'So how does your being a mason work around here, then?’ said Wat, implying that he knew perfectly well how it worked around his way.
'Oh well, same as everywhere I expect. You pay your dues, you attend the meetings and get the secrets and the contacts.’
Light started to dawn. Most of the masons Wat knew were crafty at getting and keeping their money. If they spotted a dupe, it wouldn't be long before what had been in his pockets was in theirs.
'Pay your dues, eh?’
'Yes, but it's well worth it. Our lodge has got a hundred members.’
'Any masons?’
'Ha, ha.’ Brough thought this was enormously funny. 'Yes, we have got a few, but mostly not. Lot of business men like yourself, needing to keep in contact with the market, know what's going on and where there might be an opportunity.’
'Of course.’
'Again I shouldn't say so, but I got the contract for all the building camps in the county because the major contractor was a member. He put my name around his own contacts. In turn I put a bit of work his way when I got asked about a camp over Nottingham way.’
Whatever this thing was, Wat liked the sound of it more and more. Perhaps he should join. If there were some of these Masons coming to the camp, it would be well worth his while to stay on.
'And of course they make sure that any works which are needed are passed among one another,' Wat suggested, seeing a tapestry factory in his near future.
'Absolutely.’ Brough was clearly very proud of this blatant and criminal corruption.
Wat wanted some.
'In fact…' Brough sounded even more conspiratorial. Wat began to doubt that this man would be given the innermost secrets of the organisation if he went around telling total strangers on first meeting. Total strangers in Wat's line of business at that. He was seldom welcomed at guild gatherings or companies. 'I hear tell that some of works going on in these parts wouldn't be happening at all if it wasn't for the lodge.’
'Really?’ Wat was intrigued.
'Yep. You know the old mill at the top of Spring Hill?’
Wat tried to nod as if he knew the place while being able to explain later that he didn't, if that became necessary.
'Well, they was going to knock it down seeing as it was so old and rotten and wasn't really needed any more. Suddenly the elders have a change of heart and order a brand new mill, state of the art and everything. Bevelled gears, round shafted driving gear, auto wind adjustment, water back up, the lot. Even had a bloody dome on top, can you believe. Cost an absolute fortune, and then it turned out there wasn't any flour to mill anyway, it was all being done at the bottom of the hill to save carrying it up.’
'But everyone got paid?’
'Of course, and all of them members.’
Typical, thought Wat. Mind you, a stroke of genius to set up the secrecy bit and make people pay to join. Corruption was perfectly normal, but with this arrangement it could go on and on for years before anyone got exiled. Or even found out at all. Wat made a connection in his head.
'So what about this place?’ he gestured up to the walls of the monastery.
'What?’ Brough had not made the same connection.
'Do you think it could be another dome?’
'This? Don't know.’ The man thought for a while. 'Unlikely.’
'Really?’
'Church innit.’
Wat accepted the response. If there was any organisation guaranteed to out-corrupt an honest crook, it would be the Church. Wat had been stung too often himself. An awful lot of his work hung in the private chambers of senior churchmen, but little of their money hung at his belt. Orders were placed and occasionally a small deposit paid, but it didn't matter what happened when Wat's payday came. Blackmail, threats, physical violence, even bringing in the law. The Church would do anything to avoid paying a bill. And they wanted all the really filthy stuff as well, the ones that cost the earth in pink dye.
Of course, the works planned for this monastery might be above board, but with the Church involved it was highly unlikely.
'Unless, of course, some of the Church have joined the Masons?’ Wat suggested.
'God spare us,' Brough said, in heartfelt horror. Having the Church interested in your business was like a Viking asking after your wife and daughters. Someone was going to end up shafted.
Wat thought this explained why Hermitage knew nothing about it. He was certainly of too humble a rank to be brought into anything like this. And too honest to know what to do in any case.
'So you're off when this place is set up then?’ Wat asked Brough.
'Oh yes, any minute in fact, got a major erection over Nettleham way.’
'I think I will hang around then. Perhaps I could use one of the tents until the crew arrive?’ At least that would save Wat having to get his own kit out.
'Sure, help yourself. First lot should be turning up in a day or so. Give you a chance to set up your stand.’
Wat nodded and expected Brough to move off, but he didn't. There was obviously something more.
'So,' said Brough.
'So,' said Wat.
'Good bit of info for you, then?’
'Oh yes.’
'Very profitable, I expect.’
'Could be, you never know.’ Wat wondered where this was going.
'And my lads bought a couple.’
'They did.’
'Including Hodric's little extravagance.’
'Yes.’
'Must have spent a week's wages on that thing.’
'Could be.’
'So I expect you'll come out all right.’
'I should hope so.’
'Did you a favour then.’
A hugely pregnant pause followed, which eventually delivered.
'So how about a free sample?’
…
Clutching a very small but very explicit sample, made by Wat's apprentices for just such a purpose, Brough scurried off towards his own tent. Before he could enter, a part of the canvas peeled itself into the evening and a figure stood in his path.
The cowl over the head revealed nothing, but the figure held its right hand out to be shaken. Brough stepped forward, took the hand and shook it significantly.
'Welcome. Brother,' Brough said.
'Your preparations are going well?’
'Indeed they are, all set up as you see.’
'That fellow.’ The cowl nodded slightly in the direction Brough had come from.
'A weaver, here looking for work. Not one of the Order and so I sent him on his way.’
'Without revealing anything?’
'Of course not, Brother,' Brough did shocked outrage very well. 'There are already enough weavers within the lodge. He might be a prospective member, though.’
'No, Brother.’
'No?’
'No. He is unsuitable.’
'Really?’
'I know to my certain knowledge that he has had dealing with…'
'Yes?’ Brough was all expectancy.
'…the Bishop.’
Brough simply crossed himself in defence of his soul.
'Of Lincoln?’ he asked with a trembling tone.
The cowl simply nodded
'Bloody hell.’
'Absolutely. In fact my information is that he has come here as part of specific warrant from the Bishop to look into a death at the monastery.’
'But he said he'd come here to sell tapestry. Rather particular tapestry, if you get my drift.’
'He's hardly likely to tell his true mission, is he? Especially if the Bishop has instructed him not to. This tapestry is probably a cover for his true intentions.’
'They were very unique tapestries.’
'Perhaps he really is a weaver. Perhaps that's part of his usefulness to the Bishop. He doubtless reports all his encounters to his master.’
Brough swallowed hard.
'Have nothing to do with him, Brother.’
'No. No indeed.’
Brough turned back to the tent that Wat was now emerging from, with a worried look in his eye. He turned to raise another question with his Brother, but the figure had gone.
'Mister Weaver,' Brough called, waving his free sample in a lively attempt to give it back.
Caput IX
Day Four Before Vigils
The route to Hermitage's cell was as long and tortuous as any path in the monastery of De'Ath's Dingle. It was impossibly long and unnecessarily tortuous. It was a good job that Athan was leading the way, as Simon would never have found it on his own. Athan thought the King's whatever-he-was would most likely never find his way out again if he was simply left down here. To rot. It was very tempting
…
In his cell Hermitage had no idea he was about to receive visitors. Not that it would have made any difference as he couldn't see anything to tidy up anyway. He could have moved the vomit straw into one corner and the privy straw into the other, but the discerning guest wouldn't really have noticed much difference.
He had been fortunate to find any straw at all. Not that he had found it until after he had added to the contents of both piles. The new arrivals would have to tread very carefully indeed.
Hermitage had been racked by conflicting emotions during his short incarceration. Shock was soon replaced by anger – of such vehemence that it shocked him even more. He hadn’t known he had the capacity to long to smash someone's head, face first, into the various piles that he had deposited on the floor. Let alone that he should have such feelings towards a Prior.
He was at such a fever pitch that if Athan had really been in the room, he would have seriously thought about considering having a strong talk with him.
Hard on the heels of rage had come despair. He simply wanted to curl up in the corner and die – before realising that if he did curl up in the corner with what was already there, he probably would die.
Just recently fear had moved in for its very own Conclave. Fear of the dark spoke first, followed by fear of the scrabbling in the corner where surely no creature of God would willingly scrabble. Then there was fear of what was going to happen to him in the long term and fear of what was going to happen to him in the next few minutes. Then there was a bit of a queue. Fear of what would happen if he went to sleep jostled with fear of staying awake. Also in contention were the fear of lying down in something and fear of standing in something. Not to forget the fear of being punished by God for whatever sins it was that he had committed and fear of being punished by the devil, the Abbot, Athan and his Father – all of whom melded into one. Then there was fear of someone suddenly opening the door, and fear of someone never opening it again.
These, and many other terrors, became so confused in Hermitage's mind that it was hard to differentiate them. They became a general alarm about almost everything, which now manifested itself in a helpless whimper. This seemed to have a life of its own as it escaped Hermitage's mouth and fluttered briefly around the cell. The ambience of the room killed it dead, but another followed like a bleating lamb to the slaughter.
As a desperate measure to get some sense that there was a world outside the walls of his cell, Hermitage got as close as he could to the small opening high in the wall and let out some more whimpers for a bit of a wander. Some of them made their way through the opening and escaped into the night air. It would have been clean night air, but for the fact that Wat had chosen just this moment, and just this place, to take his evening evacuation, well away from the tent he was going to sleep in. Very sophisticated, Wat.
Thinking that there was some wild animal in distress nearby and, judging from the noise that it was quite a small one, he wondered if his evening meal was close at hand. He scrabbled about in the brush against the monastery wall until the whimper came again. He saw that it originated from a small opening at the base of the stone. A rabbit or something had obviously climbed down there and couldn't get out again.
Reluctant to poke his hand in, as even a small rabbit could give you a nasty scratch, he searched quickly for a stout stick. Finding a suitable weapon he braced himself for the attack. If he could kill the thing in the hole, so much the better; if all he did was lever it out, it would probably escape. He raised the stick high and plunged it into the hole, expecting to hear a squeak or at least a scrabble.
'Ow!' Hermitage leaped backwards as a large stick appeared from the opening and caught him right in the eye.
There was noise outside as whoever had thrust the stick moved about.
'Hello?’ A voice came down the hole now. A familiar one.
'Who's that?’ Hermitage asked with desperate hope.
'Who am I? Who the hell are you and what are you doing down that hole?’
'Is that Mr Wat?’
There was more rapid noise from outside.
'How do you know my name?’ the hole said. It sounded worried.
'It's me, Hermitage,' the monk bleated.
'Hermitage?’ Wat's voice was having trouble believing this. 'What are you doing in this hole?’
'I'm not in a hole.’
'You are from where I'm standing.’
'I'm in a cell.’ Hermitage looked around as if checking this was still correct.
'My God, it must be a small one,' Wat marvelled. 'Ah,' the truth dawned with little illumination. 'I didn't know monks' cells were underground.’
'They aren't,' Hermitage replied with a little more clarity now as he got his mouth a bit closer to the hole.
'Then?’
'Brother Athan put me in here.’
'So this was the worse that could happen, eh? Thrown in a cell underground. They're usually called dungeons, by the way.’ Sounds of Wat settling himself down for a comfortable chat came through the hole.
'I know,' Hermitage wasn't happy, 'there's a door and everything. And he's locked it.’
'This is your fate, is it? Not too bad then.’ Wat sounded cheerful.
'This is the least of it,' Hermitage swallowed hard. He had to tell Wat. He was getting nowhere trying to figure his situation out on his own. 'He's just gone off saying that I killed Brother Ambrosius and that I'll probably be executed.’ Hermitage's voice broke a little at this point.
'What? You killed Ambrosius?’
'No, of course I didn't, but Athan says I did.’
'Bloody hell.’ The shock in Wat's voice did nothing for Hermitage's mental state.
'I know.’
There was a long pause and Hermitage began to wonder if Wat had run away to leave him to his fate.
'Erm,' said Wat, hesitantly, 'you didn't, I suppose?’
'Didn't what?’
'Kill him?’
Hermitage was outraged. 'No, I did not.’
'No, I didn't think you would have done, but I thought I'd better check. I'm not very familiar with monks and what they get up to,'
'We don't get up to killing one another. Ambrosius died, he simply died. He was an old man, he got very excited about his debate and he just … died. Why am I being blamed?’
'You were there at the time,' Wat said, matter of factly.
'Well, yes.’
'In fact, you were the only one there.’
'Well, I was at the end.’
'And Athan came in and found you with the dead monk and you were doing – what did you say?’
'Contemplating his argument.’
'Yes, contemplating his argument.’ Wat paused again. He let out a deep sigh before speaking again. 'It's not exactly the usual form of behaviour for such situations, I would imagine. You know, dead body in room, just that moment died, and the only other person there is busy contemplating an argument rather than leaping up and down and doing something about it?’
'I was engrossed,' Hermitage said coldly, as if this was sufficient excuse for not noticing the apocalypse.
'I'm sure you were, but look at it from Athan's point of view,' Wat suggested.
That was an interesting approach, so Hermitage paused and did just that.
&
nbsp; 'I still don't see the problem,' he said to the hole, after he had rapidly considered the proposal. 'I know I can be a bit odd now and again, but I don't kill monks. I've never done it before, so why would I do it now? What did I have against Ambrosius? His argument? I'm hardly likely to fly into a murderous rage at the proposal that the forty days and forty nights must have started at midnight, am I? In any case I don't do murderous rages.’
'Needn't have been a rage, could have been carefully planned.’
'What? Do you think I did it then?’ Hermitage felt a tear form at the back of his eye.
'No, no I don't, calm down, I'm just trying to think through the situation and get you to do the same. That way we have chance of getting you out of this.’
The tear receded and Hermitage felt a surge of warmth and comfort flow through his stomach at this. Wat was a figure of the world, he knew his way around people and places and the young monk felt that he had been snatched up in his mother's arms to save him from that old family dog that had tried to eat his foot one day. If anyone could help unravel this it would be him, and he appeared to be on Hermitage's side.
'Perhaps you've held a longstanding grudge against this old boy and have wreaked your revenge?’ Wat's voice sounded light, even though the topic was deadly.
'I'd never met him before the Conclave,' Hermitage said reasonably.
'But you'd heard of him?’
'Only in passing, a rather esoteric chap, bit of a specialist.’
'On what subject?’
'Well the days in the wilderness, of course.’ Hermitage wondered why Wat was asking again. He had been over all of this in great detail on the journey.
'That's it? I thought that was just this debate.’
'Well, you can't debate without comprehensive knowledge.’ Hermitage wasn't sure he understood the question.
'And that was his entire monastic life, specialising in the forty days and forty nights in the wilderness?’
The Heretics of De'Ath (The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage Book 1) Page 11