Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

by Howard of Warwick

  Balor suddenly looked very pale, even in the darkness, and he fell very silent.

  ‘What was it you’d come to collect?’ Wat asked.

  Eggar grunted. ‘One of his favourites.’ A favourite what, was not explained, but it didn’t sound very nice.

  The old man hauled himself from his seat. ‘You might as well come and see. Balor needs to know what he’s got so he can decide what to do with it all.’

  He led the way into the back room, which Hermitage was now even more positive he did not want to go into.

  They gathered on the threshold while Eggar applied the oil lamp to other lamps which were set on shelves.

  Once illuminated, Hermitage could see that Eggar had actually made himself quite comfortable in the place. A large and expensive-looking chair, one fit for a noble, was surrounded by small tables bearing flagons of drink and the detritus of a selection of meals.

  They all gazed upon the contents of Gilder’s treasure house and it was like a king’s palace. The expensive chair was the least of it, the place was littered with the very finest items. There was a great table across the back wall, against which were enough chairs to seat a small army.

  The surface of the table could barely be seen through the littering of silver flasks and goblets which were laid out on it.

  Round the rest of the room were more chairs, padded and embroidered, upon which fine garments were spread, many of them with gold embroidery and shining buttons.

  One corner contained weapons and armour, all of it of the very highest quality and by the look of it, never used.

  Mouths were open and breath was being taken in gasps.

  ‘There’s so much,’ Hermitage searched for the right word, ‘stuff,’ he concluded.

  ‘And none of it used or enjoyed,’ Eggar noted, ‘just hidden away and slavered over.’ He gave a contemptuous cough. ‘When he was fit enough he’d come down here, close the door and just sit looking at it all. Later he had me and Hendig bring him items to gloat over before putting them back again.’

  ‘So, this favourite?’ Wat asked.

  Eggar gestured to the walls.

  Hermitage looked up from the magnificence of the floor. ‘Oh my goodness gracious heavens above.’ He almost staggered at the sight before his eyes.

  The walls of this grim and revolting place were hung from floor to ceiling with tapestries of the very highest quality. Colours and scenes leaped from the walls as if they were in the room. The figures portrayed gave the distinct impression that they would step down at any moment to join the observer in conversation, or in dance. The impression of real-life just waiting to spring forth was almost overwhelming.

  ‘Ah,’ said Wat.

  Hermitage shut his eyes and turned away. These tapestries of the very highest quality, of which Gilder had amassed a very great collection, appeared to be entirely the creations of one Wat the weaver. And they weren’t the nice ones.

  Caput XVII

  A Fine Collection

  ‘I’d forgotten this one,’ said Wat with enthusiasm as he examined the tapestries on the walls of the gong house annex. He pointed to a very fine detail in the background of one particularly revealing image. ‘I remember being quite proud of this at the time.’

  Hermitage had taken to Eggar’s chair and didn’t know whether to shake his head, moan quietly, complain loudly and at length, or try all three at the same time.

  Even Balor was looking around the room in shock. He was looking quite closely and even went back to examine some of the tapestries for a second or third time, but he still looked shocked.

  Eggar and Hendig had seen it all before and were sitting in two of the other chairs sharing a flagon.

  Cwen was wandering the room like some foreign visitor admiring her host’s display.

  ‘Ah,’ she cried out.

  ‘Ah, indeed,’ said Hermitage, having the opportunity to speak up. ‘This is awful. Truly awful. I know of Wat’s past and I have seen some of his works before but to see so many together in one place makes their truly sinful nature only more apparent.’

  ‘No,’ said Cwen,’ I mean ah, here’s one of mine.’

  Hermitage looked over and his unfortunate eyes took in the scene before he could stop them. He knew Cwen was a woman and so had first-hand knowledge of things best not spoken of. But there was good reason they were best not spoken of. They certainly shouldn’t be put in a tapestry.

  ‘The price of this one kept me for half a year.’ She beamed with pride.

  Wat came over to examine it. ‘Very nice,’ he said.

  ‘Nice!’ Hermitage exclaimed.

  ‘Good needle control.’ Wat nodded.

  ‘So which was this favourite you were sent for?’ Wat called out to Eggar.

  ‘Favourite!’ Hermitage burst out again.

  ‘Over there.’ Eggar nodded to one part of the room.

  Wat and Cwen wandered over and examined the work in question.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Cwen, ‘I’m surprised the nuns didn’t take your head off there and then. You were lucky to get away with a slap.’

  The groans from Hermitage were pretty continuous now.

  ‘It’s alright,’ said Wat, ‘it’s a religious scene.’ He coughed a laugh.

  ‘Monks and nuns and bishops and nobles and all sorts,’ Cwen noted, ‘you just can’t quite tell which is which.’

  ‘I do remember this one,’ Wat nodded,.‘Awful lot of fine work involved. Some of the characters are tiny.’

  ‘But not invisible,’ Hermitage complained.

  ‘No, but fully formed, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Master Wat I think you are enjoying yourself,’ Hermitage huffed.

  ‘It’s nice to see them again,’ Wat acknowledged. ‘It’s like seeing your children all safe and well. I must say I didn’t know Gilder had amassed quite such a collection though.’

  ‘You must have sold them to him,’ said Hermitage from his chair, with his back firmly to the room. ‘And you said you’d never met him.’

  ‘I hadn’t,’ Wat replied. ‘I sold them to all sorts. Gilder must have bought them on. There’s quite a healthy trade in my work you know.’

  ‘Healthy indeed.’

  ‘Not healthy in that way. They just sell very well. Shame I don’t get a share each time one changes hands.’

  Wat stood tall and looked around the room. ‘In fact there’s number three of the bath-house series over there. I know I sold that to King Harold. He must have sold it on to gather money, or get in Gilder’s good books. As if Harold ever bothered getting in peoples’ good books.’

  ‘At least we now know nothing is missing,’ said Hermitage, ‘so we can get on with our plan. The leaving bit.’

  ‘There were a few in this series as well,’ said Wat looking back at his religious scene, ‘more detail of one or two characters in particular, if you follow me.’

  Hermitage did follow him, but was trying hard to find a different route completely. ‘We must be grateful Gilder didn’t gather every tapestry you ever made.’

  ‘He’d need a bigger gong house,’ Wat observed, apparently quite seriously.

  Hermitage tried to stick to the matter in hand, rather than the matters being presented to his unwilling eye. ‘We know the killer was not Eggar here, because he hasn’t run away,’ Hermitage pressed on.

  ‘Is that how it works now?’ Wat asked.

  ‘I think so. Motive, opportunity, run away and could-have-done-it. You might call it method I suppose.’

  ‘So we need to find someone who has run away?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Tricky task. And of course if we leave, we’ll have run away. Which proves we did it after all?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Hermitage was impatient. ‘We did not have the opportunity, not actually being here when the deed was done. We also had no motive.’

  ‘Where’s the coin?’ Balor’s voice called from somewhere towards the back of the room.

  ‘The coin?’ Hermitag
e called.

  ‘Yes. I’ve opened all the trunks and boxes and everything. There’s only clothes and pots and dishes and things. No coin at all.’

  ‘Why do you want to find the coin?’ Cwen asked.

  ‘I was going to give you something for your trouble,’ said Balor, as if those investigating your father’s murder should be given a gratuity.

  ‘Oh, my son,’ Hermitage spoke up, ‘that’s not necessary at all.’

  ‘Well, let’s think about that,’ said Cwen.

  ‘Perhaps that’s been stolen?’ Balor suggested, ‘easier to take than a table.’

  ‘There is no coin,’ said Eggar. ‘Not here. Never was. This was the treasury for all his precious things. You might find some jewels here and there but no coin.’

  ‘Why no coin?’ Wat asked.

  ‘Probably didn’t trust even me with it,’ Eggar noted without rancour. ‘Just as you say, it’s too easy to steal. If I helped myself to a gold embroidered cloak, a silver staff and a velvet hat, I’d probably be spotted. But a handful of Gilder’s coin in my pocket? No one would notice.’

  ‘Hendig?’ Hermitage queried.

  ‘That’s right,’ the young man confirmed, ‘never moved any coin for him. Threatened a lot of people that they had to hand theirs over but he always dealt with that himself.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was never here?’ Cwen pressed.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Hendig and Eggar chimed.

  ‘So it could well have been stolen,’ said Hermitage. ‘If Gilder was so careful with his coin, he probably kept it close to hand. In the house.’

  ‘Not that I saw,’ said Eggar. ‘He counted his rents and the like but then it vanished.’

  ‘Into some secret passage perhaps,’ said Wat, with another glance at Cwen, who snorted back.

  ‘Perhaps the blow on the head was to make him say where it was,’ Hermitage speculated.

  ‘Bit drastic,’ said Wat, ‘taking most of his head off. Not likely to say very much at all after that.’

  ‘So it went wrong.’

  ‘And the culprit just ran away?’

  ‘There you have it,’ said Hermitage, satisfied that this explained things very well.

  ‘We really are going to have to run away then,’ said Wat. ‘There’s nothing at all to stop the town executing us now.’

  ‘There is also the question of the message,’ said Hermitage. ‘Perhaps master Eggar knows what that was?’

  ‘Message?’ Eggar asked. ‘Young Hendig was the messenger boy.’

  ‘He knows nothing of it.’ Hermitage went on, ‘Apparently there was to be a message to the nuns, the monks and the moot. But Gilder was dead before it could be sent. We think it could be connected. Did he discuss anything with you?’

  ‘Discuss anything?’ Eggar said, with offended surprise. ‘The man never discussed anything with anyone. He just issued orders and if you didn’t follow them it was the worse for you.’

  ‘And you found nothing with the body?’

  ‘Nothing at all. He was just lying there on his bed with his head all over the place.’

  ‘Lying face down?’

  ‘That’s right. I was half tempted to drag him down here and throw him the river with the rest of the gong. Best place for him, but I am an old man,’ Eggar excused himself.

  ‘And dragging your master’s body through the streets would be a bit risky?’ Wat suggested.

  ‘Probably,’ Eggar acknowledged. ‘The townsfolk would likely have torn him to pieces before I got to the end of the Foregate.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Cwen asked, keeping half an ear on the conversation while she continued to examine the tapestries.

  ‘It would have been Tuesday night, just before dark, so quite late. He'd sent me down here. Probably wanted to take the thing to bed with him.’ Eggar scoffed his disgust and nodded his head toward the tapestry.

  ‘Was he fresh?’ Wat asked, which turned Hermitage’s stomach slightly.

  ‘Pretty much, I’d say. Most of the blood was still wet.’

  ‘And when did you last see him alive?’

  ‘Before I came down here,’ Eggar explained. ‘He usually gave me his orders for the day while he ate a midday meal. If you can call it a meal. I always got the impression he found eating a nuisance, the one time he couldn’t be making money. For some reason he wanted the tapestry last thing.’

  ‘And how long did it take you?’

  ‘Long enough,’ Eggar confessed. ‘I never rushed to do his bidding. It was the only way I had of getting my own back.’

  Hermitage sat in his chair and thought through the latest information. And it didn’t help in the slightest. They had now met the man who had seen the body straight after death. And it was pretty soon after the death, which must have taken place sometime on Tuesday evening. Where did this get them? Nowhere.

  There could well have been a killer who took Gilder’s coin and left town before he could be apprehended. That was that then. They would have to scour the whole country for someone who suddenly had a surfeit of coin. Impossible.

  Hermitage now had an awful thought. One which really shook him and made his blood run cold. It was that he really shouldn’t have mentioned the murder in the first place. Particularly not to the moot and Mildburgh. If he’d just kept his mouth shut they wouldn’t be running for their lives now.

  The whole town had been perfectly happy that Gilder was dead but he had to pry. Deep down he still thought it was a bad idea to let murders just happen, but it might still be better than execution.

  ‘We leave then,’ he spoke up.

  ‘Sure?’ Wat asked. ‘You don’t want to go back to the moot and explain that Gilder’s killer was a wandering robber who took his coin and has now vanished? And would they mind not executing us please?’

  ‘We could,’ said Hermitage very reasonably, ‘but on balance, I think that they may not be open to such reasoning, now they have a murder and an execution in mind.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Wat clapped his hands, ‘off we go then.’

  Balor stood and bowed his head. ‘I shall tell the moot that you clearly had nothing to do with the death and have gone on your way.’

  ‘Will that make any difference?’ Cwen asked.

  Balor held his arms out. ‘I do now have all Gilder’s treasure and his lands and rents, I assume. I think they’ll see that it’s best.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Hermitage added.

  ‘And I am Gilder’s son.’

  Hermitage worried momentarily that the son might follow the footsteps of the father.

  Balor went on, ‘So if I don’t care to execute the killer of the old dung bucket, why should anyone else?’

  As they gathered at the door ready to leave, Wat cast a glance back into the chamber of treasure.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said.

  ‘Wonder what?’ Hermitage asked, thinking there might be some further clue to the murder buried among the precious goods.

  Wat turned to Balor. ‘I wonder if I might take one back with me. Just a little one? For old times’ sake?’

  Balor smiled and held his arms out to encompass all the tapestries. ‘Of course you may.’

  ‘Of course you may not,’ Hermitage interjected. ‘You have moved on Wat, and all the better for it. If you have one of these awful things again you might be tempted.’

  ‘I’ve always quite liked temptation,’ Wat grumbled, but he had clearly given up on the idea.

  Cwen took him by the arm and led him to the door as he continued to glance back like a noble being parted from his favourite hound.

  They made their way back through the gong house, Eggar closing the secret door behind them, and headed for the daylight.

  Hermitage was first to step from the building and was immediately brought to a halt.

  ‘Aha,’ said the town guard, thrusting his guarding pole towards Hermitage. ‘Oh,’ he paused, ‘sorry, not you.’ He waved Hermitage away.

  Cwen came next.

 
‘Aha,’ the guard tried again. ‘No, not you either, on your way.’ Cwen looked amused at the man and stepped aside.

  ‘Aha,’ the guard said for the third time and with a lot more triumph in his voice as Wat emerged.

  ‘Hello,’ said Wat, smiling at the man.

  ‘I’ve got you now,’ the guard kept Wat at the end of his pole.

  ‘Have you?’ Wat asked, happily.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The guard nodded at his own triumph. ‘Aclan sent word that you’d escaped from the lock up.’

  ‘I see.’ Wat sounded a little more worried, but still didn’t seem to be taking the lone guard very seriously.

  ‘We didn’t kill Gilder,’ Hermitage explained, quickly.

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ the guard agreed.

  That was alright then.

  ‘But he did,’ the guard thrust the pole at Wat. ‘It’s all been explained. Apparently Mildburgh said that the monk wouldn’t have killed anyone anyway, and the girl wouldn’t be strong enough.’

  Hermitage took a cautious step away so he wasn’t between Cwen and the Guard.

  ‘Which only leaves the weaver.’

  ‘Or someone else completely,’ Wat suggested.

  ‘So you’re off back to the lock up to wait for Oswine the slaughter man.’

  Hermitage was about to protest some more, or start leaving town anyway, as there was only one guard to stop them.

  Then four more guards appeared up the path, poles at the ready.

  Wat was pushed along. ‘I knew there was something going on when you said you wanted to come down here,’ his escort accused. ‘I should have thought at the time. Who on earth would want a tapestry with a gong house in it?’

  Caput XVIII

  Execute the Executioner?

  Back at the moot hall once more, Hermitage becoming heartily sick of the place, things were being cleared away. Someone was dragging the sheriff out of the place by his feet and a couple of men were spreading fresh straw about the place. Mainly about the place the sheriff had been lying.

  The sleeping members of the moot were roused to consciousness and helped in finding their way out of the door.