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

by Howard of Warwick

  Brother James was hiding behind a column, probably thinking that he could stay in here for at least a day before anyone came looking for him.

  Brother Simon's look spoke pages. His mind must be wandering about as if it didn't know which way to turn. Even through his thick skin the knowledge that he had not made a good impression on the King could be seen. He glanced repeatedly from Hermitage to Nicodemus, trying to weigh up which way his fortune lay. Nicodemus was in no fit state to be receiving visitors and so Simon wandered over to Hermitage.

  'So, Brother Investigator,' he said.

  Hermitage was too absorbed in his own experience to comprehend that he was being spoken to.

  'This is particularly disappointing,' Simon said, mostly to himself, 'obviously that idiot Nicodemus has messed up the appointments procedure in some way. It probably was his right as the Bishop's man to appoint an Investigator. The King can't be expected to know all his own rules in detail.’ Although he said this, it didn't sound like he really believed it. 'There are probably many of us. There could be Bishops up and down the country appointing Investigators.’

  He paused for Hermitage to respond. Hermitage didn't.

  'I did think about pointing this out to His Majesty, but he seemed engaged. And what was all that about the Epicurean heresy?’ Simon was emboldened by Hermitage's daze. 'I've never heard of it, so it can't be true.’ He paused again, waiting for Hermitage's response. It didn't come.

  'Well, the King will be back in a week or so. We can sort out all the details then.’ Simon frowned at Hermitage, demanding a response of some sort. 'I don't know why the King wanted two investigators when I was already in post.’

  Hermitage stood and pondered his new-found role. Touched by the King. Wait until his father heard about this – perhaps he'd give him back his inheritance now. He would mark his new function by starting a journal in which he recorded all these events and those which would come as he investigated for the King. He looked up as if recognising Simon for the first time. Somehow all of Simon's words had sunk in though.

  'Oh, I don't think you are Investigator,' he said, calmly and with conviction. 'The King appointed me in your place.’ He smiled broadly, assuming Simon would be as happy at the news as he was.

  …

  Athan watched everyone go, apart from James, Hermitage and Simon who didn't matter, and then moved over to Nicodemus who was slumped on a chair.

  'What do we do now?’ Athan hissed.

  'God knows,' all Nicodemus's pride and bearing had been washed away. 'You weren't supposed to kill him,' he spat.

  'I didn't,' Athan said

  'Oh, come off it.’

  'He just died.’

  'All you had to do was make sure that the argument was either lost or was at least equivocal, I would have done the rest with the Conclave, but oh no. You had to go too far.’

  'All I was doing,' Athan whispered as quietly as he could, which was as loud as most people talk, 'was trying to put him off a bit. Get him to make a few mistakes so that you or that useless Genly could pick him off.’

  'At least Genly had the decency to die.’ It was clear Nicodemus thought that Athan should do the same.

  'There was nothing decent about Genly,' Athan said. 'And anyway, how was I to know the old fool would get so excited about his stupid argument that he'd have a fit?’

  'Well he did, and you made it happen, and when the King comes back he's not likely to be impressed by “I didn't mean to”.’

  Athan recognised a threat when he heard one.

  'Accomplices are no better.’

  'Oh, don't worry about me, I know I've had it. The only option I had was running away, but now the King's made sure I can't even do that. We're just plain heretics, you and I. Burning will be a bit of a let off. At least we can rest in the knowledge that the Abbot and Francis are likely to be on the receiving end of much worse. If they can't run fast enough, that is.’

  'There must be something,' Athan said, not at all keen on this forecast of events.

  'We could pray that he loses the battle with William.’

  'What?’ Athan was shocked

  'Well if the King's not the King any more, he can hardly come back to sort us all out, can he?’

  Athan thought for a long while. 'I'm sure it counts as treason, praying for the King's defeat.’

  'Oh dear,' said Nicodemus, mockingly. 'I wonder which being executed for will hurt most, treason or heresy.’ He lapsed into a thoughtful pause.

  A dark shape detached itself from the wall at the back of the chamber and stepped silently up to the two men. It stood behind, head covered in a cowl, until Nicodemus got the uncomfortable feeling he was being watched. He turned around, puzzled, and almost leapt out of his skin.

  'Bloody hell, what are you doing here?’

  Even Athan, who couldn't normally be startled by anything, took a hasty step back.

  'Things have gone awry,' the cowl muttered quietly.

  'You're damn right they have.’

  'Who the hell is this?’ Athan looked around to make sure no one else had noticed this new arrival. 'And how long have you been here?’

  'We are everywhere, always.’

  'Oh, very mysterious, I'm sure. Well you're here now, and I can put a boot down your throat if you don't start explaining yourself.’

  The cowl looked to Nicodemus for support.

  'He will, you know.’ Nicodemus simply nodded.

  'I am a humble servant.’

  'God, not another one. My experience of humble servants is that they're nothing but trouble.’

  'I am merely assisting in the progress of events.’

  'Yes, well, we all thought we were doing that and look where it got us. What was your part in this shambles?’

  'I am an organiser,' the cowl said slowly.

  'Look, organiser,' Athan reached out and pulled the cowl down quickly so that it formed a neat ligature around the figure's throat, 'I am naturally a man of enormously bad temperament, so you can imagine what today is doing for me. Talk.’ He released the makeshift noose just enough to allow speech.

  'I'm a Mason. A Masonic agent,' the figure choked and squawked.

  'Don't believe you.’

  'He is,' Nicodemus chipped in. 'He's organising the trades for the building work.’

  The figure had given up mystery and was nodding pleadingly.

  'So you wanted this debate to fail as well.’

  'Oh yes, I'm with you. There's a lot of money at stake. A lot of our members have turned down other work to get these contracts. Father Genly was our man on the inside; he was supposed to make sure things proceeded to plan, but he, er, came to an end.’

  'He did, didn't he?’ Athan said with heavy sarcasm. 'And what do you mean he was your man on the inside? What the bloody hell have I been doing all this time? Why didn't I know about this?’ He turned to Nicodemus with no good intent in his heart.

  'We had to make sure. Doubly sure. We all knew Genly's reputation. He was likely to come a cropper at any moment. Some jealous lover or other would eventually slice him up. The less you knew the better. Kept you safe that way.’

  'Thank you very much. That will be an enormous comfort when they light the kindling. So you've been skulking about the place all along?’ Athan turned to the Mason.

  'Well, I've sized the job up, got Chirk from the local Lodge. I've spent about a week on that bloody Lincoln road, riding backward and forward. I've hardly slept. I've engaged with Master Nicodemus here, and even the Earl...’ He stopped quickly, but not quickly enough.

  'What do you mean, the Earl?’ Nicodemus asked. He gestured to Athan, who strangled the man once more.

  'It's the Earl’s men who are going to do the bulk of the work,' the Mason gurgled.

  'His own men?’

  'He's got a load of builders under tithe to him. He makes them work for nothing.’

  'And so all the money he was investing was going straight back into his own pocket?’

 
; 'I couldn't possibly comment.’

  'And all the other investors I'd lined up, they'd be paying the Earl as well.’

  'Not entirely. As I say there are a number of key artisans who would be paid, but the labour was the Earl's.’

  'God, I thought I was corrupt.’ Nicodemus shook his head.

  'So what happens now?’ Athan was at a loss.

  'If I might speak?’ the Mason gestured at his throat. Athan released him.

  'We all stand to lose out if this development is halted.’

  'Some more than others.’ Nicodemus gave a very realistic impression of a hanged man.

  'The Earl has now departed and will take his men with him. The King has gone to battle.’

  'Yes.’

  'But the investors are still available, and the tradesmen will want their work.’

  'Of course,' Nicodemus said with a new realisation. 'A large number of senior tradesmen who don't get the contracts they're expecting probably make a betrayed King look like a baby rabbit. They wouldn't be at all happy with the organiser, I imagine.’

  'That's one possibility.’ The organiser swallowed.

  'Are you suggesting we just carry on? I suspect that the King might pile on a few extra punishments when he finds out we've ignored him completely.’

  'Dangerous places, battles,' the Mason suggested, not very innocently.

  'What do you mean?’

  'The king might win, the King might lose. In either event it's quite possible he could suffer some fatal injury.’

  'Possible, but not very likely. Kings don't tend to muck in with the arrow fodder. They stand at the back and give orders.’

  'Yes, but the Masons are a very well represented organisation.’

  'Get to the point before I get one for you.’ Athan glowered.

  'We have a number of experts on our roster who can be called upon to help their fellows out of difficult situations.’

  'Such as?’

  'Such as perhaps shooting an arrow rather haphazardly during a battle.’

  'Are you saying what I think you're saying?’

  'We do have one member who takes care of the most remarkable things for the right sum.’

  'Really?’

  'Yes, he's a phenomenal archer. Reckons he could take someone's eye out at two hundred paces. Being a Mason he's very discrete.’

  THE END

  Post Scriptum: For further information on how things went for King Harold in Hastings, please refer to the Bayeux Tapestry or any reputable history of the period. (Hint: things could have gone better…)

  Tales of Brother Hermitage and Wat the Weaver continue in

  The Garderobe of Death,

  Available now on Kindle.

  Caput I of this work is presented below for your consideration.

  Reader reviews for The Garderobe of Death:

  ‘Another hilarious, funny and brilliant book.’

  ‘I enjoyed it immensely and LAUGHED out loud. It reminded me of Pratchett’

  ‘A hilarious murder mystery, funnier than its predecessor.’

  ‘If Monty Python were around to write a clever yet humorous book, this would be it’

  THE GARDEROBE OF DEATH

  Caput I

  Midnight: Death takes Norman

  These were very dark ages. Thus reflected Henri de Turold as he stumbled through one of the very darkest bits and stubbed his toes on a beam of worm-ridden English oak. Cursing the ghastly country and its truly awful people to an eternity of pain, he hobbled on down the corridor.

  ‘But we’re emerging from the darkness, sire; these are modern times,’ learned men gabbled on all the time. To Henri’s way of thinking, emergence from the dark would be a lot quicker if he set fire to England and all the learned men in it.

  It had to be said that Henri’s way of thinking was slow and laborious at the best of times. If anyone wanted Goose feathers putting on their arrows, they would turn to Henri de Turold. If they wanted a decent conversation, they'd turn to the Goose.

  Yet the Norman made up for this absence of brain with a huge portion of good looks. Towering five foot nine if he was an inch, he had a chest like a barrel – the inside of one – and a stomach that couldn't muster the strength to reach his belt, let along hang over it. When he stood up straight his knees were so far apart that he didn’t so much mount a horse as overwhelm it.

  His face was normally an example of Norman power and grandeur, having been hit very hard, many times, by horses’ hoofs. This had re-arranged his features into that pattern most favoured by the ladies of the Norman court. At this particular moment, however, his visage was contorted into a grimace of disdain that made him look almost English.

  This strange moment of the night saw him stumbling through the very strange castle of his fellow Norman, and intellectual equal, Lord Robert Grosmal. Henri appreciated that Grosmal deserved the estate as reward for slaughtering the women and children of Hastings, but why had he filled it with darkness? England’s darkness might not be actually darker than anywhere else, but he always felt it was ignoring him at best, if not actively conspiring against him. Not like Norman darkness, which was friendly and welcoming and allowed you to get up to all sorts of things without being spotted.

  To rid himself of this cursed gloom, Henri held a candle in front of him – one that seemed in league with the murk and strangely reluctant to help. It was admittedly a long, fat thing with a flame on top, but those were all the candle-like qualities it was prepared to accommodate.

  The candle maker of Robert Grosmal had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one. The thing guttered and spluttered and dropped about enough light to illuminate its own shaft, which, being made of something truly unspeakable, was best not illuminated at all. No one knew quite what it was the man did to a candle, but they all knew it was horrible. They were the only variety that could make a moth leave a room.

  ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ Henri mumbled for about the third time. Drips of almost sentient wax did their best to cling on to the life of the candle before dropping towards the floor, swerving strangely as they went and landing with a soft, hot splash on his naked toes.

  Walking naked through the halls of this disgusting house in January was clearly mad – but so was walking anywhere naked in January. Normally de Turold took off no clothes at all between October and May, and even then was considered outlandishly hardy. His only splash of common sense was the floppy yellow cloth hat on his head. Perhaps this would postpone the moment he froze to death.

  For earlier that evening his desires, long dormant or satisfied by killing things, had taken control of his body, and he was only obeying orders.

  Over dinner the Lady Foella, a Saxon beauty of such distinction she almost looked French, had hinted that if he were to walk naked from his chamber to hers there might be a warm welcome for him...

  Henri’s reverie was broken and dragged to the present by an odour, slinking out of the opening to Robert's new fangled garderobe. The Norman paused for a moment to consider his bowels, or rather they grabbed his attention by rattling like six squirrels in a sack of walnuts. Mindful of all the trouble he had been having down there lately, he decided to visit the facilities before descending, literally he hoped, on Lady Foella.

  A testing clench of his muscles released a scent that would have made a pig of little discernment vomit, never mind a lady of refinement. The odour of ordure did brief battle with the scents drifting from the garderobe, but soon gave up an unequal battle and retired from the field. If Henri had been visiting a serving girl she could have been told to clean up afterwards, but Foella had class.

  Nipping quickly into the room, he followed one of the garderobe night lights as its disgusting smoke seeped into the air. There were two planted on the stone paving by sides of two holes, badly knocked into the chamber floor. He could have sworn his candle flickered at the others, probably just the wind.

  Above the holes, propped off the ground by lumps of wood, were two slabs of s
tone with matching holes, optimistically described as seats by Lord Robert. The candles burned in the room as a courtesy to light the way for visitors, or at least to stop them doing it on the floor by mistake.

  Setting himself down on the nearest ice-trimmed hole, he prepared to let drop. He didn’t need to prepare long as his lower intestine wanted rid of its contents faster than Henri wanted to get at Lady Foella’s.

  Henri put his own candle at a safe distance. Then he bent to move the other so the fumes would find some direction of travel other than up his nose. This candle had got firmly stuck to the floor by its own excreted wax, and so he gave it a tug. He frowned for a moment as below the noise of his own evacuation he could have sworn he heard something. One second later he was dead.