Caput V
Day Three Before Vespers
From the site of the tumbling church of Lincoln, the whole of God's creation was laid out across the landscape. To the west the land dipped away quickly, the Lincoln edge sinking into the bogs and fields that made up the flood plain of the Rivers Trent and Witham. This was a fertile land, which had fed the inhabitants of the area for thousands of years. It was a treacherous one, too, as it had also drowned quite a lot of them.
Five hundred years after the Romans left the place to fall into wrack and ruin, if the phoenix wasn't actually rising from the ashes, at least it was twitching and coughing a bit. It had even coughed up the foundations of a new church.
It would be magnificent. It would be given a new tower, and this tower would tower over the surrounding land like a big building on top of a hill.
If the carpenter enjoying his afternoon beer while lounging on a foundation block for the statue of Saint Paul had had the eyes of a hawk, he would have seen Wat and Hermitage as they trudged along the Roman road towards the town. Unfortunately, the afternoon beer was only the most recent in an unbroken line that stretched back to the previous week. The carpenter wasn't sure he could even see his own hands any more. Nor was he sure why he seemed to have so many of them.
…
Hermitage and Wat's journey proceeded without unusual incident. Some small boys threw manure at the monk on several occasions, but that was to be expected. At one point a very furtive man approached Wat, and an exchange of some money and a very carefully wrapped small package took place.
'Ah, for the life of the honest wandering merchant,' Hermitage sighed.
'Yes.’ Wat sighed rather as well.
At one point the thoroughfare of Ermine Street disappeared completely. All of the stone had been removed and there was nothing left but a large pit, full of disturbingly green, deep-looking water. A fairly substantial dwelling stood off to the right just here, down a track of its own. The track was very well maintained and, upon close examination, the dwelling looked rather like a Roman road, only stacked up with windows in it.
The land to the left was heavily wooded, so the only option appeared to be past the house and down the side of the hill. An old drovers’ track of some sort provided a usable path, but it did lead them almost straight down the hill. This they would, at some point, have to climb back up again.
Several minutes later they stood firmly at the bottom of the hill, gazing up at the city above them. Hermitage marvelled at the sight while Wat mumbled some very rude comments about drovers.
They joined the main road from the west which climbed out of the wetlands and headed straight up the hill. Hermitage thought the Romans had not got everything right after all. Any sensible builder, faced with an almost vertical slope, would have put some corners in to help loads zigzag their way upward. Not the Romans. They were obsessed with going straight on, come hell, high water or sheer cliffs. If you couldn't walk straight up a hill, you weren't welcome on their road.
'Well, my son,' Hermitage said as they arrived, panting, at the top of the hill, 'I think the time has come for us to part, for I must to the Bishop's house with tidings.’
'Yes, and I must about my business. It's been nice meeting you. Cheerio.’ And Wat scuttled away without a backward glance.
Hermitage thought the departure was a bit brusque.
…
The great city of Lincoln spread itself before Hermitage’s eyes. Quite a lot spread itself before his nose as well, but he imagined town dwellers must find it difficult to manage the transport and disposal of waste.
Mind you, he was a fine one to talk. People bustled around, intent on their own business, or intent on avoiding whatever business the smelly monk had brought to their midst.
There were a number of substantial buildings gathered together at this entrance to the old Roman town, and much of the activity seemed focussed on these. Hand carts came and went either loaded with produce for the kitchens or heading back somewhere for more. Craftsmen worked on roofs and walls, although whether they were being put up or taken down was hard to tell. Pedlars cried their wares and services, the competition seeming to be the louder you cried, the more likely people were to use you.
All of this life and activity could distract a young monk, sent from a rural outpost with a task not to his liking. It could whisk him away from his chosen path, with its flamboyance and promises of adventure.
Hermitage wished they would all go away so he could find the Bishop and deliver his message.
Scanning the seemingly disordered chaos before him, from the poorly organised arrangements for the movement of carts to the random shouts of people who ought to have better things to do with their time, he looked for any sign of civilisation.
To his left the walls of the old town stretched off along the edge of the hill, through the mud and filth of the town. To his right, with a sigh of relief, he saw the entrance to the church building site.
The way was plastered with litter, mud and half-finished bits of woodwork. A stack of completed gargoyles, the very latest thing in architecture, sat on a pallet to one side waiting their elevation on to the extension roof, from which they could hurl the rain away from the building and on to the peasants below.
Even Hermitage, who had no knowledge of building practices, thought this was a bit odd. It looked like the roof was still years away. It was an indication that this job was going to be as successful as old Canute's strategy for sea defences.
To the right again of the main site entrance lay a beautiful lawn and path – a manicured anomaly in the surrounding chaos. The lawn was semi-circular, edged with dozens of identically shaped and painted white stones. It obviously took a lot of effort to keep up.
Wondering what such a pleasant vista could be part of, Hermitage went in search of the Bishop's house which he reasoned must be somewhere in the vicinity.
A considerable time later, in complete darkness, he knocked with due deference on the door which had been on the other side of the lawn. The intervening time had been spent following directions from several local folk of varying accuracy and, Hermitage suspected in one instance, some deliberate devilment. After a further wait the door was opened by a very surly-looking fellow who occupied most of the space.
'What?’ It was a simple enquiry and all that was needed really, but Hermitage felt it was delivered with a less than reverential tone. It did not help his state of mind which, despite himself, was showing signs of the onset of encroaching testiness.
'I have come with a message for the Bishop,' he said blankly.
'What?’ Again it was sufficient to the situation, but could have been more engaging.
'I am Brother Hermitage from the Monastery at De'Ath's Dingle and I have a message for the Bishop's ears from my Abbot.’ Hermitage waved his parchment in the man's face. He thought that this got the point of the visit across, and also made clear that he was not some urchin or chance traveller.
He felt a pang of guilt, as the trials of his journey seemed to have wrought a change in his thinking. Calm deliberation was being elbowed aside by an unnatural impatience. Pride had reared its shameful head, and anger made him want to put this common little turd in his place.
'Oh, right.’ The figure in the door relaxed, seemingly relieved that the odd, dirty, smelly individual was just another churchman returning from some ungodly activity in town, and not a beggar or a lunatic.
He opened the door cautiously, glaring all the while at the waiting gargoyles as if expecting them to make a sudden move.
The imposing hallway of the building did its job and imposed itself on Hermitage. He gaped at such a space existing in a private house, lit, as it was, by a candelabrum of three relatively new candles. The ornate carving on the panelled walls, the expensive tapestry cast on the floor of all places and the sheer scale of the place were awe-inspiring. The reception hall must have been at least ten feet long and six feet wide. It was so high that Hermitage, a tall mo
nk at five foot seven, hardly had to duck at all. It was simply magnificent. It even had some glass above the door to let the light in.
Whatever man was graced by God to live in such spacious luxury was clearly of great moment, and Hermitage must behave accordingly. He stood stock still.
'Wait here,' said the gruff fellow. 'I'll fetch Nicodemus.’
If this was supposed to mean something to Hermitage, it passed him by. Left on his own in this great building, he stood even more still.
Several minutes passed, during which Hermitage considered the detail of some of the carvings. He was alarmed and impressed at the same time, and occasionally by the same image. Before he could examine further, a tall man in clerical garb stooped into the room from behind a wall tapestry that obviously hid the entrance to another room.
'Brother Hermitage, I understand. You have a message for the Bishop?’ the new arrival said in well-rounded and educated tones. Here was someone Hermitage could relate to.
'Indeed I do, Father.’ Hermitage responded with a short bow.
'Oh, I am no Father. I am merely Nicodemus, the most humble servant of my Lord the Bishop, and the formalities of my position call upon this dress.’
With this Nicodemus bowed to Hermitage, but somehow without bowing. He managed to incline his head and body in the monk's direction while facing forward, giving the impression that it was Hermitage who had the honour of meeting Nicodemus, not the other way round.
'Ah, I see,' said Hermitage, not really seeing at all.
There was a long pause, which did nothing but get longer. The look on Nicodemus's face got more and more expectant, while the look on Hermitage's face got older.
'Perhaps,' Nicodemus seemed to burst into speech, 'you might let me know the content of the message?’
'Ah,' said Hermitage realising he should have spoken some time ago, 'it is for the Bishop,' he explained.
'Indeed,' said Nicodemus. He didn't seem pleased with this answer. 'And I have the ears of the Bishop.’
Hermitage caught himself looking for them, somewhere on the man's person.
'I am sure you do, my son, but my Abbot was most specific on the matter.’ Once again Hermitage wanted to put someone in his place. The sensation was uncomfortable and satisfying at the same time.
Nicodemus didn't seem to know his place.
'Perhaps you'll follow me?’ He gestured through the tapestry into a room even more magnificent than the hall, if that were possible. This room was dominated by a huge desk, which took up most of the floor. Behind the desk a large, ornately carved and extravagantly cushioned chair sat with its back to the fireplace, in which a couple of the most enormous logs gently burned away, filling the space with glorious warmth. Two similar but smaller chairs sat on this side of the desk with their backs to the door. Hermitage's muscles complained as they saw the comfort of the Bishop's throne.
'So,' said Nicodemus, as he walked around the desk and sat comfortably. Hermitage was rather shocked.
'Do take a seat,' Nicodemus gestured Hermitage to sit before him. For a humble servant he wasn't being very humble.
Hermitage sat and looked expectantly at the man opposite for some explanation.
'The message then,' said Nicodemus, explaining nothing.
'Is for the Bishop's ears, sir. My Abbot was most clear on that point.’ Although this was compounding a small lie into a medium one, Hermitage felt it was justified, it was reasonable and it was all this stuck-up servant was going to get.
Nicodemus's expression of disdain didn't change; there just seemed to be more of it.
'As I said, I am the Bishop's ears in all matters, Brother. Unfortunately he is unable to attend himself, and so as asked me to receive you in his place. The business of the Conclave, you understand.’
'It is a matter of some delicacy, I'm afraid, and I am sure that having waited thus far I can attend further upon my Lord the Bishop.’
Nicodemus peered at Hermitage, having trouble comprehending what he was being told.
'Does it concern the unfortunate demise of Brother Ambrosius during the debate?’ Nicodemus suggested.
How did you know about that? Hermitage thought.
'How did you know about that?’ he inquired.
'Ah, Brother, the Bishop has knowledge which surpasses us all, I fear.’ Nicodemus laid the humility on with great pride.
With his diversions around the walls of De'Ath's Dingle and up and down the hills of Lincoln, Hermitage thought it possible for rumour to have reached the Bishop before he did. In which case the last two days had been a complete waste of time.
'It is indeed to do with Brother Ambrosius’s death during the debate,' Hermitage said with some assurance and irritation.
'What is it exactly then?’
'That Brother Ambrosius died during the debate on the question of sand in our Lord's shoes during his time in the wilderness.’ And with this Hermitage made great play of handing the parchment over to Nicodemus.
The man unsealed the roll, opened it, read it and rolled it up again without giving Hermitage any indication of what it contained. Hermitage had no entitlement to know, but he still felt aggrieved.
'Yes.’ This was a long, drawn out yes from Nicodemus. 'It seems the debate was not concluded. There were no counter-arguments?’
'I was engaged in the debate myself,' said Hermitage with pride. He neglected the fact that he had been the only one engaged in the debate, although he suspected that Nicodemus probably knew that as well.
'So I understand,' Nicodemus confirmed.
He did.
'Well, my Lord the Bishop's view on this sort of thing is very clear,' Nicodemus smarmed.
This sort of thing? thought Hermitage. How often did 'this sort of thing’ happen?
'There will have to be an investigation,' Nicodemus announced.
A what? Investigation? Hermitage's learning woke up. What an interesting word. Must come from the Latin, vestigo, vestigare, to track. Why would there need to be some tracking? Hermitage knew perfectly well where Ambrosius was. He was hardly likely to have left De'Ath's Dingle, if he wasn't already in the ground. He certainly didn't need tracking.
'I'm not sure I understand.’
'Very likely,' Nicodemus sympathised.
With a start Hermitage achieved a new understanding. This man was being contemptuous towards him, and he had recognised it at the time rather than two days later. He marvelled at his appreciation of a rather subtle feature of human behaviour. The punishment for this gift arrived at the same instant. He felt an overwhelming urge to be contemptuous in return.
'In cases such as this the Bishop requires us to ascertain the reason for the demise,' Nicodemus was explaining in simple words.
'Brother Ambrosius was nearly fifty.’
'We need to look into events and see if there is any cause for concern,' Nicodemus emphasised the last word.
'And he was exerting himself in the debate.’ Hermitage was on a track of his own until he came to the end of Nicodemus’s. 'Concern? What concern could there be?’
'If the outcome of the debate was close, and was terminated for some unnatural reason? We live in an evil world in evil times amongst evil, with evil all around us.’
There was no arguing with that.
'And the Bishop simply wants to be assured that none of that evil fell upon the departed.’
'Well, what evil could there possibly be? I was there and I didn't see any evil.’ Hermitage couldn't follow this line of argument.
Nicodemus's eyebrows rose halfway up his head, and he inclined his head in a very knowing sort of way.
'Indeed you were.’
A sinking feeling told Hermitage that he shouldn't be emphasising his involvement.
Nicodemus rose from his chair, or rather the Bishop's chair, and began to slowly to pace up and down the little unoccupied space in the room.
'We are fortunate that we have some expertise in this area with us at present in the shape of the King's own in
vestigator.’ He took a short pause as he said this, emphasising its utmost significance. 'He has a particular interest in the Conclave, and the Bishop has asked that he return with you to the monastery in order to fully explore all the circumstances surrounding the death. He will provide a comprehensive report, or take whatever action he sees fit.’
'Really?’ Hermitage saw that this was getting rather serious. He suspected that he might be heading for even deeper trouble. Not the sort of trouble Athan usually provided, which concluded with a swift blow.
'Really.’ Nicodemus now stepped over to the tapestry guarding the door and held it open for Hermitage to leave. Not really knowing why he did so, the young monk complied. 'If you return to your lodgings, the Investigator will meet you here at Prime.’
'Ah, yes,' said Hermitage, standing on the step of the door again as it closed in his face. Soon after that he remembered he didn't have any lodgings. After standing still and wondering what to do for so long that people started to stare at him, he wandered off into the city.
…
In the house, the humble servant sat behind his humble desk in thought. Probably humble as well. Eventually he reached over and rang a small bell that was perched on the edge of the desk. After a few moments the gruff servant appeared and waited for Nicodemus's instructions.
'Find Brother Simon,' Nicodemus instructed.
'What?’ the servant said in a tone of disbelief.
'Find Brother Simon,' Nicodemus repeated, with more instruction in his voice.
'Are you sure?’ the servant questioned an unbelievable order.
'I've said so, haven't I?’ Nicodemus' impatience was clear.
'Please yourself,' the servant shrugged, and shambled off to do his master's bidding.
As the servant left the house a curtain at the back of Nicodemus twitched, and a darkly dressed shadow cast a gloom across the room.
The Heretics of De'Ath (The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage Book 1) Page 5