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

by Howard of Warwick

  The small party gathered in the most squalid conditions ever seen in a religious house. Simon and Wat scanned the room for some sign of the leader of the community. They glanced at a piled up habit sitting on a stool and raised questioning eyebrows. Simon tutted like a man of great influence.

  'What do you want?’ the habit said and they jumped back, horrified. There was someone in there. It couldn't be a child as the voice was too deep. Deep and somehow unsettling at a very basic level.

  'This is the King's, erm, man,' Athan announced and it sounded like he had glee in his voice. 'He has been looking into the events of Brother Ambrosius’s passing.’ Athan turned to the King's, erm, man. 'And this is our Abbot.’

  Athan even managed a bow towards the huddled and stinking pile and gave the clear indication that the same was expected of an Investigator, King's or otherwise.

  'I must say,' Simon began, and he clearly had a long diatribe prepared that was going to be withering. Unfortunately, he never even got started.

  The shape on the stool threw back its cowl and glared at the Investigator before him. Hermitage had heard about the Abbot's glares. Even the mild ones were enough to reduce grown men to tears, but he had never seen anything like them in real life. Without knowing he had done so, he found that he had taken a step back, moving out of the firing line.

  'You,' the Abbot spat and most of the spit found its target on Simon's already disgusting shoes.

  This was not the reaction Hermitage expected. It didn't seem unhelpful though.

  It was even more clearly not the reaction the King's Investigator expected. For a moment he was taken aback by the vehemence of his welcome, as anyone would be. He stared at the Abbot with a mix of shock and outrage. He was on his back foot, but preparing for a step forward. The step never came as the shock was followed by a moment’s puzzlement and then recognition. With this came a remarkable transformation.

  To begin with, the Investigator simply went very pale. He was pretty pasty looking since forcibly parting company with his previous meal, but this was an altogether whiter shade. His mouth dropped open in a caricature of surprise, while his eyes widened to make room for the enormity of the sight that was trying to get into his head.

  'The Turd,' the Abbot announced, giving the word an additional level of disdain, which made its use to describe bodily waste positively fragrant.

  The Investigator was incapable of saying anything.

  'Have you met?’ Wat put in helpfully, enjoying the moment enormously.

  'Oh yes, we've met.’ These few, harmless words, issued from the mouth of the Abbot, stained and shamed the very letters from which they were made. They drew on all the filth and foulness that surrounded him, all the physical repulsiveness that made up his presence and were combined with the foetid torment that permeated his soul. They were words that would never show themselves in company again.

  Simon looked like he was about to wet himself.

  Athan's eyebrows rose in fascination.

  Hermitage looked quickly backwards and forwards from one man to the other. What was going on now?

  'The King's Investigator,' Athan said, inspired to get the title right at last.

  'Investigator my arse,' the Abbot interrupted without taking his eyes off Simon for one moment. 'This isn't the King's anything. This is the Transubstantiated Turd, as he is widely known. And reviled, I might add. This,' and here the Abbot paused for effect, 'is Brother please-spare-us Simon.’

  In Hermitage's rapid, flickering looks, trying to catch some event that would explain all this, he noticed Athan's mouth, open and fish-like. The man looked shocked and not in control. Not like Athan at all.

  'Simon,' Athan said, very quietly and very carefully.

  'So you and Brother Simon have worked together in the past, Father?’ Hermitage spoke up now. Perhaps in this bizarre behaviour there was a vague opportunity to better his own situation.

  'Worked? Ha!' the Abbot was almost human in his animation. 'This man is a blot on Christendom itself. He has all the intelligence and ability of a turd, and that is why he is so named. He combines this with a fawning self-importance and arrogance and so some of the equally stupid people who run our Church are taken in by him. Not me though, and not the like-minded who had to put up with his preening ignorance. We see straight through him to the hollow, self-centred core which is his soul. King's Investigator? What the hell does that mean anyway? I shouldn't think he knows. Do you?’

  The question was directed at Simon, but it clearly wasn't going to get an answer.

  'It means to track, you moron. You couldn't track the tracks of your own piss if you'd done it on your shoes. Which it looks like you have. Sucking up, though? Oh, he's a master of that. Jump sir? How high sir? Bend over sir? How low sir? I dread to think how many truly useful people have had their progress halted by this useless pile of privy plop. Whose backside did you kiss to get this one, then?’

  The Abbot seemed to have finished his extraordinary rant and left a pause that he demanded be filled by Simon's response. The others looked to Simon as well.

  The King's Investigator seemed to have recovered, although his usual confident and patronising look was a bit shaky.

  'I can see that this gentleman's ravings have not diminished over the years.’

  What an insult, calling the Abbot a gentleman instead of giving him his proper title.

  'It is true that I have encountered him before, but I will confess that I never for one moment assumed he would rise to his current exalted position. The sympathy of those in authority is to be admired when they take such as he to their bosom and give him what succour they can.’

  The sympathy in Simon's voice was so patently false that even Hermitage spotted the insincerity.

  'I myself have done my humble best to control his restless and disturbed mind, but I fear it cannot be done.’ Simon shook his head in sadness. 'My appointment by the Bishop to the position of the King's own personal Investigator clearly rankles with him. It would be unkind to prolong the agony of so pitiful a figure. Perhaps we should leave and I can make my report to the Bishop himself. I think I may have one or two recommendations concerning the future organisation of this place.’

  'Oh, give it a rest, Simon.’ The Abbot didn't seem put out by this tirade against his sanity at all. Well, no more put out than he was already.

  'You're still as pompous and stupid as you were thirty years ago. It sounds to me like you've been set up again. You never see it do you? Those wonderful people in authority, the ones with titles and land, and what you call respect, are only where they are because they trample on people like you. No one with any sense respects them. They're tolerated and placated and then talked about behind their backs.’ It was the Abbot's turn to shake his head.

  'You're not one of them and no amount of sucking up will make you one of them. You're being used, you're going to be a sacrificial lamb. Of every offering in the Book of Leviticus, you are the all dead ones. I've never heard of a King's Investigator, and I've been around longer than you have. I'm pretty damn sure there never was one until you turned up. Whoever it was gave you the title did so in the precise knowledge that it was just the sort of thing that would swell your empty pride to bursting point. It's Warwick all over again, isn't it? You took the fall then and you'll take it again now. Trouble is, you're so stupid you won't even know when it's happened.’

  Simon turned to Athan who was staring at him in a most peculiar and disrespectful manner, so he moved on to Hermitage.

  'Your Abbot is clearly most disturbed today and so I think we had better leave. I will escort you back to your detention.’ He took Hermitage by the arm.

  'Back to his what?’ the Abbot snapped.

  Athan was still incapacitated by something and to Hermitage's eye it was looking more and more like that old familiar blind rage. It was Wat who spoke.

  'Back to the dungeon, Father. You see the King's Investigator has concluded that Brother Hermitage killed Brother Ambr
osius.’

  'Then he definitely didn't do it,' the Abbot responded without a blink. 'If this man concluded that arrows were sharp I'd stick one in my eye. Athan.’

  The Abbot's command shook Athan back into the room.

  'Father?’ said Athan, although he seemed to have his teeth firmly stuck together.

  'What's this about Hermitage?’ the Abbot demanded.

  'We did discuss this, Father. Brother Hermitage was there when Ambrosius died.’

  'So were you for that matter,' the Abbot said, quite simply.

  'I arrived after the event.’

  'Yes, so you say. In any case, anything that this sheep's buttock has to say on the matter is by definition, rubbish. Let Hermitage go.’

  'I am the King's Investigator.’ Simon tried to take command of the situation.

  'Let him go, you dick,' the Abbot snapped back, 'or I shall put you in the dungeon and tell the Bishop you were an impostor. I've had no notification of an Investigator: you could be a pervert of some sort. Just get out.’

  Wat seized this opportunity, while the Investigator was distracted. He took Hermitage by the arm and turned him sharply towards the door so that they could leave. It was only then that he came face to face with the tapestry that hung on the door.

  'Yes, that's it,' he muttered to himself, noting the subtle 'W' stitched into the border. 'Come on, Hermitage, you're free to go.’

  Hermitage stepped gladly from the room before anyone had a chance to change their mind.

  Simon was stepping backwards as well, but spoke to the Abbot. 'You are clearly in no condition to deal rationally with events, sir, and so I shall leave to continue my duties. If I determine that this Brother is guilty, then that shall be that.’ He turned on his heels and left as quickly as he could, giving the Abbot no opportunity to respond. He slammed the door behind him.

  'Bollocks!' the leader of the community yelled in what sounded almost like good humour.

  Athan remained in the Abbot's chamber.

  'Father, this Brother Simon and Warwick,' he said, and knelt in the muck for a conversation.

  …

  Outside the door Simon's usual condescending whine was fully restored.

  'Well,' he said, assuming that they all agreed that the Abbot was mad.

  'He seems a bit, erm, excitable,' said Wat, choosing his words carefully.

  'Oh, undoubtedly,' said Simon, 'and while I could exert my authority over him I think in his condition it is best to humour him.’

  Wat nodded sagely at this magnanimous gesture.

  'However, young Hermitage, you are not to leave the monastery. It seems that I had best look into matters further. I shall be in my chamber.’

  With this he left them and strode off. Hermitage and Wat exchanged looks.

  'Right,' said Wat, 'I think that all seems pretty clear then. We'd better have a look at the scene of the crime.’

  'Who, what, where?’ Hermitage had so many questions they couldn't all get out at the same time. 'What's pretty clear?’

  'That the Investigator is an idiot. I've had my doubts about him since Lincoln and I think I know him from somewhere. Warwick, that rings a bell,' he shrugged. 'It'll come.’

  'What do you mean, he's an idiot?’

  'You saw him. I think the Abbot has him pretty well summed up. Smart guy that, I like him. They obviously go back a bit and it's not a happy history.’

  'How could the King's Investigator be an idiot?’ This really wasn't making any sort of sense to Hermitage.

  'Just as the Abbot said, I imagine. Someone on high is up to something unsavoury and they need a scapegoat.’

  'This is shocking. He's in the King's name.’ The concept was not making it through to Hermitage's thinking.

  'There's your guarantee, then. I mean Harold is a reasonable sort, but you don't get to be King and stay there without a few wiles in your quiver. He wouldn't appoint a berk like Simon.’

  'You mean the King is involved?’

  'No no, don't be ridiculous, this is small beer. Whatever it is that's going on. Local stuff, wouldn't interest the court. Anyway, Harold's too busy fighting off the Danes to worry about one little monastery. At least with mister King's Investigator out of our hair we can try and find out what really happened.’

  'But he died. Ambrosius just died.’

  'Quite possibly, but with the Abbot's information it is perfectly possible that there really is some skulduggery going on.’

  'Oh, lord,' Hermitage quaked.

  'Indeed. So, we've had a look at the dead, let's go and see the place of death.’ Wat gestured Hermitage to lead the way which the young monk did, shaking his head slowly for so many reasons. Disbelief at the evils of man, shock that they could be played out within a religious community, horror that those in positions of authority might be abusing their position. Not to mention frank amazement that the Abbot might not be as mad as a whooping frog after all.

  Caput XI

  Day Five Prime

  Nicodemus was a man of infinite patience. He had developed it over many years of working under the yoke of individuals who would not just try the patience of a saint – they would find it guilty and go straight to the lynching. He was a man hardened to the foibles of the high born, the well-connected and the just plain obnoxious, frequently in the same person.

  Now he was wondering whether he had met his match. Was the Earl of Northumbria the epitome of ghastly and unbearable appallingness? Nicodemus wasn't even sure that there was such a word, but it fitted like a glove on the hand of a decaying corpse.

  During a rare moment of reverie, away from the Earl who was slumped unconscious from a surfeit of surfeits, he was interrupted by one of the staff.

  'We think the Earl of Northumbria's done a poo,' the man said.

  'So?’ was all Nicodemus's weary irritation could manage.

  'What should we do? We don't think we can lift him, there are only six of us.’

  'Then leave him,' Nicodemus shrugged.

  'It's not very nice in there,' the servant pleaded.

  'I'm sorry?’ Nicodemus felt his old self again. 'It's not very nice? Am I paying you to have a nice time?’

  'No, you're not paying us at all,' the impudent fellow retorted. 'You said that if we didn't serve tonight we would all go to hell on the Bishop's personal order.’

  'It's probably just a fart,' said Nicodemus. 'He's hardly likely to go in his chair, is he?’ Nicodemus didn't believe this for a moment, but he hoped for the best.

  Reluctantly returning to the Bishop's chamber, he instantly realised that if this was a fart it was a remarkably solid one. God's holy teeth, the nobility were a disgusting lot. The church hierarchy were disgusting too, most of his fellow servants of God were disgusting and the staff were disgusting as well. The sooner he could get away from all of them the better.

  'Where are his personal staff?’ Nicodemus demanded.

  'They ran away,' the impudent one answered.

  'Well, go and find them and tell them to come back here now or they'll all be accompanying you on your journey to hell. They're probably in the tavern on Steep Hill.’

  This was one errand the servant was keen on, and so he sped off.

  Despite the smell Nicodemus sat opposite the snoring, stinking Earl and gazed at him with a mixture of contempt and pure disbelief. Once again his mind whirled at the thought of this lump of poo with a man on top siring children.

  After only a few moments there was a loud rap on the door.

  'Oh, for God's sake, you can let yourselves in,' Nicodemus muttered. He stood to go to the door thinking that tearing a strip off a bunch of peasants might lift his mood.

  Throwing the door open he saw another bloody noble. Discretion and guile immediately got the better of his instincts, so he refrained from slapping this one in the face as a proxy for the Earl.

  The new man was clearly a noble for so many reasons. His clothes were clean for a start, nor was he carrying anything, although he had obviously
had a long journey to get here. Everyone had a long journey to get here. Over the man's shoulder Nicodemus saw a large retinue of men who toiled out on the road with carts, cases and horses. Most strikingly of all, the visitor looked Nicodemus up and down as if he were an extension of the door frame. Only someone of true class could display such natural contempt.

  'You must be Master Nicodemus,' the new arrival said. 'I must say it's gratifying to see a man of the Church with the humility to open his own door.’

  Nicodemus looked blank.

  'Ah, forgive me my dear fellow, I haven't introduced myself.’ The man at the door removed one large black leather riding gauntlet and held out his hand. 'Toksvar. I think you're expecting me?’

  The visitor took a step forward and Nicodemus thought that he was about to walk into the house uninvited. Instead he stood at the door and took a cautious sniff of the air.

  'I'm...’ Nicodemus was about to apologise for a problem with the garderobe.

  'Oh God,' Toksvar said, 'has my disgusting father disgraced himself again? I'm most terribly sorry.’ He gestured in a particular way to a part of his retinue who began unpacking towels and packages as a well-oiled team. 'Let's get the revolting reprobate sorted out and then perhaps we can get on with business and out of your hair.’ He made to enter the house and Nicodemus willingly stood to one side. 'He really is the most hideous, stinking, shameful excuse of a man, and I hope you've told him so.’

  Nicodemus was taking to Toksvar.

  They entered the room and Nicodemus politely held a hand to his nose. Toksvar was more direct – he simply lifted a boot and kicked his august father on the shoulder.

  'Oy,' he yelled, 'you foul stinking dung wagon. Stir yourself before I block your arse up permanently with my boot.’

  The Earl did stir himself with surprising speed and rounded on his attacker.

  'You,' he spat, 'I might have known.’ He did have the decency to squirm in his seat rather as he discovered that what he thought had been a most unusual dream had very tangible results.

  'The sooner we get this business completed and you out of my life the better,' the Earl snarled.