'Perhaps, Brother, it would be better if I delayed departure until dawn.’
Athan opened a small gate set into the larger defensive door, which itself stretched above their heads and vanished into the darkness of the keep.
'Oh, look,' he said, 'that's handy.’ He gestured towards the Eastern horizon, just lightening with the first rays of the new day. 'I hope you packed enough food,' he added as he thrust a parchment into Hermitage's hand, bundled the monk out of the door and closed it firmly behind him. From inside what suddenly seemed a warm and comfortable home, Hermitage heard Athan's familiar tones.
'Oy, Barnard, come here. I've got a job for you.’
Hermitage turned to face the road. ‘Food?’ he thought, as he realised that no, he definitely did not know the way to Lincoln.
Caput III
Day Two Prime
'So,' Brother Hermitage thought, on the dawn of a not-very-brave new day, 'I shall address this problem as I would any other, by considering the information available.’ He then started talking out loud to himself. Hearing a voice helped a bit, even if it was only his own.
'It is thirty miles to Lincoln and I have heard it said that a brisk man can walk at three miles in one hour. Therefore thirty miles should in fact take me no longer than ten hours. I shall be there before nightfall.’ He did genuinely feel better as a result of this and strode purposefully along the dirt track leading from the monastery gates.
The ambience of the Dingle of William De'Ath threw itself on his senses, driving all thoughts of difficulty from mind. Dawn lit up a million sparkling drops of glass-like dew, festooned upon an army of delphiniums, which marched the eye into the heart of a ravishing wood. A speckled carpet of gold and brown leaves furnished a room of unbelievable grandeur, with magnificent firs and oaks for walls and a canopy of spectacular colour for a roof.
A light autumnal mist softened the view and deadened the air. Gentle sounds of the waking birds had almost a physical presence, dancing among the woods. The path was the only real thing in the world: the rest was too fantastic for truth. With a heart light at the sights and sounds before him, while at the same time heavy that he would disturb, and then lose this vision, the monk stood in rapture before the glory of God's nature.
The beauty was almost unbearable when a pair of pigeons swooped down from one of the trees, settled in the middle of the path and began gently cooing to one another, searching amiably for the first of the day's food.
It seemed unnatural when the figure of a man appeared out of the mists along the track and disturbed the birds, making them rise and fly along a couple of feet above the ground. It was blatantly and definitively horrible when another man appeared from behind a tree in the pigeons’ path and smashed one of them back the ground with a large stick. He stood chuckling at the fluttering and now deformed bird, before picking it up by the legs and waving it at head height.
'You'd think the bloody things would learn to fly up, wouldn't you?’ he exclaimed towards Hermitage, before he and his friend padded back into the mist to start plucking the first of their day’s food, scattering the dew and trampling the flowers as they went. A lone pigeon landed and searched for something its small brain told it had been there a moment ago, but which seemed to be missing now.
Hermitage felt much the same.
With a heavy sigh at the contradictions of the world, he set off on his journey, leaving behind the fragile beauty of the Dingle, the unbreakable presence of the monastery and the intransigent nuisance of mankind.
His distraction was such that he failed to notice two figures emerge from the monastery gate behind him and step softly in his path. They were not monks, and one of them was rubbing his ear as if someone had just hit him.
Twenty nine and a half miles short of his goal, Hermitage hit a problem. A crossroads.
He was proud of his train of thought. 'The sun is in front of me and rising, therefore that is east. I know De'Ath's Dingle to be north of Lincoln, and so the correct road is to the right.’
The figures who were following paused in puzzlement. The tall, rotund one turned to the slight, weasel-like one and shrugged. They made themselves comfortable in a dry culvert just to the side of the road and waited.
Only a few minutes later Hermitage's road bent so sharply that, as the sun vanished behind a rising fog, he realised he was heading west. He wondered about following the trail. He also wondered about turning round and going back to the crossroads. He wondered whether the other roads had bends in them. Finally he wondered about dying in the middle of nowhere and being pecked to pieces by crows. After this particular wonder he had a bit of a sit down. Eventually he leaped up and cursed himself for being a fool.
'Curse you, Hermitage, for being a fool,' he said to a hopeful-looking crow. 'Why follow the road? You are not a cart; you can walk where your legs will take you, head south and all will be well.’ A brief thought about the lamb that strayed from the path crossed his mind, but he felt sure that wasn't meant to apply to such a literal situation as this.
It took Brother Hermitage several hours to discover he knew less about finding his way across open country than he did about finding it along well-marked roads. The mist was now thick, he had no clue where he was, but he was definitely cold, wet and not a little angry at his situation. He reasoned that his best option was to simply sit still, wait for the sun to re-appear so he could get his bearings and set off once again.
He chose the bank of a small stream as a resting place. The water course emerged from the mist to his right and wandered off again to his left with a much better idea where it was going than Hermitage. The ground was damp and boggy, but at least it was landmark of some sort.
…
As night fell, Hermitage wondered about being pecked to pieces by owls.
…
The following dawn found him looking with sinful thought at the descent from the trees of a solitary pigeon.
He stood up in the cold morning air and stretched the weary damp out of his bones. Standing on tiptoe, he scanned to the east for any sign of civilisation which might indicate a useful direction to take. He was shocked to find none whatsoever.
A much greater shock awaited his westerly scanning. He had only turned a quarter of the way round when the bulk of the monastery imposed on his view, and forced him to crane his neck upwards to see the tops of the walls.
Hermitage didn't say anything; he wasn't the type to say anything. Most other types would have had several things to say, all of them very rude. Any other type would probably have danced up and down on the spot trying to kick anything that came within range while tearing out lumps of their own hair and shouting obscenities.
His circumnavigation of the monastery of De'Ath's Dingle had taken a whole day and a night, and had brought him to a point just under his own cell window. He recognised a stream as the water course which flowed into the monastery from the west as a relatively clean supply from the nearby spring. It came out of the east as a sewer. It was in the latter that he had spent the night.
Hermitage picked himself up and started to brush himself off, before realising he was getting the stuff on his hands. He set off back to the track. Dawn at the gates on this day seemed to have lost a lot of its magic, so he simply strode purposefully down the track, through the woods and kept straight on at the crossroads.
His invisible companions had become so comfortable in their culvert that they didn't even wake at his passing.
His newly found faith in the path laid before him was rewarded as the day grew older and one or two figures appeared, using the route just like normal people. Also like normal people, they crossed the road to walk on the other side from the smelly lunatic, who had obviously been given a monk's habit as some act of equally lunatic charity. Hermitage was firmly back in his normal frame of mind when he realised that he had let at least ten people go by without asking one of them whether he was on the right road or not.
A few 'excuse me's' later, which prompted tho
se approached to hastily back track, avoid the path or just plain run away, Hermitage managed to get in the way of a very well dressed man who was absorbed in thought.
'What?’ The man simply jumped with surprise as he realised that he had nearly walked into someone. He looked closely and seemed to recognise a monk. He then sniffed the air and serious doubt crossed his face.
'What do you want?’ he demanded, a very nervous look settled on his face.
'Tell me, my son, is this the right path to Lincoln?’ Hermitage asked.
The man relaxed a bit. He still wrinkled his nose at the smelly habit, but Hermitage's manner settled him.
'No. Er, I mean yes.’ The man seemed rather careful and cautious, and looked at Hermitage as if the monk was about to do something surprising and unpleasant.
'Well, which?’ said Hermitage, feeling both irritated and ashamed at his irritation.
'I mean it is the road to Lincoln, but not the way you're going.’
Hermitage's heart fell. Not back past the monastery again.
'Is it the way you're going then?’ he asked.
'Yes. Er, no.’ The man was clearly not terribly decisive.
'If you could direct me, my son, I would be most grateful and no longer detain you from your journey.’
The man lightened considerably at this.
'Right,' he said, 'back the way you came for about half a mile. There's a single track goes off to the right through the wood for a few yards and then you're on Ermine Street. Turn right, straight on and that's it. Lincoln.’
'Thank you, my son.’
As he strode off, he glanced backwards to see that the man had found something fascinating in a nearby ditch. He was giving it all his attention and looked as if he might be there for some time.
The sun now rose firmly into the sky with no sign of the mist of yesterday. It warmed Brother Hermitage's face so that he paused for a moment, closed his eyes and let the heat soak into him, dispatching at least some of the memories that remained from the night before. His task was clear and he would set about it with a will. He would also set about it with a pace as his habit had started to steam slightly and he wanted to let the smell waft behind him.
Back at the interesting ditch the man was approached by two more strangers.
'Did you see a monk go by?’ a fat man with a swollen ear demanded.
'Yes,' the man responded warily, 'he's headed for Lincoln.’
'About bloody time,' a stick-like companion said, and they sped off.
The man frowned and rubbed his chin before wandering along after all of them.
…
The directions given to Hermitage seemed accurate enough, and he found the single track through the woods without any problem. Emerging from the far side, he came upon the great artery that was Ermine Street. Or rather the Ermine Street that had once been a great artery. When the Romans left they took knowledge of road building with them. They also took all the maintenance instructions.
Striding along amongst the potholes, Hermitage was given a wide berth by every other traveller. He pretty much had the road to himself. Passing through a wooded area, where the trees met overhead to create a tunnel of foliage, he heard running feet behind him and turned just in time to be bowled over and off the road by two figures, one large, one small, who were obviously in a great hurry. Hermitage thought it odd that their hurry evaporated as he fell into a shaded area of woodland. They were probably going to help him up.
'All right, monk,' said the burlier of the two as he grabbed Hermitage by the habit and pulled him to his feet. He held on to the material tightly for just one or two moments as he pushed the monk against a tree. 'Oh my God, what have you got all over you?’ He almost screamed as he stepped back smartly and looked in horror at his besmirched palms. They were very besmirched.
'Oh, I am sorry,' Hermitage began to explain, but the less burly man stepped up smartly, stood right in front of him and waved what could only be called a club in the monk’s face. The man grinned and smacked the weapon into his hand a couple of times for emphasis. Hermitage felt himself go pale and he started to shake. He knew that he was not a brave man. Not in the common sense of the word. He was not prepared to throw himself into a fight or to challenge anyone who looked like they were prepared, if not positively willing, to do so. In Hermitage’s book, that wasn’t common sense at all. Give him a dubious proposition or some shoddy interpretation and he'd stand before a howling gale to defeat it. He couldn't do men with sticks.
He cowered and closed his eyes to wait for the blow. Somewhere inside him he knew the moment it would land. He subconsciously calculated the time to raise the club and lower it with speed and he tensed. When that instant passed, he opened one eye.
The man was having trouble holding his club aloft. It had become too heavy for him and it was clear he was about to topple over backwards with the weight of thing. Hermitage wondered at his remarkably poor club selection skills if he couldn't even hold the thing up. When the fellow did indeed fall over backwards, Hermitage saw there was another man behind. This was the one who had given him the directions and who had been fascinated by the ditch. At the highest point of the ruffian's swing this new arrival had simply taken hold of the club and pulled gently backwards. This was not a direction the attacker could sustain, and so down he went.
At this defeat the original miscreant stepped up. He had cleaned his hands on some leaves and approached the stranger as if he was not going to stop. He pushed his now relatively unsullied palm into the man's chest.
'Push off,' he said, 'and mind your own business.’
Hermitage's rescuer looked in considerable horror at the hand which had pressed into the middle of a very nice jerkin. He reached up, grabbed the fingers of his attacker and bent them backwards with such vigour that the burly man had to fall to his knees.
'If I break these,' the stranger said amicably, indicating the fingers, 'you do appreciate that the pain of getting them fixed will turn the pain of having them broken into one of your fondest memories?’
The man simply nodded, clearly in considerable pain already.
The man with the club had now recovered, got to his feet and was advancing to rescue his comrade. He whacked his club in his hand, obviously a favourite precursor, and stood, legs braced.
The stranger raised his eyebrows in some disdain, flicked his left leg out and smacked the man firmly between his braced legs with some highly polished and expensive boots. Club man was instantly in so much pain he couldn't even howl. The look on his face was all that was required to express his feelings fully – to anyone who cared to know. Hermitage's face metamorphosed into the 'ooohhh' look adopted by all men when they observe one of their ilk on the receiving end of such an injury. This one clutched both hands to his groin and slowly toppled sideways back to the ground.
Finger man was now released. He took several steps backwards, nursing his digits under his armpit.
The stranger turned to Hermitage. 'Are you all right?’
'I am indeed, sir, thanks entirely to you. Oh,' Hermitage called out as the one with the fingers had decided to have another go and was rushing up to the back of the stranger.
'Oh, really,' the stranger said, in irritation at bad form. Just at the last moment he reached out, pushed Hermitage to the left, stepped to the right and turned to assist his attacker in his headlong rush straight into the tree.
'Persistent, aren't they?’ the stranger observed.
Hermitage didn't know what to say.
With one attacker dazed and bleeding at the bottom of a tree and the other balled up on the floor calling for his mother, the stranger shrugged.
'Better have their trousers then.’
'Er…' Hermitage didn't know whether he'd fallen in with a rescuer, a robber, a madman or one of Brother Findos's friends.
'We'll leave them naked. Much less likely to follow us if they don't have any clothes on,' the stranger explained. ‘Tends to deter people from taking to the main
highways.’
Hermitage felt guilty but relieved as they stepped from the woods back onto the main road, leaving the naked and groaning men behind them.
Once on the path, with other travellers passing by, Hermitage felt safe again. He stood and faced his new companion.
'Sir, I cannot thank you enough for your actions today. You have saved me from great harm, if not death indeed. I am Brother Hermitage.’ He held out his hand.
'Odd name for a monk,' the man muttered. 'Wat,' he announced.
'Brother Hermitage,' Hermitage repeated, still holding out the hand.
'No, I'm Wat,' the man said, looking with some disdain at the hand. 'Wat the Weaver.’
'Oh, I see,' said Hermitage looking at his hand to see why the man wouldn't shake it. He saw straight away and put the hand sharply behind his back. ‘Wat the Weaver, eh?’
Wat shrugged, 'It keeps me remembered.’
'I suppose it would.’
Now that Hermitage examined the man he could see that he was a weaver. Under a shock of unruly dark hair sat an open and friendly face, albeit one somehow worn by the cares of the world. There was a worried look behind the eyes. Trade was always hard and Hermitage imagined the slight furtive look in Wat’s eyes was an indicator that the man was constantly on the lookout for his next opportunity. Simply putting food on the table was a constant challenge, and competition among weavers must be fierce.
Wat's clothes were very good, though. A striking red top was wrapped around by a thick cloak of the finest quality. His jerkin was decorated with the fruits of his art as tiny images of deer and trees paraded around his waist. His legs were clad in a material of such quality that it probably even kept the cold out. Finally his boots, which had done so much damage, were solid, well-fitting and looked new. Remarkable. He put Hermitage to shame.
Wat put his hands on his well-clothed hips and examined Hermitage with an increasing frown. 'Why were you attacked?’
The Heretics of De'Ath (The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage Book 1) Page 3
