Wat stood smartly from his chair and clapped his hands together. ‘So,’ he said, ‘which is the best road for Derby?’
There was more noise at the door as a new figure entered the room. This one was a burly, strong-armed fellow who looked like he tilled the fields by pulling the plough himself. He was hefting a large axe in one hand and a length of rope in the other.
‘Ah,’ said Aclan, ‘Oswine. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a change of plan.’
‘Uh?’ said Oswine, more grunt than speech. ‘That fool sheriff tried to stop me coming in. What’s going on?’
‘Gilder is dead,’ said Aclan.
‘I had heard.’
‘And it turns out he just died,’ Aclan moved on quickly, not giving anyone else the opportunity to speak. ‘We thought Wat the weaver had done something to him,’ he gestured at Wat, ‘scared him with a tapestry or the like, but it turns out not.’ He shrugged.
‘Wat the weaver?’ said Oswine, smiling broadly and looking at Wat. ‘Oh I couldn’t execute him anyway. Not the Wat the weaver.’
‘Not another one,’ Hermitage mumbled as Oswine approached and patted Wat firmly on the back.
. . .
The moot broke up quite quickly after that. The merchants seemed anxious to get home, probably to weigh up the damage Gilder had done. His death had turned out to be a bit of a disaster.
This was going to be a period of high risk and worry. Word of the passing of Gilder was spread wide and who knew what sorry band might turn up at the gates demanding their property, property that had probably been promised to several people at the same time.
As the leading merchants left the room, Hermitage thought he heard them discussing whether they could make some new Gilder notes to pay off the old ones. Surely that would only make things worse?
Balor, Hendig and Eggar seemed to make a particularly hasty exit. Hermitage hoped that they weren’t going to try and remove anything from the treasury. That would be quite improper if it had been promised to someone else.
One item was retrieved though. A member of the moot was leaving the room in a very strange manner before Mildburgh grabbed him and extracted the tapestry from his jerkin.
‘You’re disgusting,’ she announced. The man quivered. She addressed the room. ‘All of you. You are all disgusting. This,’ she waved the tapestry, ‘is going on the fire.’
Wat let a little whimper escape.
‘You’re the most disgusting of the lot,’ she addressed Wat. ‘And if I ever hear mention of a tapestry,’ Mildburgh announced, ‘I shall find a new use for that fire iron.’
Hermitage thought that she had recovered remarkably quickly from her confession of murder.
‘Still sure you don’t want to execute her?’ Wat whispered to Aclan.
. . .
Hermitage, Wat and Cwen quickly decided they would not loiter in Shrewsbury. There was always the risk that someone would change their mind if they waited too long. And a risk that some roaming band of robbers would turn up hoping to be paid by Gilder again, which would doubtless lead to all sorts of trouble.
Father Cuthbert approached to bid Hermitage goodbye and wish him good luck. ‘All turned out well in the end then,’ the beaming abbot observed.
‘Apart from a death turning out to be murder,’ Hermitage responded, ‘a murder committed by a nun who was in a disgraceful tapestry made by Wat.’ He gave Wat a good strong look. ‘And then a town of merchants who are going to lie to everyone about the fact there is no money in their coffers, and who have let the murderous nun go free.’ He folded his arms, quite exhausted by this outburst.
‘As you say,’ Cuthbert confirmed, ‘all turned out well in the end.’ He clearly didn’t want to engage in any further conversation and moved off quickly.
They made their way to the English gate and were glad to see that it was wide open, the lands beyond Shrewsbury beckoning a welcome. Getting out was going to be a lot easier than getting in. Hermitage now wished they’d failed the very first time they tried to cross this threshold.
With one final look at one another they crossed the threshold and stepped onto the bridge. Hermitage gave Shrewsbury a last glance and a small shiver. He really would have to be careful what he said to people in the future.
‘Stop, stop,’ a voice called from the town.
Hermitage felt his blood stop moving.
They turned and saw Aclan the Ealdorman running along the road towards them.
‘What now?’ Cwen demanded. ‘If he suggests we go back to the moot, grab his legs and throw him in the river.’
‘I shall do no such thing,’ said Hermitage.
In fact Aclan ignored both of them and made for Wat. He put an arm around the weaver’s shoulders and led him to the side of the road.
Despite being ignored, Hermitage and Cwen drew close to hear what was going on.
‘I’ve just been speaking to the moot,’ Aclan explained.
‘Good for you,’ said Wat.
‘And, master Wat,’ he said, ‘they have now had the chance to see your works at first hand and in some detail.’
Wat nodded acknowledgement.
‘And they can see that Mildburgh is right. You are disgusting.’
There was nothing Wat could say to this, it was a common criticism.
‘Absolutely revolting,’ Aclan went on, ‘foul, degrading and disgraceful. Your tapestries reveal things that have no place outside of a bed chamber. I am told to report that they have never seen the like and imagine that no one in the whole of the land would be so depraved as to create such abominations.’
Wat just gave a little grimace.
‘So,’ Aclan concluded, ‘are you sure you won’t open even a little shop in town? We need business now that Gilder has gone and taken his money with him.’
‘No, he won’t,’ said Hermitage, grabbing Wat’s arm and marching him across the bridge out of Shrewsbury.
If, in the years to come, this town needed a monk to investigate wrong-doing of any sort whatsoever, they would have to find a different one.
Finis.
The Case of the Clerical Cadaver.
Brother Hermitage keeps at it in The Case of Clerical Cadaver.
A hidden monastery in the depths of England’s depths?
Introit
The monks were in turmoil. It was as much as Brother Egbert could do to stop them running howling into the night; apart, obviously, from the normal suspects, who were taking such a close interest in the body that they had to be moved on quite firmly.
As the doors of the monastery were sealed there was no question of anyone actually getting out, but the sight of the man lying there like that? Well, it was enough to give even Egbert pause. And he hadn’t paused at much in his varied life.
He had been with old King Edward’s forces in Scotland when they killed some total loon called Macbeth who kept going on about daggers and spots before his eyes, and how much trouble his wife was going to be in when he got home. He had seen some pretty revolting things up there. He’d then been forced to give his blessing and pardon for them on threat of some of the revolting things being done to him. But he’d never seen anything like this. He acknowledged that he was relatively new to this particular community but couldn’t believe that this sort of thing was a regular occurrence.
A barked order from the abbot brought silence to the chaotic scene. As usual, the man had simply appeared in their midst without anyone having a chance to shout a warning.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ the great man demanded as he took in the scene.
The skeletal countenance of the abbot, rumoured to be as old as the monastery itself, had its usual impact. Everyone found something else to look at and the normal suspects made themselves scarce.
Egbert stepped forward and bowed his head. ‘A great cry was heard, Father,’ he explained. ‘Many of the brothers were roused from their sleep and came to find out what was happening.’
The abbot looked horrified at
this news. ‘Sleep?’ his outrage was clear.
‘I mean study and prayer, Father,’ Egbert corrected himself.
The assembled brothers mumbled about what a shame it was that their post-midnight study and prayer had been disturbed by this event. Several of them even yawned with disappointment.
The abbot cast his awful stare around his community. The community looked away.
‘And what is that brother doing lounging there?’ the abbot pointed a withering finger at the corpse in the middle of the small courtyard.
The cloister of this place was as common as any monastery. A simple square walkway covered by a roof of stone, held up by plain pillars, circumnavigated a square courtyard of grass. As in a thousand monasteries, monks would wander their cloister in thought and discussion, or just to keep out of the rain. In this place there were stone seats built into the back wall, upon which the monks were not allowed to sit. From the cloister, a monk could be in virtually any monastery in Christendom, such was the regularity of design.
Except, of course, this one had a dead body in its courtyard.
The strong moon, hanging in the sky and dropping its pale light onto the monastery, could do nothing but make the scene even more gruesome.
‘Erm,’ Egbert was puzzled by the question. ‘He’s dead, Father.’
‘Dead?’
‘Well, yes.’ Egbert knew that the abbot frequently missed the concerns of the ordinary man, but a corpse in your courtyard?
‘He cannot be dead,’ the abbot said, simply.
Egbert’s overwhelming urge was to say that the abbot had better go and inform the cadaver. He knew better.
‘We have no weaklings or disease in this place.’ The abbot stated loudly, as if his voice alone was enough to banish both. ‘Why is he dead?’
Egbert frowned. He held an arm out towards the body. Surely he didn’t have to explain this. ‘He’s been impaled on the sundial, Father,’ he pointed out.
The abbot took half a step forward and peered, as if examining some piece of illumination presented for his inspection in the scriptorium. A rather poor piece by the look on his face.
‘I see.’ The abbot seemed to reluctantly accept that a monk with a large sundial sticking through him was entitled to be dead.
In fact, not only was the sundial passing through the deceased, but it was raised on a pedestal and it looked like a bit of that had gone in as well. The unfortunate man must have hit the device with some considerable speed and force.
Or been pushed.
The abbot glared at his monks once more. ‘Back to your study,’ he commanded, with a wave.
The monks departed gratefully, but with many a backward glance at the body. Most of them would rather spend the night with a dead monk that five minutes with their abbot.
‘Well then?’ the abbot turned his countenance on Egbert.
‘Well then, what, Father?’
‘Move him,’ the abbot instructed impatiently. ‘How are we going to read the sundial with a monk lying all over it?’
Egbert looked around and made sure that the last of the brothers had left the scene. The clatter of closing cell doors assured him they were alone.
‘I think there may be more of a problem than telling the time,’ he said, significantly.
‘Why?’ the abbot snapped. ‘It’s not the cook, is it?’ He sounded as if he suspected the cook. Just the sort of thing that idle waster would do, lounge about in the courtyard being dead when he should be working.
‘No Father,’ Egbert explained wearily. ‘It is not the cook. It is Father Ignatius.’
‘Ignatius?’ That had taken the abbot back. ‘The Father Ignatius?’
Egbert rolled his eyes, ‘We only have the one,’ he sighed. He knew the abbot was a greater leader of men and a devout and pious soul. He had that energy and internal confidence that just made people do as he directed. Egbert just wished the man wasn’t quite so stupid.
He knew that he was a simple soul himself; he had no great understanding of the ideas of the world or the finer points of theology. Or any of the points, really. He had been a plain friar in service of the King’s army. He went where he was told and did what was wanted. He never needed to apply much thought to anything.
In his quieter moments though, reflecting on his wide experiences of the world and those who seemed to be in charge, he sometimes wondered why leadership and stupidity seemed to be such frequent companions. And why people leaped to follow those who were plainly wrong. People who instructed them to do the impossible and then berated them for doing exactly what they’d been told, when they knew it was never going to work in the first place.
This abbot was a prime example. The man could turn from friendly confidante to fire-breathing demon at the drop of a sandal. Most of the brothers kept their distance to avoid being caught in the back of the head by one of the violent mood swings. Egbert suspected a touch of madness lurked just under the abbot’s surface, occasionally sticking its nose out to see if the world was ready for it yet. How the man had been put in charge of anything was a mystery.
Egbert had frequently been told he needed to address this problem that he seemed to have with authority.
‘Just so,’ the abbot confirmed, thoughtfully. ‘Father Ignatius.’ The disappointment at everyone and everything that habitually camped on his face was disturbed by a veil of worry. His eyes seemed to be moving about of their own accord and his regular frown had transformed to something deep enough to echo.
Egbert thought this might indicate that the abbot was thinking. He had no idea what the outcome of that was likely to be. Nothing good, he suspected. ‘And I think he may have been put there by someone.’
‘Put there? On the sundial? Why would anyone put a dead body on a sundial?’
Egbert now went so far as to wipe a hand over his face and look to the sky. ‘I suspect he was put there while he was still alive, and then he died.’
‘Death by sundial?’ the abbot made the connection.
‘Indeed.’
‘Who would do such a thing?’
That, thought Egbert, is a very good question. In fact it is the very good question. Not that the abbot would realise that of course. ‘I think we need to find that out, Father. Before it happens again.’
The abbot frowned even more, ‘We haven’t got another sundial,’ he said. To which Egbert could not even manage a sigh.
‘I mean before someone else is murdered.’
‘Murder?’ the abbot was shocked at the word.
‘When someone makes someone else dead? It is the usual term. Unless you’re just a very bad physick. But I doubt even the worst physick in the world would prescribe impaling on a sundial for anything.’
The abbot actually bit his lip. Egbert had never seen him so disturbed. He was disturbed in many ways but this time events were doing it to him. He looked at risk of losing control. That could only be very bad indeed.
‘Father Ignatius. Murdered?’
‘It would seem so.’
The abbot took a cautious step into the courtyard and approached the bizarre scene.
Father Ignatius was on his back, spread-eagled in mid-air, the spike of the sundial emerging from his front like the mast of some dread ship. The morbidly minded might still be able to tell the time by the position of the sun’s shadow on the various bits of Ignatius’s anatomy, after all, he wasn’t using them anymore. Half past terce was going to be a bit embarrassing.
Egbert joined the abbot at the side of the dear departed. Not that anyone would have conceived of the word “dear” in any description of Ignatius. This situation constituted the sunniest disposition the man had ever had.
The Priest was the opposite of the abbot in many ways, or rather, he had been. He was frighteningly intelligent, being able to pierce either a complex text or the schemes of brothers intent on avoiding their duties. As a leader of men though, his personal qualities were such that people wouldn’t have followed him out of a burning building. Even
young novices were prepared to mutter about the man within his earshot. They wouldn’t have even allowed such thoughts about the abbot into their heads. After all, the abbot was in their heads with them.
Ignatius’s very particular role in the monastery made this situation complicated. Granted, an ordinary monk, done to death on the monastery time-piece would be trouble enough, but that might be put down to some personal conflict, or piece of brotherly revenge.
Ignatius though, the Sacerdos Arcanorum, priest of the mysteries, was separate from the rest of the place. His duties and rituals were known only to him. Egbert immediately suspected that it was the Sacerdos Arcanorum that had been murdered. It was just unfortunate for Ignatius that he happened to be in the job at the time.
Which in turn meant the murder was probably for a very specific reason. What that reason might be, Egbert had not a clue. He had no idea what the Sacerdos Arcanorum did. Nobody had. Or, perhaps the abbot? If anyone in this place would know, surely the abbot.
‘The Sacerdos Arcanorum,’ Egbert said, hopefully prompting the abbot to reveal something.
‘Great Lord,’ the abbot cried out.
That scared Egbert more than being in a sealed monastery where people were impaled on the furniture. ‘What?’ he shrieked.
The abbot’s trembling finger pointed to Ignatius.
Egbert couldn’t see any new surprises that hadn’t been visible from a distance.
‘Look where he’s pointing, man.’
Pointing? Egbert moved so that he could see Ignatius’s left hand. It did look like it was pointing, but that could just be the result of his recent experience with the sundial. Three fingers were clenched tightly, the remaining one sticking out like a sign. He moved again and looked at the Priest’s right hand. This was more normal. It was thrown wide open, which Egbert imagined would be the natural reaction in the circumstances.
He followed the line of the pointing finger, and drew a sharp breath.
It was too much of a coincidence. Surely a man, speared on a sundial, would not go to the trouble of pointing as his life departed. Much less would he point straight at the small, dirty and unused door set in the wall of the monastery; the door that was the subject of so much speculation.
Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns Page 26