The Heretics of De'Ath (The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage Book 1)

by Howard of Warwick

'Interesting.’ The new figure spoke without removing the well-tailored cowl which obscured his features.

  'It was to be expected,' Nicodemus responded.

  'I suppose so. This Abbot?’

  'A lunatic fellow, nothing to worry about. He's been off throwing dirt over himself somewhere or other and Rome have put him here out of the way.’

  'Rome?’ There was concern under the cowl.

  'Happens all the time. They get someone to do a really nasty piece of work for them and the reward is a non-job where you can be left to die in peace.’

  'Charming. And this Hermitage? Odd name for a monk.’

  'Don't know him. Clearly several sorts of idiot without a clue what's going on.’

  'And Brother Simon,' the cowled figure sounded as surprised as the servant, 'are you sure about that?’

  'Oh, he will serve our purposes admirably.’

  'If you say so.’ The cowl did not sound sure.

  'You have heard about the legacy murder, have you?’

  'Not one that I know of. Him?’

  'Not directly, of course, but he was boring the teeth off Father Das, an old boy who insisted on giving all his possessions to the poor and tending the sick without being asked.’

  'Revolting.’

  'There was a fight involving a young man visiting Das to do with a legacy.’

  'Surprised he had one if he gave everything away.’ The cowl clearly found such an approach to life very hard to believe.

  'Well he did, although Simon assumed the same as you and told the young man.’

  'Who wasn't happy.’

  'Exactly. The young man gets terribly upset at this and starts brandishing a knife. Or he doesn't get excited at all and the knife is simply to peel an apple, depending whose story you believe. When Das turns up there's a big bust up, some sort of scuffle and the knife in the young man's hand ends up in the priest's stomach.’

  'Nasty.’

  'Turns out the young man is the priest's son as well.’

  'Oh, right,' said the cowl as if killing your own father was much more acceptable. 'How do you know all this?’

  'How else? Simon gave the key evidence at the trial, even volunteered to be an official witness at the execution.’

  'Handy he was there then.’

  'Except, of course, the son and the rest of the family deny all this; they say it was an accident caused when Simon tried to run away and pushed the old boy over on to the knife.’

  'So the reputation of Brother Simon is well earned.’

  'Absolutely. Which makes him just the man for us.’

  'But this Hermitage might know him as well.’

  'Him?’ Nicodemus released one short laugh from his very short supply. 'He couldn't follow the bent end of a Bishop's crook. I've met his sort before, all brains and no sense.’

  'The schedule mustn't be interrupted.’

  'It won't be.’ Nicodemus turned to warm his face at the fire. 'This is just a minor diversion. Might even prove useful. Occupy the minds of those who do have some sort of attention span.’ He turned again, but the curtain had twitched. The figure was gone.

  Caput VI

  Day Three Compline

  Hermitage’s wandering was not extensive. Within a few yards of the Bishop’s house he found a collection of wooden trusses, lying on the ground waiting to take up their tasks above. He spent a fascinating time working out which one joined to which and how the final shape would look.

  As he realised that this was a largely pointless activity – only after twenty minutes or so – he saw a figure approaching him in the dark. Clearly a drunk, it meandered around and he was just preparing to step out of its way, or shrink into the shadows, when he saw it was a monk.

  'Brother,' Hermitage acknowledged with a short bow. He was not inclined to start conversations with monks who swayed about in the dark.

  'Ah, some assistance,' the figure called, holding out an arm.

  Hermitage stepped up smartly at this, and saw that the fellow was grasping the top of his head with one hand. Even in the dim moonlight Hermitage could see a dark liquid, staining the fingers and running down the side of the face.

  'Brother,' Hermitage cried in alarm, 'have you been attacked?’ He took hold of the other man and supported his weight.

  'An accident, they said,' the injured man responded. 'They shall not hear the last of it though.’

  'Sit down, Brother, sit,' said Hermitage, guiding him to a corner of the path.

  As the man sat, Hermitage took advantage of the moment to examine the wound. He was not an apothecary, but had dealt with many injuries and illnesses, being the only brother who could read the medical texts.

  The top of the man's head had a distinct, single wound in it, from which the blood had nearly ceased to flow. It wasn't too deep and would probably recover with a simple bandage. Hermitage considered tearing off a piece of his own habit for the purpose. He then remembered the state of his habit and decided this was probably a bad idea. He knew dirt in a wound helped ground out evil humours, but there was dirt and then there was dirt.

  'What happened?’ Hermitage asked.

  'Idiots,' the monk replied.

  'Rather particular ones,' Hermitage said, glancing at the neat edges of the wound, which was right on the crown of the head.

  'I was in the site tavern,' the monk began.

  'Ah,' said Hermitage knowingly.

  'I was instructing some master carpenters on the selection of wood and care of tools,' the other insisted. 'I had just embarked on a critique of the modern apprenticing system, when one of the craftsmen carelessly got a chisel from his tool bag and dropped it on my head.’

  'Outrageous,' Hermitage said, 'what was he doing getting dangerous tools out in the tavern?’

  'Exactly my point. And one which his superiors shall hear of.’ The man lifted his hands and gazed at the congealing blood.

  'The gathered tradesmen expressed great concern and hurried me off to seek aid.’

  'None of them accompanied you?’

  'They had an urgent guild meeting to attend, apparently.’

  Hermitage frowned. 'The wound does not seem too serious, but we should get it dressed.’

  'If we cross the site, Brother, there is an aid tent. See,' the man pointed across the dark, ‘a candle still burns.’

  Hermitage looked. He saw a dim glow, softened by a canvas screen, from somewhere closer to the church itself.

  'Hembert the Physick will still be there,' the man explained. 'I have given him much guidance in the more learned aspects of his trade. He will sort this out.’

  Hermitage helped the Brother to his feet, and they stepped slowly across the site towards the tent.

  Stumbling through the darkness, they made quite a noise which caused a face to appear between the flaps of the tent. Obviously Hembert the Physick.

  Hembert, if it was he, squinted in recognition at the injured monk and a very few moments later was seen leaving the tent in the opposite direction. At high speed. Perhaps news of some emergency had been brought to him.

  Never mind, Hermitage thought. If there were supplies in the tent, he would bind the wound himself.

  'Ah, mistress Hembert,' the wounded monk croaked, as they pushed through the canvas, 'I have received a wound from a careless carpenter, who will be hearing more about it of course, and it needs attending.’

  Hermitage looked at Mistress Hembert, doubtless the physick's wife, who struck him immediately as a caring and friendly woman. She had an expression of lightness and sympathy and, although her hair was covered in a close bound scarf, he could see that she was young and beautiful. She looked up with concern as soon as the tent was opened, clearly prepared to offer any aid that was required. Anyone with an illness or injury would be pleased to be tended by this angel of mercy.

  For some reason her charming face dropped several degrees of sympathy when she saw who the injured party was.

  The damaged head was thrust at mistress Hembert and the
man pointed unnecessarily at a chisel-shaped hole in his skull.

  'Do you know,' the monk said to Hermitage, 'for several months Magda Hembert here was profoundly deaf.’

  'Really?’ Hermitage looked at the woman as if there would be some physical sign of this. Mistress Hembert glanced back at Hermitage with a guilty look. She shrugged.

  'Absolutely. Whenever I engaged with her, she could not hear a word I said.’

  'Remarkable,' Hermitage commented. Magda Hembert refused to catch his eye.

  'And then one day I found that she was able to answer her husband back. To this day, I do not understand why no one takes note of the miracle of Magda's ear as the first indication of the sanctity of the church site.’

  'I see,' said Hermitage, trying to sound as non-committal as possible.

  Magda grunted in disappointment at the trivial nature of the damage. Perhaps she preferred more challenging work. Amputations and the like. She slapped an old bandage on the wound, tied it firmly to the head with a length of cord around the chin, and told the monk he mustn't speak for a week, preferably a month. Then she rushed out of the tent on some muffled errand.

  'Well, Brother,' the patient tested the bandage, only now appraising Hermitage. He frowned deeply at the state of the man.

  Hermitage acknowledged the mess with a reluctant shrug.

  'It seems I owe you considerable thanks,' the monk said. 'I,' he paused as if for effect, 'am Brother Simon.’

  'Pleased to meet you, Brother,' Hermitage responded politely, 'I am Brother Hermitage.’

  'Really?’ Simon frowned. 'Odd name for a monk.’

  He rose, trying out what might be shaky legs.

  As he did so Hermitage considered him more clearly in the candlelight. The man appeared to be all points. His nose was needle-like, drawing attention like a screaming baby at a funeral. A baby with a massive nose. The rest of the features of his face crowded round this protuberance like an audience. The eyes, brown and muddy, looked as if they were constantly trying to catch a glimpse of the end of the nose, but the cheeks had given up the unequal struggle. By sinking into concave insignificance in the shadow of the mighty nasal mountain, they merely emphasised the point. The whole of the monk's head had been created to give prominence to his single defining feature. It wasn't the Roman nose sported by so many of the population. It had no crook, or bend in its profile. It simply sprang from the head and went straight on.

  Once able to drag his eyes away from this, Hermitage saw the rest of the man followed its model. He was as thin as a week-old corpse. Even beneath his well-cared for habit, Hermitage could tell that his legs wouldn't hold muster against some rather poor kindling. His age didn't help the overall impression: he must have been well over forty. If he had one foot in the grave, it was because he was just climbing out of one.

  Before any general conversation could be started, the tent flap was flung aside and the bulk of Nicodemus' servant filled the space. He looked from one monk to the other, and was confused.

  'Nicodemus wants you,' he said to Simon. He frowned at Hermitage, clearly unable to understand why he was seeing this monk again.

  'Excellent,' Simon said. 'I have a particular issue I wish to raise with him. This is most opportune. Brother Hermitage here can accompany me as a witness.’

  The servant shrugged in comprehensive disinterest. Hermitage and Simon followed him out of the tent.

  'I shall give him all the details of the carpenter's poor performance, and press for a fine or a reprimand for the man,' Simon said as they walked back towards the house. 'I have an excellent record of reporting to Nicodemus. He relies on me quite heavily, you know. I monitor everyone from peasant cleaners to members of the priesthood. Almost all of them have been remarkably careless of their duties in one way or another. It's a good job I'm here, even if it does mean I have to be on the receiving end of their incompetence.’

  This time the door was opened by the humble servant himself.

  'Ah,' he said, looking out at the arrivals. 'Fortuitous you should both be here.’ He stepped aside and gestured them in.

  This gave Hermitage some trepidation. His previous dealings with this fellow had been peremptory at best and the man had seemed only too anxious to see him on his way. To be invited back in by Nicodemus, with what appeared to be a smile, was an unnerving experience. What could have happened in such a short time that meant Hermitage was now wanted? Had the Bishop returned and countermanded his servant’s orders? Had more news arrived from De’Ath’s Dingle? And where did Nicodemus get a smile like that? Hermitage found it rather disturbing.

  Simon seemed to have no qualms about any of this at all and strode into the building as if he owned it. Hermitage crept back over the threshold, keeping a lookout for the alarming door-man, who might take exception to a return visit. Hermitage had made the connection from the man to the fellow’s fear of the gargoyles; he looked like one.

  …

  As Nicodemus led them to the inner room, which had a lingering whiff of Hermitage about it, he walked around the desk and sat. Simon took a seat on the other side without question and so Hermitage followed suit.

  'I'm glad you're in, Nicodemus,' Simon began, without any niceties, 'because I have a number of issues I would like to discuss concerning the performance of the labour.’ He was prepared for a long session.

  Nicodemus looked down at the desk and raised a hand to stop the flow.

  'I'm sure you do, Brother, but a matter of utmost import has come to the Bishop's attention, helped on its way by Brother Hermitage here.’ He nodded an inconsequential acknowledgement to Hermitage, who was just pleased that his name had been remembered.

  'And in the Bishop's mind your name sprang to the fore.’ Nicodemus laid special emphasis on 'the bishop’ and 'your name'’

  Simon's pose acquired a rather haughty pride.

  'Indeed?’ he said slowly, intrigued.

  'The word our Brother has bought is of an incident during one of the debates of Conclave,' Nicodemus poured into Simon's ear.

  'I am sorry to hear that. How may I be of assistance?’

  'You may be aware that the issue of sand in the shoes of our Lord was being resolved at a monastery some distance away?’

  'By Brother Ambrosius, I understand. I hope it went well. I did give such guidance as I could in the construction of his arguments.’

  A frown crossed Nicodemus's face. 'Really?’ he asked, finding that very hard to believe. He even shook his head slightly in some amusement. Hermitage didn't think this was funny.

  Nicodemus went on. 'It is sad to report that Brother Ambrosius has been taken from us. Before the conclusion of the debate I might add.’

  'I see.’ Simon's tone said he knew exactly what the situation was, had pierced to the central issue immediately, and was of a mind with Nicodemus.

  'And so naturally the Bishop is concerned.’

  'I imagine he would be,' Simon said, sagely.

  'He is concerned that the questions surrounding this matter have not yet been resolved and he would like someone of integrity to look into things.’ Nicodemus looked straight into Simon's eyes.

  'Ah, I think the debate can be concluded with some minor attention to the salient points,' Simon nodded, quite capable of dealing with this.

  Hermitage felt a pang of disappointment. It felt unjust that the debate should be taken away from him like this.

  'No, no, Brother, you misunderstand,' Nicodemus said, with some pleasure at the observation.

  'The Bishop wants the matter of Ambrosius’s death looked into. It is feared that there may have been foul play.’ He let the concept sink in.

  Hermitage frowned now. Foul play? No one had suggested any foul play. He assumed it was foul and not fowl. He cast his mind back and could not recall that the debate had been disturbed by any hens. In fact he’d only ever seen one hen walking about De’Ath’s Dingle. And that hadn’t lived long. Dragging his mind back to the matter in hand he reminded himself that there was
n’t anything sinister at all. Ambrosius simply died. As he kept telling Athan.

  All of Nicodemus' attention was on Simon, 'If there is a danger to the Bishop's flock, he wants it rooted out.’

  'Danger?’ Simon was a little put out. Nicodemus smiled.

  'And the Bishop thinks that I would be a suitable person?’ There was a real question in the voice. 'Perhaps one of the Sheriff's men might be better for such a task while I consider the theological issues?’ Simon wriggled in his chair.

  'A very apposite suggestion, Brother, but the Bishop sees this as a purely monastic matter and is looking for a resolution in the shortest possible time. It is a minor journey to De'Ath's Dingle and you can leave in the morning. Brother Hermitage here will accompany you.’

  Oh, will he? thought Hermitage. This was a very presumptuous humble servant.

  'Oh.’ Simon was put out by this. Nicodemus was enjoying every minute.

  'The Bishop's view is that there may have been some…’ Nicodemus paused for the most suitable word and tapped his lip with one conspiring finger. 'Some interference with Brother Ambrosius, bearing in mind the significance of the Conclave.’

  'Interference?’ Simon was panicking now. 'Monks being interfered with?’ It didn’t sound like he wanted this job at all.

  'Interference?’ Hermitage mouthed to himself. He was very puzzled indeed. It would be a bit of a co-incidence if there was another dead Ambrosius. Perhaps Nicodemus had got them muddled up, and the one at Peterborough had passed on as well. No, couldn't be. He wasn't engaged in the Conclave. There was certainly no other monastery called De'Ath's Dingle. There wasn't another one even remotely like De'Ath's Dingle, in any way whatsoever.

  'What significance?’ Simon blurted out, 'Surely Brother Ambrosius’s case was a rather esoteric point of interpretation? Who would, erm, interfere with him over that?’ Simon took a long, hard swallow.

  'The ways of sin are a mystery to many of us, Brother. If the devil is at work in the Bishop's demesne, he must be exposed.’

  'The Devil?’ Simon's voice broke into a squeak.

  Hermitage had to speak. 'I don't think it was anything like that, sir,' he said to Nicodemus.