The Case of the Curious Corpse, page 1
The Case of the
Curious Corpse
the endless
Chronicles
of Brother Hermitage
by
Howard of Warwick
The Funny Book Company
The Funny Book Company
www.funnybookcompany.com
© 2017 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
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
A Brother Hermitage Diversion (and free!)
Brother Hermitage in Shorts
Also:
Howard of Warwick’s History of 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
With thanks to Umair (No relation) and Janine
The Case of the
Curious Corpse
Caput I
The attack by the force of Normans was unexpected. But then, Brother Hermitage reasoned, could an attack that was expected still be called an attack? Everyone talked about surprise attacks and he had naturally assumed that all attacks were surprises. He had been attacked himself, who hadn’t in these difficult times? And he was still only a young man of, what was it now, twenty three? Something like that. Every one of those attacks had come as a complete surprise.
He couldn’t imagine that people sent word of an attack, or made arrangements for a time that suited everyone. Surely the attacker would not want their opponent to be prepared. He couldn’t imagine anyone arriving for an attack and then having to rearrange the whole thing because it wasn’t convenient.
But presumably, if something had to be called a surprise attack there must be attacks that were not surprises, otherwise what was the point of the nomenclature?
‘Pay attention,’ Cwen snapped as she smacked him lightly on the back of the head.
He came back to the real world in which the real attack was making a lot of noise outside Wat the Weaver’s workshop.
‘What do they want?’ he bleated, observing the organisation of horsemen taking place to the front of the building.
‘What do the Normans always want?’ Cwen sneered. ‘They’ve only just arrived in the country and here they are throwing their weight around.’
Hermitage’s appraisal of Cwen comprised the usual contradictory evidence. An excellent weaver in her own right but no more than a young girl really, elfin thin, small and, when it appeared, with a smile that could light the darkest chamber; and a temper like the same dark chamber set on fire with a pack of mad dogs inside. And a scowl that could clean rusty metal. Her willingness to take on the entire band of Norman attackers on her own was absolutely clear. And she wouldn’t be worried about whether it was a surprise or not.
‘How many?’ Wat’s voice called as he scrambled the stairs to this upper chamber.
‘At least a dozen,’ Cwen called back from her place at the window overlooking the front of the workshop; the window from which Hermitage’s immediate response to the sight of a dozen well-armed Norman soldiers had been to consider the linguistic proprieties.
Wat joined them at the window. His wild smudge of black hair perhaps presenting an unintended target if the Normans had brought archers. He straightened his very well made jerkin, brushed the dust from his exquisite leggings and flicked a smudge from the toe of his well-fitting left boot.
He was the oldest of them by a small margin, and the richest by a whole collection of very large margins laid end to end. He didn’t get to have his own workshop by being a humble weaver of cloth. No, he got to be a very rich weaver by making tapestries with images the like of which Hermitage had only seen in a book of something called anatomy. And in the anatomy book at least the bodies had the decency to be dead. There was no decency in Wat’s tapestries at all. And people paid ridiculous sums for them. Very bad people and very bad tapestries, as Hermitage frequently pointed out as he persuaded Wat to stick to more wholesome works.
In the face of the oncoming Norman onslaught, Wat would make sure he looked his best, Hermitage would check that everyone addressed one another properly and Cwen would do any actual fighting.
‘What do they want?’ Wat asked with some exasperation.
‘That’s what I wondered,’ Hermitage put in. ‘Perhaps they’ve come to buy some tapestry?’
Wat looked over the band trampling around outside and took account of their rough appearance, their grizzled and careworn faces and their use of language that would make a pig blush.
‘They don’t look the tapestry buying type,’ he concluded.
‘Tapestry stealing, probably,’ Cwen huffed.
Wat faced Hermitage with an explicit look. ‘Could they want you?’ he asked.
‘I hardly think so,’ Hermitage was shocked at hearing the idea out loud, having come to roughly the same conclusion about their uninvited guests.
‘You are the King’s Investigator,’ Wat made the title sound very grand.
‘Don’t remind me,’ Hermitage replied. And he meant it. Being made King’s Investigator had been awful. First King Harold, and then, when he was dead and Hermitage thought it was all over, King William went and renewed the appointment. Doing the investigations was terrible, and constantly living in fear of being summoned to yet another scene of violence and sin kept him awake at night. ‘The King is hardly going to send a whole band of horsemen just to fetch me. He’s just sent a messenger in the past. Or even a simple threat on its own. I’m hardly likely to put up a fight, am I?’
Wat shrugged that this did seem out of keeping with King William’s usual ways.
‘Pillage, violence, robbery,’ Cwen determined, with a grunt. ‘The usual. Just a gaggle of Normans out for what they can get. Although why it takes quite so many of them to do anything, I have no idea. Probably because they wouldn’t be safe if they went out on their own.’ She made it quite clear that she would be one of the main causes of harm to a lone Norman.
‘Perhaps they’re just passing and are going to make us provide hospitality,’ Hermitage speculated, hopefully.
‘We could always get Mrs Grod to poison them,’ said Cwen, suggesting that Wat’s cook could do what she did best.
‘I don’t think they’d line up like that and draw their swords to get an invitation to a meal,’ said Wat, nodding out of the window where the Normans appeared to be making themselves ready for a significant fight.
‘What were you doing downstairs?’ Cwen asked. ‘Barring the door?’
‘No,’ Wat replied, ‘opening it. Don’t want that lot knocking the thing down when there’s no need.’
Cwen snorted her contempt.
‘Be reasonable,’ Wat went on. ‘There’s no way we can keep them out. You, me, Hermitage, Mrs Grod and old Hartle with the apprentices at his back? That meal would be us on a plate. If they find the door’s shut it’ll only make them angry, and they’ll probably just burn the rest of the place down so they don’t have to use it.’
‘Why don’t you just go down and invite them in?’ Cwen’s opinion of Wat’s strategy was clear. It was lower than a very low thing.
‘Because I suspect the first person to speak to them could end up with the bits of their body a lot less joined up than is usual. You know the Norman approach, chop first and ask questions later. In fact why bother with the questions at all?’
Hermitage studied the visitors again. They had arrived in a flurry of dust and noise having thundered up the road from nearby Derby. Goodness knew what state they’d left that place in, but they were clearly prepared for a major confrontation. Even now, the one who appeared to be in charge was ordering the others about, moving them into the right position and checking their equipment. He was clearly unhappy with something as he was shouting orders and deprecations in language which, apart from being quite revolting, occasionally slipped into some local dialect akin to Norman French; the sort of kin the rest of the family doesn’t talk about any more. Hermitage knew an order and deprecation when he heard one though. That raised fascinating questions about the role of tone and expression in language.
Cwen hit him again.
‘Will you keep your mind on the problem at hand,’ she ordered and deprecated all at once. ‘What was it this time? The Norman approach to the care of horses?’
‘Not at all,’ Hermitage protested, having very little interest in horses. Nasty, bad-tempered animals, just like the people riding them, in his experience. Which gave him another thought. And quite a good one this time. ‘Who do they think they’re going to fight?’ he asked.
‘Does it matter?’ Cwen indicated that the three of them would not make for a very long battle.
They all looked.
The leader now seemed relatively satisfied with his troop’s turn out. All the horses were lined up side by side, the men on top had swords in hand and reins were at the ready. The leader turned his attention to the building in front of them and seemed to be waiting for something.
‘They’ve obviously prepared for a major confrontation. It’s as if they’ve come to this place specifically for quite a significant battle.’
This did give Wat and Cwen pause for thought. Despite Cwen’s protestations, it was quite common for a single Norman to cause an awful lot of trouble on his own. Everyone knew that if you provoked a Norman sufficiently, another thirty or so would turn up within a day or so to make sure that you, your family, your village and probably several of the neighbours never provoked anyone again.
A dozen Normans was quite a force. Twelve professional soldiers on horseback could take most small towns unaided. It was only when the object to be defeated was a lord or a king that serious forces were required.
A Norman child on a dog could probably conquer Wat’s workshop. And not a very healthy dog at that.
Wat slapped his hands to his thighs in anger and frustration. ‘Don’t say they’ve arranged to have a fight in my front yard.’
Hermitage didn’t like to answer, as he couldn’t immediately think of anything else these men would be good for.
‘Why me?’ Wat howled his protest. ‘If they want to take over the country and defeat all the local forces, why don’t they do it in a field, like a proper army?’
Now Hermitage was lost. He looked to Cwen and Wat for some explanation.
Cwen sighed at the impracticality of monks, and of this one in particular. ‘If some local lord has refused to submit to the new King there’s going to be a fight.’
Hermitage could follow that. It still seemed to be a very poor way to organise a country, but it was tradition.
‘So,’ Cwen went on. ‘Said lord and king agree where and when they’re going to sort it all out.’
Ah, thought Hermitage. So attacks could be organised and not surprises at all. How fascinating. ‘But, why here?’
‘Exactly.’ Wat protested.
‘No point in ruining the lord’s manor,’ Cwen explained. ‘The king will want that.’
‘But,’ Hermitage held his finger up as some scintilla of information about battles wandered into his mind. ‘Doesn’t the lord stock up with provisions, raise his drawbridge and fight from behind his walls?’
‘If he has any,’ Cwen gave a short laugh. ‘Castles are for the very rich. You don’t send a dozen disorganised Normans to fight someone with a castle. No. This is most likely some petty landowner who is either mad or an idiot.’
‘An idiot?’ Hermitage raised an eyebrow.
‘King William?’ Cwen asked Hermitage to recall who they were talking about. ‘The one who has just conquered the country and defeated Harold sends word that he’d like you to swear fealty, and you say no thank you? You’d better have a thousand Vikings at your back.’
This was a whole new world to Hermitage, and he hadn’t really got the hang of the first one yet.
‘Perhaps the local lord has changed his mind?’ Hermitage suggested, looking out of the window again and seeing no sign of any opposition turning up for the Normans, who had clearly gone to a lot of trouble.
‘Very sensible,’ said Wat as they cast their eyes over the Norman force, which was starting to look a bit impatient.
Hermitage considered that as armed Norman warriors were bad, impatient armed Norman warriors were probably worse.
‘Pah,’ Cwen dismissed such defeatism.
‘I thought you said they were either mad or stupid to fight in the first place,’ Wat pointed out.
‘At least they should see it through,’ said Cwen. ‘You can’t put your defiance down when it gets difficult.’
‘Die with honour, eh?’ said Wat, as if it was an invitation.
‘Perhaps we should go and ask,’ Hermitage interrupted what might become one of Wat and Cwen’s loud and awkward arguments, or “discussions” as they called them.
‘After you,’ Cwen beckoned towards the stairs. ‘I’m sure they won’t stab a monk. Not straight away.’
They gathered and looked out of the window some more.
It was inevitable that they should be spotted really. You can’t sit at your window staring at the soldiers in the garden without one of them noticing. It was too late to duck out of sight, so Hermitage just raised a timid and half-hearted hand. ‘Hello,’ he mouthed.
‘Hello?’ Cwen turned to Hermitage, aghast. ‘Hello, indeed.’
‘Maybe they’ll realise they’ve come to the wrong place,’ Hermitage suggested. ‘If they’re expecting this defiant lord and all they get is a monk, they may go away.’
‘Normans don’t do going away,’ said Wat.
They chanced another look out of the window. Now that he had their attention, the leader raised his sword and pointed it at their vantage point.
‘Well done, Hermitage,’ Wat sighed.
They all raised their hands to acknowledge that they had only just noticed a force of armed men had appeared at the front door.
‘You,’ the Norman leader barked up at the window. ‘Bring out your forces.’
Hermitage turned back to the others. ‘Bring out our what?’
‘Forces, Hermitage, forces,’ said Cwen, sounding rather annoyed. ‘When a force wants a battle they usually have another force to do it with?’
‘We haven’t got any forces.’
‘We know that,’ said Wat. ‘Not sure they’re quite so up to date.’
‘Why do they think we’ve got forces?’
‘Normans think everyone’s got forces.’ Cwen was grim. ‘I suppose we’re going to have to go out there.’
‘Really?’ Hermitage could see quite well from where he was.
‘If we don’t send out our forces they’ll think we’re insulting them,’ Wat explained. ‘And there are better people to insult than a dozen armed Norman horsemen. Come on. There’s only one tactic that will work in a situation like this.’
‘And that is?’
‘Abject surrender.’
Hermitage was in a bit of a daze as he realised that he was walking down the stairs and towards the door, outside of which a band of mounted warriors was waiting for him. He’d never been a force before.
‘Aha,’ said Wat, in a loud, friendly greeting, holding his arms wide as if he could embrace his new best friends who had turned up on their horses.
‘Who are you?’ the leader barked.
‘Wat the Weaver,’ Wat announced, bowing low. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘You won’t be,’ the Norman grumbled with a nasty smile.
Cwen and Hermitage strode bravely forward. Hermitage stopped just behind Cwen.
‘Wait a minute,’ the Norman commanded. ‘Is that a monk?’ He pointed his sword at Hermitage.
‘This monk?’ Wat asked, turning and indicating Hermitage. ‘Yes. This monk here is a monk.’
‘Hm.’ Perhaps the Norman had second thoughts about doing battle with a monk. Hermitage certainly hoped so.
‘Right,’ the man on the horse came to some sort of conclusion. ‘Let’s get on with it then. Where’s the rest of you?’
‘Rest of us?’ Wat looked and sounded clueless. ‘This is it.’ He shrugged his apology.
‘Three?’ the armed man clearly thought this was either an insult or a joke.
‘And one a monk,’ Wat explained.
‘We can’t do battle with you lot.’
‘Oh, that is a shame,’ Wat sympathised.
‘We were sent to do battle.’ There was a definite complaining whine in the voice.
‘You do look ready for it. Perhaps it’s somewhere else? Can we give you directions?’
‘This is the right place,’ the man insisted, looking around from atop his beast.
‘Not sure I can help,’ Wat tried meek.
‘This is really not good enough.’ The man on the horse turned to his companions and through various noises and gestures indicated what the position was and how unsatisfactory the whole business was turning out to be. The grunts and sighs that were returned indicated that they shared his opinion.
