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

by Howard of Warwick

  Hermitage was embarrassed by his raiment. It was better than any habit he'd ever seen before. Better than most clothes he'd ever seen before.

  'Oh, this old thing,' he said dismissively.

  Simon's eyebrows shot into his hairline and his whole demeanour underwent a miraculous change. He grinned widely, which Hermitage found rather disturbing.

  'Of course, we must wait for your friend,' Simon said, whining now with sycophancy, 'absolutely no trouble at all.’

  Hermitage thought Simon gave him a short bow. He skipped across to the building and returned with Wat in his wake.

  'Wat, this is the King's Investigator, Brother Simon,' Hermitage said brightly.

  Wat frowned and grimaced at the rising sun, holding his head in some pain. 'This is very early. Brother Simon? The King's Investigator, eh?’ He stumbled over the title.

  'It's fascinating, isn't it?’ said Hermitage. 'Brother Simon is to look into the death of Brother Ambrosius.’

  'Really,' said Wat, in rather over-done interest.

  'Yes. I can tell him all about it as we travel.’

  For the next two hours, which took the party well beyond the bounds of the town, down the hill and a good way along their journey, Hermitage explained the circumstances of the death of Brother Ambrosius. He described the background to the Conclave, the nature of the proposition Ambrosius had been supporting and, in a considerable amount of almost entirely unnecessary detail, the points where the argument had failed on both theological and linguistic grounds.

  Brother Simon seemed a bit distracted – rather odd given that he was the Investigator. He was probably taking it all in and would have some piercing questions later. The shadow of doubt waved at Hermitage again, but he never really knew what to do with doubt, so it soon wandered off.

  …

  At the monastery in De'Ath's Dingle, preparations fit for the passage of Brother Ambrosius into the hands of the Lord were made. He was put in the meat store.

  Some Brothers expressed genuine concern over this, for well-argued reasons.

  Firstly it did not seem sensible to mix the monastery victuals with the decaying dead. Some ill humour might leap from the one to the other, and there would be plague or ague?

  Secondly, it was not a fitting end for one of Ambrosius’ erudition and learning. He should be buried with all due ceremony and respect. Yes, the Lord would be waiting to take him – but He could hardly be expected to do so if the dear departed were accompanied by departed deer.

  Thirdly, it was pointed out that Brother Jeremy, the monastery's butcher, was a fellow of remarkable speed in his work but of equally remarkable poor sight. It was some time since he had lost a finger, but there was no guarantee he would differentiate a Brother from a boar. He might serve something wholly unsuitable, not to say sinful.

  Athan listened to the case carefully and then told the complaining Brothers to shut up and get out. A couple of the less cowed took it upon themselves to sneak into the store and lay a cover over the corpse, weighed down with large stones. By this means they felt that they could at least have some confidence in their dinner.

  …

  The undisturbed rest of Brother Ambrosius was short lived. Hardly had his corpse had time to settle before its cover was removed. A cowled head peered over the face, and at least had the decency to cough a bit at the smell. Moving down the old man's body, poking here and there for some hideously personal reason, the cowl tutted and hummed as it considered.

  By the time it reached the feet it seemed either satisfied or frustrated. The cover was thrown over once more. With further grumbling noises at the inconsiderate nature of the dead, the cowl made to leave the meat store.

  'Who the hell are you?’ Brother Jeremy demanded, detecting a shape move about in a room where there should be no movement. He had only come to get a haunch of something for tomorrow's lunch. The haunches didn't generally try to get away.

  'Just checking something,' the cowl answered.

  'It's a meat store. What is there to check?’

  'I needed to find something out.’

  'By sneaking around in a meat store? There's nothing to find out in here you don't know already.’

  Brother Jeremy was a large man. Whenever he served a meal, the chances were he'd made two and eaten one himself. Anyone who knew Jeremy reasonably well also grew large on his beneficence, the butcher considering the meat store to be his own personal larder. He was a generous man, but he didn't like people creeping about his larder, taking the food out of his mouth. He also carried a wide selection of knives, one of which he now drew from his belt.

  'Now, now,' the cowl said, 'no need for any trouble. I was just checking on Brother Ambrosius.’

  'Well, he's not in here.’

  'He is.’

  'No, he isn't.’

  'Yes, he is.’

  'Where is he then?’

  'Over there.’

  Jeremy squinted hard in the direction of the talking shape.

  'Here, let me show you.’ The cowled figure stepped forward and took Jeremy carefully by the knife hand. He led him over to the covered corpse and revealed it once more.

  Jeremy squinted again.

  'Bloody hell. Who put that there? Was it that Brother Snod? I tell you, one more of his so-called jokes and I'll cut the other one off.’

  'Nothing like that. It seems Brother Ambrosius has died.’

  'I should think so, looking like that. What did they bring him in here for? I can't serve that, it's not allowed. Well, not unless there's exceptional circumstances. The guild would have my badge.’

  At the word 'guild' the cowl looked up and took a step forward, holding out its hand for shaking.

  Jeremy peered hard and considered carefully before holding out his hand in response.

  The shake was considered and careful.

  'Ah,' Jeremy nodded.

  'Indeed,' the cowl responded.

  'So what do you want to know, Brother?’ Jeremy asked.

  'I think I've got all I need.’

  'You don't want much from this place, I tell you.’

  'Really?’

  'Oh God, yes. They're all nuts as squirrels as far as I can tell.’

  'But you're part of the community.’

  'Certainly not.’ Jeremy was clearly offended, 'I only come here to do the butchering.’

  'You are dressed as a monk.’

  'I know. They call me Brother Jeremy, make me wear this thing and know perfectly well I'm not a monk.’

  'Why would they do that?’

  '’Cos they're stupid. And mad.’

  'How strange.’

  'Yeah, and strange.’

  'Perhaps they're very devout and don't want to deal with any outsiders. I have heard of establishments like that.’

  'Devout?’ Jeremy found this extremely funny, 'This lot, devout? You make me laugh, you do. You should see what they get up to when the sun goes down.’

  'Should I?’

  'No, you shouldn't. It's horrible. It's every sort of horrible you can think of. And in a monastery. That's why I always serve cold dinner in the winter. I'm not staying here after dark.’

  'So you think if the church authorities knew what they were up to there might be trouble?’

  'I doubt it.’

  'But you said?’

  'Of course. But church authorities are even worse, aren't they? Everyone knows that.’

  The cowled head nodded in reluctant agreement.

  'What is it you want to know about Ambrosius, anyway? Good chap that. He knew how to eat.’

  'Just wanted to check he's dead.’

  'Well, he's not moving much, is he? How did he die?’

  'That was what I wanted to find out.’

  'And?’

  'Nothing obvious.’

  'Mind you, he was fifty or so. And he could eat.’

  'I suppose so.’

  'What they bring him in here for?’ Jeremy repeated, clearly flustered by the slab of monk
, ' It's not decent.’

  'I think they want to find out what happened. He was in the middle of a debate when he died.’

  'Oh yes, I'd heard about that. Better ask Hermitage then.’

  'Really?’ The cowl was very interested in this.

  'Yeah, he's the one who does debates. And reading and writing and stuff.’

  'Another suspicious character, eh?’

  'Mad as March that one. Nice enough bloke, but off with the clouds most of the time.’

  'And the Abbot and Prior.’

  Despite his disconnection from the religious community Jeremy crossed himself vigorously. He became very serious.

  'Never seen the Abbot. Heard about him though. Put the fear of God up God he could. Monks called to see him tend not to get seen again.’

  'I see. And the Prior.’

  'Shit.’

  'What?’ The cowl thought Jeremy had dropped his knife or something.

  'That's what he is, pure and simple. Don't touch it, smell it or take it home. It'll get all over you and you'll never get the smell out. Best to leave it where it is and walk away.’

  'Nasty piece.’

  'I've seen nastier, but I am a butcher. He's even after a monastery of his own I hear. God knows who he'd get to join that one. He'd have 'em all flogged to death within a week.’

  'So if there were to be some changes here?’

  'They'd only be for the better. You'd have to get rid of those two though. Probably permanently. I don't think they'd even die like normal people.’

  'Get them out of the way then.’

  'It would have to be something pretty damn impressive.’

  'You give me plenty to think about, Brother,' the cowled figure nodded appreciatively and shook the hand again. 'It is time I was about my business.’

  Brother Jeremy nodded in return and returned the shake. 'And, of course, if you have any butchering needs.’

  'You shall be the first,' the figure responded with the correct form of words and was gone.

  …

  The examination of events leading up to Ambrosius’s arrival in the meat store was continuous on the road from Lincoln and Hermitage was having a marvellous time with a captive audience. This audience was now as responsive as Ambrosius’s corpse, having stopped paying attention several miles ago.

  At the start there was the occasional 'ah, yes’ and 'I see’, which only encouraged Hermitage to expound whatever topic he was on at even more length. After a while these changed to 'yes, I know' and 'yes, you already said that'. As such comments didn't really take the argument in any direction, Hermitage ignored them.

  The responses came exclusively from Wat. Brother Simon, the King's Investigator, maintained a masterful silence. Hermitage reasoned that King's Investigators were very important people and listening to his ramblings was the sort of thing they probably had people for. Nicodemus must know how clever Simon was. Surely.

  There were occasions, early in their journey, when Simon made some observations on Hermitage's biblical interpretations. The young monk was puzzled as these were wildly inaccurate, if not actually blasphemous. He soon realised he was being tested. He responded with the accurate doctrine and Simon was satisfied. He simply harrumphed and said no more.

  'So, Brother,' Simon butted in at one point, as if he hadn't been listening to a word Hermitage was saying. 'This, erm, death then?’

  'Yes, Brother?’

  'A straightforward enough event, I imagine.’

  'I believe so. As I was saying some time ago, Ambrosius simply sat down and the next I knew he was dead.’

  'No erm, evil then?’

  'Not that I saw. I did wonder at Nicodemus's conclusions.’

  'Excellent. Excellent.’

  Wat was frowning heavily at him, but no one noticed.

  'Mind you,' Hermitage added.

  'Mind you what?’ Simon said rather quickly.

  'There are few who know the workings of evil.’

  'Apart from Father Elick,' Simon responded.

  'Oh yes,' Hermitage said, crossing himself, 'apart from Father Elick, of course.’

  Even in a place as severe as De'Ath's Dingle the name of Father Elick, the Pope's Inquisitor of Demons, was used to frighten the novices.

  'But you will be investigating the death so we'll find out,' Hermitage went on, anxious to change the subject.

  'I'll be what?’ Simon snapped.

  'Investigating.’

  'Oh, that. Yes. I will, won't I.’

  There was a long pause.

  'Investigating,' the Investigator said, as if trying out the word.

  'Isn't it fascinating?’ Hermitage said, fascinated.

  'Aha, yes, it is indeed.’ Simon thought deeply. 'I will consider what my first step shall be.’ He looked sideways at Hermitage.

  'Well, I hope you'll forgive my presumption, Brother, but I think the examination of the body itself will be most illuminating.’

  'The what?’ Simon looked horrified.

  Hermitage had obviously chosen the wrong step. He knew nothing of investigation and would have to leave it to the expert. He was Hermitage, though, and he couldn't leave anything alone.

  'Well,' he said, 'If any evil was done it would have left its mark somewhere on poor Ambrosius. In my fleeting sight of him I could see no indication of foul play.’

  'Foul play.’ Simon contemplated the expression. 'Such as?’

  Hermitage considered this a very pertinent question.

  'There were certainly no visible injuries, no wounds, no sign of a struggle of any sort. In fact the elderly man was simply resting in his seat. As we left he fell from the chair, but that was all.’

  'Fell from the chair, eh?’ Simon nodded knowingly.

  'But he was already dead,' Hermitage reassured him.

  'Interesting.’

  Hermitage found that this train of thought, about who did what to whom and when was rather satisfying. 'Brother, your experience far exceeds that of any and so I would consider it a great honour if I could observe you in your work?’

  'I shall consider it. Examine the body, eh?’

  'I am sorry, Brother,' Hermitage said, 'I know nothing of investigation or the techniques used, so you must forgive my presumption.’

  'No, no,' Simon said brightly, 'you carry on, Brother. It will be illuminating to hear your thoughts on the matter. Unencumbered as they are by my extensive experience. Perhaps the ideas of the innocent will unearth some feature which the expert would take for granted. I may be able to offer you some instruction and guidance as well.’

  Wat succumbed to a fit of coughing at this point and Brother Simon ignored him, quite hard.

  'It would be an honour.’ Hermitage was as happy as a Cardinal in a convent. 'As I say, I would examine the body. There are usually signs of an unnatural death, missing limbs, parts of heads damaged, that sort of thing. If there really is nothing like that, as I suspect, then we might conclude that the death was natural.’

  'You may proceed,' said Simon.

  'Next I would look at the place of the death and anyone who might have been there at the time.’

  'Yes, good.’

  'But that of course was mainly me. Apparently.’ This did give Hermitage some pause for thought. 'Although I maintain that Brothers James and Francis were there with me throughout.’

  'Aha,' Simon said with great interest.

  Wat coughed again.

  'And what would the place of the death tell you, Brother?’

  Hermitage thought this was marvellous. It was the most fun he'd had since he'd cared for Brother Mark in the infirmary. That poor man suffered an accident in the kitchen and had been laid up, unable to speak or move for weeks. Hermitage kept him company every single day and covered a wide variety of topics. Nobody had seen Brother Mark after he recovered the use of his legs.

  'Well,' Hermitage went on, 'if there was any evil, there might be some trace of it left.’

  'Such as?’ Simon really was giving Her
mitage the opportunity to test himself.

  'Perhaps a weapon, or even an indication that there had been something there. Footprints, disturbed furniture. All very routine to you I imagine.’

  'Absolutely.’

  Wat really seemed to be suffering from some sort of coughing disorder. It was all he could do to stay upright. His face was flushed and he had both hands over his face.

  'Are you all right, my son?’ Hermitage asked.

  'Oh, yes,' Wat said through gasps of breath. 'Er, this is where we turn off.’

  A further short walk in relative silence as Hermitage considered his return brought them to the very gates of De'Ath's Dingle. As usual, they were firmly shut. Off to the right, on a piece of clear ground, a number of tents had been erected which Hermitage stared at. They had not been there when he left.

  'Ah,' said Wat, 'builders.’

  'Really?’ Hermitage asked. 'How can you tell?’

  'Prime customers,' Wat whispered. 'There are encampments like this all over the country. Wherever there's work to be done and money to be made. Those doing the work live in virtual squalor in the mud. Those doing the money making are miles away, paying as little as they can get away with to keep their workforce alive. For as long as is necessary anyway.’

  The secular world was another country to Hermitage and he was always interested to hear how it worked. Another country, possibly on the moon. His 'most interested’ expression took camp on his face – the one that opened his eyes, moved his face forward and demanded further discussion.

  Wat took a step backwards. 'They're usually in the middle of nowhere. With nothing to do but work and nothing to entertain one another but one another, they sometimes treat themselves to a bit of, erm, decoration,' Wat explained. 'Mind you, this one should be above average, being next to a monastery and all.’

  'I don't know where it's come from or what it's doing.’ Hermitage said. 'I didn't believe you when you mentioned De'Ath's Dingle, but you were obviously right.’ Hermitage desperately wanted to know more about working men and their habits.

  'I shouldn't worry about it,' Wat said, 'It's clearly a very new camp. There's hardly any filth yet and not a single whore.’ He shrugged at Hermitage's offended look.

  Wat slung his pack from his shoulder and headed off for the tents.