No murder here, p.7
No Murder Here, page 7
The Norman camp roused itself to the opening of the day, and the night guards returned to the tents with nothing to report.
This seemed to irritate the gathered men, somehow. They were an impatient lot and weren't satisfied with sitting behind their walls while the enemy outside did nothing at all; especially as they did it from a distance.
Hermitage’s modest grasp of Norman French caught several complaints about lazy Saxons. He thought they ought to be pleased not to be attacked in the night. He certainly was.
The travellers all stood and organised their packs, assuming that they would be on their way very soon, but of course, that depended on what Urse d’Abetot had decided to do.
They loitered by their resting place, no one being willing to stride into the midst of the Normans and ask what was going on; not even Cwen.
Eventually, the Normans seemed to notice that they were still there, and some nods and muttered comments were passed around.
For a moment, Hermitage thought about offering to lead them in morning prayer; but it was only a moment.
The commander’s ear eventually caught the conversation, and he came over to them.
‘Urse will see you now,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ Hermitage noted. He had been going to say “ah, good” but the second word wouldn’t come out.
They followed the commander past a couple of tents towards the better one that sat in the middle.
If it was better on the outside, it was an awful lot better on the inside.
Comfort overwhelmed them as some long-lost friend they had even forgotten existed.
Urse d’Abetot had rush matting on the floor, a cot with straw mattress, and a table and chair. All was illuminated by three oil lamps that still burned in the dull morning light. Hermitage’s first thought was that someone had had to carry this lot, and it wouldn’t have been Urse.
On the table sat a jug, presumably containing wine, and the roll of parchment, which at least had survived.
The leader himself sat in his chair, a flagon in his hand and a crust of bread on his knee. He looked up at the arrivals and sneered. The commander of the watch stood at their back as if preventing any escape.
‘Now,’ d’Abetot said. ‘This is what you are going to do.’
Hermitage thought that a bit peremptory of the man. After all, they had a mission from the king; who was this rather lowly Norman to tell them what to do?
Then he swallowed his thought and worried that he was starting to think like a Norman.
‘I have fresh instructions for you.’ D’Abetot reached over to the table and lifted the parchment. He unrolled this and Hermitage considered it with horror. The words of their direction from the king had been crossed through so vigorously that most of them were now illegible. The seal from the bottom had gone and with it their authority to be travelling at all.
D’Abetot turned the parchment over and now Hermitage saw fresh writing. This was in a much neater hand, better laid out on the page, and a fresh seal was impressed at the bottom.
Could it be that the Norman had re-written the work to be more presentable and appropriate to the king’s instruction? He must have done it himself, as Hermitage hadn’t spotted anyone who looked remotely like a scribe in the Norman force.
It was a lot of trouble to go to.
The parchment was held out towards Hermitage, who stepped forward to take it.
He did so, read the words, and frowned.
‘You are now travelling under the order of Urse d’Abetot at the king’s behest. I don’t know what the standard bearer was involved for in the first place, this is much more sensible.’
‘Of course,’ Wat said in an odd tone. He peered over at the parchment in Hermitage’s hand. ‘And you’ve put your seal on it. That is helpful.’
D’Abetot waved the gratitude away.
Hermitage had now read the whole document and it was a copy of the original. Even the bad Latin remained. Nothing had changed about the murders or the instructions. The name of Urse d'Abetot was now quite prominent, though. In fact, it was worded such that the king had instructed d'Abetot, who was graciously sending the King's Investigator.
‘It is, a, erm, very fine hand,’ Hermitage commented.
D’Abetot waved this away as well. ‘Some of us are better schooled than most.’
‘And you’ve melted down the FitzTurstin seal to use your own.’ Hermitage tried to sound as if this was a very astute thing to do and not at all fraudulent or dishonest.
‘This will carry more weight where you are going,’ d’Abetot confirmed.
‘Ah,’ Hermitage caught on to that. ‘You know of Gernesey, then?’
‘Of course, I know of it.’ D’Abetot gave a light cough at the stupidity of Saxons. ‘It is one of the islands off the coast not far from my family estates, in Saint Jean d’Abetot.’
Hermitage wondered how to confirm that they were going in the right direction without looking even more stupid.
‘We were, erm, planning to head for Portelond and see if we could take a boat from there. Egland here has heard people talk of the place, but of course, none of us has ever been there.’
‘I should think not.’ D’Abetot clearly thought that would be most improper. ‘In fact, I did wonder at the king sending Saxons at all, but if you are his investigator, I suppose that would be all right.’
‘And Portelond is the best route?’ Hermitage pressed.
‘Aye, I would think so, from here. Quicker than going all the way round through France and Normandy. Portelond to Alederney is a common enough route.’
Hermitage felt a great comfort at hearing this. A common route. It meant that they weren’t treading new ground in the history of seafaring. Not that you could tread ground in seafaring, of course.
‘You’ll have to choose a good day, though,’ d’Abetot went on. ‘And a man who knows the waters. Very treacherous, they are. Lots of wrecks.’
Hermitage’s comfort slipped quietly away.
‘But I shall send a man with you.’
‘To Gernesey?’ Egland asked, his hopes obviously rising at this. If a Norman went with them, he could go back to Derby.
‘No, of course, not,’ d’Abetot snapped. ‘He’ll go to Portelond and see you on a ship. Make sure that everyone on the way understands the importance of your mission.’
‘And that Urse d’Abetot sent us,’ Wat put in.
‘Naturally. And when you get to Gernesey, report to seneschal Gille. Make sure to tell him that Urse d’Abetot of Worcester sent you on behalf of the king.’
‘Urse d’Abetot of where?’ Cwen asked, sounding very confused.
‘Worcester,’ d’Abetot repeated with the clear message that he shouldn’t have to repeat himself.
‘Where’s Worcester?’
‘This is Worcester. You’re in it.’
Cwen scowled. ‘This is Weorgoran caester.’
‘What a mouthful,’ the Norman snorted. ‘I’m not going through that every time I want to name the place. It’s Worcester now.’
Cwen opened her mouth.
‘If you say so,’ Wat interjected.
‘I do. Now, be off with the lot of you.’
‘Who is the one to come with us?’ Hermitage asked. Briefly, he hoped that they might get a cooperative and reasonable fellow, but he didn’t think there would be many of them in a grim fortress in the wilds of Worcester.
‘Probably de Garis. His family have some connection to the islands, at least he’ll stick to his task and not try to run off.’
Hermitage wondered if his men running off was a common problem for d’Abetot.
With a wave of both hands, the Norman shooed them out of his tent, the commander on their heels.
‘You can wait by the gate,’ the man said as he strode off into the camp.
'Thank you.' Wat’s sarcasm was in full flight. 'Honestly,' he sighed. 'The Normans are bad enough without them competing with one another. And we're caught in the middle of it.'
‘D’Abetot does seem keen to take credit where it’s not due,’ Cwen observed.
'Urse d'Abetot of Worcester, indeed,' Wat scoffed. 'He's some jumped-up soldier who thinks he's one down from the king. Mind you, if this is the way he behaves, he could be Urse d'Abetot of Worcester before we know it. Doesn't look like anyone else wants the place.'
They only had to wait a moment before the commander appeared with another Norman at his side.
The other Norman was remonstrating quite volubly in very fast Norman French, none of which Hermitage could understand. He didn’t need the actual words, though, the tone was enough to say that this must be de Garis, and he wasn’t happy.
Eventually, the commander stopped walking, turned to face de Garis and barked something right in his face.
Whatever it was, de Garis turned quite pale and seemed to shrink a little. He blew out a long breath and satisfied himself with a disconsolate shake of the head; the sort people use when they want to tell someone else they are making a terrible mistake without actually saying so.
‘Open the gate,’ the commander ordered.
Norman soldiers sprang to do as they were told, and before he knew it, Hermitage was standing outside the walls with the others and a reluctant looking Norman.
'Mon Dieu. Who the devil are you people?' he asked with a thick accent. At least they would be able to talk to one another.
Before he could answer, de Garis voiced his complaint. ‘There I am, minding my own business when the commander comes in and tells me I’m taking some Saxons to Portelond. What the devil is that about? What did I do?’
‘It is a mission for the king,’ Hermitage said.
‘It’s a what?’ de Garis snapped.
‘Mission for the king,’ Hermitage repeated. Urse d’Abetot had been very interested in the mission for the king. So much so that he took it over as the mission for Urse d’Abetot. With any luck, this de Garis would be similarly engaged.
‘For the king?’ de Garis sounded doubtful but quite a lot less angry.
‘That’s correct,’ Hermitage said. ‘You see, I am the King’s Investigator. I, erm, look into murders, mainly, and try to find out who did it.’
De Garis looked very confused. ‘Isn’t the point of a murder that you don’t find out who did it?’
‘Well, if you’re the murderer, yes, I suppose so. But if you’re the king, William, and you want to know who did it, you ask me. Well, he asks me sometimes.’
‘And he’s asked you this time?’ de Garis was calming considerably.
'He has.' Hermitage held up his parchment. 'He has given us written instruction to go to Gernesey and find out who has killed an old woman. Or some old women. Or some old women are killing people. Something like that. The Latin isn't terribly clear. We'll find out when we get there.'
Hermitage listened to his own explanation and found it very confusing.
‘Gernesey, you say,’ de Garis now sounded positively intrigued.
‘That’s right.’
‘Hm. That would explain Portelond, I suppose.’
'We hope to take a boat from there.' Hermitage didn't hope to take a boat at all. He still hoped that this whole awful business would simply go away before he got that far. Another message would arrive saying it had all been a mistake, the old women were fine and he should go home again.
His fatalism told him not to be so ridiculous.
De Garis was nodding to himself. 'Good farmland on Gernesey,' he said mainly to himself. 'And it's a small island. A man could go far in a place like that.'
‘I don’t think you’re coming with us,’ Cwen said pointedly. ‘Urse d’Abetot said that you would take us as far as Portelond.’
‘Which is a long way,’ de Garis replied with his own points. ‘And a long way from Urse d’Abetot.’ He cast a glance back at the walls of his erstwhile home. ‘Come on then, let’s go,’ he said quite brightly and strode on ahead of them.
‘Are all Normans so avaricious?’ Cwen asked Wat quietly.
‘Their leader did invade a whole country,’ Wat replied. ‘And when he asked people to come with him, he probably got all the ones who thought the same as he did.’
‘Worcester, indeed,’ Cwen coughed with a shake of the head.
De Garis led them away from the Norman fortress, which looked even less imposing and more insignificant in the daylight.
It sat on the banks of the great river that flowed past with such power that it could easily pick the thing up and carry it away as wreckage on the stream.
But there was still no sign of anyone else in the town at all. That they should all have run away from this quite modest Norman force seemed puzzling.
‘Where is everyone?’ Hermitage asked de Garis as they caught up with the Norman, who seemed to have concluded that Portelond was the very place he wanted to go. ‘The guard on the gate said they had run away to some island in the river.’
‘That’s right,’ de Garis confirmed. ‘As soon as we arrived, everyone left.’
‘How rude,’ Cwen said.
De Garis gave her a frown. ‘It’s upstream though, so we won’t be bothered by them.’
‘They are all right, though?’ Hermitage checked.
'Who cares?' de Garis replied. 'We didn't manage to kill any of them if that's what you mean.'
‘Yes, I think that would do,’ Hermitage replied stiffly.
From the look on his face, it seemed that the Norman had a question he wanted to ask. ‘You’re this King’s Investigator, then?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘How did you get that?’
‘How did I get it?’ Hermitage didn’t follow.
'Yes, how did you get to be King's Investigator? You're a monk. And a Saxon one at that.'
‘Erm, yes. It’s because I managed to find out who killed one of the king’s friends. Henri de Turold.’ Ref_5
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Well, he’s been dead for a while now.’ Hermitage wasn’t going to say that he had also been investigator to King Harold, he thought that might not be well received.
‘And William appointed you. Just like that?’
‘Well, yes.’ Hermitage didn’t need to be astute to tell that de Garis thought this was most unfair. Here he was, a good, loyal, fighting man for the king, and some Saxon monk gets a position and a title.
‘I don’t want the role,’ Hermitage said. ‘It is a terrible thing to have to look into murder on a regular basis. The sins of man are many, but this is worst of all.’
They walked on and the Norman was clearly thinking deeply.
‘A monk wouldn’t know much about murder anyway, would he?’ de Garis said. ‘It’s not right, giving a job like that to a monk.’
‘Well, exactly,’ Hermitage agreed. ‘I’m pleased that you can see that. Each one is a shocking experience.’
De Garis nodded mainly to himself with a rather scheming smile on his face as he puffed up his chest. ‘If the king wants an investigator of murder, he should appoint a Norman who’s done a few.’
Hermitage looked at de Garis and decided that walking on in silence would be best.
Caput VIII: Local Enquiries
‘Find out where this false de Chesney lives, Baldwyn. Or lived, I should say. And get the boy.’ Preauex strode away purposefully from the woman on the common.
She had become increasingly excited and was shouting the most outrageous accusations by the time they decided to give up and leave.
Preauex had looked as if he was going to do something about her when Baldwyn cautioned him. There was already one dead woman in this area causing problems with the seneschal. Any further complaints would not help his cause.
Commenting that he would have to do something about the infestation of old witches that the Vale was suffering, he had turned his back.
‘I assume she wasn’t one of mine?’
‘One of yours, my lord?’
‘She didn’t live on my estates.’
‘Oh, no. Definitely not yours.’ Baldwyn permitted himself a discreet shake of the head in disappointment at this. Even old man Preauex had known who his tenants were. The tenants weren’t at all happy about that, but it showed some engagement, at least.
‘She must have belonged to someone. Find out who and where she lived.’
Baldwyn nodded slowly. ‘I would think only the seneschal would have records like that?’ He put this as a very mild question, as he knew that his lord hated it when people raised problems about doing the impossible.
‘Then ask around, you idiot. Someone knows who she was and where she was from. Apart from other mad women with cows, obviously. Don’t ask any of them.’
‘Yes, my lord. I mean no, my lord’
‘Honestly,’ Preauex sighed. ‘Do I have to do everything for myself?’
Baldwyn grimaced at that, as he couldn’t remember the last time Preauex had done anything at all for himself.
‘Track her down,’ the lord instructed. ‘It’s a small island. Someone must know who she was.’
Baldwyn was not going to admit that he knew who she was. Well, he recognised the face. Preauex was right, Gernesey was a small island and everyone knew everyone else. They might not know all the details of their life, but they certainly knew one another by sight.
Except Preauex, obviously. If someone was of no use or interest, what was the point in remembering who they were?
And the idea that Adel belonged to someone was only in Preauex’s head. There was no serfdom on the island. People didn’t belong to other people. Yes, there were tenants, but then Preauex probably thought that he owned his tenants as well as the houses they lived in and the land they worked.
Regardless of Preauex's understanding of pretty much nothing, Baldwyn would have to find out where Adel had lived, to find the boy. He had only seen her on the common ground a few times and certainly hadn't had any conversation with her. It was likely her home was nearby. Obviously not in Saint Sampson's, given her opinion of that place.
‘And when you’ve found the boy, bring him to me.’ With that, Lord Preauex turned for home, leaving Baldwyn to his task.
He couldn't go back to the common and ask around there. Preauex had effectively destroyed that line of enquiry. Just as he recognised faces, others would recognise his; and who he worked for.
