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

by Howard of Warwick

  The food now arrived, ferried in by a raft of servants – not all of whom had benefited from the same warnings as their master. One or two of them gagged as they entered the room, and coughed their way in and out. One young girl actually screamed when she saw what was in the chair.

  'Aha,' laughed the Earl, 'you can send me that one later.’

  Nicodemus knew that his standards were low, but even he drew the line somewhere. Mind you, with the girth of the Earl to be considered, any line would have to be pretty damn long.

  The Earl's mind seemed suitably distracted by the display of food before him, enough to feed the entire workforce of the Church for a week. He began to tuck into joints of meat, bread, pickles and sauces, more wine, eggs, cheeses and fish, fine stews and soups, delicate sweetmeats and exotic fancies, stodgy puddings, fruit, nuts and creams – most of it pretty much at random, but all of it at great speed.

  Nicodemus sat observing the nobleman before him for some time, until he judged that the rate of intake had slowed ever so slightly. The eggs were going down less rapidly. There was even an occasional pause for breath between fish and game. When the Earl finally let his hands rest on the arms of the chair, each one clutching a chicken leg, Nicodemus suspected this was because of simple exhaustion rather than the inability to consume more. It seemed the moment to discuss business.

  'I believe we may be of service to your family then, my Lord,' Nicodemus proposed.

  'Indeed,' the Earl said, simply continuing the conversation of an hour ago. 'Sons, eh? What can you do with them?’

  Nicodemus didn't answer this. Neither desire nor opportunity for procreation ever bothered him.

  'Got one obviously, the next Earl, he's all sorted, and got a few others who don't matter, but you never know how long you're going to live these days.’

  Nicodemus's judgement was that it wouldn't be too long. His eldest son must be counting the days.

  'Troublesome times we live in,' the Earl went on, 'the young Earl might come a cropper any day now.’

  'Yes,' thought Nicodemus, 'you might fall on him.’

  'And we've got to keep the family going, so younger ones need managing as well eh, eh?’ The Earl spoke as if they were livestock.

  'Of course, ' Nicodemus agreed. He'd agree with anything.

  'Got the youngest in the diplomatic service. Probably get killed somewhere or other, but hopefully not until the inheritance is safe. It's the middle one who's trouble.’

  'Ah,' Nicodemus said in encouragement, 'this is where we come in.’

  'That's it. This proposal of yours seems to fit the bill. Bishop of Peterborough told me about it.’

  The Bishop of Peterborough and this man – now that was a pairing to creep into nightmares.

  'Got to keep the young whelp in functioning order in case his brother pops it, but want him out of the way naturally.’ The Earl said this as if death might be going just a bit too far. Only a bit mind.

  'Naturally,' Nicodemus nodded.

  'Joining the Church the obvious choice, but not a very attractive proposition for young people these days. Even offered to buy him a Bishopric, but he wasn't having it. “Memorizing Mass”, he said. Wasn't having it.’

  'Ah, the young,' Nicodemus commented sympathetically. It seemed something to say.

  'Of course, if a son had said that to the old Earl he'd have flogged him to death. Lost two children that way. We've gone soft, that's the trouble these days. No discipline.’ The Earl seemed in danger of wandering into some hideous reverie.

  'So, our proposition?’ Nicodemus pulled him back.

  'Well, the young colt seemed to find some favour in it. I suppose I blame myself. The earlier generation was harsh but fair. I've gone the other way.’

  Tales of the old Earl of Northumbria's 'harshness' were still used to frighten children. It was only a flamboyant festival of truly horrific discipline that had led to the old Earl being deposed and this lump installed in his place.

  'And this is a real monastery, is it?’ the Earl enquired, some doubt in his voice.

  'Oh entirely, it's a whole new area of theological thinking.’

  The Earl considered this for a moment. 'I should think it is. The size of the endowment required to secure a place.’

  'A family place, of course. You will be free to avail yourself of the facilities for quiet prayer and contemplation.’ Nicodemus managed to keep a straight face while saying this. If the Earl ever did anything quiet, Nicodemus didn't want to know about it.

  'Yes.’ The Earl lingered over the word and seemed to take considerable pleasure from it. 'And the premises?’

  'One of our more remote communities, well off the beaten track.’

  'Not the sort of place people are likely to pop out of then.’

  'Oh no, and of course extra arrangements can be made for special residents to ensure that they maintain their vigils within the bounds.’

  'Excellent. At extra cost I presume.’

  'Well, there would be...’

  'Yes, I rather thought there would be.’

  The Earl and Nicodemus fell into a contemplative silence for a few moments until Nicodemus started to get a bit twitchy that he still hadn't got a firm commitment.

  'So your son will join us?’

  'That's the expectation. He's been touring my Southern estates, so he tells me. Getting drunk and fornicating away from home is more like it. All the people of Northumbria know him well and tend to close the doors when they see him coming.’

  'A great character, I hear.’

  'He certainly has and he puts it about far too much. We've arranged to meet here. I'm on my way to a council in Warwick and he's on his way home. We'll examine this monastery of yours and if we like what we see then we can proceed.’

  'You do understand that the site itself is still at the development stage?’ Nicodemus didn't want to raise expectations too high.

  'I understand that you can't steal all the stone from the church at once, of course.’ The Earl eyed a small bread roll that was within reach.

  'My Lord!' Nicodemus expressed shock at the suggestion.

  The Earl laughed with vigour and rocked backwards and forwards in his chair spraying crumbs and spittle from his gaping maw.

  'I know it's not built yet and hopefully we won't need it for a year or two. I also know that you need my money to get on with it and I'm buying…what did you call it?’ The Earl actually looked at Nicodemus.

  'An investment, my Lord.’

  'Yes, investment. Bizarre idea if you ask me. I give you a considerable sum of money for something you haven't done yet. You then use the fact that I have given you money for nothing, for this investment, to persuade others that it must be a good idea. They give you their money for nothing as well. Meantime you still haven't actually done anything. When you get enough money for nothing you get some builders involved and actually get on with it.’

  'I think that's a slightly harsh summary of the arrangement, my Lord,' Nicodemus protested, thinking it was actually quite accurate.

  'But a true one eh? And it's bloody genius. If I'd have thought of it myself I could be getting all the money for nothing instead of you.’ The Earl laughed. At least Nicodemus hoped it was a laugh.

  'But I will have to deliver, my Lord. Those like yourself who may be investing are people of high standing and worth. Should the time come for them to take possession of their property and I did not have it ready…' Nicodemus held his arms out. Further explanation was unnecessary.

  'They would take possession of your body and divide it up between them, ha, ha, ha.’ Another food distributing laugh erupted, and it was all Nicodemus could do to avoid being coated in breadcrumbs.

  He contemplated this possible outcome and his mind wandered off again to ensure that all his escape routes were open and available. This moment of reverie distracted him from his surroundings and when he looked around, he saw that the Earl was sound asleep. Or dead. He checked: no, he wasn't dead. He couldn't die ye
t. All the plans would come to nothing. He could die later. Nicodemus crept from the room. All he now had to do was await the arrival of the son of Northumbria, who no doubt would be as awful as his father.

  …

  In the far more humble surroundings of the De'Ath's Dingle building site, Wat was displaying his special wares to a gaggle of workmen. Their jaws were so slack they could have chewed the grass at their own feet.

  'Bloody hell,' said one, 'how did you get her to do that?’

  'What?’ Wat was puzzled.

  'That.’ The builder pointed a stubby finger at one of the more fanciful images.

  'What do you mean, get her to do it?’

  The builder struggled to express the concept.

  'It's a picture, right?’

  'Right,'

  'So it's a picture of these people doing that. And them animals, and all that equipment.’

  'Berber, you idiot, it's not real.’ A more sophisticated member of the audience slapped the man around the head. 'You don't think people stand there doing this while the man makes a tapestry of them. Ha ha, they'd get cramp.’

  Wat now understood what he had been asked and simply shook his head in disbelief.

  'You'll have to excuse Berber, he's an idiot.’

  'A difficult birth,' Wat commented with some sympathy.

  'No no, it's nothing physical, he's just stupid.’

  The man slapped Berber again, who seemed used to it. 'The man probably does a quick sketch first, before they all fall over, and then does the tapestry from the sketch.’

  There was no point in engaging these people. They were obviously the advanced guard of the building team, sent ahead just to get the site ready and the tents up. Have to take what money they had and find out if it was worth waiting or not.

  'So, anything of interest?’ Wat asked. He was starting to doubt that these people would be able to afford him.

  'I like that one,' said a large man from the back, reaching over to stab a finger on to a work which portrayed one of the ladies of the current court. A lady renowned for her beauty and refinement. In this depiction she was doing something very unrefined indeed.

  'Excellent. Would you like to order one?’

  The man studied the numbers Wat had chalked up on his slate. He was clearly getting nowhere, so Wat held up fingers.

  'Can I have the four by nine,' the man said, after muttering numbers to himself.

  'Certainly can. Framed?’ Wat asked, hopefully.

  'No, just roll it up.’

  Damn, thought Wat, he made as much profit per frame as he did from the tapestries. He shrugged. It was clear the financial resources of this particular market would be very limited.

  A couple of other men gave orders as well, so the trip was at least paying for itself.

  'Here you are, Hodric, there's one for you.’

  The mature man held up one tapestry from the bottom of the heap, which portrayed several figures engaged in what could only be described as debauchery. It was one of those special works that Wat kept in an inner bag in his sample case, and which he would always claim was a special commission. It had a huge mark up, though, so he usually put it in the sales pitch somewhere.

  'Oh, nice,' said Hodric as he took the work and examined it carefully. 'I'll take one. Lovely to see something honest like this for a change, something without any bloody women in it.’

  His orders totted up and the men wandering off, some of them clutching samples which they promised to return in a few minutes. Wat thought he would approach the apparent leader of the men to see what prospect there was of more business turning up.

  'So,' he said.

  'So,’ said the chosen man.

  'Wat.’ He held out his hand.

  'What what?’ said the man, clearly not as bright as Wat had hoped.

  'No, no, the name's Wat, Wat the Weaver.’

  'Brough.’ The man held out his hand to be shaken.

  'Nice to meet you, Brough.’

  'It's not weaving, though, is it?’

  'What isn't?’

  'What you do. I mean, Wat the Weaver sounds good and all, that but weaving is cloth and stuff, it's not, erm,' he searched for a word which summed up Wat's product but couldn't come up with one. 'It's not cloth. What you do. You don't make cloth.’

  'No. I don't make cloth, but weaving covers a multitude of sins.’

  'And you make pictures of most of them.’ The man laughed hard at his own joke. He laughed as if he was trying to cough up his toes, while Wat watched in some despair. When the man had recovered, he tried to get the conversation on track.

  'So what's going on here then?’ he asked, 'a repair job?’

  'No, no,' said Brough, 'this is major work, this is. We're setting up camp, but there's dozens coming. Virtually taking the place down to the ground and re-building it as far as I can tell.’

  That sounded hopeful.

  'I was coming along with a monk from here who didn't seem to know anything about it?’

  'Typical innit. Bloody Church. They never tell anyone what's going on, least of all the people who are going to be affected. I was there when they started to lay the foundations for the new Church extension. We all turned up right as rain, but no one had bothered to tell the priest who was living there at the time, had they?’

  'Hadn't they?’ Wat knew that engaging in conversations like this, mind-numbing though they were, often paid dividends in the long run.

  'Course they hadn't. He was just planning a small lych-gate and we come along with the encampment for a hundred-foot high church tower, driving a cart and horses through his house and most of his neighbours as well. It's no good going on to him about the advantages of development is it? It's his living we're ploughing into the ground.’

  'I can see that,' said Wat, running on automatic now.

  'Not in my back yard,’ he said.

  'Did he?’

  'Yep. And we said it's all right, mate, it won't be in your back yard. It'll be in the front as well and we're taking down your privy. Some people just don't want to move with the times.’

  'Talking of moving, how many do you think you've got coming and when? Only I need to get back to the workshop to start replacing this lot, but it might be worth my while to wait.’

  'Oh, probably will be. As I say it's dozens all told, but there should be about five or six here next week.’ Brough paused at that moment, even though he appeared to be in mid-sentence. He took hold of Wat's elbow and moved him about six inches to one side. As he did so he looked around, obviously making sure that no one was within listening distance. He leant forward conspiratorially.

  'I, er, might be able to do you a favour or two.’ He held out his hand to be shaken again. Wat held back, he had been caught out by deals made on the shake of a hand. There was always some argument afterwards about who had shaken on what exactly. It was never what Wat delivered or at the price that had been agreed.

  'No go on, shake,' Brough raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  There was clearly more to this shake of the hand than Wat appreciated. Clarity flashed into his mind at once. Curse his bloody business. While it was good for the money, he was really not interested what people got up to in the privacy of their own hovel. Why did they all assume that he was as up for it as they were?

  He did one of a mistress and her husband after the man had been dead for three years. Nice and nostalgic, Wat thought, until the commission became clear. That was exactly how she wanted him shown, worms and all. Not at all Wat's cup of mead. She thought he'd be as excited by it as she was. He was a simple businessman who happened to operate in the more disreputable districts of society.

  He cautiously held his hand out and Brough immediately grasped it. As far as he could tell it was a normal shake, but then Brough seemed to start stroking his knuckles. He withdrew quickly.

  'Oh, right,' said Brough in disappointment.

  'No, no, really.’ Wat tried to recover the situation and some potential income
. 'It's just that I'm not, erm.’

  'Not one of us, then.’

  Wat had never heard it called that before.

  'Er, no,' he said with some finality.

  'Shame.’

  Wat just nodded in as noncommittal a manner as he could muster.

  'Got a lot of contacts.’ Brough clearly wasn't giving up.

  'I'm sure.’

  'You, erm, ever thought of joining?’

  'No.’ Wat realised that had come out a bit too quickly and sharply.

  'Only it's a good thing to be in.’

  Now Wat was confused, this wasn't sounding like what he thought it had been.

  'Really?’

  'Oh yes. Mind you I'm probably saying too much already. It's supposed to be secret, but you know, how are we going to attract new members? Apparently I'm supposed to look out for anyone suitable and then approach them without approaching them.’

  'I see.’ In situations like this Wat always found it most effective to pretend to understand perfectly what it was the other person was talking about. Until the opportunity presented itself to run away.

  'I've not been in it long myself.’

  Now Wat really was adrift and he didn't know whether he wanted to come ashore or not. The prospect of the contacts sounded interesting, but on the other hand Brough was clearly as mad as the moon.

  'I'd have thought a well-travelled businessman like yourself would be in the thick of it, you know?’

  'Never really occurred to me, to be honest.’ Wat fished for the slightest clue of what was going on.

  'Oh, you should think about it. Very influential people, the Masons – could put a lot of business your way.’

  The masons? Thought Wat. What, all of them?

  'You're a mason then?’

  'Oh yes.’ Brough's chest swelled with pride.

  Wat wanted to know how this man could possibly be a mason. He had met lots of them, many as customers. Well paid men with time on their hands, ideal, but Brough simply wasn't one. He didn't display any of the signs. He wasn't so begrimed with stone dust that his skin had turned white. He appeared to have all his fingers, not having absent-mindedly chiselled off a couple. He didn't walk with a limp, so hadn't dropped large pieces of masonry on his feet. Anyway, if he was a mason he wouldn't be here putting up the tents.