Chapter 3
It’s strange but true; ordinary people are inclined to like monks, and nuns and friars and the contemplative clergy generally.
I can’t think why. We live in what are in effect fortified castles, and we collect substantial rents, tolls, fees for using our mills and weirs and presses and pretty well every substantial piece of heavy equipment – you name it, we own it and you can’t use it unless you pay us a lot of money.
True, we provided them all in the first place and on average we charge slightly less than the barons and the earls for the use of our kit; and if you get sick and your family can manage to haul you to the abbey gate on a door, brother infirmarer will probably take a look at you when he’s got five minutes, and we selflessly donate all our stale bread and rancid bacon and needled beer to the poor, rather than the pigs or the staghounds.
The fact remains that once you get out into the country, there’s a remarkable level of goodwill to anyone in a habit.
People have this idea that we’re genuinely good and kind and wise, and they give us food and shelter before we even have to ask.
The downside – not much of one, if you ask me – is that there’s always a couple of neighbours with a dispute they want arbitrated, or some poor devil dying who we’re expected to cure with a miracle, or some tortured soul desperate for confession and absolution –
“– So by rights they were my carrots anyway, because it was my seed and my oxen, well, actually it was Brenno’s oxen which I’d borrowed, but I let him use my chain harrow, anyway I did the actual ploughing, well, that’s not strictly true, I had my boy Adda do it.
But he had no call to let his sheep go grazing right next to my top field, because he knew damn well that hedge is a bit thin, and you know what sheep are like, so obviously when they broke through I was mad as hell—”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Isn’t this meant to be a confession?”
“Yes, Father.”
“But from what you’ve told me,” I said smoothly, “clearly you did nothing wrong. Therefore there is no sin to confess.”
He beamed at me. “You think so, Father?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Father. That’s a great weight off my mind. Here, have some more of the beef.”
And there you go. Nobody was being swindled, nothing had been stolen, a basically good man felt a lot better about himself and Svangerd and I were so crammed with food we could barely move. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Svangerd whispered in my ear, as our host went to get more cider.
“Why?”
“Letting him call you Father like that. You’re not a priest, you’re just a monk. You can’t go around hearing confessions.”
“I didn’t ask to hear the story of his life,” I pointed out. “Also, I didn’t notice you refusing to eat the food.”
“That was maintaining our cover. And I didn’t go stuffing my face with seconds.”
“He offered. I didn’t ask.”
You see? Goodwill. A conventional belief that monks and nuns are the good guys, leading to mutual benefit, a rare opportunity for the inherent goodness lurking deep in all of us to stick its head up without getting it bitten off. Later that night, of course, we stole his horse and cart.
“It’s not stealing,” Svangerd insisted. “We left money. Too much, if you ask me.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said. “We could have asked. I’m sure he’d have agreed.”
“Yes, but he might not have, and then he’d probably have padlocked the barn. And we can’t afford to hang about. We need to go now.”
She had a point, of course. For three days we’d both been aware of five horsemen, following us.
They kept their distance, and if Svangerd and I had led slightly less exciting lives I don’t suppose we’d have noticed them, but they were definitely a thing, and she was quite right about needing to get a jump on them if we possibly could. Even so.
“What we need to do,” she said, “is get off the road and get up in those hills, so we can see them. Then we drop in behind them, wait till it’s dark and sneak up on them.”
“I see,” I said. “And then the two of us launch an unprovoked attack on the five of them.”
“With the element of surprise, yes. And then they tell us what they’re up to, and then we break their legs and take their horses.”
So we did that. At least, we launched the attack, with the element of surprise. Actually, the element of total bewilderment. “Please,” said the old man with the white hair, “don’t hurt us. Just take what you want and leave us alone.”
Svangerd was holding a knife to the side of his neck, just under his left ear. “You were following us.”
“No, we weren’t. We’re going to Fallstein. We’re corn chandlers, me and my two boys and my nephews.”
“Don’t lie to me. You were hiding and creeping so we wouldn’t see you.”
“No we weren’t. We were going slowly because my son’s horse cast a shoe. Go and look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
I held the knife while she went and looked. “I’m sorry,” I said under my breath. “She’s like this all the time. She thinks she’s being chased by devils.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“Sorry.” I’m not used to holding people at knifepoint, so I tend to press too hard.
“Can’t you control her?”
“This is about as controlled as she gets.”
Svangerd came back. “Proving nothing,” she said. “So you were following us and one of your horses cast a shoe. That makes you unlucky, not innocent.”
“While you were there,” I said, “did you notice any weapons?”
“You what?”
“Only,” I pointed out, “they don’t seem to have any weapons with them, so if they’ve got any they must be over with the horses. Did you see any? You know, swords and spears and bows…”
She scowled at me. “So they’re spies, not assassins.”
“Or just conceivably they’re corn chandlers heading for the coast. In which case,” I added, “they’ve probably got a substantial sum of money.
Like, for instance,” I added, reaching for the purse on the old man’s belt, “this. Whereas in my experience, spies don’t tend to go about with hundreds of gulden on their persons. ”
“Fine,” she snapped. “Let him go.”
All things considered, they were very reasonable about it. “She’s mad,” the old man said. “She ought to be locked up.”
“It’s not up to me,” I replied, as I held his stirrup as he mounted. “And she’s a very holy woman. Incredibly devout.”
He said something I didn’t quite catch and they rode off. “Arsehole,” she said, when they were out of earshot. “I heard what you said to him.”
“Serves you right for eavesdropping. And ten out of ten for being inconspicuous and not drawing attention to us. I expect they’ll have forgotten all about us by the time they get to the next inn.”
Not the case, unfortunately. At the Fortitude He said it, and it was so. I think you need to be careful you don’t stick like it.”
That, coming from the woman who – oh, the hell with it. Never mind.
Turning points in history, number 376.
Just an ordinary day in the unremarkable fishing village of Numbart.
The men set off at dawn to trawl the large shoal of herrings that always passes through the straits at that time of year.
The women gather on the beach to gut and salt the previous night’s catch, and pack them into barrels.
Nothing untoward is expected to happen, because nothing ever happens in Numbart.