The Tapestry of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  'You could have stopped there,' Hermitage suggested.

  'We couldn't. For one thing, the temptation of the money was too great. For another, we kept getting more orders. And the people who asked said if we didn't do the work, we'd be reported to the guild. And we all knew what the guild did to people.'

  'The Tapestry of Death,' Hermitage concluded.

  'Exactly. What could we do? Carry on, take the money, and stay alive. Or, give up, not have the money, and be dead?'

  'A dilemma,' Hermitage nodded.

  'Not really.' Wat clearly couldn't see the dilemma. 'We carried on together for a while, but then Briston had a bit of bother. One of his noble clients wanted to make him his personal tapestrier.'

  'Isn't that good?' Hermitage asked. 'The security of a great house, a reputation?'

  'With no pay, virtual imprisonment, and all the profit from the work going to the noble?'

  'Ah, perhaps not.'

  'So we split up. He went North, I stayed in the midlands. We created the death notes before we parted and said we'd always leave word of our whereabouts.' Wat gazed at his bundled companion. 'Now I've found you, Briston.' He hung his head.

  Hermitage had taken in so much that there wasn't room for any more. He would need some time to think all this through. He also knew he really didn’t want to spend time thinking much about any of it. 'How could you make them?' he said, shaking his head at the loss these things had brought to the world. Loss for the spirit of man being led along the road to corruption. Loss for Wat's immortal soul and, of course, the ultimate loss for Briston.

  'Well,' he began, 'you start with a preliminary sketch. It has to be pretty accurate so you know exactly what's going where and so the faces are recognizable. It's usually made up to the client's specification but occasionally you do the sketch from life. Can't say I'm fond of that approach.' Wat allowed himself a short shiver. 'Then you transfer the sketch to the cloth with a set of directions for the apprentices. Keep an eye on progress, bit of instruction here, bit of your own work there and...' Wat looked at Hermitage who was gaping at him. 'What?' Wat asked.

  Hermitage spoke slowly and quietly, 'I meant how could you make them morally speaking? I don't want specific instructions.'

  'Ah,' Wat hung his head again.

  'It is a sorry tale,' Hermitage said, glancing towards the recumbent Briston. 'But, you cannot blame yourself for his death.'

  'I wasn't going to,' Wat responded with some surprise. 'Like I said, he always was a chancer. Took on more work than he could do, delivered late, poor quality. I told him. I said “quality”, Briston, that's the way to profit. Keep the supply short and the quality high and then you get a premium. It’s no good turning out acres of the stuff. Just devalues the market.'

  'Oh.' Hermitage was a bit disappointed at this.

  'I mean,' Wat went on, 'Briston had plans to get the tapestries into the hands of the common man. What good's that going to do, I asked. They haven't got any money.'

  'Is that a bit, erm, mercenary?' Hermitage suggested.

  Wat paused and his shoulders fell. 'You're right, of course. Briston used his money to buy himself out of his apprenticeship and then bribed the guild for a master's badge. I kept mine. Stashed it away and bought some nice things. What have either of us got to show? I have to keep myself to myself and never trust anyone. And Briston's dead.'

  Wat collapsed back in his chair.

  'You can trust me,' Hermitage said.

  'I know, Hermitage,' Wat replied looking up. Hermitage thought there was a glint of moisture in the weaver's eye. 'I can trust you Hermitage, and that's been a great thing for me. I can't remember the last time I was with someone I could trust. Trust not to rob me or worse. I could have gone home several times over the months we've been together. Got back to work and counted the profit, but I stayed.'

  'You didn't have much choice most of the time. There's usually someone with a small army and a gallows making the consequences of departure most explicit.'

  'I know, but even so. You're an innocent. You're trusting and well meaning and the look on your face when you find out something bad about people? Well, it reminds me of what I've thrown away.'

  'Perhaps there is a way back for you,' Hermitage nodded, thinking hard

  'Really?'

  'Yes, the monastic life offers a wide range of...'

  'Oh no. No, no, no. I feel bad about what I've done, who I am, and the people I deal with, but there some things even I won't do.'

  Wat opened the box again and returned to checking Briston's stock.

  'At least our friendship puts us in the right place to deal with this,' Hermitage said.

  Wat looked around the grim scene once more. The inside of the tent was becoming damp with the cold of the January night and the oil was flickering in the lamp casting incoherent yet lively shadows on the tapestries.

  'Friendship.' Wat tried the word out. He liked it. 'Yes it does, doesn't it? Having been forced to solve other people's crimes for them, we can now do it for ourselves. Well, for me. Perhaps getting Briston's killer will be some, erm, what's the word when you make up for something bad by doing something good?'

  'Penance?' Hermitage offered.

  'That's the one.'

  Wat's head vanished into the box once more as he rummaged about. There was a sudden stillness to his body then he emerged holding a golden tassel in his hand.

  'That's nice,' Hermitage observed. 'I've heard the Bishop of Dorchester has those on his bible.'

  'I bet he does,' Wat replied with a bit of a snort.

  'Did Briston make it?'

  'He did.'

  ‘Why would a weaver make a tassel?'

  'All finished tapestries that sell are tied in the golden tassel.'

  'How nice.' Hermitage was grateful there was at least one pleasant aspect to this trade.

  'The tassel makes customers think the tapestry's worth more than it is.'

  'Oh.' Hermitage's gratitude went off to chat with his disappointment.

  'It’s a bit odd though. You don't bother making the tassel until the tapestry is complete and no customer would leave the tassel behind.'

  'Aha,' Hermitage drawled out. 'This could be very significant.'

  'Don’t see why.' Wat threw the tassel back in the box. 'We still know the guild killed Briston.'

  'Well, the missing tapestry could be the chop that choked the dog.' Hermitage nodded as he said this. He nodded knowingly.

  'Eh?'

  Hermitage stopped nodding, 'Sorry, it's an expression my family used. A rather unfortunate event when one of the hounds got into the meat store. Perhaps the missing tapestry prompted the guild to act?' Hermitage paused, smiling at this neat connection.

  Wat looked at him, jaw slack, as if a thought had dropped from his head into his mouth. 'The killer left it behind,' he said, ‘but took the tapestry.’

  'Erm,' Hermitage didn’t see that connection.

  'As you said, the customer gets the tassel. If the customer had taken the work, the tassel would be gone. A killer wouldn't be worried about a bit of tassel. All he'd want to do is get the job done and get away.'

  Hermitage thought it a bit callous calling the murder of a friend a “job”.

  'It could be an important image,' Wat speculated.

  Hermitage shrugged, ‘Just another one of Briston's rather deplorable tapestries, I’d have thought.'

  'No it wasn’t,' Wat thought out loud. 'If the guild killed Briston to show the Normans how much they disapprove of this sort of thing, why would the killer take just one tapestry away? The rest of them are much the same.'

  'Yes, they are, aren’t they?' Hermitage’s disappointment gave his head a solemn shake.

  'Why leave the rest behind?' Wat’s thoughts were not going to be interrupted. 'Perhaps this one was to hand. Perhaps it’s just the sort of thing the man went in for.' Wat frowned hard, as he could not bring a suitable reason to mind. 'Who cares?' He concluded quickly. ‘The guild committed the murder
. It’d be nice to know why, but it won’t stop me dealing the man who did it.'

  Hermitage was horrified at this. Wat had raised a question and seemed prepared to wander off without answering it. Worse still, the question was why – not knowing why was unthinkable. If something happened, which was not the will of God and so beyond man’s reason, you had to know why. Really had to. If you didn’t know why, it would rankle and nag at you. Stop you sleeping, upset your stomach, disturb all your thoughts. Until now, he’d been prepared to accept that Briston was killed for the tapestries he created. It was certainly a good enough reason as far as he could see. Now there was the suggestion of some other motive.

  'But,’ he whimpered, 'we have to know why. It might be the key to everything.'

  Wat looked at Hermitage with disappointed eyes and shook his head slowly. He added a sigh to complete the effect.

  'I suppose if I find out who and you find out why, we’ll have covered everything.' He smiled indulgently as he gave Hermitage this gift.

  Hermitage’s enthusiasm boiled from him, ‘I wonder what it's a picture of?' he bubbled.

  ‘We can ask the murderer when we find him,’ Wat replied. ‘Remind me not to kill him before we’ve had a chat.’

  Hermitage frowned his best disappointed frown at his companion.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Wat rubbed his hands together, ‘we need somewhere to sleep.’

  ‘Perhaps we should keep vigil,’ Hermitage suggested, looking round the tent to see how they should organise themselves.

  ‘I’m not staying in here with him.’ Wat was horrified. ‘He’s dead! That peasant who brought us the news can put us up.’

  Hermitage was taken aback by this apparent heartlessness, ‘I hardly think a poor peasant will be able to provide for two guests, let alone be willing.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what people will do for a browse through the catalogue of Briston the Weaver. We’ll take this with us.’

  He moved to the box of tapestries and indicated that Hermitage should pick up the other end. Holding the end of the box of sinful tapestries, Hermitage followed Wat, who led the way out of the tent without a backwards glance.

  Caput IV

  A New Ritual

  'We have got to find that tapestry,' the master said to The Hoofhorn.

  The cowled figure had stepped down from the chair upon the dais and was pacing between the columns. The Hoofhorn stood in the middle of the room, the ritual middle of the room, and he stood in a very ritual way.

  'How did you manage to lose him?' the master demanded.

  The Hoofhorn cackled. 'He went beyond the bounds,' it said in wild, yet mysterious tones.

  'The bounds?'

  'The bounds of the guild.' The Hoofhorn waved his arms wide and twiddled his fingers up and down to indicate the bounds, 'The Hoofhorn may not act beyond the bounds of the guild.' It was a statement of fact.

  'Where are these bounds exactly?' The Master asked.

  'The bounds of guild upon the ground

  One half league and a sheep’s throw from the chair upon

  the dais will be found,'

  The Hoofhorn recited, hurriedly scanning the last line.

  The Master frowned, 'Are you telling me you failed to chase one man with a small dagger while you had a large sword?'

  'The Sword of Tup,' The Hoofhorn corrected.

  'Of course. You had the Sword of Tup and you chased this man until he got one half league and a sheep’s throw away and then you stopped?'

  'Of course,' The Hoofhorn answered, as if so much was blindingly obvious, or at least should be to the Master.

  'The powers of The Hoofhorn can only be found

  Within the bounds. The bounds. The bounds.'

  'You'll have no powers at all in a minute,' the Master snorted.

  He stepped up to The Hoofhorn with the clear intention of grabbing the figure by the scruff of the neck. As he got closer, he could see the rags in sobering detail. He gave up on the grabbing.

  'So how do you suggest we get the tapestry back?' he demanded.

  The Hoofhorn cackled, 'The Hoofhorn cannot do it.'

  'What if I grabbed The Hoofhorn by his horny hoof and dragged him over the bounds? Kicking him as I went?' the master suggested.

  'If beyond the bounds The Hoofhorn steps

  Into his shoes the Master must, erm, step.'

  'Steps and step?' The master snorted at the rhyme.

  'The Hoofhorn can never leave,' The Hoofhorn bleated. 'The successor must be here to take on The Hoofhorn's duties before death. Only then can The Hoofhorn depart this place. If The Hoofhorn is forced beyond the bounds, you must take his place.’

  'I don't think so.' The Master was pretty clear on this.

  'No choice.'

  The Master paced up and down the hall. The idea of going after the tapestry himself did not seem to occur to him.

  'You must have a ritual,' he mused.

  'Ah, many rituals. Many, many.'

  'Yes, yes.' The Master tried to shut The Hoofhorn up before he went on an excursion through his rituals. 'You must have a ritual for crossing the bounds. How did you get here in the first place? You must have crossed the bounds on the way in?'

  'Only during the trance of transposition can The Hoofhorn move from one guild hall to another. Not much good chasing people when you're in a trance,' The Hoofhorn observed with remarkable sense.

  'There's a ritual for everything,' the Master went on. 'Opening the doors, closing them, taking the first step in the morning and the last one at night. That one with the fir branches for the first lamb of the season and the three hundred and twelve rituals for each lamb thereafter.'

  The Master ignored the fact The Hoofhorn was glaring at him for apparently making light of the rituals.

  'Never mind all that bizarre stuff for polishing the cauldron.' The Master stood with arms folded.

  The Hoofhorn continued to glare, but his look slowly lightened and he turned his head towards the cauldron.

  'The cauldron of the boiling fleece,' he intoned.

  'I know,' the Master answered.

  'There is a ritual,' The Hoofhorn announced with some excitement. 'An ancient and mysterious ritual.'

  'More ancient and mysterious than all the others?' The Master sounded incredulous.

  'Oh yes,' The Hoofhorn was positively gleeful. 'Much more ancient and wildly more mysterious.' The Hoofhorn skipped off behind the pillars.

  The Master had never followed him behind the pillars. He didn't know what The Hoofhorn got up to back there, but it never sounded very wholesome.

  The ancient and ragged creature returned with a great book in its arms.

  'The book?' The Master was impressed now. 'I thought you knew all the rituals.'

  'Not this one. Not been used by a Hoofhorn in a thousand generations.'

  'A thousand?' The Master wasn't prepared to accept this exaggeration.

  'Well, a lot,' The Hoofhorn negotiated.

  'Uh huh, and what does this ritual do exactly?'

  The Hoofhorn cackled with his book and skipped over to the cauldron.

  'It deposits the spirit of The Hoofhorn into the cauldron of the boiling fleece.'

  'Does it?'

  'Oh yes. It is a measure only to be used in the direst emergency. It frees the Hoofhorn from the bounds to carry out the needs of the guild. The powers are left in the cauldron, but the body that houses The Hoofhorn can venture abroad.'

  'Let's get on with it then.' The Master was impatient.

  'Oh no. You must convince The Hoofhorn that the emergency is dire. You say you need the tapestry, but The Hoofhorn has been told nothing. There could be an emergency, but is it a dire one? If it is, how dire? Perhaps it isn't dire at all and you only think it is. Do you see dire where The Hoofhorn does not?'

  The Master folded his arms, put one hand to his mouth, and considered the shape before him. Finding any trustworthy fellow who could take a secret to the grave was always a challenge. Finding o
ne in this room was impossible. On the other hand, The Hoofhorn was completely mad and the Master really wanted the tapestry.

  'Can you keep a secret?' the Master asked.

  'Keep a secret? Keep a secret?' the Hoofhorn baa'd like a lamb on a stick. 'I have more secrets than your puny mind could comprehend. I know things of the world even the world doesn't know. And do I tell anyone? Well, I tell the next Hoofhorn, but that's it.' The creature folded its arms.

  'Oh well,' the Master shrugged. 'I suppose you'll have to know if you're going to find the thing.'

  He stepped up close, well, as close as seemed sanitary, and whispered in the ear of The Hoofhorn.

  'Really?' The Hoofhorn responded. 'That doesn't even seem much of an emergency, let alone dire.'

  'Well it is to me and I'm the Master,' the Master retorted.

  'I s'pose you are.' The Hoofhorn was still not convinced.

  The Master whispered again, this time gesturing to the dais and then to the cauldron. The Hoofhorn followed the gestures and frowned.

  'Really?' he said, part incredulity, part contempt.

  'Oh yes.' The Master was confident. 'Bring down the whole guild and I shouldn't think The Hoofhorn would escape attention either,' he rounded off his mysterious argument.

  The Hoofhorn paused.

  'Of course, no Hoofhorn has completed this ritual for thousands of generations,' the Master enticed. 'You'd be the first.'

  'True.' The Hoofhorn was being won round. 'The Hoofhorn will do it.'

  'Excellent.' The Master rubbed his hands together. 'What do we need to do then?'

  'You do nothing. You are not The Hoofhorn.' The Hoofhorn glared again.

  'Of course, of course.' The Master bowed and gestured that The Hoofhorn should continue.

  The ancient shape, somehow standing straighter and taking on even more raggedness, took his book over to the cauldron and laid it on the floor. He read two pages, turning them back and forth to make sure he'd got it, before he began.

  'There is something you do,' he croaked,

  'When The Hoofhorn’s dance around the cauldron copper