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

  The Heretics of De’Ath

  A Brother Hermitage mystery

  Howard of Warwick

  Published by The Funny Book Company

  Dalton House, 60 Windsor Ave, London SW19 2RR

  www.funnybookcompany.com

  Text copyright © Howard Matthews 2014

  The right of Howard Matthews to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

  A catalogue card for this book is available from the British Library.

  Kindle Edition ASIN B004AYDBVM

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9929393-0-4

  Cover design by Double Dagger

  Page design by Lodestar Books

  Contents

  Caput I AfterVespers

  Caput II After Matins

  Caput III Prime

  Caput IV Three Sext

  Caput V Before Vespers

  Caput VI Three Compline

  Caput VII Four Prime

  Caput VIII After Compline

  Caput IX Before Vigils

  Caput X Prime

  Caput XI Prime

  Caput XII Ladye Mass

  Caput XIII Magna Missa

  Caput XIV Before Vespers

  Caput XV Vespers

  Caput XVI Vespers

  Caput XVII Before Compline

  Caput XVIII Finis

  The Daily Orders

  The original manuscripts, from which this tale is drawn, naturally follow the daily life of the monastery. (It is only to be expected that Brother Hermitage would record events against this reference.)

  For those unfamiliar with this pattern, a short guide is provided below, taken, we believe, from a contemporary source. A less than devout one it seems.

  Matins. Midnight. Midnight! If you wake up in chapel, it’s probably Matins.

  Lauds: 1-o-clock. You’ve only just nodded off after Matins.

  Prime. 6-o-clock. That’s morning 6-o-clock!

  Ladye Masse. 8.30. Can’t we have five minutes to ourselves?

  Magna Missa. 10-o-clock. There’s that ruddy bell again.

  Sext. 12-o-clock. Well, we were up at midnight, so why not midday?

  Vespers. 6–o-clock. Just what you need after six hours work.

  Compline. 7-o-clock. A joke, surely?

  Matins. Midnight. Is that the last Matins again or a new one?

  September 1066

  Caput I After Vespers

  ‘And thus I refute the proposition in all its blasphemous impudence. I say yes, the Lord did get sand in his shoes during the forty days and forty nights in the wilderness. Any other belief is HERESY.’ Brother Ambrosius hurled the final word into the rafters of the refectory.

  Young Brother Hermitage who was in the front row – or who, more accurately, was the front row – nodded with admiration and respect as the elderly bulk of the orator sat down in exhaustion. The argument had been long and complex, and despite a warming fire which made this the most comfortable place in the whole monastery, only three monks remained alert at the end of the four-day exposition. And that’s allowing a very broad definition of ‘alert’.

  Hermitage was surprised the official opponent in the debate had given up after only the first five hours. He said he was retiring to his chamber for private prayer and took the novice Thabon with him. Their prayer was pretty vigorous, judging from all the grunting noises. Thus there were three contemplations on the case of Brother Ambrosius.

  He glanced at the others to encourage their reactions. First was Brother James and his was clear and instant.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ he muttered, ‘back to the garden.’

  Hermitage frowned, but recalled that interest in the debate was an exeunt from daily labours. He smiled, trust Brother James.

  Casting the old monk’s carefully constructed arguments to another mind in the room, that of Brother Francis, meant they fell not so much on stony ground as on extremely large boulders. All of them stupid. His response was the same as always.

  ‘What?’ he said, as if accused of something distasteful.

  Hermitage shook his head lightly in disappointment, not at the reactions of his Brothers, which was frankly no surprise, but at the loss they suffered through not engaging with this marvellous topic.

  Leaving them to their own devices, Hermitage returned to the pose of those in profound thought, or profound boredom. He hunched almost double, propped his elbow on his knee and buried his face in his left hand. Thus he demonstrated deep concentration, or that he was dozing off.

  Hermitage was so excited he could not have slept, even if he had been up all night writing a short summary of yesterday’s proceedings – which he had. After a while he raised his head and lifted his bright and wakeful eyes to the massive and complex timbers of the roof. He stroked his chin and began to order the many significant ideas accumulated over the last four days. He considered the argument had weight and a certain beauty, although the premise that sand was a work of the Devil was perhaps a weak spot. Most impressive was the passion of Ambrosius for this rather obscure area of theological research.

  Deep in his own thoughts, carefully constructing his observations and responses, Hermitage failed to notice that Brother Ambrosius was looking around in some agitation and anger. With a strangled gasp, the old man suddenly clutched at his chest.

  The Lord above, perhaps having heard all that he needed, spared the world from further debate by recovering Brother Ambrosius to his bosom. Far from having the opportunity to respond to any questions Hermitage might have come up with, the poor man stopped responding to anything.

  Hermitage also failed to notice that Brother James, alert to the ways of the world, looked around to confirm that no one else had noticed this event and slipped quietly out of his seat and away into the darkness.

  Hermitage thought on in quiet satisfaction, relishing a rare opportunity for intellectual activity in this austere institution. The Monastery in De’Ath’s Dingle had a sparse population and provoked little interest from senior figures in the Church – in fact, it hardly attracted any attention at all. That this debate of Conclave was assigned here, while literally a Godsend to Hermitage, was a sure sign the result was of absolutely no interest to anyone.

  The all-pervading ambience of isolated misery explained why it was some time before the dark of the autumn evening brought another monk to the great hall to light the sconces. Only then was the blindingly obvious fact of Brother Ambrosius’s death revealed.

  Sconce lighting at De’Ath's Dingle was a serious and sombre duty, to be completed with quiet devotion. It was a privileged task, given to those who would not use the opportunity for frivolous discussion with other monks, or as an escape from the natural labour of life. It was not meant to be a pleasure and so the Prior, Brother Athan, was the perfect choice. He had told Hermitage on many occasions that the unending toils of this life were a precursor to the hereafter, where things would be really tough. It was accepted wisdom that the man wouldn’t take pleasure if it was carried by a flea and injected into him.

  Even Brother Francis, who knew very little, had learned to move away from Athan when he saw him coming. He followed his instincts now, looking round in apparent puzzlement at where James had got to and why Ambrosius had stopped talking.

  As A
than entered, Hermitage turned towards the distant door and saw surprise on the monk’s face. Athan didn't like surprises. Apparently it was only a short step from a surprise to a joke, and then where would we be?

  ‘Brother Hermitage,’ Athan boomed.

  ‘Yes, Brother.’ Hermitage stood and responded loudly.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Erm.’ This was not what Hermitage had expected at all. Some cutting remark about the debate being a waste of breath perhaps, or the oft repeated accusation that Hermitage was a self-indulgent enthusiast. What had he done? He hadn’t done anything. Yes, he’d been thinking deeply, but that counted as doing nothing as far as Athan was concerned. He gaped a little, hoping that there would be some further explanation.

  ‘Brother Ambrosius,’ the new arrival barked. As if this was sufficient explanation.

  ‘Erm,’ Hermitage repeated, uncertainly.

  ‘Brother Ambrosius is dead,’ Athan said, never one to beat around the bush. Beat the bush maybe, set fire to it as a sinful luxury, but on all occasions get straight to the point.

  Hermitage wondered who Athan meant for a moment. There was a Brother Ambrosius at Peterborough, but why would Athan be concerned with that? He glanced back at the large shape of the old monk who had so recently completed his argument, and considered. He did look a bit dead now it was pointed out, but that couldn’t be. Surely nobody died just like that. He had seen dead people, and was sure they hadn’t sat down in a chair to do it.

  Dead bodies were the result of run-of-the-mill domestic mishaps. Usually they’d been chopped up, or mangled by some piece of machinery or a horse’s trampling hooves. Ambrosius looked quite normal: very still and rather staring, but apart from that normal. His pose in the chair was a touch more slumped and the look cast solidly on his features was of outrage, which was a bit odd considering he had just finished his debate.

  The longer Hermitage looked the less normal it became. Ambrosius didn’t move. At all. His huge chest and stomach no longer made their wheezing way in and out, and he hadn't farted or belched for at least a minute.

  Hermitage looked around the room to see if there was anything that might account for a death. Across the length and breadth of the chamber he didn’t really know what he was looking for. There was certainly no horse or suspect machinery.

  ‘Are you sure, Brother?’

  ‘Yes. I'm sure,’ Athan snapped. ‘Don't go anywhere,’ he added, pointing a finger at Hermitage

  Hermitage hadn’t been going to.

  Brother Athan strode across the room as if it were insulting him by being in his way, and peered closely at the defunct monk.

  ‘Yes, definitely,’ he spat into the room, as if accusing Hermitage of something.

  ‘Oh,’ Hermitage replied, ‘that's strange.’

  There was a pause while Athan did some glaring. Only Hermitage felt pauses needed filling.

  ‘We must pray for the departed, although it's a bit too late for unction in extremis.’

  Then Hermitage was puzzled. He liked being puzzled.

  ‘I wonder when he died.’ He puzzled away.

  ‘Oh you do? You've been here for his entire pointless ramble, the best part of a week. You’ve given the old fool your undivided attention, and you wonder when he died?’ The older man had suspicion in his voice. He also had it in his look, and probably had some spare in his habit should it be required.

  ‘Well, I didn’t notice anything, and as you say, I’ve been here all the time.’ Hermitage blinked in the face of the inevitable consequences of this statement. He had never learned the technique for hiding his light under a bushel when situations got awkward. He was incapable of keeping his mouth shut.

  Athan paced back to where Hermitage was standing and took up his usual position, just too close to be comfortable. As he did so Hermitage squirmed under the gaze, every stain and ragged thread on his well-worn habit calling out for punishment.

  Hermitage faced his Prior. His bright blue eyes were wide and honest. He smoothed the unruly lock of chestnut hair that tufted from his tonsure, despite the best efforts of the barber. The open and fresh expression that sat perpetually on his handsome and even features bolstered the intelligent enthusiasm, bubbling like a fresh spring from every pore.

  ‘You make me sick,’ Athan said. ‘You were here all the time, and so?’ He gave Hermitage a moment to answer, a moment which went over the head of the enthusiast like a heron in a hurricane.

  ‘And so how do you explain a dead monk and you in the same room?’ Athan screamed helpfully.

  ‘I was contemplating the argument and preparing to raise a few questions,’ the younger monk answered honestly, wondering why Athan was so excited.

  ‘Raising the Brother himself would be a miracle, never mind getting any answers,’ Athan waved his arms at Ambrosius. ‘I walk into the room of a most important debate of Conclave and find a dead body with you leering over it.’

  Hermitage was offended. ‘I wasn’t leering over it. I wasn’t anywhere near it. I didn’t even know it was there.’ He paused as he thought of something else. ‘Anyway, what do you mean important? You’ve always said the debate…’

  ‘You were the nearest one.’ Athan cut Hermitage short. ‘I want to know what you’re up to.’

  ‘I’m not up to anything.’

  ‘You were engaged in the debate.’

  ‘Well, I was listening,’ Hermitage said, wanting to be strictly accurate. As usual.

  ‘He was talking, you were listening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now he's dead, you’re not.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Hermitage really couldn’t see where this was going.

  ‘Very suspicious. You have ruined the Conclave.’

  ‘Ruined the Conclave?’ The accusation knocked Hermitage back a bit.

  ‘Yes, you idiot. The reason Ambrosius was here in the first place?’

  ‘I know what the Conclave is, Brother. I just never knew you had an interest.’

  ‘Of course I have an interest in what is important to the Church.’

  ‘But you said this debate was a complete waste of time and the lives of those who would fritter away their minutes listening to the interminable drivel of a demented old man.’

  ‘Don’t quote me back at myself, Hermitage. I might get annoyed.’ Athan thumped his fist into his palm for emphasis.

  ‘I’m still not sure I follow, Brother,’ Hermitage said, so meekly that lambs would have lain at his feet.

  ‘Ambrosius’s ramblings were just that. It doesn’t mean that the decisions of Conclave are not of vital importance to the future of the Church.’

  ‘But I thought you said the Conclave itself was a steaming pile of…’

  ‘And now Ambrosius is dead, this particular decision cannot be made and you seem to be in the middle of it. That is extremely serious.’

  Hermitage blundered on. ‘I think you may be exaggerating a little, Brother. The wilderness footwear issue is not of mainstream significance. Obviously in Matthew Caput four reference is made to stones in sandals, and while Ambrosius’s point about the existence of demons is granted, there is doubt that they should be manifest upon the body of...’

  ‘No, no, you fool. It’s no good you carrying on the debate with a dead monk is it?’ Athan gestured once more at the slowly stiffening Ambrosius. ‘The major problem is how this vital Conclave can resolve itself.’

  ‘Vital?’ Hermitage had thoroughly enjoyed the debate, but even he wouldn’t have called it vital.

  ‘Vital,’ Athan emphasised the word. ‘The vital debate is halted because there is a dead Brother in a room with only you in it.’

  ‘But I hadn’t noticed,’ Hermitage pleaded, ‘he must have simply died. He was old. Perhaps the exertion of the debate was too much for him.’ As he spoke, he reflected that it hadn’t really been much of a debate. Arguing with three monks, none of whom answered back, could hardly be described as testing.

  The message was not sinking
in, so Athan trod on it a bit harder.

  ‘That will be of little comfort to the Abbot, will it?’

  Now the blinkers of enthusiasm were torn from Hermitage’s eyes by the overhanging branch of mortality. The wheels on his cart of fervour cracked on the stones of self-preservation, and he wanted to go to the privy. Understanding flooded through him from brain to bowels, and his mouth opened and closed a few times of its own volition.

  Hermitage had chosen the Benedictines as they were a very flexible order. Yet this Abbot considered flexibility something to be frozen solid, preferably into some sort of weapon. He was a man of severe countenance, severe habit and a severed leg from some accident long ago. He nurtured great bitterness – and his only spark of generosity was to nurture it so well that it could be shared with everyone around him

  ‘The Abbot?’ Hermitage swallowed hard. ‘The death of a Brother is a regular occurrence and we simply give the Abbot the old habits. I don’t see why he would want to be involved now,’ was the rather pathetic argument he came up with.

  He waited for Athan’s response and watched. The pock-marks and lines on the man’s face seemed to squirm under the intolerable pressure of reasoning, while already small and pinched eyes tightened further. Athan drew in his breath and delivered his riposte.

  ‘He wants to be involved, because he does.’

  ‘But the other Brothers will bear testimony to the situation,’ Hermitage whined slightly.

  ‘Other Brothers?’ Athan's voice lightened to a point in which Hermitage detected a hint of pleasure.

  He looked around the room and noticed there were no other Brothers.

  ‘I think you’d better come with me, young Hermitage. The Abbot will want to determine how the death came about and what to do to you. I mean with you.’ Athan thought for a second. ‘No, I mean to you.’