Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

  Being the fourth Chronicle of Brother Hermitage

  by

  Howard of Warwick

  Published by The Funny Book Company at Smashwords

  Dalton House, 60 Windsor Ave, London SW19 2RR

  www.funnybookcompany.com

  © 2014 Howard Matthews

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, copied, or otherwise circulated without the express permission of the author

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  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 Normans at the Door

  Caput II A Killer for Sure

  Caput III Choices: None

  Caput IV The Next Cart for Normandy

  Caput V A Killer for Double Sure

  Caput VI Murder Galore

  Caput VII No Pleasure Cruise

  Caput VIII The Old Men of the Tree

  Caput IX No Body

  Caput X The Blacksmith and the Wheelwright

  Caput XI Yes, But How?

  Caput XII Locked Away

  Caput XIII A Bit of Discipline

  Caput XIV Lord Bonneville Will See You Now

  Caput XV Name Dropping

  Caput XVI The Perfect Spot

  Caput XVII Piers Ploughman

  Caput XVIII A Murderous Ox?

  Caput XIX Found the Body, at Least

  Caput XX To The Rescue

  Caput XXI While Shepherds Watched

  Caput XXII Under the Bed

  Caput XXIII The Castle Slovenly

  Caput XXIV The Boy’s a Girl

  Caput XXV An Audience

  Caput XXVI The Killer’s not a Killer

  Caput XXVII A Shocking Suggestion

  Caput XXVIII And Rest?

  Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids: The Preview

  Caput I

  Normans at the Door

  The soldiers were certainly Norman but at least there weren't many of them. Not that there were any soldiers around these days who weren't Norman, Saxon soldiers either being dead or pursuing alternative occupations, the sensible one claiming never to have heard of Hastings, let alone been there.

  On this warm and humming summer morning the Normans made their point of origin very clear. They kicked a couple of passing peasants and trampled down the small gate that led to the entrance of Wat the weaver's workshop. It never took many Norman soldiers to make an impression.

  'Oh really,’ Brother Hermitage, complained as they rushed to the front door to watch the arrival, 'there's no need for that.’

  Young Hermitage had more experience of the Normans than most, and certainly more than he had ever asked for. He had hoped that Wat’s workshop would be a refuge from the intrusions of the conquerors. He should have known that life’s plans for him would take his own hopes and expectations and ignore them completely.

  'You can tell them then Hermitage,’ Wat offered in a voice quiet enough not to carry to the new arrivals.

  The weaver was slightly older but considerably more experienced than the monk, his experience probably having overtaken Hermitage at about the age of seven. He knew how to handle awkward customers, having dealt with a myriad of his own. He made very unique tapestries. Uniquely explicit and mostly offensive, which went a long way towards explaining the quality of customer he had to deal with.

  Without realising they were doing it, both men ran their hands over their heads in worry. Hermitage across the shining pate of his tonsure, Wat through his thick, dark curly hair.

  The workshop was a simple enough place but it was well positioned and well maintained. The two-storey building stood apart from the rest of the local dwellings, mainly at the request of the local dwellers who wanted Wat and his disgraceful business as far away as possible. It had a piece of land to the front where vegetables were tended by some of his apprentices, the ones who were fond of food, but this was now a corral where half a dozen Norman horses trampled the place flat.

  Cwen, took half a step out of the door before Wat pulled her back. 'Now then my dear,’ he cautioned in a low voice, 'I'm sure you're as angry as the rest of us, but piling into a bunch of well-armed Normans on very big horses is, what’s the word? Stupid.’

  'It'd make me feel better,’ Cwen snarled.

  Cwen was the youngest of them all and the best tapestrier. This annoyed Wat for two reasons, one she was better than him, her small hands producing fine, delicate work, and two, she was a female tapestrier. Hermitage knew his weaver friend was still having trouble coping with this strange concept.

  Cwen also had a fine selection of her own ideas, many of which she expressed clearly and consistently. A lot of them involved Normans and what she would like to do to them. What she would do, given half a chance.

  'But it's not you they'll hit with their swords is it?’ Wat observed, 'you they will pick up and throw in the new dung heap, Hermitage they will completely ignore because he’s a monk. Me? Me they'll hit with the swords. Not fair I know, you make tapestries like a man, why can't you be hit with a sword like a man? But there it is. Let's just see what they want.’

  'What do they usually want?’ Cwen was contemptuous.

  'Whatever it is they want,’ Wat went on, making sure he had her gaze, 'they can have it. Clear?’

  'I say Wat,’ Hermitage pulled at the weaver's expensive sleeve. He recognised a face in the small crowd of Normans as they dealt with their mounts. Or rather he recognised one of the features of the face. It was some time since he had seen this man, but the memory was still clear. It was a very unpleasant memory of a very unpleasant time.

  He felt his stomach fall as the recognition sank in. He had so dearly hoped that his previous business with the Normans was behind him, long gone and long forgotten. The time in Wat's workshop had allowed him to forget his old exploits and the ghastly things he had to deal with. Over the months he had started to think of them as some horrible dream. Not at night obviously, when they really were horrible dreams. Now he had been rudely shaken awake.

  One of his nightmare figures had just stomped all over the vegetable p
atch and it was highly likely Hermitage would be next. Whatever had brought the man to this distant place it could not be coincidence. The place had also turned out not to be quite distant enough.

  'What is it?’ Wat hissed back.

  'That one who seems to be in charge, the one with the eye patch. We've met him before.’ Hermitage's voice was near breaking.

  Wat now turned his attention from the destruction of his garden to the people who were doing the destroying.

  'Oh bloody hell,’ he muttered.

  'Who is it?’ Cwen asked in a low voice.

  'William's right hand man,’ Wat explained, 'name of Le Pedvin.’

  Cwen looked at him quizzically.

  'You know how Normans are nasty pieces of work?’

  'Yes.’

  'Well they all get it from him.’

  Cwen frowned more deeply, 'So how come you know King William's right hand man? He doesn't look the tapestry buying sort.’

  'Hermitage and I met him when we were dealing with a rather messy murder in a Norman castle.’ Wat's attention followed Le Pedvin.

  Cwen's eyes were wide at this revelation, and she was looking at Hermitage and Wat with a mixture of shock at the revelation and offence that she hadn't been told. The shock was directed at Hermitage, Wat got the offence.

  He glanced back at Cwen and saw the look. 'I was going to tell you,’ he insisted, 'it just never came up.’

  Cwen's hands went to her hips. 'You were in a Norman castle, dealing with a murder?’ Cwen hissed as if she'd just been told Hermitage was the pope. 'A rather messy murder. And you were going to tell me when it came up?’ Incredulity drove Cwen's voice up to a pitch only normally heard by dogs.

  'Remember when we first met?’ Wat did a bit of hissing himself, 'when we were dealing with weaver Briston and the Tapestry of Death? Hermitage said he was the King's Investigator.’

  Cwen gaped at him, 'I thought that was a joke. A ruse to stop the people at the time beating us to death.’

  'The point is,’ Wat continued, but his face said he was going to have some explaining to do if they got out of this alive, 'the point is, when we were dealing with this previous murder, towards the end, a bunch of important Normans turned up.’

  'How many murders have you been involved in?’ Cwen was looking at them with new eyes, 'I mean Hermitage is supposed to be a monk for goodness sake, what's a monk doing dealing with murders? It's not decent.’

  'It's not his fault,’ said Wat. Hermitage looked contrite, 'They just sort of happen when he's around.’

  'Oh very comforting I'm sure. Does the church know about this? Do they know that when one of their monks strolls across the scenery someone dies? I think they'd have something to say.’

  'Will you calm down and concentrate on the matter in hand,’ Wat glared.

  'There are sheriffs and things for dealing with murders,’ she went on, 'fines to pay, explanations to be given. Monks should be in monasteries doing monk things.’ Cwen quietened but still looked very worried at being in Hermitage's company.

  Hermitage smiled at her. He was sure if he explained everything she would see that it was all pure coincidence. He nodded to himself at this, but then frowned slightly at the thought that murder might be following him around after all. It did seem to happen quite frequently. But of course he wished it wouldn't, so he really couldn't be held responsible.

  Cwen took a breath, a breath which quite clearly said this was not the end of the discussion. 'And during one of these many murders, you met King William's right hand man?’ Cwen was still disbelieving that she had been kept in the dark.

  'And King William,’ Hermitage put in helpfully.

  Wat didn't seem to think that was helpful as he put his face in his hands.

  'King William?’ Cwen's hissing would get a nest of vipers banging on the wall asking you to be quiet, 'you met King William and his right hand man while you were dealing with a murder and were going to mention it when it came up? What sort of evening conversation did you think we were going to have? Do you think we'll have a good apple crop this year? Have you heard about old Morson and his bad leg? Oh and how many murders have you been involved in and which kings have you met?’

  'Whatever the time to talk about this might be,’ Wat gave a glare as good as he got, 'I don't think this is it. The Normans will be in the house any minute.’

  Cwen shook her head in some resignation that she wasn't going to get much more out them now. 'Hermitage, really.’ She cast a disappointed look at the young monk who did the decent thing and looked away. 'You met the King and said nothing.’

  'How do you think people get made King's Investigator then?’ Wat was waspish.

  'I didn't think they did,’ Cwen snapped back, 'like I said, I thought it was a joke. I don't even know what an investigator is.’

  'It comes from the Latin,’ Hermitage explained in a quiet and calm whisper, 'vestigare, to track. You see the verb takes the form...’

  'I'm sure it does.’ Cwen added to the summer glare in the room.

  Hermitage's understanding of other people, still fairly rudimentary, could at least detect when Cwen wanted to get to the point.

  'It means to look into things. Someone who will find out what happened, who killed who, that sort of thing.’

  'Charming. And King William gave you this job? Still not the sort of thing I think a monk should be doing. Monks 'vestigating murders. If you put this in a story no one would believe a word.’

  'Hermitage is good,’ Wat hissed his own hiss, 'he understands things and can work stuff out.’

  The look on Cwen's face said she found this hard to believe. 'That's fine then.’ She stopped talking but her look at Wat spoke volumes.

  'And there was King Harold before that,’ Hermitage added for completeness.

  Hermitage saw that the expression on Wat's face was the one he used when he wanted Hermitage to shut up. Or rather the one he used when he wished Hermitage had shut up some time ago.

  'Another murder I suppose?’ Cwen asked, as if someone had bought two loaves instead of one.

  'Erm,’ Hermitage hesitated, 'sort of.’

  'A sort of murder? And King Harold made you this investigator thing.’

  'He did,’ Hermitage studied the floor.

  'Before he went off to Hastings and got himself, what's the word? Oh yes, murdered.’

  'Ah,’ said Hermitage. He hadn't seen any connection before.

  'I think I'm beginning to see a bit of a pattern.’ Cwen looked sideways at Hermitage, as if seeing him for the first time.

  This exchange gave the Normans time to sort out their horses, which were now grazing happily on anything green that remained around Wat's workshop.

  The one with the eye patch, the one who had the build of a diseased stalk of wheat but the authority of a scythe, strode up what remained of the path and stood in the doorway.

  'King's Investigator.’ It wasn't a question as the one-eyed glare fell on Hermitage. 'And his little weaving friend,’ the eye observed. 'Good,’ the man took his gloves off, 'I've got a job for you.’

  Le Pedvin gestured to his men that they should wait in the garden, before he strode into the workshop without a sideways glance.

  Wat, Hermitage and Cwen scuttled after as the Norman poked his face around various doors and scared the apprentices at their tasks. Wat followed each excursion and made placating gestures to the half dozen boys, sitting at their work, whose minds were now firmly set on running for their lives.

  Hermitage followed in a state of mild panic. Mild panic for Hermitage, which would be a full-blown howling fit for any normal person. Not only did he think he had left Le Pedvin behind, but he had hoped against hope that the title King's Investigator had been long since forgotten.

  Granted, Kings Harold and William had named him their investigator but he wasn't sure they even knew what the job entailed. It was only the circumstances of the time that led to the whole sorry mess. The more he thought about it, the more he
concluded that Cwen was right. Monks should not be going around resolving murders, they should stay in their monasteries and pray and study and toil. He did not want to be an investigator, let alone an investigator of murders. Perhaps there was something else he could investigate? Parchment quality or spelling perhaps. Murder seemed to involve a lot of nasty people doing nasty things to one another, and then turning their attentions on Hermitage. Parchment and spelling would be much less trouble.

  The toil of his old monastery, De'Ath's Dingle was a bit too much to contemplate but there ought to be a happy medium somewhere. Just because he happened to be around when a couple of kings saw some murders solved, they thought he could do it all the time. Ridiculous. If he saw William again he would tell him. Then again, maybe not.

  If the wretched Le Pedvin had come specifically looking for the King's Investigator, there must have been another murder. There was so much of it about these days what could be so important about one more? He chided himself for such thoughts, every death was a tragedy, those at the hand of another were as sinful an act as it was possible to contemplate. He just wished he didn't have to have anything to do with them.

  Apparently content that Wat's workshop wasn't a den of renegade Saxons, or had assassins hiding in the wool sacks, Le Pedvin beckoned Hermitage over.

  'Where can we talk?’ The Norman asked gruffly.

  As far as Hermitage was concerned the man could talk wherever he wanted, it was a free country. Oh, actually no it wasn't anymore. But that probably meant that as a Norman he really could talk where ever he wanted. And do pretty much anything else he liked as well.

  'Confidentially,’ Le Pedvin added, with a strange look at Cwen.