Return to The DIngle

By Howard of Warwick

Brother Hermitage wants there to be a murder? This can’t be right. In all of his previous excursions, he’s been pretty meticulous about avoiding the things.

When an instruction arrives from the Normans to find a missing person, Hermitage seems keen to shirk his duty. At least that’s a familiar theme. But he’s the King’s Investigator, he doesn’t do missing persons, that must be someone else’s job.

Knowing where the person may have gone missing might explain the trepidation.
The clue’s in the title; De’Ath’s Dingle.

That grim and dreadful monastery, which looms over Hermitage’s life like a falling loom, is calling him back. Perhaps he can try not listening.
It will only be full of the old familiar faces, up to their old revolting tricks. And if someone has gone missing there, all hope is gone.

But a shadow gathers in the west and the monastery is falling into darkness. Well, more darkness than normal.

With Wat, Cwen and Bart, Hermitage tramps his reluctant path back to the Dingle, always hopeful that someone might be murdered on the way as a distraction.

When he finally gets there, things are not at all as they should be. They should be truly awful, but this is simply peculiar. There is obviously something going on.

Hermitage can see it, so why doesn’t anyone else believe him?

And even when there is a murder, it doesn’t help much.

Previous volumes have received comment.

“Very good indeed, brilliant” BBC

5* Everything has to stop for a Hermitage book! Hilariously funny.
5* Yet another hilarious adventure for Brother Hermitage and his companions.
5* All the tales of the adventures of Hermitage the monk are genuinely funny and contain an intriguing plot

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard of Warwick
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781913383497

Howard of Warwick

Howard of Warwick is but a humble chronicler with the blind luck to stumble upon the Hermitage manuscripts; tales of Brother Hermitage, a truly medieval detective, whose exploits largely illustrate what can be achieved by mistake.Now an international best-seller with nearly a quarter of a million sales and a host of Number 1s, it only goes to show.Howard's work has been heard, seen and read, most of it accompanied by laughter and some of it by money. His peers have even seen fit to recognise his unworthy efforts with a prize for making up stories.The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage begin with The Heretics of De'Ath, closely followed by The Garderobe of Death and The Tapestry of Death.Howard then paused to consider the Battle of Hastings as it might have happened - but almost certainly didn't - and produced The Domesday Book (No, Not That One). More reinterpretations hit the world with The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)Brother Hermitage still randomly drifted through a second set of mysteries with Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other: Hermitage, Wat and some Druids and Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns.Just when you think this can't possibly go on: The Case of the Clerical Cadaver turned up followed by The Case of the Curious Corpse and now The Case of The Cantankerous Carcass.Now there are thirty of the things in various cubby holes all over the world.All the titles are also available as major books, with paper and everything. Try your local bookstore or www.thefunnybookcompany.com

Book preview

Return to The Dingle

By

Howard of Warwick

(The Boundless Chronicles of Brother Hermitage)

The Funny Book Company

Published by The Funny Book Company

Crown House, 27 Old Gloucester Street

London WC1N 3AX

www.funnybookcompany.com

Copyright © 2022 Howard Matthews

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, or distributed by any means whatsoever without the express permission of the copyright owner. The author’s moral rights have been asserted.

Cover design by Double Dagger.

ebook ISBN 978-1-913383-49-7

Scriptorial appreciation is due to:

Mary

Susan Fanning

Karen Nevard-Downs

Lydia Reed

Claire Ward

Cover image: Creative Commons, The British Library

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

The Case of the Curious Corpse

The Case of the Cantankerous Carcass

Interminable Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

A Murder for Mistress Cwen

A Murder for Master Wat

A Murder for Brother Hermitage

The Umpteenth Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The Bayeux Embroidery

The Chester Chasuble

The Hermes Parchment

The Superfluous Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The 1066 from Normandy

The 1066 to Hastings

The 1066 via Derby

The Unnecessary Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The King’s Investigator

The King’s Investigator Part II

The Meandering Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

A Mayhem of Murderous Monks

A Murder of Convenience

Murder Most Murderous

The Perpetual Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The Investigator’s Apprentice

The Investigator’s Wedding

The Investigator’s Kingdom

Brother Hermitage Diversions

Brother Hermitage in Shorts (Free!)

Brother Hermitage’s Christmas Gift

Audio

Brother Hermitage’s Christmas Gift.

Hermitage and the Hostelry

Howard of Warwick’s Middle Ages crisis:

The Domesday Book (No, Not That One.)

The Domesday Book (Still 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

Return to The Dingle

Caput I: Out of Darkness (A Long Time Ago in a Bog Far Far away)

Caput II: Man With A Mission

Caput III: I Saw Three Ships (And Some More)

Caput IV: Resistance is Futile

Caput V: Visit Axeholme

Caput VI: Off We Go (Reluctantly)

Caput VII: Prepare For Conquest

Caput VIII:Journey Interruptus

Caput IX: The Ferry Limit

Caput X: Onward Viking Soldiers

Caput XI: Something Wicked In The Woods

Caput XII: Abandon Hope

Caput XIII: That Dingle Moment

Caput XIV: Old Face, New Face

Caput XV: It’s A Plot

Caput XVI: Track Back

Caput XVII: More Exploring

Caput XVIII: Vestigo, Vestigare

Caput XIX: Foraging In The Woods

Caput XX: One Way In

Caput XXI: Where Are The Monks?

Caput XXII: More In The Dark

Caput XXIII: Piling Up

Caput XXIV: Gather Ye Forces

Caput XXV: Refectory Tales

Caput XXVI: Let Battle Commence

Caput XXVII: Retreat From The Dingle

Murder Can Be Murder

Caput I: Preliminary Enquiries

Caput I: Out of Darkness (A Long Time Ago in a Bog Far Far away)

‘Scarymonger a fallin’ drop, my master.’ The ragged shape added a cackle to his statement. The cackle made more sense than the statement.

‘It be a moony step afore the bright be striding. You’ll be needy of a coverpatch.’ These words were spoken as if their truth should be obvious to anyone.

The expression of the one being addressed had travelled far in the last two or three moments. Surprise had been quickly replaced by revulsion tinged with fear, as the prospect of succumbing to some hideous disease from either the figure or its rags seemed very real. These were elbowed aside as annoyance stepped up and took charge. Annoyance never wandered far.

These last few days had gone very badly, and so anyone who appeared out of the gloom was not going to be received well. The days before that had gone very well, which made the last few days even worse somehow. Granted the days before the days before had also been pretty bad, but that memory had been softened by a period of success, even if it was a short one.

‘What?’ The hands went on the hips and the glare demanded some clarity.

The rags stooped and cackled some more and beckoned wildly with an arm that no one in their right mind would be beckoned anywhere by.

Considering that the two large men who stood on the riverbank before him looked quite capable of swatting him to death with any of the large weapons they wore at their waists, the figure and his rags were being remarkably persistent.

‘Coverpatch.’ The ragged one made a sort of nodding motion and started to skitter away. It looked back over its shoulder like some dog checking that its master was following.

Seeing that this master was not following, the rags skittered back.

‘I think he’s offering shelter.’ The second man ventured an opinion.

‘Then why doesn’t he say so? If it is a he. God knows what things wander this wretched place.’ The slightly larger of the two cast his eyes about the wretchedness, seemingly impressed by just how wretched one place could manage to be.

Clumps of sparse grass grew in lumps as if huddling themselves together for protection. In between the lumps, the ground meandered between being soft mud and even softer water. It was the sort of place that looked as if God was trying things out and hadn't quite made His mind up about what worked and what didn't. In this landscape, the successes and the failures were hard to distinguish.

‘Things like him,’ the first man suggested, and it was true that the clump of disgusting rags looked quite at home in this place.

‘Do you think there are more?’ his fellow asked with genuine concern. Turning back to the figure, he spoke very loudly and very plainly. ‘Do you mean shelter?’

‘Coverpatch, aye.’

‘God above.’

‘He’s the best offer we’ve had, Svend,’ the companion pointed out. ‘He’s the only offer we’ve had.’

The autumn day was drawing rapidly to its conclusion, making it clear that the land would be draped in darkness before much longer. If they didn’t sort themselves out soon, they would be scrambling around this place at night. And it looked bad enough in the daytime.

A shrug from Svend acknowledged that this was true. ‘There’s a lot of us,’ he said to the rags.

‘Aye, aye.’ This didn’t seem to be a problem.

‘Perhaps we should just stay on the boats tonight?’ The other offered. It was part serious suggestion and part better idea than going with this thing in the gloom.

‘We need the boats away, you know that, Olaf. Covered from prying eyes. And the last of them will only now be coming up the estuary. Easy to spot.’

Olaf considered the quantity of wretchedness that seemed to be available. ‘If anyone is prying around here, good luck to them.’

‘Do we even know for sure where we are?’ Svend asked.

‘Away from the Normans.’ Olaf clearly thought that was the only quality that mattered. ‘And the treacherous Saxons.’

‘But where, that’s the question? It’s all very well us hiding away here, but what if we find that it’s William the Norman’s favourite hunting ground.’

‘This place?’ Olaf held his arms out wide. ‘Even I wouldn’t eat anything that was hunted here.’

‘Where are we?’ Svend asked the rags but only got a cackle and a nod in return.

‘Somewhere up the Humber, that’s certain,’ Olaf said.

‘Aye, but we took that south branch.’

‘The Trent?’

‘Is it? So what does that make this place?’

Olaf shrugged. ‘We never tend to go inland too far, do we? Harrying the coast, that’s our thing. Kent, that flat bit on the east, Lincoln, and York, of course. Could this be Wales?’

‘It’s not Wales.’ Svend drawled his contempt. ‘Wales is miles away. Probably.’

‘It would explain why we can’t understand what he’s saying.’ Olaf sniffed at the man in his rags, which was not really sensible at this close range.

‘Where are we?’ Svend repeated his question slower and louder. ‘What is the name of this, this..,’ he searched for the right word. ‘Holme.’

‘Holme?’ the one with the year’s supply of rags seemed interested in this.

‘It means a piece of raised ground near water,’ Olaf explained.

‘Or, in your case, a mound in a bog,’ Svend clarified. ‘What do you call this place?’

'Acksey.' The one with no obvious pride in anything sounded quite proud about this.

‘Axey?’ Svend checked. ‘That could make sense. The old Celts called water Ax and an island is ey.’ He frowned as he considered the name. ‘Are you saying that this place is an island?’ he asked their host.

‘Ey, aye.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Do you think he doesn’t know what an island is?’ Olaf’s question was tinged with sarcasm.

‘He doesn’t know what clothes are, so nothing would surprise me.’ Svend turned back to the local. ‘You,’ he commanded. ‘Explain. And talk normally. Can you do that?’

‘Normally?’ The ragged one seemed quite disappointed about this.

‘So other people understand you, yes? Can you do that?’

Some of the rags shrugged. ‘I can if I have to.’

‘You have to,’ Svend confirmed. ‘This is an island? Surrounded by water?’

‘Well,’ the rags thought about this for a moment. ‘That’s what we mean when we say island, but you’re not from round here.’

‘There’s a river on this side,’ Svend pressed. ‘What’s to the west?’

‘River.’

‘North and south?’

'Rivers. That's why we call it an island, see. Surrounded by water.'

‘It’s a bit optimistic calling this an island,’ Olaf observed as he noticed that his boots were sinking into the ground. He shifted his weight.

‘That could be useful.’ Svend muttered to himself.

Olaf slowly nodded his agreement. ‘A few guards posted, and no one could take us by surprise.’

‘Exactly. I grow to like this place.’

‘Let’s not get carried away,’ Olaf cautioned.

‘Axeholme is a more suitable name though,’ Svend gave a hopeless laugh. 'Water with lumps.'

‘There’s got to be more to it than this. The old fool is offering us shelter, so there must be some somewhere.’

Svend paused for a moment and spoke with renewed worry. ‘An island can also be a trap.’

‘A trap?’ Olaf looked from Svend to the one with all the rags and obviously wondered when was the last time that anyone got trapped in this manner.

‘He could have been sent here to lead us into it. And with water all around, there would be no way to escape.’

‘Apart from on all our ships, perhaps?’ Olaf looked puzzled.

The ragged mastermind behind the trap seemed to have found a particularly fascinating lump of grass and was picking at it.

‘And anyway,’ Olaf went on. ‘This one is the trap? Just him? On his own? Trapping a force of Danish ships? I’d like to see him try. Traps usually have lots of armed men in them. We’ve done enough ourselves to know.’

Svend did not look convinced. ‘We had word that William was coming.’

‘I don’t think he’d come this way. Look at the place. And anyway, he’d be heading for York. We’re not there anymore.’

‘Even York’s not there anymore,’ Svend added wryly.

‘If the Normans want to burn their own towns down, that’s up to them.’

‘It was our town, first.’

‘That was years ago.’

‘We’re still entitled to it,’ Svend insisted.

‘Well, we’d have had it if the Normans hadn’t burned it down.’

‘Who does that? Who fights for their life defending a place and then, when it looks like they’re losing, burns it down?’

'Didn't do them much good, did it?' Olaf gave a nasty-looking grin. 'We caught them all and killed them anyway.'

Svend smiled at the happy recollection. ‘Which is going to annoy William no end.’

‘I still don’t know why we didn’t stick it out,’ Olaf complained. ‘We had the town, well, what was left of it. One mention of the name, William, and Edgar Aethling is running for his life. Ally? Pah!’

‘Well, we’re here now.’ Svend was not keen on resuming a discussion that had taken place many times over.

‘Axeholme.’ Olaf gave the place its new name, but it didn’t make it any more attractive. ‘Shelter,’ he called to their rescuer/trapper depending on your point of view. ‘Where do we go?’

‘Ah.’ The rag man’s interest in the grass was put aside. ‘Adelingesfluet,’ he said.

'I assume that's a place,' Olaf said. 'I'll tell Thorgills to bring the rest of the ships in and then follow.'

‘Assuming he can find his way.’

‘We’ll leave a clear trail.’ Olaf turned away and headed back to the riverbank.

The gloom of night was blanketing the river now, and the far bank had already faded into tomorrow. What had not disappeared was the very large number of Danish ships that paved the water such that it would be possible to walk halfway back to the Humber without getting your feet wet.

Olaf grimaced at the sight, having serious doubts that this Axeholme place could accommodate so large a number. He had no doubt at all that Adelingesfluet wouldn’t know what to do. The place would probably have two households and an ox between them. Hundreds of Danish and Norwegian sailors and soldiers would swamp the place that was already in a swamp.

He would have to tell Thorgills to bring all supplies from the boats with him. At best efforts, this process would likely take all night. Perhaps they would have been best staying on the boats until light, after all.

He also wondered how so large a fleet in so humble a setting was going to go unnoticed. If the man with the rags was anything to go by, the locals would probably think that things floating on water with men inside were miracles.

Thorgills was standing on the shore waiting for his instruction. He was as well-armed as the other two but considerably younger. Eagerness still lingered in his eyes, bolstered by the utter conviction of his own invulnerability. He even stood upon this dismal shore as if challenging the mud to dirty his boots.

‘We’re staying here,’ Olaf said.

Thorgills looked around him. ‘Where?’

‘The Isle of Axeholme.’

‘Isle?’

'So we're told.' Olaf had been going to say that they had been reliably informed but changed his mind.

‘Isle, eh?’ Thorgills immediately saw the advantage.

‘Precisely. Signal the boats here to make firm as best they can and watch for the others as they arrive. First light, we’ll get some men posted on lookout. We’ve no idea how big this place is, or what lies across the water, but it’s better than being cornered on the mainland.’

Thorgills shrugged his agreement. ‘Doesn’t look like people come here much.’

‘Judging from the local we just met, those who do, don’t have much sense. He says there’s shelter, but I doubt it. We’ll make camp ashore.’

Thorgills lifted his boot from the mud, which had claimed its victory. ‘If we can find the shore.’

‘I’ll get after Svend, we’ll leave a trail. Follow when you’re done.’

‘Aye.’ Thorgills gave a sharp nod and turned to the small boat that was drawn up on the mud.

Leaving Thorgills to his task, Olaf headed up the riverbank once more, in search of Svend and the accompanying rags. He easily found his way back to the spot he had left them and then saw where Svend had kicked the grass aside to make his way.

He followed quickly, thinking that he would be on the two men in a moment. Well, he assumed the thing in rags was a man, perhaps that was rash. He frowned to himself as he continued to follow the clear trail without coming upon the others.

After a few more moments, he stopped in what was now darkness; very still and very quiet darkness.

The stars were starting to emerge timidly, careful that the lingering shadow of the sun was truly gone. And there was no moon this night. And he had no torch. This was ridiculous.

Squatting on his haunches, he checked the grass, which was now a bit less lumpy than it had been closer to the river. It was clearly trampled, and recently. Individual blades were still moving from where they had been trodden down.

He stilled his breathing and listened hard. Nothing. Not even a night bird disturbed the air. There was no sound of men walking, even at a distance, which there should be.

Feeling more irritation than worry, he considered the options. One, he could keep going. He would surely come upon them eventually. But this was strange ground. He could end up following the trail backwards. Two, he could go back to the boats and find Svend in the morning. Three, this was a trap after all.

A hand went to the hilt of his sword. Had Svend been right? Had he been taken? Were the rags just a clever ruse? Just when the silence of the night was pressing itself closer to his ears, convincing him that it hid some threat, the call of a voice had his sword from his waist in a moment.

‘Welcome to Adelingesfluet,’ the rags called cheerfully. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Don’t ask,’ Svend’s voice now emerged from the dark somewhere off to the right.

‘Where are you?’ Olaf asked, still harbouring some concern, even though Svend’s tone was pure weary resignation.

‘We’re all in Adelingesfluet, apparently.’

‘I don’t see anything.’

‘That would be right.’

‘Is there anything here at all, or is Adelingesfluet just some grass that’s a bit thicker?’

‘I’m told I’m in a hut.’

‘Come, come,’ the rags enthused. ‘Join us.’

‘Only do it carefully,’ Svend cautioned. ‘Any sudden movements and Adelingesfluet will have one less hut.’

‘How many does it have now?’

‘One.’

‘Destroy the whole village, eh?’ Olaf asked, returning his sword to its place with some relief.

On the one hand, the fact that the one in rags had turned out to be as mad as he appeared was a disappointment. There was not going to be any shelter for any of them, let alone the whole fleet.

On the other hand, at least this meant that there was no threat. They must be as far off the beaten track as it was possible to beat. Which meant very little danger of any of them being discovered.

‘Any chance of a light?’ Olaf called.

‘I can try,’ Svend sighed. ‘But it’s your fault if it goes out. Then where will we be?’ He was clearly repeating an instruction.

‘We light another one,’ Olaf replied simply.

‘Did you notice all the trees as you came by?’

Olaf hadn’t. ‘Well, no.’

‘Precisely. The hut seems to be down to its last few twigs.’

‘I was going to get some today, but it’s a long way,’ rags complained. ‘And then you arrived.’

Olaf peered hard and thought he saw a dull red glow in the air a few feet off to his right. It could be a glowing ember, or it could be a firefly. He didn’t think anything as exciting as a firefly would come to Adelingesfluet.

‘One hut and one man?’ Olaf asked as he slowly made his way over.

‘All the others left,’ Svend reported when Olaf came to them.

'Now, why would they do that?' Olaf commented as he considered the centre of the place and its outskirts and wondered how they were still standing.

There was no doubt that the hut had once been a hut, and probably not a very good one. Since those days it had gone downhill. Patched with grass and leaning at an alarming angle, the place was just about big enough for one man and his rags.

The glowing ember was returned to its place with the other glowing embers, all of which appeared to be looking forward to the moment they could finally go out.

Svend sat in the doorway, or what would have been the doorway if there had been a door, and looked beaten.

Olaf sympathised. The great force of Denmark, Norway and England reduced to sitting outside a madman's hut in a marsh. The leader who had done great battle and inflicted defeat upon the Normans; who had faced hideous danger and stared death in the face, now faced the threat of a decrepit hut either burning down or falling on him; neither of which would do much damage.

‘At least no one is going to come upon us,’ Olaf tried to be encouraging. ‘I’ve told Thorgills to make camp ashore, I didn’t think there would be much in the way of shelter.’

‘We are safe, I suppose,’ Svend acknowledged. ‘But we should have no need of safety.’ He considered his surroundings. ‘There must be more to the world than this.’

‘More than this?’ The rags clearly wondered why anyone could want more than this.

‘A bigger town,’ Olaf explained. ‘A town of any sort. Two huts, perhaps?’

Rags shook his head at such outlandish thinking. ‘Well, there’s Crule, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing.’

‘Cruel?’ Olaf asked.

‘No, Crule. Big place, it is. Lots of fish.’

Olaf resisted the temptation to try and make any sense of this. ‘And where is this Crule?’

‘Oh, miles away to the south, they say.’

‘Who says?’ Olaf couldn’t help himself. ‘Never mind. How many miles away?’

Rags beckoned Olaf closer with a finger that had been inside the rags, probably doing things that didn’t bear thinking about. The creature paused before revealing the hideous truth. ‘Ten.’ He sat back, giving his audience time to take in this incredible fact.

‘Ten miles,’ Olaf said with little interest. ‘Far enough for no one to come poking by. A place we might visit with some force in the coming days.’

‘What about on the other side of the river?’ Svend asked.

The rags stiffened at these words.

'We saw lights as we came upstream,' Olaf explained. 'There must be places over the other side.'

The madness of the one in rags seemed to flow away and the head rose to face them, almost like one seeking a sensible conversation. ‘We don’t talk about the other side,’ he explained.

In those few words, Olaf saw a man who was lost suddenly seeing the road again, and with it, the recollection of why he left that road in the first place. He started to see beyond the madness and wondered what had clothed this man in his rags and put him in his falling hut.

‘Is there danger?’ Svend asked. ‘A force? A castle?’

Olaf gave Svend a questioning look. The other side of the river Trent would be north Lincoln, the south bank of the Humber. Their people were well versed in that part of the world and as far as he knew there was nothing of note there at all.

Svend started as the man of rags grasped his arm with a firm hand.

‘Don’t think it,’ the man said with all seriousness, his words