The Garderobe of Death Page 3

  'Get out of my way,’ she snapped, without realising that she'd said anything at all.

  The man backed away frantically as Foella got nearer and he managed to corner himself against an old door. The only way he could think of to avoid contact was to open the door and slip through it. He knew Foella’s reputation. If he impeded her in any way, obstructed her or, God forbid, bumped into her, she would be on to His Lordship. The life of a newly created corpse did not appeal.

  He didn't have a clue what was behind the door, though. If he interrupted Lord Robert himself his death would be a lot slower, a lot more painful and probably very rude.

  He pushed hard at the door, threw it open and stepped quickly backwards through it. The Lady Foella swept past without a sideways glance. The guard made a very interesting discovery and took a downwards glance.

  For some weeks Robert’s resident builder had been trying to find the door he knew he had built, but just couldn’t remember where. It was supposed to open onto a balcony above the main gate, which would give a commanding view of the countryside. He had never done a balcony before and so his search had not been conscientious.

  The thought of the great contribution he was making to the development of Castle Grosmal never even entered the guard’s mind. Instead he plummeted all thirty of the feet to the stones below, where his mind mingled with the straw and manure.

  Those living in the courtyard below, those passing through the courtyard below and those who were just having a quick look at the courtyard below took absolutely no notice of the event. This sort of thing was happening all the time.

  …

  Lady Foella, quite oblivious of the life she had just despatched, carried on with her randomly brutal meanderings. She found herself eventually in the minstrels’ gallery above the main hall, where she was lucky to find a piece of sound flooring to stand on. The first time some minstrels had been sent to the gallery the only entertainment they had been able to provide was falling in harmony.

  Casting a glance around the room below that would have put the shivers up a wolf, she lighted on a figure sitting in a large chair in front of the roaring fire. Bobbing up and down like a woman of loose virtue in a hurry, she craned her neck to see who it was.

  'Robert!’ she bellowed in frustration.

  The figure in the chair stirred and looked up. It was indeed the master of the house and he waved a friendly greeting to his guest before getting up and strolling over to stand underneath the gallery.

  The massive fire, which occupied the space of a fair sized house, burned through trees at an alarming rate and had to be kept going, day and night, in case the master got a bit cold. No one else was allowed to warm themselves in front of it of course, even if they were freezing to death.

  The remains of Robert’s breakfast lay scattered around the room, as if each bit had made a separate bid for escape. Venison bones, with enough meat left on them to feed a family, were laying under the table. Half a loaf of bread was dropped by the chair, and another substantial chunk had somehow found its way on to a rafter. This would provide a surprise meal for a family of mice, who never expected to find anything so wholesome quite so far from the ground.

  Only the flagon of ale was as it should be, nurtured in the hands of Grosmal as he took regular swigs.

  He sat in solitude, his mind wandering wherever it went in moments of relaxation. There was much speculation in the castle about where his mind went, and about where it deserved to go. None of the speculation was very pleasant, and it certainly wasn’t shared.

  Putting his thoughts aside, for which they were probably grateful, he stood up and strolled over to stand underneath the gallery.

  'Ah my lady,’ he said in an ingratiating voice which still came across as menacing, 'you will have to remember how you got up there. Some of my idiot workmen claim to have lost the way to the gallery. But then, that’s Saxons for you,’ he said, forgetting that Lady Foella was Saxon, or not caring.

  'Come closer, my lord,’ said Foella in a voice that would have given a starving beggar indigestion. Robert duly approached, however, and stood under Lady Foella. The thud of the dagger descending at some speed from the gallery and embedding itself in the great table next to Robert seemed to cause him not a whit of bother.

  'Bugger, missed,’ said Lady Foella.

  'My lady is in playful mood today,’ opined Robert.

  'I’ll kill you,’ screamed Foella.

  'Why?’ Grosmal asked, reasonably enough.

  'De Turold is dead.’

  Robert stared at her. 'How did you know?’ he demanded in rising panic. 'It's supposed to be a secret. Did you do it?’

  'My maid told me.’

  'So she did it, eh? What's her name?’

  'How should I know?’ Foella snapped back, thinking that she did know the name of her maid, but couldn’t immediately bring it to mind. 'You killed my husband.’

  Grosmal frowned at this statement, which seemed to come out of nothing. 'Very likely,’ he shrugged. 'He shouldn't have been at the battle in the first place.’

  'What battle?’

  'That big one, down south somewhere. A field with a hill in it.’

  'What's that got to do with anything?’

  'It's probably where he got killed.’

  Foella shook her head to get the confusion out. Things were getting out of hand and this rambling Norman seemed to be completely mad. Why wouldn’t he pay attention? 'Then why's he here?’

  'Who?’ Robert shook his head now. Nothing was making any sense to him – which was hardly his fault. These Saxons really were an odd bunch. He glanced around the floor, spotted a joint of half-eaten venison nearby, and stooped to pick it up. He gnawed absentmindedly.

  He returned to the conversation between a mad woman and an idiot.

  'De Turold, that's who,’ Foella spat.

  'De Turold is dead.’

  'I know that.’ Foella was losing what little control she had ever had of her brittle, insensitive and demanding nature. She was also starting to look more alarming than normal, which was not a pretty sight.

  'As well as the man in the battle?’ Grosmal puzzled easily.

  'What man at the battle?

  'Your husband.’

  'I've never been married.’

  'But you said I killed your husband.’

  'And you did.’

  Grosmal gave this some profound thought. 'How? If you've never married.’

  'None of your business.’

  'My lady seems confused,’ Grosmal patronised, safe below. Bored with his venison now, he threw it back where it had come from.

  'Did you, or did you not, kill Henri de Turold?’

  'Not that it's any of your business, but I did not.’

  'Oh.’ Foella was confused and disappointed by this reply.

  'Did you kill him?’ Grosmal asked. 'We’re looking for whoever did. If it was you it would save a lot of time and effort.’

  'No, I did not,’ Foella screeched at such a pitch and intensity that the mice on the rafter ran for cover.

  'Hum.’ Grosmal wasn't convinced. 'We'll find out who did,’ he said in a tone laced with meaning and threat. Then he returned to surer ground. 'And I might have killed your husband,’ he offered.

  'That's him.’

  'Who?’

  'De Turold.’

  'Really? Your husband? He never mentioned it.’

  'Well, he nearly was. He would have been if he wasn't dead.’ Foella paused. 'Perhaps I'm his widow.’

  Robert gave up. His head ached. So did his ears. This woman was so far out of her tree, the best woodsman wouldn’t find her in a month. 'Well, in Normandy we tend not to marry people after they're dead,’ he explained. ‘God knows what you Saxons get up to. You all seem a bit weird to me.’

  'We're weird?’

  'And if you are his widow, perhaps you did kill him.’

  'How dare you.’ Foella’s voice dropped in tone now. It took on a low grumble, which Eleanor w
ould have recognised as the signal to get as far away as possible.

  'Well, it wasn't me, and you’re claiming to be his wife. That makes you the most likely. Typical Saxon – marry a fellow and then kill him.’

  'I never got round to actually marrying him.’

  'Probably killed him out of anger when he refused you then.’ Robert was getting the measure of Foella. ‘Now you come to mention it, I wondered what you were doing, following him round all the time. Probably just looking for your opportunity.’

  Foella threw her hands up in frustration. She pointed at Grosmal. 'Stay there, I'm coming down.’

  'Good luck,’ Grosmal mumbled.

  They turned their backs on one another.

  'Bleeding idiot,’ they both spat.

  Foella left the balcony to begin the completely hopeless task of finding a way down to the hall. Once there, she would be able to do to Robert in person all the things she’d only been thinking about. And being Foella, she’d been thinking about a lot of things. If she considered for a moment she’d realise that every one of them would get her into an awful lot of trouble. Foella had never indulged in considering for a moment.

  Caput IV

  Seven-o-clock: Monk and Weaver

  In the northern parts of Lincolnshire, immeasurable time and irresistible nature had combined to create a pocket of beauty in a harsh landscape. A gentle swelling of hills hid the place from the worst ravages of winter. Tall growths of trees dappled shade on to the ground in the summer, keeping the place cool and living with moisture. Delicate and colourful plants thrived, insects buzzed and the natural rhythms of life played out undisturbed.

  The place had been known for generations, but never owned. The undulations of the ground made it too awkward to farm and, being scooped from the higher land on all sides, it had no strategic value.

  It was also recognised as a place of charm – perhaps thought magical in older times. The landscape had a real presence, to be at least undisturbed, maybe even revered.

  Even in these sleeping months of winter, this dingle remained poised and alert. Life could be felt building strength under the ground, ready to burst out upon the air once more.

  The subtle power and majesty of the place had been recognised many years ago by one visitor – a Norman called William. But he had been a man of peace, a man of knowledge and purity of spirit. He was the first to take possession of the land – if such a fleeting presence as a human could be said to own somewhere like the dingle.

  Upon his passing, unnoticed by a single tree over which he claimed dominion, William De'Ath left the wondrous place in bequest. He would have a religious community established here to acknowledge the debt mankind owed to God for such beauty.

  That's where it all started to go wrong.

  The resultant building, the monastery of De'Ath's Dingle, squatted on the site like a foetid toad. It eyed the perfection of nature spread out before it, just waiting for the perfect moment to jump forward and flatten the lot.

  It had been put up by William De'Ath's son in accordance with his wishes. Also in accordance with the son's wishes to find some custom for a stone quarry, the only thing he'd been left.

  As a result the monastery was a massive and disturbing presence. Not only because it was completely inappropriate for its surroundings, but also because it was simply massive. It was far too big to be of any real practical use. The population was not great in these parts, but the monastery of De'Ath's Dingle could have fitted them all in the meat store. No one had ever built a monastery of stone before. Now they knew why.

  The religious community was also small. A monk could wander about the place all day, with the strong possibility of not meeting a single other Brother. Which was usually a good thing, as most of the Brothers of De'ath's Dingle had reputations. Many of them were really not very nice. Refectory discussions, developing over the course of another coarse and disappointing meal, frequently broached the topic of putting the local population in the meat store and doing something comprehensively sinful with them.

  There was no doubt this ghastly place was the work of man: that is to say it had been constructed on purpose, it just didn't look like it sometimes. It was only a few years since the work was completed, but already the monastery had somehow slumped. Its shoulders had sagged and it had started to let itself go. Bits fell off the higher walls quite regularly and unfortunate bulges were appearing, as if the belt holding in some monstrous stomach was beginning to fail.

  It wouldn't be many more years before a casual passer-by might miss the place altogether, wondering instead who could have dumped an unhealthy looking pile of old rocks in such a nice place.

  Not that the monastery in De'Ath's Dingle had any to speak of. Casual passers-by, no. Determined avoiders moving quickly on, yes.

  The whole ambience of the monastery sowed discord. There were contradictions between the building and the wonders of nature at which it glowered; between the intention of the bequest and the practices that went on inside; between the enduring order and pattern in the forces of nature and the visible decay in the works of man.

  Inside the oppressive walls, in these first hours of light, a remarkable conversation was underway. It was between two relatively normal men, both appearing to be rational and intelligent. It was clearly between people who didn't belong there.

  'But Mister Wat, you can't leave.’ Brother Hermitage, the young and enthusiastic monk of the monastery, was not issuing an order. He was not politely asking a valued guest to stay longer. He was certainly not threatening a prisoner with prolonged incarceration. He was begging for his life.

  This conversation had been repeated several times over the last few weeks, and Hermitage had so far prevailed on his friend to stay. He worried there was now more determination in the other man's voice.

  This time they were even strolling towards the main gate. Wat had his pack across his shoulders, his walking boots on his feet, and it was the opening of the day, the perfect moment to start a journey. All of these facts combined to make Hermitage believe the weaver really meant to leave.

  'You know what Abbot Athan will do to me if you go...’

  Hermitage put on his best ‘scared rabbit’ face – the one he wore most of the time. His blue eyes widened and his clear, well ordered face would make a puppy with a spare tail look like a mongrel with fresh fleas.

  Wat the Weaver ran a hand through his dark curly hair and rubbed his hand over a stubbly chin. Only a year or two older than Hermitage, he watched as helplessness poured from the monk and made a puddle at his feet. He shrugged his shoulders.

  'I can take a guess,’ he said. ‘But Hermitage, I can't stay any longer. I've been here for months, it's costing me money. I've got commissions to complete, new tapestries to order from the workshop. I've said before, come with me.’

  'I'm not allowed.’

  'I know, not allowed by the man you think is going to kill you.’

  'He will kill me.’

  Hermitage still could not believe his misfortune. He had exposed a murder. A real live, or rather not so live, murder. In a monastery. He had even done so in front of King Harold, who was about to deal with the matter when he rushed off to the battle of Hastings. Rushing off to the battle of Hastings had become a euphemism for, well, dying horribly at a really inconvenient moment. Old Jack was mending his roof when he rushed off to the battle of Hastings. Young Alward, who’d ended up between the old bull and the cows, also got rushed off to the battle of Hastings. That sort of thing.

  Brother Athan, who had only been prior then, had not taken the revelations around the murder well. He was a difficult man. Difficult in the way only an ugly man could be. A short ugly man of five foot three, whose first proposition in any discussion was to line his opponent up and hit him.

  As soon as King Harold left, the original abbot of De'ath's Dingle did likewise, in hot escape from a whole heap of trouble. He had turned out not to be who he said at all. Hermitage had really struggled to take
in all of this deceit and wrong doing. These were churchmen, for goodness sake.

  With King and abbot gone, Athan installed himself as community leader. He was waiting for the coast to clear before doing something ‘really horrible’ to Hermitage as punishment for bringing all this trouble on their heads. He'd even used those words. In a sermon. Apparently talking about God's retribution for sinners, but all the time staring at Hermitage and pointing at him, twice. The young monk knew it was only Wat's presence that held off the inevitable.

  'But if he's going to kill you, you shouldn't stay. In fact as you know he's a sinner, I don't see why you have to obey him at all.’

  'With the abbot vanished, Athan's in charge.’

  'Monks.’ Was all Wat said.

  'Obedience,’ Hermitage reluctantly admitted.

  'If he told you to cut your own head off, would you?’

  'I'd have to try.’

  'God, you're an idiot.’ This was the sort of thing Athan usually said, but at least Wat said it with good humour.

  'Look,’ Wat went on, as they drew closer to the gate and their pace slowed, 'the abbot vanished, so why shouldn't you?’

  Hermitage was horrified. 'The abbot was our superior,’ he said. Wasn't that enough?

  'Your superior who was just as deceitful as the rest of you. As soon as the King turned up, the man scarpered. And you still have to obey these people?’

  'Of course.’ Hermitage often wondered where Wat got his strange ideas.

  'So you won't leave?’ Wat's question had the ring of finality in its tone.

  'I can't.’

  'Then I shall have to leave you and wish you good luck.’

  All Hermitage could do was let out a slight whimper. The puppy had just lost both his spare tail and the original. He cast his head down and lifted his eyes to Wat.

  The weaver shook his head in despair at the young monk's response. 'Don't give me the look,’ he sighed. 'What if I speak to Athan before I go?’