He helped the young man up by the elbow, if using the grip of a blacksmith to drag someone along can be called helping.
As the pair walked out of the room, exchanging the glow of the large fire for the cold of advancing evening, Hermitage offered a short prayer for the departed. It seemed the prayers of those under suspicion are incapable of ascending to the ears of the Lord. This one must have rebounded from the refectory roof and landed on Brother Ambrosius, as the corpse chose this moment to slide gracelessly to the floor, cracking its head on the flagstone.
Hermitage jumped and spun hopefully, expecting to see Ambrosius fully recovered and dribbling his familiar smile. He winced when he saw what had happened. Even Athan drew in his breath as if sharing the pain. Hermitage muttered a short blessing. Athan added his own contribution.
‘Well, if he wasn’t dead before, he is now.’
Hermitage grimaced.
‘To the Abbot,’ Athan said, with what passed for glee.
Hermitage cast a final glance at Ambrosius, being quite clear that he would
prefer a night in the company of a corpse than half an hour with his Abbot.
Caput II
Day One After Matins
Trudging through the winding ways of the monastery at De'Ath's Dingle, Hermitage's grim forebodings of a meeting with the Abbot were encouraged by his surroundings.
Stone. Just stone. Stone everywhere. Dull, grey, monotonous, repetitive, unending, tedious, soul-destroying stone. The Abbot considered a piece of moss or a splash of lichen an outrageous frivolity to be scrubbed away immediately, day or night.
Hermitage knew those entering the cloistered life should be sombre and serious, but the stone of De'Ath's Dingle made Brother Athan look like a jester on mushrooms. If the material didn't get you down, the construction certainly would. Apart from being so bad as to be dangerous, the masonry had been designed to concentrate attention inward, to the spiritual world.
Not that there was much evidence of the mason’s craft in De'Ath's Dingle. Stone piler-uppers would be more descriptive. They may have heard of mortar, but had certainly not sullied their hands with the stuff.
Lord William De'Ath, who left his name to the land and his money to the Church to ensure a kind reception for his soul in the afterlife, was probably hammering on the lid of his tomb even now, anxious to kick some monastic backsides. A fellow of great cheer and joyfulness, he moved to England simply because he liked it, bringing his wealth from France. William purchased the Dingle because, as he put it himself in his bequest,
'It is the most beauteous spot upon God's earth and shall have a monastery put upon it so that praise shall be given to the ends of time for the wonders of His gifts. The holy men who come here shall delight in the blessings of His nature and rejoice with all about and bring good cheer to all.’
That all William left his only son was a semi-decrepit stone quarry went some way to explaining the turnout of events.
Then there was the Abbot himself. As far as Hermitage could tell, he was a man of no humour whatsoever. Any sign of it in others was stamped on with his heaviest boot, specially kept in his chamber for the purpose. Piety and misery should be everywhere, and it should emanate from the Abbot's study.
The monks stood together outside the Abbot's door. Hermitage was shaking slightly, while Athan strangled a smile that dared to twitch into the corner of his mouth. Brother Athan hesitated for a moment before knocking. Nobody knocked at the Abbot's door out of choice – they were all brought there, occasionally conscious.
'Wait,' the Abbot's voiced pierced the evening gloom. Hermitage and Athan waited. And waited.
'Yes,' the Abbot barked.
'What?’ Hermitage was startled to hear the voice again as he realised he had drifted off into a daze. Goodness knew how much time had passed. It was certainly very dark now. Brother Athan was standing exactly as he had. Hermitage thought he enjoyed the needless wait they had been forced to endure.
'Yes,' was not an invitation to enter, however. Hermitage was about to push the door open when he was pulled back by Athan's horrified glare.
'There has been an incident in the Great Hall, Father. Brother Ambrosius is dead,' Athan called.
'Hardly an incident, Brother,' Hermitage piped up, 'he simply died, that's all.’
'Who spoke?’ blasted from the room as if the Abbot was standing next to them. Hermitage recoiled as the voice hammered his ears.
'I have Brother Hermitage with me. He had something to do with the death,' Athan laced his reply with accusation.
‘I…’, Hermitage began.
'So Ambrosius is dead. Deal with it.’ The screaming Abbot had now lowered his voice to a loud shout.
'There will be repercussions, Father. It was in the middle of the debate.’
'Well, not strictly the middle. More like – ' Hermitage muttered this time,
rather quietly, and so Athan simply hit him on the head, rather firmly.
The noise that came from the room at this news was probably human. Hermitage thought it unlikely the Abbot had a large, sickly yet still violent polecat in there with him, vomiting up last week’s meal of putrid mouse, but he couldn’t be sure.
'So we can expect visitors,' the Abbot spoke through teeth which Hermitage, even from this distance, could hear were clenched.
'I fear so, Father.’ Athan sounded meek. 'It is likely that the Bishop, as Conclave master, could not let such an event go without further information. If the debate was not concluded, it would have to be taken forward by another.’
'If anyone could be found who has any interest in this rubbish,' the Abbot huffed with contempt. 'Get in here.’
Athan pushed at the door and led the quaking Brother Hermitage into the room.
Hermitage was rational enough to understand that the monastery of De'Ath's Dingle was an expression of the destruction of human joy and the direction of the mind inward to contemplate its own decay, misery and ultimate destruction. He saw that this chamber was its soul.
Stone could be fabricated into inspiring representations of the divine. It could be used to ford rivers. It could be broken into small pieces and thrown at people. In the Abbot's chamber the very fabric of the building had given up hope of ever achieving anything; it was just waiting for Judgement Day.
After a few moments of disorientation, Hermitage realised the room was not quite square. Its walls were neither quite parallel nor level. The ceiling was not quite all there, allowing the rain to drip reluctantly in when the wind was in the right direction, which it almost always was. There was a large fireplace in one corner, but it had never been used for anything so sinful as generating heat. If a fire had been lit in this room the flames wouldn't dance, they would form a cortege.
As he glanced around, Hermitage found one thing which did lighten the place. A tapestry hung across the inside of the door and Hermitage looked to it for some relief from the unremitting gloom. As he gazed, he realised what it was a representation of, and looked away very quickly.
He had seen his Abbot only once, when he first arrived at De'Ath's Dingle, and that had been an unpleasant experience. He naturally assumed that the fellow before him was some plague victim on the verge of death. Highly infectious, no one had bothered to give him any clean clothes or feed him. Or show him where the privy was. It had been an awful shock to discover that this was the Abbot. Other monks told him not to worry too much as the Abbot kept himself to his chamber.
He hadn't realised exactly what that meant until now, and judging from the smell, the Abbot had rather let himself go since their last meeting. In fact he had let himself go several times, in different parts of the room.
'So,' the unpleasant accumulation of Abbot's habit spluttered into the room, 'what have you done, Brother?’
The kick on Hermitage's shin from Athan told him that he was permitted to speak. He hesitantly looked into the wizened face of the gnome-like being in front of him.
'I er, I was simply engaged in the deba
te of Brother Ambrosius when it appeared that he was dead.’ Hermitage found himself clasping and unclasping his hands and hopping gently from foot to foot. He tried to stop.
'It appeared? Where did it appear from?’ Brother Athan said as he stood by the side of the Abbot and took over the argument.
The Father hunched a little further forward on the three-legged stool which was the only furniture in the room, and looked as if he was listening intently – or was going to sleep. Hermitage imagined that the Abbot did not sleep, far too indulgent. Anyway the Angel of Sleep probably wouldn't take him.
Hermitage wasn't sure whether he was talking to the Abbot or the Brother, and so tried to address both.
'Well, Brother Athan entered the room and pointed out the fact,' he explained, his head twitching backwards and forwards.
'So you had been in the room all along, and had not noticed that the person you were debating with was in fact dead? Rather a one-sided discussion don't you think?’ Athan's sneering sarcasm was a familiar friend to Hermitage.
'No Father, I mean yes Brother, I mean I wasn't the one debating with him. I was concentrating on some counter arguments to Brother Ambrosius's proposition and was distracted by my own thoughts.’ Hermitage was distracting himself with his own fidgeting, so he tried really hard to stop.
'You were thinking. That's why you didn't notice an old man die in front of you?’ Athan’s tone implied thinking was akin to throwing a baby down a well.
'He had reached the end of the argument and so had stopped. I think it must have been soon after that he died. I mean he didn't stop mid-sentence if that's what you were thinking.’
'We had better leave it to the Abbot to decide what he was or was not thinking, Brother,' said Athan with a mixed tone of triumph and disdain.
'So the argument was concluded?’ This was the Abbot who seemed to care not a donkey's bottom about the fate of Ambrosius.
'Certainly Ambrosius had put his complete opening case, I believe,' Hermitage answered warily.
'How long did it take him?’ the Abbot demanded.
'Er, four days Father.’
'Ha, the abridged version. Well at least if the argument was done we can all rest in peace.’ There was a very slight movement from somewhere in the Abbot's habit which could be mistaken for relaxation.
'Did Ambrosius then respond to your questions, Brother? Was the case put forward by his opponent?’ Athan was back in the fray.
'No, Brother. As I say, I was formulating my points and the opponent in the debate was missing when you came in.’
'Bugger,' said the Abbot.
Hermitage was now being ignored, for which he was truly grateful. He quickly concluded he didn’t want to be ignored too long in this room; he was worried what it might do to him.
'An inconclusive debate,' said Brother Athan, as if it mattered.
'Not necessarily,' the Abbot replied.
Hermitage detected some other debate going on here.
'If the case had been put, and there was no refutation, then the debate is ended.’ The Abbot obviously wanted this to be the conclusion.
'In favour of the motion?’ Athan seemed astonished.
'Why not?’ said the Abbot. ‘Who honestly cares about opposing Ambrosius’s senile ramblings?’
'Father,' Athan now seemed a little agitated, 'as I understand it Ambrosius was arguing that the Lord did get sand in his shoes during the days in the wilderness.’
'I am sure the Lord was quite capable of such an unremarkable feat,' the Abbot responded.
In other circumstances, at another time, Hermitage would have smiled at the pun. But smiles had no place here.
'But if that is the case then he must have suffered the normal discomforts of mortal man.’
Hermitage was about to butt in and say that wasn't the point at all. The briefest of pauses allowed him to remember where he was, who he was and who he was with. He said nothing.
'His life and ours are ones of great suffering, Brother. As is right and proper.’ The Abbot nodded; this idea clearly gave him some pleasure.
Athan remained anxious and ground his teeth – normally an indication that his anxiety would soon seek physical release. As Athan would hardly lash out at the Abbot, Hermitage took half a step away.
'Whatever the outcome of the debate. Father, we have no record of the conclusion. The Conclave could not declare it closed one way or another.’ Athan shrugged a ‘none of this is my fault; I'm only trying to help’ kind of shrug.
The Abbot remained silent and still, but somehow Hermitage could tell he was thinking deeply. As an Abbot, the conclusion of the debate was in his hands. He could declare a decision and make the record say what he wanted. He wondered why the two men were so concerned with this topic. He thought Father Bergius's debate on whether scourges should have thorns in them or not would be more to their taste.
'The Conclave must be informed then,' the Abbot concluded with what seemed like a shiver.
Athan relaxed visibly. 'And then there is the question of Brother Hermitage's involvement in the death.’
'Hardly involvement, Brother,' Hermitage found the courage to protest.
'At the very best you were there when a Brother died and simply left him to make his own way to the hereafter. That's negligence. At worst you've committed some horrible sin about which we can only guess.’
Hermitage did feel bad at this. Athan had a point. Poor Ambrosius had been in a room with a fellow monk at the time of his passing, and he had been no fellow at all. He lowered his head, accepting the reprimand with his usual humility.
'And so some punishment is in order,' Athan said with relish. He was always going on about punishment. Hermitage accepted there should be just desserts for his abandonment of Ambrosius; trouble was, Athan’s desserts were always so extravagant.
'This is such a serious matter that I had better lock you up while I think what might be best.’
Now that was worrying. Athan never needed time to think up punishments. Normally inspiration came naturally.
Athan directed his justification to the Abbot. 'I can hardly accept that he was ignorant of a dying Brother.’
'Brother Hermitage is ignorant of so many things,' the Abbot responded.
Hermitage found this rather hurtful. He knew pride was a sin, but privately he thought of himself as rather bright. Which, compared to the population of De'Ath's Dingle, he was.
There was more. 'I find it quite conceivable that he could be in the same room as the Heavenly Host and fail to notice.’
'But he must be held to account for events.’ Athan was shocked that the Abbot could think otherwise.
'I have a suitable task in mind for our inattentive initiate.’
Athan raised his eyebrows and Hermitage shook. Some of the Abbot's reprimands were probably waiting for sinners at the Gates of Hell. Just on the inside. The two men waited with very different hopes.
'The Conclave must be informed. Hermitage shall travel to Lincoln.’
Well, that didn't sound so bad.
'On his own.’
Oh.
'And report to the Bishop.’
Oh dear.
'Now.’
Hermitage looked out of the hole in the wall that passed for a window and saw the dark of night waiting to envelope him. He couldn't see the murderers and ruffians, but he knew they were out there.
With no signal of any sort Hermitage could recognise, the discussion was over. Athan herded the young monk out of the Abbot's presence. As they left, the door closed, returning the old man to his daily routine of doing nothing and hating it. Hermitage realised the Abbot's seat was positioned so the focus of his attention was on the tapestry behind the door. Now he knew why the Abbot looked like he did.
Hermitage stepped slowly from the door contemplating this latest turn of events. He thought about how his arguments could be rehearsed for the new debate, how saddened he was that Brother Ambrosius would not see the outcome from this world, and how rig
ht the Abbot had been to conclude the debate was unfinished. Most of all he thought it a shame that he wouldn't have any involvement in events. He'd be dead at the side of the Lincoln road.
'So, Brother? You do know the way to the Conclave, I assume?’ Athan's voice tried to do sweetness and light, but it couldn't.
Hermitage could only shake his head slowly.
'I shall prepare a message to make sure you get things straight while you pack.’ He took a step back, probably to admire the effect of his words.
'I've heard it's thirty miles,' Hermitage whimpered.
'Then the sooner you start, the better chance you'll have of making it,' Athan said brightly.
'Perhaps I could take...’ Hermitage was trying to think quickly what he could take; perhaps several other monks.
'A stout stave if I were you.’ And with that Brother Athan was gone.
…
Hermitage knew that the monks of the time were expected to be regular travellers. The peripatetic, pilgrim monk was common, but a lot tougher than Hermitage. Hiding in the bushes while a gang of peripatetic bandits went by was not one of Hermitage's talents.
The journey here from his last monastery on the Lincoln coast had been a ghastly experience, even though he was accompanied part of the way by a band of his fellows on their way to Lichfield. Strangely, after a few hours of lively discussion on a variety of topics they decided that they didn't want to go to Lichfield any more. In fact some of them didn't want to be monks any more.
His state of panic at the thought of travelling to Lincoln was such that his packing consisted of a small devotional volume and a spare pair of sandals.
Thus Brother Athan found him, sitting on his cot, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the wall.
'Come, Brother.’ Athan waved him to the door.
Hermitage looked up, rather absently noticed Athan, and stood. He followed the older monk through the twisting turns of the monastery towards the main gate, not quite believing what he was about to do. Only when they reached the exit from the monastery did he find his voice.
The Heretics of De'Ath (The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage Book 1) Page 2