The fearsome sister Mildburgh, having passed through the gate, leaving only her glare behind, scurried though the streets of Shrewsbury with a destination clearly in mind. Her scurrying was full of purpose and intent and woe betide anyone who got in the way.
The people knew better than to get in the way of a nun on a mission. Or on anything else, really. In fact they crossed the road as soon as they saw the waggle of a wimple.
This nun strode up the Foregate and turned into a small alley burrowing its way between leaning buildings. A few steps along it opened into a modest courtyard of stark cleanliness. Not a weed, a dirty window or household pest dare trespass on this ground.
Two more nuns, in the same dress as the new arrival stood in the courtyard and nodded their acknowledgement. They were as stalwart as their fellow and looked just as capable of handling themselves if push came to shove-a-nun.
They were not loitering in the space, they were watching it to make sure it didn’t get up to anything. Their backs were straight and their standing there looked like it was the result of very clear instructions. They were posted either side of a plain wooden door, which one of them now stepped over to open.
This sister frowned in horror at something she had seen and brushed a spider and its web from the upper corner of the door.
Mildburgh looked at her in frank disappointment and folded her arms.
The web-remover acknowledged her failure and bent to find the spider to escort it from the premises.
Satisfied that standards were being maintained, Mildburgh ducked and entered the dark interior of the building. Passing through another inner courtyard she made her way to a simple room.
This was a large space, rectangular and shaded from the summer sun by tightly drawn shutters. There was no decoration or diversion from its function of being a room. It knew what it was and had no ambition to better itself. It made the bare cleanliness of the outer courtyard look like the aftermath of a three day jesters’ ale festival.
It wasn’t that it was soulless, it was just that anyone spending too long in it probably would be. The walls, floor and ceiling seemed to have some deep seated contempt for one another which coagulated in the middle of the space. Just where the chair was.
And upon this chair was a figure in black. No nun, this one, but one who, by her demeanour, clearly considered the nuns of the order to be frivolous, dancing scatter-brains. She showed not the slightest acknowledgement that Mildburgh had entered the room and made no movement on what was plainly a hideously uncomfortable wooden seat.
‘I have seen him at the gate,’ said Mildburgh, without any preliminaries, ‘the one our sisters in the south sent word of.’
This brought a frown to the already scowling face on the chair. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I don’t know who else it could be, in company with the other two. An unusual trio to be wandering these parts.’
The figure in the chair bent her head and brought a hand up to stroke her cheek in thought. ‘Death attracts corruption,’ she said, with what might pass for pleasure.
‘Death?’ Mildburgh asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. ‘What death, Hild?’
‘I forgot,’ Hild replied, ‘you have been at Wenlock. How go plans?’
‘Plans go well,’ Mildburgh replied hurriedly. ‘What death?’
‘So you will not have heard.’
‘No,’ Mildburgh said, pointedly, ‘I will not have heard and I have not heard. What death?’
‘Did you not see the good cheer in the streets?’ Hild asked, with a deep distrust of such a thing.
Mildburgh wouldn’t see good cheer if it took her eyeballs out to a dance.
‘Gilder is dead,’ Hild announced, with quiet satisfaction at announcing such things.
‘Dead?’ Mildburgh breathed the word.
‘Just so.’
‘When?’
Hild waved the question away. ‘Recently,’ she explained. Not having left this room for as long as anyone could remember she was not in the best place to keep up with news. Refusing anyone else entry and punishing idle gossip meant that she was generally the last to find out about anything. Which suited her perfectly. It was very hard to avoid all the noise about the death of Gilder though. She had sent complaint to all her neighbours about the laughter which kept disturbing her abject misery.
‘Gilder is dead?’ Mildburgh checked.
‘I believe that’s what I said.’
‘This cannot be.’
‘Plainly it can. The man was a sinful wretch in life, it is only just that he go to his death. Suitable punishment will be waiting him, I am sure.’ Hild’s voice said that she had a few ideas about what suitable punishment might look like, and was quite looking forward to some herself.
‘What about our plans?’ Mildburgh asked, still trying to take in the fact that Gilder was dead.
‘You said they go well,’ Hild pointed out.
‘At Wenlock they go well,’ Mildburgh replied, irritation creeping through her control. ‘I mean here. What about our plans here?’
Hild simply looked quizzical.
‘Gilder is dead,’ Mildburgh pointed out.
As Hild already knew this, she had nothing to add.
‘The arrivals I saw at the gate cannot be a coincidence. Why would those three turn up if there was not some connection?’ Mildburgh looked at the seated Hild who, in turn looked blank. Thoughts rushed through the nun’s head, trying to make some sense of these momentous events. She came to a conclusion. ‘This is awful,’ she said.
. . .
‘This is awful,’ Hermitage observed.
‘Doesn’t look very awful,’ Cwen noted, pointing out a well-to-do looking man happily giving alms to the poor.
‘But this fellow is dead,’ Hermitage insisted.
‘Gilder,’ said Wat, ‘Gilder of Shrewsbury.’
‘Alright, Gilder of Shrewsbury is dead. It’s still a death.’
‘Obviously a very welcome one.’ Wat smiled drily.
‘No death should be welcome,’ Hermitage mused. He turned to Wat. ‘Did you know him?’
Wat seemed to need time to think about this. ‘Knew of him. Did a bit of business, but only as I would with any rich merchant. It was usually through intermediaries. Never actually met him.’
‘And what did you know of him? A peaceful man of God whose passing should be mourned I imagine.’ Hermitage arched an eyebrow at Wat but the shot seemed to land wide of its mark.
Wat grimaced. ‘Hardly. Nasty piece of work from what I heard. Greedy, mean, deceitful, violent when need be. Marvellous merchant. No wonder people are glad he’s dead.’
‘Wat!’
‘Well, it’s only reasonable isn’t it?’ the weaver complained. ‘When someone great and good dies we mourn and wander about in sadness and despair. When someone horrible dies why shouldn’t we celebrate?’
‘I’ve never heard the like.’
‘What if he was a devil?’ Wat suggested, a gleam in his eye.
‘A devil?’
‘Yes, you know, a real live demon. Surely we’d be celebrating the death of a demon.’
Wat had never engaged in any of Hermitage’s fascinating theological topics before. The whole question of whether during the forty days and forty nights in the wilderness the Lord got sand in his shoes, had passed the weaver by completely.[
You can explore this question in The Heretics of De’Ath, the very first tale of Brother Hermitage - but it won’t help much.] This seemed an odd time to start debating the nature of evil.
‘The whole point is that it is not for us to determine what punishment someone deserves for their life. That will come from the Lord at Judgement Day. I am in no position to form an opinion on Gilder.’
‘You’re not going to fit in here then.’ Wat nodded to a young couple walking along the street smiling and kissing and hugging as hard as they could.
Hermitage had an awful thought. And a lot of his awful thoughts had the habit of turning into reality and causing him no end of trouble. ‘What if some foul deed was done?’ he asked. He’d had far too much to do with foul deeds in recent times. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were starting to follow him round. Or in this case jump out in front of him.
Perhaps it was because all the dead people he’d come into contact with since the Normans arrived hadn’t had the chance to await their natural demise. Death had been delivered, frequently on the end of something sharp.
Wat exchanged a handshake with a grinning man who was shaking hands with anyone he could get hold of. ‘I think Gilder must have been pretty ancient by now. I’ve heard about Gilder of Shrewsbury for as long as I can remember. It was half a surprise to hear him mentioned at all. Probably just a very old man whose time had come.’
‘Then again,’ said Cwen, with a mischievous look, ‘if he was as horrible as Wat describes, it’d be no surprise if someone had done for him.’
‘Oh, this is outrageous,’ Hermitage protested. ‘First Wat says we should celebrate, now you suggest murder might be a good idea.’
‘I never. Could be he was old and someone just helped him on his way. Or forgot to call the physic, that sort of thing.’ Cwen winked at Wat, which confused Hermitage no end. This was a serious subject.
The monk shook his head in despair, which was a familiar experience. ‘This really is awful.’
‘Er,’ Wat thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps you should look into it?’ Now Wat was winking at Cwen.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You know, as King’s Investigator? What luck to walk into a town and have a death all lined up.’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Hermitage, as firmly as he could. Which was about as firm as butter on a burning badger.
‘But if evil has been done?’ Wat was sounding quite excited at the prospect.
‘We don’t know anything of the sort. All we know is that an old man has died and everyone is quite pleased about it. Obviously that’s quite sinful of its own account but absolutely no need to go investigating anything.’ Hermitage seemed very sure.
‘But your duty?’ said Cwen with a wry smile.
‘Oh, I’m not sure there’s any duty here.’ Hermitage held his arms out to draw attention to the happy inhabitants of Shrewsbury. ‘The King and Le Pedvin are on the other side of the country. No one in authority has given any instruction to investigate.’ Hermitage usually relied on people in authority to tell him what to do.
‘Hm.’ Cwen was less good with authority.
‘Well,’ said Wat, sounding reluctantly persuaded, ‘but only if you insist.’ Wat and Cwen both burst out laughing, which Hermitage was going to have to ask them to explain.
‘Come on,’ said Cwen, ‘let’s find a tavern. Take your mind off things. Chances are, if the town’s in a really good mood, we might be able to sell some tapestries. Even take a civil commission for a major work commemorating the departure of Gilder.’
‘Good idea,’ said Wat, ‘they could hang it somewhere and everyone could come and have a good gloat now and then. Make it the centre of the city’s attention. Course, it would have to be big.’
‘And expensive,’ Cwen nodded and actually rubbed her hands as if she could already feel the gold.
With Wat and Cwen happily discussing the size and cost of the tapestry they were sure they could persuade the town to buy, Hermitage dwelt on his situation.
It was true that no one was asking him to investigate anything, and that he should be very happy that here was a death he was not going to have to look into. It could just get on with it without him going around asking questions and finding out a lot of things he’d really rather not know.
Since being appointed to his role he had discovered that people could be really rather unpleasant and do some quite revolting things. Surely it was best not to go digging up any more of them.
But then there was his natural curiosity. Or rather, his unnatural curiosity. There had always been something urging Hermitage to find out about things and it had been getting him into trouble since he’d been able to frame his first impertinent question. But they were frequently harmless questions, even if people usually took offence. The name of a prophet, the interpretation of scripture, why his mother spent all her time with the woodsman, that sort of thing.
Perhaps this investigation business had ingrained itself too deeply. Mayhap he would never again be able to hear of a death without having to look into it. How awful. And how insufferable for anyone grieving a dear one to have some strange monk wandering up, investigating it all.
If this was the case, now was the point to resist any temptation. If he started investigating things when no one had asked, goodness knew where he’d end up. He’d go round poking his nose into perfectly innocent business and probably get in even more trouble.
He felt that if he did this thing, on this occasion he might never be able to stop. It would become some sort of habit, an insatiable urge to investigate all the time. No one would be able to have a simple word with him without him looking into their family, their private life, their friends and enemies and dragging them through the gutter. No. It had to stop here.
His careful consideration meant that he walked straight into the back of Wat, who had stopped in front of him.
Wat frowned at him, hard. ‘We’re at an inn now, Hermitage. Get inside and let’s forget all about the death of Gilder.’
That suited Hermitage no end.
The inn was a very comfortable place. The doors and windows were flung open to let the summer sun stream in and clear the fog of the previous night. It looked like it had got pretty foggy in here last night.
Hermitage made the connection from the happiness in the streets to the possibility that last night had been one of celebration. He knew that it was common practice to mark good news with a tankard or two of ale. And to note the arrival of bad news. And to pass the time when there was no news at all.
From the smell of the place he judged that the news of Gilder had required very large quantities of ale. This would not be the only inn in Shrewsbury and the rest were probably just as bad. The people of the town had clearly gone long into the night marking Gilder’s departure.
A young girl was sweeping up. Matted straw, sticky with ale was being washed away with the contents of a bucket which were not much cleaner than the floor. She was careful to sweep around the few people of the town who had marked Gilder’s passing so effectively that they could no longer find the way out.
To the right of the door a large open fireplace sat cold and grey, waiting for the first chill nights to arrive before being summoned back into action. It now contained a dirty old fire dog, two rusty lumps of metal holding the tools for the fire, and two dirty old townsfolk, snoring loudly.
At the back of the room the barrels of ale crouched. To Hermitage’s mind it looked like they were cowering in the face of some ferocious attack. Two of them were up-ended, indicating that they were empty. One was still in its place, tipped slightly on wooden wedges so the tap was low. Against this another man slept. This one wore the apron of a landlord and he looked like he had been defending the last of his supplies.
‘Quite a night by the look of it,’ Cwen observed.
The girl doing the sweeping looked up. ‘We’re shut,’ she barked. She could only be about fourteen, but already knew how to shout at drunks.
‘We’re looking for lodgings,’ said Wat with a smile.
‘Hm,’ the girl frowned. ‘What you doing with a monk?’
Hermitage thought this was quite rude but understandable. Monks in taverns were frequently bad news. They either castigated the clientele or drank the place dry.
‘Brother Hermitage,’ he introduced himself. ‘I know,’ he added, quickly, ‘funny name for a monk.’
‘If you say so,’ the girl didn’t seem concerned. ‘He’s your monk, is he?’ she asked Wat.
‘No, no,’ Wat explained, ‘he’s his own monk. We’re just sort of, together.’
‘Oh, ah?’ the girl cast a suspicious eye at Cwen.
‘Lodgings?’ Cwen asked with a very firm tone in her voice. So firm it was ready to cross the floor and slap the girl’s face.
‘You’ll have to wait ‘till old grumble guts wakes up.’ She nodded towards the sleeping landlord. ‘And that could be a week.’
Wat surveyed the scene. ‘Everyone happy that Gilder’s dead then?’
‘You can say that again. They been going on like this for three days now.’ She was obviously very unhappy at what must have been three days of continuous sweeping.
‘Good for business,’ Wat sounded bright.
‘It is ‘till you start running out of ale. Then they get nasty.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘There’ll be hell to pay if we don’t have more by tonight.’ She looked at the new arrivals again and seemed content that they weren’t here for ale. ‘Which road you come in by?’
‘Over the border,’ Wat explained.
‘Ah,’ the girl wanted a different answer. ‘We’re supposed to be getting another cartload of ale from down south but you won’t have seen it. Rumour is it’s been robbed anyway.’
‘Footpads in the forests?’ Wat enquired.
‘Nah, most likely the Ferret and Falcon at the south gate. Crooked bunch, that lot.’
Wat nodded, acknowledging the problem that was nothing to do with him. ‘Well,’ he said, trying to sound helpful, ‘when you do run out of ale, why not send everyone to the Ferret and Falcon?’
‘And if they haven’t got the ale?’ the girl enquired cautiously.
‘That’s their problem.’ Wat chanced a grin.
The girl smiled in a very unpleasant manner.
‘And then you can ask old grumble guts for extra pay, considering all the money he’ll have made.’
The girl nodded in a very knowing way. Quite inappropriate for a fourteen year old.
‘In fact I’d get him as soon as he wakes, when his head still hurts and he’ll do anything to get you to shut up.’
‘Lodgings you say?’ the girl asked, now in a much happier frame of mind.
Hermitage was giving Wat one of his disappointed looks, but the weaver was well used to batting these aside.
‘That’s right,’ said Wat.
He looked to the others and noted that Cwen was kicking off one of the townsfolk who was trying to use her foot as a pillow.
‘Preferably not here?’
‘There’s a good room out the back,’ the girl offered. ‘How long you here?’
‘Oh, just a day I should think. Set off again tomorrow.’
‘And you come from Wales?’ the girl sounded impressed.
‘That’s right.’
‘Where you going then?’
‘Heading for Derby.’
The girl sighed, ‘I always wanted to travel.’
‘It’s not much fun, I assure you,’ said Hermitage. ‘Far better to be safe behind the walls of a town.’
‘Don’t know how safe we’ll be now Gilder’s gone. It was him kept the wolves from the door.’
This raised some questions in Hermitage’s mind, which always maintained a ready supply. ‘So why is everyone happy that he’s gone?’ he asked.
The girl snorted. ‘Because he was horrible.’
‘Horrible?’
‘Yes, you know, horrible. Looked horrible, said horrible things, did horrible things, liked horrible things. Horrible.’
‘I see. If that was the case perhaps he did not die naturally?’ Hermitage couldn’t help but ask the question.
Wat sighed and Cwen muttered, ‘Here we go.’
‘Shouldn’t think he did,’ said the girl.
‘Really?’ Hermitage felt his stomach turn, but couldn’t tell whether this was excitement or worry.
‘Didn’t do anything natural, him. Even the grim reaper would think twice about going near Gilder’s place. Rumour was he had a magician up there who kept death at bay with rituals.’
‘What sort of rituals?’
‘Horrible ones.’
Hermitage hesitated, he could see the trouble opening up in front of him, but plunged ahead anyway. ‘So, someone could have killed him?’
The girl laughed, which seemed odd. ‘Killed Gilder? Ha ha. There’s plenty tried over the years. They all ended up having something horrible done to them. No one would dare kill Gilder. We just had to wait until the old devil went of his own accord. And that took long enough.’
Hermitage felt a relief at this. It wasn’t particularly pleasing to hear that murder had been attempted, but then attempted murder was not his area at all. It was only after the attempt had been successful that he stepped in.
Hermitage chanced a smile at Wat and Cwen, perhaps this was all the information he needed about the death of Gilder. A very old man had simply died and so there was nothing to be done.
Just then, the door of the inn was thumped aside and a mass of bodies burst into the place.
Hermitage was startled and Wat and Cwen stepped quickly aside.
The girl laughed again. ‘What you up to now, Tom?’
The press of the crowd pushed against them all and Hermitage relaxed as at least eight children, none of them above seven or eight, shouted and stomped about the place, disturbing the resting patrons who moaned and groaned in their painful sleep.
‘We got a new one, we got a new one,’ the child who must be Tom cried out, jumping up and down heavily on both feet at the same time.
‘Go on then.’ The girl gestured with a broad grin that the children could take the floor. She smiled at Hermitage and the others and beckoned them to step back.
Hermitage wondered what on earth was going on.
The children gathered themselves in a line, each holding the hand of the one next to them.
At an unseen signal they joined together and started a circle dance, the main step of which was a jump in the air and a crash on the floor with both feet together. In fact that was the only step, and while Hermitage could see the enthusiasm and joy in the faces of the children, he wondered if there was going to be any more to it than that.
After two or three jumps, the children began a raucous song, shouted in the tuneless voices only children could manage.
‘Gilder is de-ad,’ they sang.
Oh, really, Hermitage scowled. The tune, such as it was, and the underlying sentiment were clearly happy and carefree and that really was not the right sort of thing at all.
‘Gilder is de-ad,’ the children repeated, with more jumps and stomps.
Hermitage shook his head in gentle disappointment.
‘God came down from hea-ven.’
Well, that was perhaps more suitable.
‘And bashed him on the he-ad.’
What?
The children carried on circling and jumping and stomping and singing and laughing until their own excitement got in the way of their coordination and they collapsed into chaos.
All the noise had been enough to wake the landlord who was living up to his name and had started grumbling in a threatening manner.
‘Out, out.’ The girl shooed the children out of the door with a laugh, and they exited to continue their entertainment in the street.
As the last was leaving, Hermitage reached out and tapped Tom on the shoulder.
The boy stopped and turned, his grin turning to puzzlement as he registered the monk.
Hermitage squatted down to be at the same height as Tom and smiled, which seemed to put the boy at ease.
‘That’s a lovely rhyme,’ Hermitage noted.
‘We made it,’ Tom announced proudly.
‘Very good,’ Hermitage nodded. ‘But at the end of it you say Gilder was bashed on the head?’
‘That’s right,’ said Tom with a happy nod.
Hermitage wasn’t clear whether Tom was referring to the song or Gilder himself.
‘Which I expect you made up to make the song more exciting.’
‘Oh, no,’ Tom was sombre at this challenge to their reporting. ‘Bashed to bits he was. Head all over the place they say,’ and he skipped from the room.
Hermitage turned to the others, both of whom had their faces in their hands.