That night in Nottingham was a very comfortable one for Hermitage, Wat, Cwen and Brody. Once again, the weaver had used the outrageous profits from his disgusting tapestries to secure the very best accommodations. Once again Hermitage had fretted over the moral questions involved, but as he fell asleep very quickly after a magnificent meal, he didn’t have to fret very long.
Cwen glowered and complained at the brand new, and very imposing wooden castle that William had put up. She moaned that he wasn’t hanging around in his subjugation of the country. Wat pointed out that at least the soldiers in the castle were keeping the place in some sort of order. But apparently it wasn’t the right sort of order for Cwen.
Nicodemus and Athan even had a reasonable time of it. They took good rooms very close to the Wat and Hermitage, although Athan expressed doubts that it was right to make profit by selling Wat’s tapestry to the robbers. He would not have been pleased to hear that Hermitage suffered similar doubts. Nicodemus didn’t help by suggesting that Athan’s sales methods had been more akin to extortion than negotiation. The dilemma dissolved nicely in some jugs of beer and a bowl of stew. A from the tavern boy was promised payment if he woke them when Wat and the others were leaving town and so they settled for the night.
. . .
The boy was true and honest to his word, although when he saw the coin he was offered by Nicodemus, his language was not that of anyone true or honest, let alone a boy. Athan tried to clip him round the ear but he was too quick and left promising that the whole of Nottingham would be warned not to assist the thieves who were as good as taking food from the mouths of children.
They observed from a safe and discreet distance as the party of Brother Hermitage left its lodgings. Such was the profit from this one stay that the landlord himself had come out to see them on their way and promised a warm welcome should they ever return.
The two groups headed off into the town, the first in the warm glow of approbation, the second watching their backs for any rotten fruit that might be coming their way.
They all wound through the streets of this busy place, which their landlord assured them had a population of over a thousand, a vast number which Hermitage found completely unbelievable. He also doubted anyone in the town was capable of counting to such a high number and so had little confidence in the figure. Such was their interest in the goings on around them that they failed to notice the two figures behind, hopping from doorway to doorway in a blatant attempt not to be spotted.
The route Brody followed was clearly heading for the river. The Trent wound its way round the south of the town, heading generally east before it would turn north later on. This direction gave Hermitage concern for a number of reasons. If they were planning to use the river as a means of transport that would mean a boat. If the open road held terrors for him, the open river was where they came after dark to make his nightmares.
And if they were to cross the river that wasn’t much better. The ferryman’s journey may be a short one, but that only meant the robbery and murder had to proceed more quickly.
Perhaps they would simply come to the river and then turn along its bank to continue their journey on foot. Of course that carried the risk of slipping off the bank and falling in to be carried away but one worry at a time. Well, maybe two.
Brody led on out of the safe surroundings of the town’s buildings and down a well-trodden path until the river dominated their view.
‘Ah,’ cried Hermitage, in huge relief. ‘A ford.’
The others gave him some very strange looks, clearly wondering why he found the presence of a ford so exciting. They hadn’t been in his head with all the images of drowning.
This ford was obviously a major thoroughfare. It probably even explained the presence of the town itself, if this was the only place the river could be crossed with ease. Even at this early hour of the day, carts and people were coming and going through the shallow waters as they swirled over the rock below. The swirling looked a bit threatening to Hermitage but no one else seemed to having any trouble. In the several minutes it took them to reach the water’s edge, he saw not a single person dragged away to die a horrible death in the dark depths.
At least there was no queue to cross at this time of day and they were soon on the brink of stepping into what looked like a rather cold stream.
‘Still heading east then?’ Wat asked Brody, who did not reply. ‘Or south, I suppose.’
‘I think east,’ Cwen concurred. ‘The south road is a busy one. Nowhere to hide a secret monastery I’d say. Bound to be east. Off in the marshes where no one wants to go anyway.’
They looked at Brody who gave nothing away by acknowledging the speculation, but who was looking a bit put out.
‘Cart for four sir?’ a voice cried as a young man hopped in front of them, effectively blocking their entry to the river.
‘A cart?’ Hermitage asked, having somehow found himself at the front of his band.
‘Oh yes sir,’ the young man said, with enthusiasm. ‘For a holy man like yourself, a fine merchant, the lady and your boy.’
Hermitage looked around for these people and realised it meant Wat, Cwen and Brody. He also saw that there was indeed a cart, stopped at the waterside. It was a simple affair with benches on its top to carry perhaps six or eight people at a time. The front was a single pole with a harness for a man rather than a beast, and another figure stood at the rear of the cart, obviously ready to push.
‘I think we’ll walk,’ said Hermitage, knowing that a cart across a ford was a luxury few but the wealthiest would indulge in. It was certainly not fitting transport for a monk.
‘Well, of course you can walk,’ the cart man acknowledged, ‘although the river is particularly wet today.’
Hermitage just stopped himself looking at the water to see how wet it was. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ he tried to sound as if the decision to walk was made and no persistent cart man was going to persuade him otherwise.
‘Good luck then, brother,’ the man smiled and nodded, stepping back to open the way to the river.
Hermitage took a step forward.
‘I’m sure the leeches won’t disturb the feet of a man of God like yourself.’
‘Leeches?’ Hermitage stopped.
‘Oh, yes brother,’ the man sounded very proud. ‘Our river has leeches the size of puppies. Took a man’s foot off completely the other day.’
Hermitage was about to express his horror at this when one’s of Wat’s lessons sprang into his head. “whatever anyone tells you” the weaver had instructed, “don’t believe them.” It was simple enough but a whole new world to Hermitage.
‘And this is the truth in front of a man of God is it?’ Hermitage was quite pleased with himself at this response, even if it did sound rather rude.
‘Ah, well,’ the cart man explained. ‘Didn’t see it myself, obviously. But I’m sure it’s true. Everyone’s been talking about it.’
‘So how come the leeches don’t take your feet?’ Hermitage asked, in what he felt was a very rapid and pointed retort.
‘It’s the goose fat.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh, yes. Common knowledge that the leech and the goose are mortal enemies.’
Hermitage looked around for some help with this. Wat and Cwen were simply watching with their arms folded. No help at all.
‘Ever seen a leech on a goose?’ the man demanded.
‘Er, well, I suppose not.’
‘There you are then. Slap of goose fat on the feet and the leeches keep their distance.’ The man lifted one of his feet as if inviting Hermitage to check for the presence of goose fat.
‘That’s all very well,’ said Hermitage trying to get back to the question before him. But we don’t want to take the cart. We shall walk through the ford.’ He looked at the traffic passing through the water. ‘Like most of the people here.’ He waved at several travellers who were splashing through the river without even looking down to see if leeches had taken their toes.
‘Ah, well they’re local and know all about the leeches and the geese, you see.’
Hermitage simply tried to look as if there was no way whatsoever that he was getting on a cart just to cross a ford.
‘And it’s only a penny for four,’ the cart man sold his wares.
Hermitage took his courage in his hands, held the cart man’s gaze and in clear, definite and unalterable terms said, ‘We are going to walk.’
The man shrugged at this defeat and stepped out of the way, which gave Hermitage quiet satisfaction. He turned to beckon the others to follow only to see that they were all sat in the cart.
‘What?’ he squeaked his dismay.
‘I’m not getting my feet wet,’ Wat explained, nodding towards his fine shoes as he flipped a coin to the cartman.
The man grinned and got into his harness. His companion set to pushing the back of the cart and they set off. Hermitage walked pointedly behind, the bottom of his habit soaking nicely in the water, and his attention focussed on any tickle of his feet that might indicate the arrival of the leeches.
As he crossed he saw a simple man coming the other way, driving half a dozen geese in front of him, doubtless on his way to market. They hissed as they waddled into the water. Perhaps it was at the leeches. Hermitage hurried his way out of the river Trent.
It wasn’t long before the road from the ford came to the great old Roman highway leading from Lincoln to somewhere off in the far south west - probably Spain. The highway was more old than great now, but it was still a major thoroughfare of the country. It was crowded now the day was advancing. Carts and people laden with their own loads travelled the path, many of them probably only going a short distance. There were even one or two riders on horses, but they naturally ignored the poor people who did nothing but get in their way.
The days of routine travel across the length and breadth of the land had long gone but this did not stop Cwen complaining that William had used the old roads to fasten his grip on the country. She said that this was completely unfair as he should have been made to build his own roads if he wanted to go anywhere. These were good Saxon roads and he had no right to set foot on them.
Pointing out that they were actually Roman roads; that the Saxons had probably used them for their own invasion and that Harold had only been able to get to Hastings for the battle by using the roads, only made her cross.
Brody stopped them at the road and looked left and right for a gap in the stream of travellers so that they could cross.
‘Certainly east now,’ Wat observed.
‘Alright,’ Brody snapped. ‘So it’s east. There’s a lot to the east.’
Wat gave this a moment’s thought. ‘No there isn’t,’ he concluded. ‘A few towns and then the land gets progressively wetter until it turns into water. Except no one’s been able to find the exact point it does so. One minute you’re thinking “this ground is very soggy” and the next, “this water’s a bit on the firm side.” Either way, you get wet.’
‘You’ll see, you’ll see,’ Brody crowed slightly, waving an arm towards the east.
The direction of the journey was all very well, but getting across the road was not proving to be easy. There was so much use of the thoroughfare that there were no gaps. As soon as you could see space behind a cart heading south, you’d see there was a horseman on the other side going north. And there was no rhyme or reason for where anyone was on the road. It infuriated Hermitage that there was no sign of any organisation at all. People going in one direction were constantly having to adjust their path to avoid someone going the other way.
All the thing needed was a bit of coordination. He immediately saw that if all the people going north went on one side of the road, and those going south on the other, the whole thing would run much more smoothly. He also suspected that if he suggested such a thing the accusations of witchcraft would soon be flying.
The most pressing question of course would be which side? Should people drive their goods and livestock on their left or their right? Did it matter? Of course it did, he concluded. And there was an absolutely definitive answer to the problem. Our Lord sat on the right hand of God, so people should drive on the right. Problem solved. And not a witch in sight.
He had heard it said that people travelled on the left so that their right hands were free for their swords. But that was ridiculous. Who could afford a sword, for goodness sake?
Very satisfied with his reasoning, which he looked forward to explaining in some detail to the others, he jumped when he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and hauled across the road.
Cwen had spotted a gap and gone for it. There had been someone approaching but a simple glare had slowed them enough for the route to open. There were some shouts of rage as people’s travel was disturbed and a loud suggestion that people like them shouldn’t be allowed on the road if they didn’t know how to use it.
Once on the far side, Cwen hurled her own insults back into the flow of people. She even stooped to pick up a rock, which Wat gently took from her hand.
Hermitage feared for the future if people couldn’t even travel on the roads of the country together without coming to blows.
. . .
Back at the ford, the blows were coming thick and fast. When Nicodemus and Athan arrived at the water there was no offer of a cart. Word of their parsimony had been spread very effectively by the boy from the tavern and the whole of the town seemed to have gathered to see them on their way.
It started with some simple stares of aggression and challenge but these soon developed into shouts and boos and it wasn’t long before the first object was thrown. At least it was soft and so did little damage but it was the principle of the thing. More followed, and the small turnips did make an impact.
Even Athan, who would normally be more than match for some stupid townsfolk could do nothing; there was no telling who in the crowd was throwing what. He picked something off his habit and held it between thumb and forefinger for Nicodemus to examine.
‘Who on earth is throwing leeches, for goodness sake?’ Nicodemus turned up his nose.
Athan turned his glare on the crowd and pointed at them in a very threatening manner. There were several, colourful suggestions as to exactly where he could put his threatening finger but no one actually stepped forward to assist.
‘This treasure better be worth it,’ Athan said, through clamped teeth as he splashed across the ford, objects of a various, but consistently unpleasant nature landing around him.
‘If it really is the Monasterium,’ Nicodemus replied, ‘you’ll be able to come back here and either curse the place to the darkest corner of hell, or buy it, three times over.’
The look on Athan’s face made it quite clear which he’d prefer.