The alarming tale of Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids is now out in the world - and seems to be finding favour with those who like humour with their history.
At least now we know why King William didn't go anywhere near Wales for years.
There is Hermitage and there is Wat and there is Cwen. Then there are the mercenaries, stragglers, pilgrims, robbers, druids and of course the Normans. There can't be many people left in the country who aren't dragged into this in one way or another.
Poor Brother Hermitage isn't quite sure what it is he's supposed to be investigating, and clarity doesn't even come when he's finished.
Whatever the outcome, early readers have said that it is very funny.
You too can enjoy the experience - if you haven't already done so... http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hermitage-Wat-Some-Druids-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B019PKFJQ0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1450857608&sr=8-1&keywords=Hermitage%2C+Wat+and+Some+Druids
Monday 4 January 2016
Friday 13 November 2015
An alarming sight for Friday the 13th
I have now seen what I am told is my web site. www.howardofwarwick.com/ It is full of useful information - well, information, and even has a picture of me hard at work in the scriptorium.
There are forms to fill in, pictures to look at, words to read, it's all terribly exciting. Or so my agent tells me.
Meanwhile the real work has to continue. The volume entitled Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids is becoming quite alarming. Poor Brother Hermitage is up to his neck in trouble, quite literally. I must press on if I'm going to get anything finished by Christmas.
Howard
Warwick
November
I have now seen what I am told is my web site. www.howardofwarwick.com/ It is full of useful information - well, information, and even has a picture of me hard at work in the scriptorium.
There are forms to fill in, pictures to look at, words to read, it's all terribly exciting. Or so my agent tells me.
Meanwhile the real work has to continue. The volume entitled Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids is becoming quite alarming. Poor Brother Hermitage is up to his neck in trouble, quite literally. I must press on if I'm going to get anything finished by Christmas.
Howard
Warwick
November
Thursday 8 October 2015
Coming soon, a website.
I am told that this sort of thing is absolutely essential for the modern, thrusting writer - so why I would want one is a bit of a mystery. The "agent" insists though, and he can be very insistent.
He sent the photographers into the Scriptorium, who caused no end of trouble, disturbing all the work in progress and moving a lot of things out of sight because they "detracted from the overall ambience". Personally, I think my ambience is my own business, but there you are.
Anyway, the whole thing is being put together by some creative types and should be on a screen near you soon.
I am even told that people will be able to use the image of the Scriptorium as their wallpaper - whatever that means.
Howard
Warwick
October
I am told that this sort of thing is absolutely essential for the modern, thrusting writer - so why I would want one is a bit of a mystery. The "agent" insists though, and he can be very insistent.
He sent the photographers into the Scriptorium, who caused no end of trouble, disturbing all the work in progress and moving a lot of things out of sight because they "detracted from the overall ambience". Personally, I think my ambience is my own business, but there you are.
Anyway, the whole thing is being put together by some creative types and should be on a screen near you soon.
I am even told that people will be able to use the image of the Scriptorium as their wallpaper - whatever that means.
Howard
Warwick
October
Monday 15 June 2015
15th June 2015. 800 years ago King John agreed the Magna Carta. But it was days later that the barons renewed their oaths.
What happened in those missing days?
Where did the charter go and who had it?
What happened to it?
Could it have been something suspicious?
Or funny?
Probably, or maybe not.
You can read it all now in The Magna Carta (Or is it?) Apparently available from all good bookshops, although I expect they'll learn pretty soon.
Howard
Warwick
15th June 2015
What happened in those missing days?
Where did the charter go and who had it?
What happened to it?
Could it have been something suspicious?
Or funny?
Probably, or maybe not.
You can read it all now in The Magna Carta (Or is it?) Apparently available from all good bookshops, although I expect they'll learn pretty soon.
Howard
Warwick
15th June 2015
Monday 25 May 2015
And now the time has come to talk of Magna Carta. 800 years ago, upon Runnymede field, the King and his nobles did agree the terms of their charter.
It is a story handed down through generations, but dare we speculate on what might actually have happened? (Well, it probably didn't, but we can still speculate.)
The Magna Carta (Or is it?) is a tale told by an idiot... and, er, that's it really. And it seems to have a lot of idiots in it as well.
Available to order from all reasonably good book shops ISBN 978-0-9929393-3-5 on 1st June 2015.
And from Amazon on ebook from 15th June (Pre-order now to avoid disappointment.) http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tha-Magna-Carta-Howard-Warwick-ebook/dp/B00XCVUKHC/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1431163272&sr=1-10
And then read each chapter from the 15th June as it happens, until the day the charter was finally sealed - or was it?
I am reliably informed that I have a cult following and am very, very funny. I think that's a good thing, but I wonder if History Today will take me quite so seriously any more... http://scaryduck.blogspot.co.uk/
Howard
Warwick
Monday
It is a story handed down through generations, but dare we speculate on what might actually have happened? (Well, it probably didn't, but we can still speculate.)
The Magna Carta (Or is it?) is a tale told by an idiot... and, er, that's it really. And it seems to have a lot of idiots in it as well.
Available to order from all reasonably good book shops ISBN 978-0-9929393-3-5 on 1st June 2015.
And from Amazon on ebook from 15th June (Pre-order now to avoid disappointment.) http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tha-Magna-Carta-Howard-Warwick-ebook/dp/B00XCVUKHC/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1431163272&sr=1-10
And then read each chapter from the 15th June as it happens, until the day the charter was finally sealed - or was it?
I am reliably informed that I have a cult following and am very, very funny. I think that's a good thing, but I wonder if History Today will take me quite so seriously any more... http://scaryduck.blogspot.co.uk/
Howard
Warwick
Monday
Sunday 4 January 2015
As the 800th anniversary of the Magna Carta draws nigh, (111 shopping days to go) new researches have revealed a remarkable story. Well, my researches have anyway.
It seems that things were not all straightforward, and the Magna Carta we have today went through many trials and tribulations before reaching the final parchment. In fact there were so many trials and tribulations that it is quite possible the document we now have is the wrong one!
To mark this major breakthrough, June will see the publication of The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)
One Robert Peal of Civitas, which appears to be some sort of tank for thinking, has criticised some writers for encouraging people "not to think about the past, but to laugh at it." - here's hoping.
A first glimpse of the latest text is offered below:
It seems that things were not all straightforward, and the Magna Carta we have today went through many trials and tribulations before reaching the final parchment. In fact there were so many trials and tribulations that it is quite possible the document we now have is the wrong one!
To mark this major breakthrough, June will see the publication of The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)
One Robert Peal of Civitas, which appears to be some sort of tank for thinking, has criticised some writers for encouraging people "not to think about the past, but to laugh at it." - here's hoping.
A first glimpse of the latest text is offered below:
The
ink was still wet. King John held the rudiments of the great charter up in
front of his eyes, much to the consternation of the old master scribe, who
rushed forward to try and stop the words running down the page. But this was
King John, and stopping him doing exactly what he wanted was the reason they
were all here in the first place.
The
scribe valued the remaining days of his ancient life highly enough to make his
objections clear with a very light cough.
The
King noticed things like this, looked over to the scribe and scowled at him. ‘What
is it now?’
A
scowl from the King was a powerful thing. The man was not physically commanding,
his build was slight and wiry, although obviously he could kill you with sword
or dagger as well as the next man. The face was in keeping with the body; lean,
with prominent cheekbones and a proportionate nose. There was no denying he was
a handsome man, well, handsome considering he was coming up to fifty and by all
rights should be dead by now.
He
had been on the throne for sixteen years and knew how to be King. He had that
certain something about him. That certain something that made you step aside,
even when he was behind you and you didn’t see him coming. That certain
something that made you avoid his stare, which was as likely to kill you as his
dagger. Talk of his personality was enough to keep most men at bay. Some of the
horrible things he was rumoured to have done were simply unbelievable. Until it
was rumoured he’d done them a second time. And a third.
The
scribe stopped coughing and tried to sound as if he didn’t want to say anything
at all. ‘Ah, sire, Majesty. It’s only that the document is not yet dry and some
of the letters may slip. Once your discussions are finished we need to apply
the final changes and instigate the copying. The copyists won’t be able to work
if the original is corrupted. It is always advisable to keep a parchment level
until it has been sanded or until a scribe has advised…’ the scribe trailed off
in the face of the King’s withering gaze.
It
had taken the Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, the Barons, the
Church, the Bishops and the Clergy months to get John to this point in
discussing the rights and powers of the throne. They’d been camped out at
Runnymede alone for the best part of a week. A humble scribe had no chance
quibbling over how to handle a parchment.
Howard
Warwick
January
Friday 6 June 2014
Brother Hermitage in shorts
I hope it will be illuminating to share a vignette from the early life of Brother Hermitage, our truly medieval detective. I believe it explains quite a lot!
Howard
Warwick
June
Howard
Warwick
June
Hermitage
and the Hostelry:
That winter of 1064 was
monstrous. A marrow pummelling, air splitting cold circled the land like some
frosted carrion bird. Run-of-the-mill hard frosts wandered into the wrong
neighbourhood and would be lucky to escape with their lives. Even the snow had second
thoughts about going anywhere near the ground, loitering instead inside the
nice warm clouds.
There was no muffling of
the atmosphere, no softening of the edges of the cold. It sliced through man
and beast alike, unconcerned which it left dead in the fields and which ran to
get away from it. It was mainly the animals with the sense to run away.
As night fell, the cold
intensified and fell from the sky to accumulate in a layer on the ground. It
promised death to small animals and a nasty shock to the feet of wandering
monks.
Gripped firmly in the maw
of the cold and starving hungry to boot, Brother Hermitage remained reluctant
to enter the hostelry, even though it was called The Lamb. Or perhaps because
it was called The Lamb, it was a rather blasphemous name for such a place after
all. His reluctance was partly prompted by the acknowledgement that he had no
money. Landlords were picky about people taking up their warmth and space for
free, and a picky landlord could be a handful.
The landlords Hermitage
had encountered were doubly picky. The expression “as welcome as a monk in a tavern”
neatly covered the impact of a habit on a hostelry. It would either put the
death on the atmosphere or drink the place dry without offering to pay a penny.
The weight of Hermitage's
reluctance rested on the fact he was not far from home. There might be people
inside who knew him.
People who knew Hermitage
seemed inexorably driven to offer him some criticism or other, very little of
it constructive. People who knew him and were also people in hostelries tended
to make their criticism raucous and physical.
He knew if he stood outside much longer he
would freeze to death. He also knew if he were drenched in beer and thrown into
the cold he would freeze to death as well, just more quickly and smelling of
beer.
His reluctance was taking
a battering from the wind which circumnavigated the inside of his habit with
chilling intimacy. When he started to think he was actually feeling a bit
warmer, and perhaps a lie down for a little sleep would make him feel better,
his survival instinct took over from his all-pervading reason. He staggered
through the rough door and into the warmth beyond.
That he wasn’t
immediately grabbed and hurled out was a good sign and he closed the door as
unobtrusively as he could. Sliding into the seat nearest the entrance but
furthest from the fire, he held onto the wildly optimistic hope that he hadn’t
been noticed, and would be left alone, at least until the feeling in his feet
came back.
The Inn was traditional
in every way. The door opened into a room of grubby whitewashed walls flanking
a swept flagstone floor some twenty feet square. Its roof was a glowering
ceiling of oak beams which provided support for an extensive collection of
cobwebs.
Across the wall to
Hermitage’s right, an inglenook hosted a log fire which burned half heartedly
in an iron basket. The flames seemed to know how cold it was going to be
outside and didn’t want to go anywhere near the chimney.
On the far side of the
fire, a single, huddled figure sat wrapped in the collection of clothes which
was all the fashion just now. Everyone was putting on every single garment they
possessed, one on top of another, in the hope that together they would keep the
cold at bay. The resulting swaddling meant that if the cold was not kept at
bay, and the individual succumbed to it, there was a good chance no one would
notice until the spring. This figure held a leathern mug from which it took
occasional sips so at least it was still in the world of the living.
The opposite wall of the
room was taken up with a table, on which sat three barrels of beer, and a door
which obviously led to the kitchen beyond. To Hermitage’s left were a couple of
tables which, in warmer times, would be occupied by resting workers,
merrymakers and the just plain drunk. As these sat under a draughty and leaking
window, Hermitage could see why the lone customer had chosen their place.
Behind the barrels, a
man, Hermitage assumed him to be the Inn Keeper, stood leaning with his head in
his hands gazing blankly into the middle distance. He seemed unaware that a
monk had just appeared in front of him.
He was less comprehensively dressed than his customer, as he probably
spent most of his time in the main room or the kitchen where the largest supply
of heat, probably for many miles around, was to be found.
And that was it. One
landlord and one customer. On such a night it was no surprise people decided to
stay by their own hearths. Or in bed with as many covers as possible drawn over
their heads.
Still, one landlord and
one customer was more than enough to throw out one monk. After a few moments
Hermitage became puzzled, and Hermitage becoming puzzled was a one way street.
Puzzles had to be solved. Stepping smartly away and pretending they had never
happened, although favoured by people with a smattering of common sense, simply
wasn’t in Hermitage’s nature.
The puzzle had its
origins in the fact he hadn’t been physically removed from the Inn as soon as
he entered. It grew in stature as he
realised no one was taking the blindest bit of notice of him. In principle,
others taking no notice of him was a very good thing, but he knew that opening
a creaking hostelry door and allowing the icy breath of the devil himself to
whip its way around the residents, should be noticed even by the
least-conscious drinker.
Something was amiss. He
tested the limits of his new found invisibility by sidling slowly up to the
fire until he could actually feel the warmth. Eventually he sat right before
the reluctantly blazing hearth, next to a sleeping dog which had occupied the
hottest spot. Even this creature ignored him and that really was odd. He had no
great love for animals either domestic or wild, but neither did he fear them.
He assumed he didn’t give off the scent of terror which made them attack, or
the aura of love which made them follow.
Thus he consistently
failed to understand why every piece of wildlife he came across appeared to
take an instant dislike to him. Cats hissed and dogs growled, birds attacked
and he had even been bitten by a horse once. That he should be able to sit so
close to a dog, albeit an aging and lazy one, without it having a good go at
his ankles was a further mystery.
He knew this situation
was to his advantage and he should take it. It was patently clear to both his
intellect and instinct that the only option was to keep his head down and
absorb the life-lifting heat. Never mind intellect, it was plain common sense.
In a situation such as
this, common sense should work in harmony with intellect and instinct. Common
sense would say, ‘Quite right, you’re getting nice and warm, no one has
noticed, stay low and make the most of it’. Intellect and instinct would concur
and they’d all start thinking about food.
All of Brother
Hermitage's common sense had been replaced by curiosity, and it made him do the
most peculiar things. It now shouted in his head, saying ‘What’s going on here?
Why haven’t they noticed me? Something strange is happening and I must find out
what it is’. Intellect and instinct insisted this was a course which would lead
to being out in the cold again, and asked why curiosity wouldn't listen to them
for once. Curiosity had stopped listening years ago.
This process, which took
place in no time at all as it was pretty much automatic, led Hermitage to take
the step which so often resulted in physical harm. No matter how many times
intellect and instinct said ‘told you so’ curiosity was having none of it. He
let out a small cough.
'Ahem.'
The rationale was inexorable,
if you draw attention to yourself something bad will happen. Asking people
questions and butting into their business draws attention to yourself and
therefore leads to the happening of bad things. Ah, curiosity insisted, only by
drawing attention to yourself will you find things out, and finding things out
is the purpose of life. No arguing with that then.
The Inn Keeper looked up
from his hands and merely grunted at Hermitage.
'Oh that’s right, rub it
in why don’t you.'
Remarkable. No ‘Right you,
out’, or ‘We don’t want your sort in here’, not even a simple grab by the habit
and a rapid eviction. More than that, what was being rubbed in? Although
relatively local, Hermitage had only just arrived, he couldn’t possibly know
what ‘it’ was, let alone be capable of rubbing it anywhere. Why would the Inn
Keeper think that anything he was doing was making some unknown situation
worse? Perhaps opening the door had rubbed the cold in. Perhaps there was
little custom in this icy weather and a monk walking in, who would clearly have
no money, only emphasised the poor trade?
'I er.' Hermitage’s
curiosity was like a second bladder, if it got too full he simply had to let
some questions leak out no matter how embarrassing the result. He wasn’t going
to be able to hold himself in much longer.
'Look he’s dead alright,
just leave it at that.'
How marvellous, someone
was dead. All thought of cold and hunger was banished.
'The last thing we want
is some bloody monk moping about the place reminding us.'
So that was it. The Inn
was in mourning and Hermitage’s presence made the recent departure only more
poignant. He knew that sometimes, on occasions such as this, it helped those
affected by death to talk about it, and that a monk was just the right person
to encourage release.
He also knew that such
encouragement, if delivered in an inappropriate manner, could lead to a hearty
punch in the face. Unfortunately Hermitage could only do inappropriate, so for
once he held his peace.
Curiosity though was
having none of it. It wanted to know who was dead, why they were dead and how
they had become so. Was there any question mark over the death and if it wasn’t
natural causes what was the nature of the accident, and had the authorities
been informed?
'You have my sympathy.'
Hermitage said with remarkable restraint.
'Well that’s no bloody
good is it?' the Inn Keeper retorted and the muffled figure seated by the fire
grunted its assent.
'Might I ask who has
passed on?' Hermitage risked it. This level of interrogation usually led straight
to the nearest dung heap.
'Well Barker of course,'
the Inn Keeper snapped back.
The muffled figure tutted
as if Hermitage should have known this.
'Ah.' he said, imbuing
the two letters with the tone which he hoped said ‘I don’t know what you’re talking
about and would like further explanation’. Anyone who knew Hermitage would know
that the tone added, ‘and if I don’t get further explanation I will probably
ask you some more annoying questions very soon’.
'Barker!' The Inn Keeper
gestured impatiently towards the fire.
Hermitage looked behind
him but the fire offered no illumination. Then he cast his eyes downwards in
respect for the departed, and noticed the dog had still not moved. The animal's
absence of interest in Hermitage could certainly be explained if it was dead.
Surely the dog was not
called Barker?
Curiosity, when coupled
with imagination, could be a great force. Brother Hermitage's coupling had
broken and imagination had gone the way of common sense. Like some vestigial
toe it had withered in the womb, and by the time the infant Hermitage breathed,
it had all the potency of watered wine without any wine.
Even with this vacuity of
creative thinking Hermitage thought that Barker was not a very good name for a
dog. He spent a few more moments staring at the form at his feet and confirmed
there was indeed no sign of life. There was no gentle movement of breath going
in and out, no tell tale signs of twitching or scratching, no languid raising
of eyebrows as the animal checked its surroundings for anything of interest. As
Hermitage looked long and hard he realised that Barker was in fact leaking in
several places.
'Who killed him?' the Inn
Keeper positively howled, 'that’s what we want to know, who killed him.'
Hermitage looked at the
animal and then back at the Inn Keeper hoping the look on his face would be
enough to communicate the blindingly obvious fact that the dog was incredibly
lucky to have lived as long as it did. He didn’t understand why the man
couldn’t see that old age took everything, and that the animal gently rotting
on the floor was as far beyond old age as it was beyond life.
'Surely he was a dog of
great age?' Hermitage prompted as the look was having no effect whatsoever.
'He was happy as a lamb
yesterday,' the Inn Keeper forced out through trembling lips, while the figure
by the fire shook its head in sympathy.
'How long had you had
him?' Hermitage thought that perhaps leading this man to the only obvious
conclusion might be more effective than laying it out in front of him.
'Since I was a boy.' The
Inn Keeper finally gave in to grief and sobbed raucously.
Hermitage gave the man a
closer examination and concluded he had already spent most of his own allotted
span. The fact his dog had gone before him surely couldn’t be a surprise.
'Perhaps the erm, I mean
perhaps Barker was simply called by the Lord after a long and happy life?'
'He was murdered,
murdered,' the Inn Keeper declared loudly and with passion.
'What makes you think
so?'
'He’s dead.'
In a rare demonstration
of tact Hermitage thought this was not the moment to point out that this
reasoning was more full of holes than Hermitage’s habit.
'Barker would have to go
sometime,' he offered as sympathetically as he could.
'But not now.' The Inn
Keeper had taken to pacing up and down behind his barrels, wringing his hands
and staring one moment at the ceiling and the next at the floor, as if his eyes
taking rest would allow the fact of the death to get inside him.
'Was he longer lived than
other dogs?' Hermitage tried another tack.
'He was the oldest dog in
the district,' the Inn Keeper’s voice rose before falling into another torrent
of sobs.
It seemed the man
considered this to be reason why Barker shouldn’t die, rather than why he
should.
'Then surely his time had
come? The Lord would have looked down and seen aged Barker alone and would have
taken him back to be with the dogs of his childhood.'
Hermitage was really
doubtful about the theology behind this, and he was normally a stickler for
that sort of thing, but this situation was beyond his experience. He thought
the argument might give the man some consolation.
'So God killed him?' The Inn Keeper asked most unreasonably.
'With God there is no
death,' Hermitage responded immediately, 'in the house of the Lord Barker still
sits before the fire, probably gnawing on a bone.'
'But I want him before my
fire.' The Inn Keeper descended into further voluble expressions of grief that
would have put the fear of God up a pack of wolves.
Hermitage really didn’t
know what to do. There was no reasoning with this man, and he always had
trouble with people with whom there was no reasoning. He would reason away very
reasonably, and even after the people had resorted to hitting him because their
capacity for reason had run dry, he would carry on.
Even that ultimate
foundation of reason, scripture, seemed to be of little value here. Hermitage
was well read and understood more of the words of the Lord than most of his
fellows, but even he couldn’t bring anything to mind which dealt with the matter
of dead dogs.
A look of sympathetic
hopelessness fell upon his face and he looked away, not really knowing what to
do next. The figure at the fire beckoned to him through the muffling.
Leaving the Inn Keeper to
his far-from-silent mourning, Hermitage approached and crouched down to get his
head near that of the seated shape.
'His wife,' the figure
said, and settled back as if that was the sum and total of the explanation
required to cover this situation.
Hermitage frowned at the
voice coming from within the muffling. Coming from somewhere pretty deep within
by the sound of it. The weather was so cold most people did their best to keep
their mouths shut and avoided talking at all, if possible. This person sounded
like they’d muffled themselves from the inside out.
'What about her?'
Hermitage asked, 'is she dead as well?' He thought this might explain the
outpouring of emotion that seemed out of all proportion to the shabby corpse of
the dog.
'Nah.' the figure’s husky
tones grumbled through the layers, once again assuming Hermitage knew all about
the wife.
'What then?'
If it was possible,
through the all-encompassing clothing that constituted the entire form of the
figure, it shuffled in a slightly conspiratorial manner.
'Gone.'
'Gone?'
'Gone. With the baker.'
'Gone with the baker?'
Hermitage wondered if this was another one of those euphemisms for womanly
functions that no one liked to talk about, or at least he didn’t like to talk
about. Realisation dawned slowly that this was probably factual.
'Oh gone with the baker,'
Hermitage responded brightly, this did offer some explanation.
'Yup. And she wants half
the Inn.'
'Oh dear. I can see how
that would be upsetting. The poor fellow would already be in a fragile state
and the departure of his beloved dog so soon after his wife would be too much
to bear.'
'Well yes,' the figure
said, making it clear there was more to this. 'The man loved only three things
in his life; his wife, his Inn and his dog, and not necessarily in that order.'
'Ah?' Hermitage dearly hoped
this tale wasn’t going to become unnecessarily personal.
'So his wife ups and goes
and says she wants half the inn. He’s only left with the dog. She says he can
keep the flea-ridden, mangy cur.'
'Very decent of her.'
'Except as she walks out
the door, she says she hopes it dies.'
'Oh dear.'
'Indeed. Especially when
that’s exactly what it did. It always did do whatever she told it.'
'And now he thinks…'
'Well of course.'
'But people can’t make
things die simply by instructing them.'
'God could.'
This seemed a remarkably
theological inn.
'Well yes of course God
could if he wanted to. But the Lord would not instruct a dog to die.'
The muffled one did not
seem convinced.
'Between you and I,' it
was Hermitage’s turn to be conspiratorial and he leaned in closer before
realising he didn’t want to get too close to this muffling, which probably
hadn’t been changed for three months, 'I think Barker simply died of old age.'
'She told it to die,' the
Inn Keeper had recovered enough of his senses to listen in to the conversation,
but he soon lost them again when he heard talk of the death of his beloved
Barker.
'My son, my son,'
Hermitage didn’t really know what he was doing, but he felt simple sympathy for
this fellow human being in distress. 'Your poor dog had reached the end of
life. He looks like he was of great age and it’s perfectly natural that he
should pass away. It is heartbreaking that he should do so at a time when you
have so many other travails, but this is often the way of life. The Lord tests
us in many ways and the fortitude you show now will do you great credit.'
The Inn Keeper sniffed
what sounded like a bucket full of mucus up his nose, and looked at Hermitage
through bloodshot eyes which, nonetheless showed a spark of understanding.
Hermitage thought if he could fan the spark, the man would soon recover.
'Besides,' he said in
gentle tones, 'it simply isn’t possible for anyone to command an animal to give
up its life, such power is not granted to mortal man.'
As Hermitage watched, the
spark did indeed spring into flamboyant life, and the pall which had weighed
down the Inn Keeper’s features lifted as a new realisation dawned on him. He
came out from behind the bar, which Hermitage thought was a very good sign.
'Of course,' the man said
as he joined Hermitage and the muffled one by the fire.
'I’m glad,' Hermitage
smiled and nodded.
'You’d have to be a
witch.'
'Er,' this wasn’t what
the monk had expected at all, 'No no,' he started.
'I see it all now. She’s
cast a spell on the baker, she’s charmed me out of the inn and she killed me
dog!'
'I really don’t think,'
Hermitage knew what country folk could be like, and he feared this conversation
was leading to a very bad place indeed. There was no stopping the Inn Keeper
though.
'I’m so glad you come
here brother, you’ve made it all clear. The woman was a witch.' He prodded the
muffled figure who swayed slightly in agreement.
'It was a matter of old
age and simple co-incidence,' Hermitage urged.
'Ha!' The Inn Keeper
snorted, 'there ain’t no such thing as old age and co-incidence where witches
is involved.'
'But.'
'In fact it ain’t that
she was a witch, she is a witch.'
'Oh dear.' It was at
times like this Hermitage usually deferred to someone of more authority and
presence, such as his Abbot who would have slapped the man by now. Hermitage
had never been on the delivering end of a slap, and once words and reason
failed, his armoury was as bare as a baby.
'I must tell the rest of
the village.' The Inn Keeper went back to the kitchen to get his own layers of
clothing on.
'Oh this is terrible,'
Hermitage said pacing up and down.
'Why?' The muffling
asked.
Hermitage was
incredulous, 'Well he’s going to accuse a woman of witchcraft.'
'Perhaps she is a witch?'
The figure thought this was perfectly reasonable.
'Oh really,' Hermitage
was exasperated, 'this is the eleventh century for goodness sake, we’re not in
the dark ages anymore.'
'Still got witches, or
don’t the church believe in witches now?'
'Well of course,'
Hermitage had to admit there were many in ecclesiastical circles who did
believe in witches, some of them very enthusiastically. Usually they were the
ones who searched for witches marks, which they found in the most remarkable
places.
Hermitage was not of that
ilk and he thought them all a primitive and unworthy lot. He kept these
thoughts to himself though, he may not have had any common sense but he wanted
to live.
'There you are then. And
she’s ensnared the baker, and taken half the inn and there’s a dead dog to be
dealt with.' The figure moved some muffles in the direction of the canine
corpse.
'But any of these events
could have happened anyway.'
'They could have, but
what are the chances of that? Unless God really is punishing the Inn Keeper by
killing his dog.'
'God doesn’t work like
that.'
'A witch it is then.'
Hermitage was only good
at reasoning with people who played the game. Someone who was prepared to sit
there saying ‘she’s a witch, she’s a witch’ clearly wasn’t capable of engaging
in a structured argument. He couldn’t give up though.
'But what if she isn’t a
witch, what if it is all coincidence? An aged dog, a marriage which has run its
course, all perfectly normal events which people get over. If you go saying
it’s witchcraft we’ll see an innocent woman murdered.'
'Oh well if she’s
innocent God will save her.'
He was all in favour of
simple old country faith, but he drew the line at tying people to piles of
sticks and setting light to them. And all that nonsense about dipping people in
water and if they drowned they were innocent. Follow that path and there would
be women floating in ponds all over the country.
'You cannot seriously
believe,' he began but he was cut off by the Inn Keeper barging past him to get
out of the door.
'A witch, a witch,' he
heard the man cry enthusiastically, as if he were selling hot buns as he ran
down the central track of the village.
Hermitage peered out into
the still ravaging cold and watched as doors were opened and light streamed out
into the night. He had been here before.
It wouldn’t be long before the first of them suggested fetching some kindling.
Perhaps the baker would
stand up for her, although he knew what the mob could be like once they’d made
their mind up. If the baker valued his own life and business he would end up
going along with them.
Hermitage knew he would
have to do his best alone, even though he also knew no one would take any
notice of him and he might end up badly charred.
He stood gazing
despondently into the dark as he felt the muffled figure rise and walk up
behind him. He turned in time to see it re-arranging its muffling for the
journey into the cold, and was completely taken aback to see the face of a
woman. Of course women could go to the inn, it was just he had assumed all
along this would be a man.
'Who are you?' He asked, as the figure made her way past him.
She took his arm and
looked him straight in the eye.
'You can call me Mrs
Baker,' she said, then she ran after the Inn Keeper shouting about kindling.
THE END
The full length mysteries
of Brother Hermitage by Howard of Warwick can be found at
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Howard-of-Warwick/e/B004CEK24O
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