. ‘Not that it’ll make the last twenty years worth it.’

  ‘You put guards on the house,’ Wat said, more of an accusation than an observation.

  ‘Of course I did. Don’t want the town burning the place to the ground ‘till I’ve got my money out.’

  Hermitage thought of a marvellous question. He wondered why it hadn’t come to him before in all the revolting investigations he had had to do. If people answered it honestly he’d be able to find out who killers were at the drop of a hat. Of course people seldom seemed to answer his questions honestly. Especially the ones who turned out to be the killers in the end. He supposed that if you’ve just killed someone, answering questions dishonestly wouldn’t bother you in the slightest. Still, had to be worth a go.

  ‘Where were you when Gilder was murdered,’ he asked with what he thought was a piercing gaze.

  Balor looked at him as if there was something wrong with the monk’s eyes. ‘Well I don’t know, do I?’

  Ah, that wasn’t the answer he’d expected at all. Either at home, in the tavern, or in Gilder’s house had been in his mind. Now he thought about it, a killer was probably unlikely to say he was in the victim’s house with the murder weapon in his hand. He sighed to himself. He’d never get the hang of this investigation business. Probably a good job.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t know when Gilder was killed,’ Balor pointed out, ‘so how could I know where I was?’

  That was actually a very good answer. If the young man had said “in the tavern” or something, Hermitage would have been able to spring his trap and say, “aha, but I never told you when Gilder was killed”. He’d try to remember that one for next time.

  ‘Probably sometime on,’ Hermitage worked backward in his head, ‘Monday. The Ealdorman told us master Hendig raised hue and cry at dawn the day before yesterday. Today being Thursday, that would make it Tuesday morning. It is unlikely that Gilder would have been absent all through Monday without someone raising an alarm. We know the man was on his bed fully clothed so it can’t have been the middle of the night. Therefore, Monday evening, after the day’s business was done. That was the time of the murder.’ Hermitage folded his arms in some satisfaction at this clear reasoning. It also took them some way forward in the investigation. Perhaps it narrowed things down a bit. Somehow.