The Garderobe of Death

  The Garderobe of Death

  The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

  By

  Howard of Warwick

  Published in 2017 by The Funny Book Company at Smashwords

  Dalton House, 60 Windsor Avenue, London SW19 2RR

  www.funnybookcompany.com

  Copyright ©Howard Matthews 2014

  The right of Howard Matthews to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is also available in Paperback ISBN 978-0-9929393-1-1

  Cover design by Double Dagger

  Also by Howard of Warwick.

  The First Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

  The Heretics of De'Ath

  The Garderobe of Death

  The Tapestry of Death

  Continuing Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

  Yet More Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

  The Case of the Clerical Cadaver

  The Case of the Curious Corpse

  The Case of the Cantankerous Carcass

  A Brother Hermitage Diversion (and free!)

  Brother Hermitage in Shorts

  Also:

  Howard of Warwick does the Middle Ages: Authenticity without accuracy.

  The Domesday Book (No, Not That One.)

  The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)

  Explore the whole sorry business and join the mailing list at

  Howardofwarwick.com

  Another funny book from The Funny Book Company

  Greedy by Ainsworth Pennington

  Contents

  Caput I Midnight: Death takes Norman

  Caput II Five-o-clock: Norman Noble

  Caput III Five-o-clock: Saxon Lady

  Caput IV Seven-o-clock: Monk and Weaver

  Caput V Half past Seven: Monk to Castle

  Caput VI Half past Seven: Lady to Castle

  Caput VII Eight-o-clock: Castle Grosmal

  Caput VIII Nine-o-clock: Lady to Guard (small)

  Caput IX Ten-o-clock: Monk to Garderobe

  Caput X Ten-o-clock: Weaver and Saxon

  Caput XI Half past Ten: In My Lady’s Chamber

  Caput XII Eleven-o-clock: Monk to Woods

  Caput XIII Half past Eleven: Weaver to Saxon

  Caput XIV Midday: Lady to Norman Noble

  Caput XV Midday: Wood to Castle

  Caput XVI One-o-clock: Noble Takes Weaver

  Caput XVII One-o-clock: Wood to Castle II

  Caput XVIII Two-o-clock: Noble Takes Lady

  Caput XIX Two-o-clock: Wood to Dungeon

  Caput XX Half past Two: Lady to Dungeon

  Caput XXI Three-o-clock: Guard to Maid

  Caput XXII Half past Three: Dungeon to Wood

  Caput XXIII Four-o-clock: The Guard , the Wench and the Wardrobe

  Caput XXIV Four-o-clock: Wood II to Castle II

  Caput XXV Half past Four: Castle Takes Wood

  Caput XXVI Five-o-clock: Bed to Dungeon

  Caput XXVII Half past Five: End Game

  Caput XXVIII Six-o-clock: King’s Gambit

  Caput XXIX Half past Six: Capitulation

  Epilogic Prologue

  Caput I

  Midnight: Death Takes Norman

  These were very dark ages. Thus mused Henri de Turold as he stumbled through one of the very darkest bits and stubbed his toes on a beam of worm-ridden English oak. Cursing the ghastly country and its truly awful people to an eternity of pain, he hobbled on down the corridor.

  ‘But we’re emerging from the darkness, sire; these are modern times,’ learned men gabbled on all the time. To Henri’s way of thinking, emergence from the dark would be a lot quicker if he set fire to England and all the learned men in it.

  It had to be said that Henri’s way of thinking was slow and laborious at the best of times. If anyone wanted goose feathers putting on their arrows, they would turn to Henri de Turold. If they wanted a decent conversation, they'd turn to the goose.

  Yet the Norman made up for this absence of brain with a huge portion of good looks. Towering five foot nine if he was an inch, he had a chest like a barrel – the inside of one – and a stomach that couldn't muster the strength to reach his belt, let along hang over it. When he stood up straight his knees were so far apart that he didn’t so much mount a horse as overwhelm it.

  His face was normally an example of Norman power and grandeur, having been hit very hard, many times, by horses’ hoofs. This had re-arranged his features into that pattern most favoured by the ladies of the Norman court. At this particular moment, however, his visage was contorted into a grimace of disdain that made him look almost English.

  This strange moment of the night saw him stumbling through the very strange castle of his fellow Norman, and intellectual equal, Lord Robert Grosmal. Henri appreciated that Grosmal deserved the estate as reward for slaughtering the women and children of Hastings, but why had he filled it with darkness? England’s darkness might not be actually darker than anywhere else, but he always felt it was ignoring him at best, if not actively conspiring against him. Not like Norman darkness, which was friendly and welcoming and allowed you to get up to all sorts of things without being spotted.

  To rid himself of this cursed gloom, Henri held a candle in front of him – one that seemed in league with the murk and strangely reluctant to help. It was admittedly a long, fat thing with a flame on top, but those were all the candle-like qualities it was prepared to accommodate.

  The candle maker of Robert Grosmal had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one. The thing guttered and spluttered and dropped about enough light to illuminate its own shaft, which, being made of something truly unspeakable, was best not illuminated at all. No one knew quite what it was the man did to a candle, but they all knew it was horrible. They were the only variety that could make a moth leave a room.

  ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ Henri mumbled for about the third time. Drips of almost sentient wax did their best to cling on to the life of the candle before dropping towards the floor, swerving strangely as they went and landing with a soft, hot splash on his naked toes.

  Walking naked through the halls of this disgusting house in January was clearly mad – but so was walking anywhere naked in January. Normally de Turold took off no clothes at all between October and May, and even then was considered outlandishly hardy. His only splash of common sense was the floppy yellow cloth hat on his head. Perhaps this would postpone the moment he froze to death.

  For earlier that evening his desires, long dormant or satisfied by killing things, had taken control of his body, and he was only obeying orders.

  Over dinner the Lady Foella, a Saxon beauty of such distinction she almost looked French, had hinted that if he were to walk naked from his chamber to hers there might be a warm welcome for him...

  Henri’s reverie was broken and dragged to the present by an odou
r, slinking out of the opening to Robert's new fangled garderobe. The Norman paused for a moment to consider his bowels, or rather they grabbed his attention by rattling like six squirrels in a sack of walnuts. Mindful of all the trouble he had been having down there lately, he decided to visit the facilities before descending, literally he hoped, on Lady Foella.

  A testing clench of his muscles released a scent that would have made a pig of little discernment vomit, never mind a lady of refinement. The odour of ordure did brief battle with the scents drifting from the garderobe, but soon gave up an unequal battle and retired from the field. If Henri had been visiting a serving girl she could have been told to clean up afterwards, but Foella had class.

  Nipping quickly into the room, he followed one of the garderobe night lights as its disgusting smoke seeped into the air. There were two planted on the stone paving by sides of two holes, badly knocked into the chamber floor. He could have sworn his candle flickered at the others, probably just the wind.

  Above the holes, propped off the ground by lumps of wood, were two slabs of stone with matching holes, optimistically described as seats by Lord Robert. The candles burned in the room as a courtesy to light the way for visitors, or at least to stop them doing it on the floor by mistake.

  Setting himself down on the nearest ice-trimmed hole, he prepared to let drop. He didn’t need to prepare long as his lower intestine wanted rid of its contents faster than Henri wanted to get at Lady Foella’s.

  Henri put his own candle at a safe distance. Then he bent to move the other so the fumes would find some direction of travel other than up his nose. This candle had got firmly stuck to the floor by its own excreted wax, and so he gave it a tug. He frowned for a moment as below the noise of his own evacuation he could have sworn he heard something. One second later he was dead.

  Caput II

  Five-o-clock: Norman Noble

  It was to be a bright and sparkling winter’s morning, and the harmonious, pre-dawn swoop of owl song and delicate scent of pine drifting in from the all-encompassing forest had its usual effect on the Lord of the Manor. It imbued him with a sense of enormous contempt for the world and everything in it.

  Still, this was the day King William would visit. Yes, it was only an overnight stay as his Majesty travelled north. Yes, he would arrive after dark and leave before dawn. Yes, he had sent word that he did not want to be bothered by anyone or anything. And yes, private word had been sent that Robert Grosmal may call himself Lord of the Manor, but he had better bloody well keep out of the King's way. But still. The King.

  This put Robert in the mood for a good gloat over the conquered English, and so he set about a tour of his ever-expanding demesne.

  He was young to have been gifted land, but he had two qualities William of Normandy valued on the battlefield. The first was the insane violence of the young who believe no harm can come to them, no matter what horrible things they do. The second was that no harm had come to him – pretty miraculous, really, as he had done some very horrible things.

  Robert left his chamber, naturally the largest in the castle, and beckoned the two cleaners, who had been waiting outside his door all night, to begin their work. As the place was the largest in the castle it took longest to clean, particularly after Grosmal had spent a night in it. The cleaners exchanged looks of sympathy, took simultaneous deep breaths and dived in.

  His lordship prowled his property. He growled at servants, snarled at guards and abused a couple of the permanent builders who had been expanding his castle from the moment that King William gave it to him. He wove his way through the growingly complex corridors and chambers, and by this journey discovered Henri de Turold.

  He didn’t do so immediately, of course. He went to the garderobe, stood next to Henri and did his business, left and went to the great hall to warm up. Then he asked where Henri was.

  A servant was sent to look, and it was he who noticed Henri was dead, and had been for some time. This man was far too humble to deal directly with the master, so he got the major domo to come and look. He also valued his life too highly to be the bearer of tidings such as these.

  The senior servant looked de Turold up and down with a frown on his brow, nicely balanced by a large grin. To the consternation of his companion he knelt behind the still seated Norman and peered up under the garderobe seat.

  'Oh dear,’ he said in sophisticated and insincere tones, 'our master is not going to like this.’

  …

  In the great hall the senior retainer dragged words through his teeth as he approached the breakfast table. 'My lord?’

  'What do you want?’ The lord snapped, grinning at the humbled Aethelred, the previous owner of the castle, who had been reduced to a servant. At least Robert hadn't executed him. As he pointed out several times a day. He insisted on calling him Ethel, though.

  'Henri de Turold is dead,’ Ethel said with blank glee.

  'So?’ Grosmal took another bite of blood-red venison.

  'He seems to have been killed.’

  'Really?’ Robert asked with the curiosity of an enthusiast. 'Who killed him?’

  'I thought you had.’

  'No,’ said Robert, as if accused of spilling milk, 'at least I don't think so. Anyway, he was a complete arse, so good riddance. All that going on about him and William. The King and I did this, the King and I did that. Well, he won't be doing anything with the King now, will he? Ha ha.’

  'Well, if you didn't do it I have absolutely no idea who did.’

  Grosmal sighed impatiently. ‘Just bury him then – we don’t want the place stinking out.’

  Aethelred didn't move.

  'What’s the problem, Ethel?’ Robert now looked up from the table and gazed with so much contempt that the air between the two men scuttled quickly out of the way.

  'Henri de Turold has been murdered in your castle.’

  This bought no response.

  'In your garderobe.’

  'I presume there is a point to all your meanderings?’ Robert asked, returning to his undercooked deer.

  'The complete arse who kept going on about him and William? The King's personal Fletcher and favourite hunting companion? The same King who is due here at nightfall? He's the one who appears to have been murdered in your garderobe.’ It was Ethel's turn to gloat.

  'Oh, shit,’ said Robert, finally grasping the gravity of the situation.

  There were very few people Robert was afraid of – mainly because his mind didn’t work properly. The King was number one. Grosmal was terrified of anyone who had more power than he did. King William could inflict that most hideous of punishments: taking away his castle.

  …

  Ethel watched as thoughts struggled their way through the head of the Norman. They were not nice thoughts and it was not a nice head. Ethel was bright enough to realise this opinion was not founded on his blind hatred of all things Norman. Well, not totally founded there. Of course Grosmal had the stupid Norman haircut, but then they all did. The tops of their heads had plainly been replaced by something completely different. Something round and covered with a mat made of hair. Not human hair at that.

  This particular Norman head was most disturbing because it looked as though someone had sharpened it. It was clear from his behaviour the man was stupid – everything he did and said confirmed it – but the cause was also clear. There wasn't enough room in his skull for a normal sized brain. His chin was as wide as a horse's arse, but everything narrowed after that. His mouth was a touch too small for the chin and the nose was too small for the mouth. The eyes were too close together for comfort. Then the head simply tapered off.

  The rest of his body followed the lead and got wider as it went down. Narrow shoulders surmounted a widening chest. Stomach and hips spread further, and he even had fat feet.

  While the shape of his head probably explained the absence of intelligent thought, living with his looks probably explained why Robert was an unbalanced, dangerous loon. His father proba
bly rejected him, although his mother must have loved him. His birth would have been easy. Unless he had come out backwards, of course.

  As Ethel gazed, he noticed the man had actually started to shake.

  …

  Throwing a nearby table to one side for effect, Robert grabbed his retainer by the arm and made haste to the garderobe. After a couple of missed turnings, corrected by the simple expedient of following their noses, despite their noses’ objections, the sight which greeted their arrival was bizarre.

  The very first rays of the sun were creeping into the room, probably hoping to leave again almost immediately. They illuminated a scene best left in the dark.

  'Good God, he’s got no clothes on,’ was Robert’s first response to the naked Henri de Turold. The Norman sat as if still giving vent to his bowel problem, ready to get up at any minute. It was only time that made any impression on an observer. When the look of startled surprise on the ex-nobleman’s face remained static, the onlooker started to have doubts. Soon after this the grey pallor, normally so greasy, also caught the eye, and the dryness of the skin made one wonder what was going on. After a few more moments of complete stillness on the part of the defecating de Turold, the facts of death became clear.

  'He is dead, isn’t he?’ asked Robert.

  'Let’s ask him, shall we?’ replied the irrepressible Ethel.