Caput X
Day Five Prime
At the first sight of dawn the following day, there were awakenings across the monastery. The lone and rather despondent bell, rung by a lone and very despondent monk, roused those who had indulged in the luxury of sleep.
The monks who had made the night time observances were dozing in a variety of places, postures and company. They blinked with frank disbelief that the sun had the temerity to appear so early.
The Abbot looked out of his window in disgust at another bright and sunny day.
Athan leaped from his cot and reached instinctively for his largest stick. If he could beat the day into submission at its most vulnerable moment, he would.
Hermitage leaped from the floor, which he had sworn he would keep away from.
Wat stretched himself from another dream, the details of which he would note down quickly. As usual he shook his head in some disgust at the thoughts that came unbidden to his night.
The King's Investigator snored on.
Emerging from the tent, where the camp builders still lay, Wat gathered his wits and looked around. There was a good thickness of the walls of De'Ath's Dingle between him and the others. Including the corpse. He looked these ramparts up and down, but could see no obvious way in. Given the quality of their construction, the walls could easily have been dismantled, but the bigger problem was the King's Investigator – he might think it a bit odd if a weaver turned up wanting to have a look at the body.
Wat paced up and down a bit, then was struck by an idea.
'Of course, you fool,' he reprimanded himself. At some speed he made his way back to his tent to collect something from his pack and thence to the main door of the monastery.
Arriving at the huge edifice of wood and iron, he looked and started. How on earth he was going to get anyone's attention on the inside? He noticed a small door set into the main opening, and gave it as hard a thump as he could manage without damaging himself.
'What?’ said the bandaged figure that opened the door before Wat could knock a second time.
'Er,' Wat was taken back by the sudden response and stumbled over his words, 'ah, erm, yes,’ he thought as he spoke. 'Can I come in?’ he asked bluntly.
'Do what you like,' said the door keeper stepping out of the way, 'don't know why I don't just leave the bloody thing wide open anyway for all the thanks I get.’ The strange figure mumbled to himself and shuffled off to a small lean-to shack next to the gate. He entered it and slammed the door behind him, rattling the whole structure so much Wat feared it would fall down.
Once inside the monastery he looked around to see if there was a clear way to go. Not knowing the place at all, the location of the meat store was a mystery. Reluctantly he went over to the shack and tapped lightly on the door.
'I don't have to open this one, you know,' the voice spat in response.
'I'm sure,' Wat said, seriously but with some hesitation.
'I only want to know where the meat store is,' he said, through the cracks in the door.
'You're all sick,' the voice replied for reasons which weren't clear at all. 'Follow the wall round to the left until the second square and it's at the back on the right.’
'Thanks,' Wat tried to sound cheerful.
'Oh don't mention it, I'm sure,' said the voice in the shack, which clearly had significant problems of its own.
Hurrying along the directions, Wat followed the outer wall of the monastery. He passed through an open-topped corridor between the outer and inner walls, then came to the second space. Opposite this was a more carefully constructed square. It had two separate buildings in it, one of stone and one of wood. Walking towards the door of the former were Hermitage and another monk. Their journey must have been a quick one because Simon came running up behind, still pulling on his habit. As they went through the door and closed it behind them, Wat ran over.
He paused outside the door, girding his loins to enter when it was flung open and Brother Simon emerged at some pace. The monk stopped for a moment in front of Wat and gave him a most peculiar look. His eyes bulged and he turned rapidly to one side before vomiting loudly and comprehensively into the dust outside the building.
'He's definitely dead, then,' Wat commented.
He frowned in distaste at the sight and smell of the regurgitating Investigator, but the more revolting, sweet, sickly smell of death welcomed him as he pushed the door open and entered. Hermitage looked up and an expression of surprise and gratitude lit up his face. He immediately looked sideways at Athan, who hadn't noticed. He gave Wat a slow nod, which said that he was prepared to deceive his superior in any way Wat saw fit.
Hermitage knew the odour of decay as a background annoyance when a mouse or something had died in the furthermost reaches of the monastery stonework. Or when a rook had fallen down a chimney and died. Or vice versa. In such situations it was possible to imagine that there was nothing amiss until the faintest whiff brought the only possible conclusion.
Brother Ambrosius had brought the conclusion and all the arguments that went with it. The place stank and it had taken Hermitage several moments to get used to it. How anyone could eat any food that came out of this place was beyond imagining. In learned circles of the time there was much theorising about the properties of evil humours. All the circles had to do was convene in the meat store of De'Ath's Dingle and they could ask them in person.
Hermitage returned to the task in hand. Athan was intently looking at every inch of Ambrosius. They had bared him by cutting away his habit and all question of survival had been quickly despatched. It was obvious from the perfume that the angel of death had passed this way. It was obvious from what was left on the slab that the angel had probably been accompanied by several cherubs of death, had stayed on for a day or two and then left, taking everything of value with them.
The flaccid and lifeless skin was more like parchment than livid flesh. The muscles, dropping towards the floor, were only restrained by the bag of water in which they hung. The fact of death was blatant, but somehow the sunken, sullen and concave cheeks of the man really brought it home.
Athan and Hermitage rolled Ambrosius on to his back and the face looked even worse. It appeared that the man's lips were trying to work their way back into his mouth and out the back of his throat.
'Who the devil are you and where did you come from?’ Athan snapped, noticing the stranger in their midst.
Hermitage looked up again and tried to look neutral.
'Wat,' said the weaver, extending a hand but pulling it back again when he saw where Athan's hands were, 'weaver by trade, but the Investigator thought it would be useful if I took some sketches of events as they unfold.’ He held out the slates and chalk he had brought from his tent and began to sketch the recumbent Ambrosius.
'Pervert,' said Athan, but he turned back to his examination.
Hermitage gave Wat a questioning look, but the weaver indicated that discussion now would not be wise.
'Investi-what-not my arse,' Athan grumbled. 'Man's a bloody idiot. Can't stand the sight of death, doesn't know his Bible from a brothel.’
'So,' said Wat trying to defuse the approaching tirade, 'anything I should be looking at particularly? Nasty blow on the head, I see.’
'That's where he fell,' said Hermitage, to a glaring look from Athan.
'Is that what killed him, then?’ Wat asked.
'No, he was already dead,' Hermitage wanted to make sure that his point was made.
'And you haven't found anything else.’
'Not yet,' Athan snapped back.
'Looks a bit blue,' said Wat, ‘like his blood ran out.’
'Have you got some blue chalk then?’ said Athan in a threatening manner which, being Athan, came out as more threatening than manner. As he said this he came to his senses.
'What's a bloody weaver doing out here?’
'I was travelling with the Investigator and erm…'
Hermitage held his breath.
'No, no. Just good luck really. We met in Lincoln, his route was on my way and as he seems to be erm, indisposed,' Wat indicated towards the door.
'Indisposed,' Athan virtually exploded, 'I don't know what it is he supposed to do, but whatever it is he isn't doing it chucking his guts up out there.’
'Quite right,' Wat agreed.
'Useless prat,' Athan could have been talking about any of them.
Wat started making some chalk sketches of the face of Ambrosius with its large red mark.
'We still don't seem any the wiser as to what killed Brother Ambrosius,' Hermitage said to Athan in a loud clear voice.
'At least we know that he is dead though. We already know you were the only one there at the time, so there doesn't seem to be much left to sort out, does there.’ It wasn't a question, and the certainty of Hermitage's guilt shone brightly in the grimace of brother Athan.
'If we don't know what killed him, couldn't it simply have been natural causes? As this gentleman says he is very blue. I saw someone like that once after they were pulled out of the River Witham. Well, until they pulled a bit too hard and his arm came off, but that was very blue. Once you'd brushed the mould off.’
'Belt up, Hermitage,' Athan countered.
'A few people were sick then as well, come to think of it,' Hermitage said, his mind wandering in happy reminiscence.
'The Lord would not take a servant of Ambrosius’s eminence in the middle of debate, would he?’ Athan at last seemed prepared to discuss the proposition with Hermitage.
'Well, he did wait until the argument was concluded.’
'But not the debate.’ Athan was insistent. 'Father Genly had not made the opposing view and so the debate itself was not concluded. This is God's business and He wouldn't allow it stop halfway through like that. Therefore someone killed Ambrosius.’
Hermitage was somewhat surprised at Athan. He had to admit it was a pretty solid argument.
'Perhaps the Lord had his reasons. Perhaps He wanted the debate left inconclusive?’
'Hardly likely.’ Athan seemed pretty sure. 'This Conclave has been in the planning for years. If God had wanted it stopped He would have rained a plague or something months ago. He wouldn't wait until the most inappropriate moment possible to knock off one of the minor protagonists.’
While Hermitage appreciated the case Athan was making, he wondered why his elder and better was making quite such a fuss about it. Athan was excitable, of course. If anything out of the ordinary crossed his path, he would be the first to beat it to death. He was getting completely carried away by all of this though. He held the debate in the very deepest contempt, and this can't have been the first dead monk he'd ever come across.
'Or it was just bad luck?’ Hermitage was not going to give up, but he felt that he was on slippery ground.
'Bad luck?’ Athan was rightly contemptuous. 'What on earth has bad luck got to do with the debates of the Lord? You should know better than that. No, it's quite clear that these natural causes of yours are completely out of the question. Ambrosius was done to death, and you were the only one there who could have done him.’
That seemed to be pretty much that, and Hermitage simply looked over at Wat and shrugged his shoulders. Wat raised his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head. Hermitage couldn't tell whether this was because he too saw the infallibility of Athan's argument, or had seen a loophole in it that Hermitage had failed to spot. He would have to ask him when they had a moment.
'Just because we can't find anything on the body which shows how you killed him doesn't mean it wasn't done,' Athan went on. 'You'd have to be pretty stupid just to go up and stick a knife in him. While I know that you are pretty stupid, you obviously didn't do that on this occasion.’
'This occasion?’ Hermitage didn't know what was going on now.
'Well, we don't know that this is your first time, do we? How many other Brothers have met the Lord before their time because of you?’
'This is ridiculous,' Hermitage squeaked, 'I didn't kill this monk,' he gestured at Ambrosius, 'let alone any others.’
'Pah,' said Athan, as went round to the far side of the room to gather up the sheet which had covered the deceased.
Wat approached Hermitage and whispered sharply. 'This really is mad,' he said. 'If this is the standard of debate in the modern Church then God help us all. With a couple of cuckoos like you determining the fate of mankind we might as well all go and jump in the burning fiery furnace straight away, and to hell with paradise.’
Hermitage was taken aback.
'I'm about done here,' Wat said more brightly, holding his slate out for them to see the very good rendition of Ambrosius’ decay. 'What do we do next?’
'God knows,' Athan almost spat. 'Presumably we wait for that dung heap out there,’ he gestured in the direction of the dung heap in question which was still retching loudly, 'and see what he has to say. We're just humble servants.’
Athan strode to the door and flung it open, almost shoving Hermitage in front of him, allowing Wat to follow them both.
Brother Simon was sitting on the chopping block outside the meat store trying to brush his stomach contents off his shoes with some old straw. He looked up,
'So,' he said, 'what are your conclusions?’ He looked at them and frowned at Wat as if trying to understand why he was there. Another bilious attack took the questioning from him.
This was odd, thought Hermitage, the man was behaving as if they were acting on his instructions and that he hadn't just thrown up at the first sight of the dead body at all.
'My conclusion is that Ambrosius is dead because I examined the body carefully.’ Athan laced his sentence with enough contempt and sarcasm to tie the boots of every monk in the place together. It still wasn't enough to register on Simon's understanding.
'I concur,' Simon said, and Athan did nothing but let his jaw drop. If this had been any other monk he would have been picked up bodily and locked in the meat store with Ambrosius for a week. Being the King's something or other though made Athan bite his tongue. The taste of blood always calmed him.
'Are we also concluding that this monk did it?’ Simon asked.
'Brother!' Hermitage exclaimed. How could he have concluded this as well? He hadn't looked at the body or made any argument of his own? Granted Athan's exposition was very solid, and if Hermitage didn't actually know from first-hand experience that he hadn't killed Ambrosius, he would be convinced as well.
'We are.’ Again Athan gave his words enough weight to sink a small Abbey.
'Then we must see your Abbot and conclude this business.’
Athan smiled his smile, and Hermitage shivered.
'Of course,' Athan said and gestured the direction they should take.
Taking the situation to the Abbot was another chance, but Hermitage was not comforted. There was no telling whether such an audience would make things better or worse. Not that he could imagine what worse would look like.
Wat was smiling and nodding slightly. 'Excellent idea,' he said. 'Bound to be a sensible, down to earth, well-adjusted sort of chap.’
…
At that moment, the sensible chap was very down to earth. He was down on the earth, cursing it for holding him up and preventing the descent into hell, which was all that he deserved. He had wallowed in some filth for a while, spent a good long time thumping one of the open wounds on his leg, and then had a spell of pulling his hair out by the roots. Even by the extremely dubious standards of the day, there was something very wrong with the Abbot.
His abiding desire to keep himself to himself suited everyone eminently, and so he carried on unobserved. Occasionally there was discussion amongst the Brotherhood about how exactly this man had got to be an Abbot in the first place, and more interestingly how he managed to remain one. He didn't seem to do any of the Abbot-like things that others did. He never visited anyone, from the Bishop to the local poor
.
It had been suggested once that he should visit the local poor, but there had been such strong objections from the poor that the event had been cancelled.
Some speculated this was one of those ancient positions where the Abbot was appointed in perpetuity and couldn't be removed, even by the Pope. Others opined that he had performed some great and terrible service for the Church so all his odd behaviour was excused. Most prevalent was the idea that he had something on the Bishop and so could pretty much do what he liked. In any event, what he liked doing wasn't very nice at all and so people kept their distance.
Athan knocked again at the Abbot's study and this time he was answered quickly. He pushed the door gently open and peered around the corner. It seemed that the light of day was as reluctant to enter as any penitent. It was so dark that he had to step inside to find the Abbot and gestured Hermitage to follow.
The young monk had seen the Abbot three times now and the occasions were getting progressively worse. The Abbot had surpassed himself. The wizened old man was sitting on the floor of his cell and had clearly been punishing himself comprehensively for some considerable time. Obviously he hadn't eaten or drunk anything, but that hadn't stopped the rest of his bodily functions continuing as normal.
His drool was of a particularly gelatinous consistency and his incoherent mumbling was positively disturbing. As Hermitage beheld the scene before him his hopes dipped. He wanted the Abbot to be coherent and decisive, not gibbering and offensive. There was little hope of help from this quarter. Still, better get the man to put some clothes on.
Athan stepped back and pushed Hermitage into the doorway, blocking the entrance of the others. He closed the door, glaring and hissing instructions to Hermitage.
After a few moments the door was opened and Athan beckoned the others in. The Abbot was now in his habit and on his stool. It was as much as anyone could hope for.
Simon was lucky that he had spent a good long time at the meat store emptying the contents of his stomach. As the smell of the Abbot's chamber hit his nostrils, the retching was simply magnificent.
The Heretics of De'Ath (The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage Book 1) Page 13