No murder here, p.3
No Murder Here, page 3
And considering things that were really not helpful, Ralph FitzTurstin was one of them. He had clearly come over from Normandy to see what could be gained from his father's bravery and had quickly proved to be of little use to anyone.
He loitered about the court, seeming to be generally bored, and a task like this would be just the sort of thing to occupy his time. And he was the right sort of man for the job, being as Norman as you could get.
The young lad clearly considered that being the son of the king’s standard bearer imbued him with great significance. The fact that Turstin FitzRolph had been the third choice standard bearer, passed him by.
The first selections had politely declined on the grounds that they would much rather fight to the death for the king than stand in the middle of the battlefield waving a flag to show where they were.
That Turstin FitzRolf had leapt at the opportunity said all that was needed. Battle-hardened nobles frequently shortened the title of standard bearer to chief target. It was essential to have one, as long as it wasn't you.
Having found his own target, de Sauveloy explained what was required of the scion of the family in simple terms that even he could understand. He left it in FitzTurstin’s moderately capable hands.
Ralph FitzTurstin had not grown up the son of a Norman noble so that he could do things himself. And now that his father was of high renown, he knew just how he would be expected to deal with this instruction. He would issue it to someone less important.
When Ranulph de Sauveloy had said that he wanted FitzTurstin to do something, he had obviously meant that he wanted FitzTurstin to arrange for it to be done. And that was just what he would do. This would show that he was a true noble. The king would be pleased.
Ralph now went off to find his steward, one Renegard, who was his father’s steward, really, but it was the same thing.
He had all of Ranulph de Sauveloy’s instructions absolutely clear, including the one about the monk who investigated murders, apparently. Seemed an odd thing for a monk to do, but Ralph’s task was not to question why.
Renegard never seemed too keen to welcome Ralph. Of course, he had duties for Turstin to attend to, but as the firstborn son, a little courtesy and obedience was only right.
‘What is it now?’ sounded neither courteous nor obedient.
‘I have a task from Ranulph de Sauveloy,’ Ralph said.
‘Excellent.’ Renegard did not look up from his own task, which seemed to be counting swords, as far as Ralph could make out.
‘Which I need to get done,’ Ralph added.
‘That sounds best,’ Renegard agreed. ‘De Sauveloy can be a bit of a handful, or so I hear.’
‘By someone of my choosing.’ The burden was laid out plainly.
Renegard sighed and stopped counting. He considered the explicit instruction from Ralph and thought about his options. He knew that his master’s propensity for doing things like bearing the duke’s standard in the middle of a battle might lead to an early inheritance for Ralph. And young Ralph would still need a steward.
‘I see,’ Renegard said with heavy resignation. ‘What’s the task, then?’
‘Gernesey.’
‘The task is on Gernesey? What the devil could happen on Gernesey that interests Ranulph de Sauveloy.’
‘Not just de Sauveloy, the king.’
Now Renegard was intrigued. ‘Go on.’
Ralph explained the whole business as it had been told to him. Well, that’s not quite right. He explained it as he understood it, which was not the same thing at all. Very few of the things Ralph understood were as they really were.
‘And this old woman’s been murdered, you say?’ Renegard asked when the end was reached.
‘That’s right. And the king wants to know who did it.’ Ralph frowned to himself. ‘Or was it that the old woman had killed someone? One or the other. Either way, it’s got to be looked into.’
‘So, he told Ranulph de Sauveloy to find out.’
‘And he told me.’
Renegard hesitated as he asked the next question. ‘Don’t you think that de Sauveloy actually expects you to do it? You know, go to Gernesey and find the killer?’
‘Oh, heavens no.’ Ralph smiled at the very idea. ‘That’s not how it works at all. The king told de Sauveloy, didn’t he?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘And de Sauveloy hasn’t hopped off to Gernesey.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘No, no. De Sauveloy has told me, and I’m telling you.’
‘To go to Gernesey?’ Renegard asked with genuine disappointment. ‘I’d have to confirm that with your father.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you have to go.’
‘No?’
‘Not at all. You can instruct someone to do it. You’re the family steward and so I’m telling you what we’ve been told to do. Stewards arrange for things to be done, don’t they?’
‘Well, yes,’ Renegard said very slowly.
‘There you are then.’
Renegard looked confused and concerned. It didn’t do to mess up an instruction from the king, no matter how many hands it had passed through. He also knew that it was important that this be done. The family couldn’t afford to be looked upon as uncooperative or unhelpful. Standard bearing could only get you so far.
‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked carefully.
‘Of course, I am,’ Ralph said peremptorily, getting rather annoyed by Renegard’s constant questioning of everything he did. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘As you please,’ Renegard gave a bow of the head, which obscured the very deep frown he was wearing.
He wondered for a moment whether he should go to Gernesey himself. If this had come from the king, it had better be done properly. He was certain that sending Ralph to solve a murder on an island would not result in anything being done properly.
But Gernesey was a long way away. He had heard of it, of course, and the fact that people had to be persuaded to go there. Also, that the seas in that part of the world were treacherous and frequently deadly.
And he had Turstin to worry about. Left to his own devices, his master was quite capable of achieving a very rapid demotion from standard bearer to the king to something like that annoying man who used to carry the flag.
He would have to do as Ralph suggested and find someone to deal with the task. As long as he chose the right person, and they were given very clear and precise instructions, maybe even written down, he should be all right.
. . .
A day or so later, in a far-off town, the door of a quite substantial building was opened by a very particular figure.
The one who had knocked considered the shape before him carefully and seemed satisfied. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You must be the one.’
From the pouch slung across his shoulder, he pulled a parchment and opened it up.
The one who had opened the door seemed intrigued by this and leant forward to try and see what was written; and whether it was written well.
The messenger pulled back slightly, jealous of his mission and determined to complete it in a proper manner. He had an announcement to make. Where would the world be if people simply read their own messages?
He cleared his throat. 'By direct command of the king,' he intoned far louder than was strictly necessary. 'You are to go to Gernesey and attend upon foul murder. Old women are running rampage and King William will know the truth.'
The messenger folded his parchment once more and put it back in the pouch. Then he had a sudden thought which gave him some concern.
‘Erm,’ he said. ‘You are The King’s Investigator, yes?’
Caput III: Are You Sure?
Brother Hermitage could only gape at the messenger. If truth be told, as soon as he saw a man with a parchment he knew it would be for him. The messenger might be a young Saxon lad, but the words would be from the king or one of the other awful Normans.
It would be murder, of course it would be murder, that was the only reason anyone ever contacted him. No one sent missives asking how he was progressing with the lexicography of the post-Exodus prophets. Which was probably for the best as he wasn’t, really.
Still, being told of a murder in this manner was even more alarming than usual. It seemed so formal, somehow, having it proclaimed like this.
Of most alarm was the rest of the nonsense. Old women running rampage? That couldn’t be right.
‘Erm, yes, that’s me,’ Hermitage admitted. ‘Brother Hermitage.’ He gave a short bow.
‘Funny..,’
‘Name for a monk, yes I know.’
‘No,’ the messenger corrected. ‘I think it had Brother Heltourage, on the parchment.’
Hermitage frowned. ‘Can I see?’ He held out a hand.
The messenger thought about this for a moment and then shrugged and reached into the pouch once more. He supposed that as the monk had heard all the words read out, there was no problem with his seeing them as well. He handed the piece over.
Hermitage opened it up and considered. ‘Oh, my,’ he said with a sad shake of the head.
'Have I come to the wrong place?' the messenger asked with real concern. His instruction had come directly from the brother of a servant of the Steward to the king's standard bearer. It didn't do to get things like this wrong.
‘No, no,’ Hermitage assured him. ‘It’s just that this is a very poor hand. Look at the majuscules.’ He held the parchment up so that the messenger could see the very shoddy construction. ‘It doesn’t look as if this scribe has even trimmed his quill.’
‘Ah, right.’ The messenger now sounded as if he would like to stop talking to this monk and go back to managing the log store. He blamed his mother for teaching him to read in the first place.
Hermitage squinted at the words. ‘You’re right, it does look like Heltourage, but I think that’s because of an errant descender and a serif that simply beggars belief.’
‘Oh yes?’ The messenger tried to show as little interest as possible.
‘And the Latin is very poor,’ Hermitage commented. ‘The tenses and verb endings are all over the place.’ He squinted at the words. ‘Does this mean the murder is of the women or by them? And how many are there?’ He tutted that this was not the work of a scholar of any ability at all. ‘And is the rampage being run, or is it doing the running? And if so, is it running towards or away from?’
The messenger sighed heavily. ‘But it is you?’ he checked.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ Hermitage sagged as he glanced through the words and saw the specific instruction that under no circumstances was anyone other than Brother Hermitage to deal with this matter.
The messenger sagged with relief.
‘But what’s this?’ Hermitage pointed to the word in question. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your name.’ He felt awkward having a conversation like this. He couldn’t call this boy “messenger”.
‘Loff.’ Loff hadn’t expected the job to be this complicated. He was often asked to read things out, but most people weren’t so picky.
‘Erm.’ The messenger peered. ‘Gernesey.’
‘Who is Gernesey?’
‘It’s not a who, it’s a where. A place. I think.’
Hermitage nodded. ‘I suppose it could be. I thought it meant I was supposed to go to a Lord Gernesey.’
‘Oh, right,’ Loff sympathised with the misunderstanding. ‘No. I think you have to go there.’
‘To Gernesey.’
‘That’s it.’
‘And where is Gernesey?’
‘Where is it?’
‘Yes. I need to know where it is if I’m supposed to go there.’
Loff frowned. ‘I thought you’d know.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. I mean you’re this investigator thing. You do murders, they said.’
‘Did they?’
‘Oh yes. Had it all the way from the king. “That monk who does murders.”’
‘I find out who did them. It’s from the Latin vestigo, vestigare, to track.’
‘Is it now?’ Loff showed little interest. ‘It’s work, I suppose.’
‘Erm, yes.’ Hermitage shook the confusion from his head. ‘You don’t know where this Gernesey place is, then?’ He was becoming disappointed at the quality of king’s messengers these days.
‘Afraid not.’
‘So, how am I supposed to do as requested.’
Loff shrugged. ‘Track it?’
Hermitage couldn’t immediately think what to say to that. ‘Track Gernesey?’
‘That’s it. You said you come from tracking.’
'I suppose I did.' Hermitage was thinking there was very little more of use to get from Loff. Not that what he'd already had was much use. He considered the parchment closely as if it would give more away for being stared at. It didn't. There was a seal of some sort, but it didn't look like a very grand one.
‘May I keep this?‘ he asked, just to check.
‘Keep it?’ Loff sounded horrified at the suggestion.
‘Well, yes. It is for me.’
‘The message is for you, I’m not sure that the parchment is. They might be expecting me to bring it back.’
‘Did anyone tell you to bring it back?’
‘I suppose not,’ Loff admitted.
'And I may need it if I'm to go to this Gernesey place. It will be my authority.' He hoped that the people of Gernesey weren't too particular about scribing quality.
Loff still didn’t look happy.
‘You can say that the King’s Investigator told you to leave it.’
Loff nodded slowly. ‘I suppose that might do.’
‘I don’t imagine that you got this from the king’s own hand.’
‘Oh, no,’ Loff shivered at the thought of getting anywhere near the king’s own hand. ‘It was passed down. I got it from the king’s standard bearer. Well, someone connected to him, anyway.’
Hermitage looked at the writing again and thought it likely that standard bearing did not require much scriptorial competence.
He briefly wondered what the standard bearer was doing sending messages about a murder, but he supposed that William would instruct anyone who happened to be there at the time. After all, what was one more murder?
‘I’ll ask Wat, about Gernesey. He knows where most places are.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Loff was enlivened once more. ‘The people in the town said to go to the workshop of Wat the Weaver.’ He gave an encouraging nod for some reason.
‘And here we are,’ Hermitage confirmed.
‘Is he, erm, is he in?’
‘Wat?’
‘Yes, Wat the Weaver.’ Now the messenger’s intent was clear.
‘He is,’ Hermitage said firmly. ‘But he doesn’t do works like that anymore. His tapestries are now pious and proper, as befits our new rulers.’
‘Right,’ Loff said slowly. ‘Bloody Normans,’ he added with obvious disappointment.
‘Is there anything else?’ Hermitage asked.
‘What, like another message?’
‘No, anything else you need to tell me. Anything that wasn’t part of the message. About these old women and the murder?’
‘Don’t think so. It was all on the parchment, that’s what I was told.’
‘Very well.’ Hermitage took a breath. ‘I suppose you had better come in and have something before you start back.’ He remembered his duty of hospitality to a traveller, despite the fact he thought this traveller shouldn’t really be coming in at all.
Loff stepped over the threshold and gazed around the place with obvious wonder.
‘It’s only a weaving workshop,’ Hermitage pointed out. ‘The same as any other.’
Loff nodded silently. He clearly had expectations that were not going to be met.
A shape appeared out of the gloom at the end of the corridor; a large shape carrying something in its hand which it appeared to brandish towards them.
Loff took a step back.
‘This is Mrs Grod,’ Hermitage said. ‘The workshop’s cook.’
Mrs Grod’s face appeared, and it considered Loff with unhealthy interest.
‘I’d, erm, probably better be on my way, really,’ Loff stuttered.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes. I can pick up something in town. That’ll do me.’ He considered Mrs Grod and started to step slowly backwards.
‘Well, I suppose I had better thank you for the message. You can report that it has been safely delivered. All I have to do now is discover where this Gernesey place is.’ Hermitage accompanied Loff back to the door.
‘Oh, yes.’ Loff clicked his fingers as he suddenly remembered something, probably inspired by relief at escaping Mrs Grod’s clutches. ‘It’s an island.’
‘An island?’ Hermitage thought that might explain why he had never heard of it.
‘Yes, the man who gave the parchment said something about an island.’
‘But not where it was?’
‘No.’
Hermitage could only hope that the place was some land-locked island, only given the name because it was surrounded by rivers. Like Axeholme, or Oxney. Please let it not be off across the sea somewhere.
He stood at the door and watched as Loff stepped away quite quickly. With a shake of the head, he turned back inside.
Another murder, eh? If anything Loff said could be believed, of course.
He was quite interested in his reaction to the message, as if he were standing to one side watching himself.
The thought of investigating murder was as unpleasant as it always was. Dealing with death was bad enough, let alone the sort of people who brought it about on purpose. But he’d done so many of the wretched things now, they were starting to feel normal. Which was a worry in its own right.
Was he really as calm as he felt at the prospect of another one? Or was he simply stunned and the panic would set in when he came to truly realise what had just happened?
Perhaps it was the nonsensical nature of this one. A band of old women on an island he had never heard of. If he had been called to a death at the other end of Derby, he’d be a bit more concerned about it.
