The Tapestry of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  Is completed and the ritual is to be done proper,'

  'Done proper? Really?' The Master scoffed at the sacred text.

  'Yes,' The Hoofhorn snapped,

  'When The Hoofhorn’s dance around the cauldron copper

  Is completed and the ritual is to be done proper,

  The Master steps forward from his place on the dais…'

  At this, The Hoofhorn indicated the dais.

  The Master indicated that he knew perfectly well where it was.

  'Opens the lid of the cauldron dire

  And tips The Hoofhorn in.'

  'That's awful,' the Master commented.

  'Oh, The Hoofhorn will survive,' The Hoofhorn responded.

  'Not you, the verse,' the Master said with a dollop of despair.

  'Sometimes I think you don't take the ritual seriously,' The Hoofhorn said in a serious tone.

  'Only sometimes?' The Master asked. 'Get on with it then,' he added.

  The Hoofhorn read from his book, mumbled to himself, and set off to dance around the cauldron. He gestured that the Master must return to the dais. After a demonstration of dancing that would draw well earned criticism from a three-year-old child with a broken maypole, The Hoofhorn threw off the lid of the cauldron and beckoned the Master to attend. The Master strode from the dais and, following the waving directions of The Hoofhorn, grabbed the rags by the leg and heaved them into the pot. He brushed his hands vigorously on his breeches immediately afterwards.

  'Close the lid, close the lid!' the metallic voice of The Hoofhorn commanded.

  The Master did so, only now wondering what level of insanity had come over him that he was taking any part in this nonsense.

  There was an alarming clanging noise from inside the cauldron, as if The Hoofhorn himself had decided that this was, in fact, a very bad idea. Or, he had discovered that he really didn't like enclosed spaces with dead birds in them. Or both.

  The noise stopped. Silence.

  The Master was about to step forward and take peek inside when he actually jumped in surprise. The lid of the cauldron was thrown off and the head of The Hoofhorn emerged. Physically, it was exactly the same. The hair hadn't gone and, as the shoulders emerged, it was clear the rags had not benefited from their time in the cauldron of the boiling fleece. The face had changed though. There was a new shape to the muscles, a new quality of reflected light in the eyes, and a new cut of the mouth that looked almost, well, sane.

  'Well,' said The Hoofhorn in a very strange voice as he climbed out of the cauldron.

  He picked up the lid and placed it firmly back in place. He then fetched the book and placed it on top of the lid, as if to stop something escaping. The Master appraised him.

  'So?' The Hoofhorn asked in his new tones. Normal conversational tones without even the hint of a bleat. Not at all the tones of a mostly mad man who thought he was a sheep. 'This tapestry then? Where do you think they'll have gone? I'd better get after them quickly if they're not to get away completely.' The Hoofhorn, or ex-Hoofhorn, or whatever he was, now became aware of his own appearance. 'Oh dear,' he commented, 'I'd better go and change, hadn't I? What must I look like?'

  The Hoofhorn strode off purposefully to the back of the chamber.

  The Master watched him go with a slack jaw and a head full of questions. The questions became seriously alarmed when the Master thought he heard the faint, copper-clad cooing of doves coming from the sealed cauldron.

  Caput V

  The Secret’s Out

  The sun rose upon a dismal scene, but no more dismal than it saw every other day. The market field of Baernodebi was at least enlivened by the presence of a tent, and two figures that stood stretching themselves outside the hovel of a peasant. The young one was of clear complexion with barely any beard disturbing his clean face. He was bright of eye, in a monk's habit, and was frowning and holding his stomach, as if preventing some awful secret blurting itself all over the bright morning. The slightly older, stubble faced one, very well dressed, ran a hand through a mop of curly black hair and gazed out at the day. He clearly had plans for it.

  'Right, back to the tent,' Wat chimed. 'Let’s see if there's anything we missed in the dark last night. We'd better take the box with us. That peasant will sell the lot if we don't keep an eye on it.'

  They bent back into the hovel and emerged a moment later with the box between them. The peasant, who gave his name as Lolby, followed, still putting the last of the extraordinary works back in place.

  'Can't I keep a little one?' he whined.

  Wat stopped and looked at the man. 'If you keep your mouth shut and give us any help we need in sorting this business out, I'll see what I can do.'

  He winked. Lolby grinned.

  'Was that wise?' Hermitage asked as they resumed their walk to the tent.

  'He could be useful. He’s local. Plus if he knows there's something in it for him, he's not likely to talk to anyone who asks. In case the guild come looking, or anything.'

  Hermitage nodded then shook his head. 'I was thinking more of his eternal soul and the danger it's in from these things.' He tipped his head towards the box.

  'Ah.'

  'I really don't want Mister Lolby giving us any more favours from his cook pot.' Hermitage clutched his grumbling stomach.

  They arrived at the tent and had to turn sideways to get through the entrance with the box between them. Hermitage went first, threw back the tent flap, took a step forward, and fell flat on his face, the heavy box falling behind him.

  'Oww,' a figure on the floor, lying right across the entrance, called out in genuine pain as the weight of Briston's work fell upon it.

  'Watch where you're going,' it called angrily as it rolled from under the box and found room to stand.

  Hermitage regarded the shape with surprise. The box was still blocking the entrance and there was a muffled cry from outside as Wat's shins found they were a suddenly stopping a box.

  'Who are you?' Hermitage asked, the surprise squeaking his voice.

  'Who are you?' the shape responded.

  The voice was high and unbroken and the figure in front of Hermitage was a good foot shorter than the monk, and slim.

  'What are you doing here?' Hermitage asked a second question, not having got an answer to the first.

  ‘I work here. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I am Brother Hermitage,’ the monk replied, thinking that one of them had better get this conversation moving.

  ‘Odd name for a monk.’

  ‘It is,’ Hermitage acknowledged.

  ‘Well, I’m Briston’s apprentice,’ the figure announced, ‘and I want to know what happened to him.’ There was a tremor in the voice at these words.

  An apprentice? Hermitage thought this boy could have some very useful information. The child, for child he was, wore breeches, a jerkin, boots, and a hood, but then so did most people. However, most people weren't lying across the entrance of a dead weaver's tent in the middle of Baernodebi market.

  The hood was still up, doubtless from keeping the cold of the night at bay. The face in the hood was glum and pale.

  'What are you doing here?' The young voice was contorted by anger and sadness.

  'My child, my child,' Hermitage comforted. He knew apprentices started young. This one must be about ten, by the size of him. And here he was in the tent of a murdered weaver. Awful. A murdered weaver who did awful weaving.

  'What's going on?' Wat's face appeared through the tent flaps as he clambered over the fallen box.

  'We appear to have found an apprentice,' Hermitage waved a hand of introduction.

  'I'm saying nothing,' the young child snarled and spat on the floor.

  'Oh really,' Hermitage said in despair.

  'What's your name, boy?' Wat asked. He did so in a nice mix of encouragement, friendliness, and threat.

  'What's yours?' the impudent boy sneered back. 'What's a monk doing here? Come to bury Briston?'

  'I'm Wat. I’m w
ith Brother Hermitage.'

  Hermitage gave a short nod to encourage the boy’s acceptance of Wat.

  'Wat?' the boy asked, his voice rising to a shriek.

  'That's right.'

  'Wat the Weaver?'

  Wat smiled, 'You've heard of me, I expect.'

  'You're a bit bloody late!' The boy howled and the tears flowed.

  'Eh?' Wat looked from boy to monk.

  'Briston sent word. He knew he was in danger. Don't worry, he said, my old mate Wat will sort things out. But when do you turn up? After he's dead.' The boy slumped on to the box and held his face in his hands.

  'We only got the note after he was dead,' Wat explained. 'Some peasant brought it over. Found it in the tent.'

  This explanation only brought more howls from the young man.

  'And you were stealing his work.' His young fist thumped the box ineffectually.

  'We were looking after it. Don't want this lot getting into the wrong hands.' Wat smiled the best he could at a crying child.

  'So you say.'

  'Yes. I do.' Wat's smile was wearing out. 'Briston was my friend. We’d been friends since he and I were your age. If I'd got word earlier, I would have come earlier. Now pull yourself together.'

  Hermitage thought this was a bit harsh given the poor child's state. Still, at ten years old, he ought to be a bit more resilient.

  The boy sulked and stared some more.

  'Anyway,' Wat went on, 'Brother Hermitage and I have some talent in the area of finding killers.'

  Oh, Hermitage thought. Yes, we do, don't we.

  'If it wasn't you,' Wat probed.

  'Me?' the boy almost screamed. 'What would I be doing lying here blubbing my eyes out if I'd killed him?'

  'It could be a ploy to cover up the fact you killed your master.'

  'Bit of a bloody stupid one.' The boy was contemptuous of such a plan. 'Better ploy would be killing him, taking everything, and running like hell.'

  'Hum,' Wat hummed, somewhat appeased, but clearly irritated by the apprentice's attitude. 'I've made a vow to avenge Briston's death and I'm going to find out who did this.' He gestured to the bound figure that was just as they had left him. Hardly surprising really.

  'Well, I’ve been here looking after him all night,' the boy claimed. 'Where were you?'

  'In the hideous hovel of a hideous peasant,' Wat responded. 'Working up the strength to give you a clip round the ear for lipping your elders.'

  Hermitage looked at the boy, who was genuinely upset at the death of Briston. It must have been a very close relationship. Apprentice to master. Most unusual. Wat had told him of the relationship with his own master, which had been very different. Lots of violence, resentment, spite and hatred. Much more normal.

  'I can see Briston was your friend,' Hermitage soothed. 'But if we are going to discover who did this, we need to talk to you and find out as much as we can about his, erm, last hours.'

  The howls now filled the tent and even Hermitage was starting to find them annoying. The boy’s reaction puzzled him. Yes, it was the death of someone close and yes, you would naturally be upset, but the death was hours ago. He should be over it by now, for goodness’ sake.

  'When did you last see him, erm, alive?' Hermitage asked as nicely as he could.

  The howls became snuffles.

  '’Bout midday,' the apprentice got out. 'He sent me out to get some fresh water. I ask you, fresh water round here? I couldn't get back before dark because I had to avoid the Normans. I only got back a few hours ago. I think Briston knew what was coming.'

  'So, you didn't see who killed him?' Wat asked.

  '’Course I didn't. If I'd seen who done it, I'd either be lying there with him or still running away.'

  'We think it was a guild killing,' Hermitage explained.

  'Of course it was,' the boy answered with a sneer at idiocy. 'He was an individual. He didn't go by the rules of others. He followed his own path.'

  'We know all the reasons the guild would want him dead,' Wat observed. 'But, we're not asking for the full roster. I don't think we've got the time.'

  Wat and Hermitage exchanged knowing glances.

  The apprentice observed the exchange and raised his eyebrows in a most suggestive and disgusting manner.

  Hermitage was appalled, again.

  'Was there anyone peculiar around here over the last few days. Anyone more threatening than normal?' Wat asked.

  The apprentice shrugged.

  'What's he doing with an apprentice anyway?' Wat remembered who the boy was. 'I never saw Briston as the type to take on an apprentice.'

  'He is…was a great master.' The apprentice was defensive.

  'Well,' Wat drawled, clearly not prepared to go quite that far. 'I suppose your father paid him a huge sum for the apprenticeship.' Wat nodded to himself, recognising a good scheme when he saw one.

  'No he did not. Master Briston took me on for my talent.'

  Wat was incredulous. 'So?' He got back on track. 'Did anyone visit yesterday? Anyone odd? Odder than usual, I mean.'

  The apprentice frowned, pouted, and sulked all at once.

  'Come, my child,' Hermitage encouraged. 'The awful deed is done. The least we can do for Briston is identify the killer and expose them.'

  The apprentice still frowned at them both.

  'Well? What customers were you expecting?' Wat pressed.

  'I'm not telling you that!' The lad was surprised at the question.

  'I'm not going to steal them, for goodness’ sake,' Wat snapped. 'I want to see if one of them might have killed him. They're not going to be much use to him in this state,' Wat nodded at the bundled body of Briston.

  The apprentice just sniffed.

  'No one special. Usual mix. The odd Norman, a couple of merchants, a regular. Some new bloke from round here.'

  'A Norman?' Wat was interested.

  Hermitage's eyebrows rose in accompaniment. If anyone was going to kill anyone these days, chances are it would be a Norman. He did think it less likely they'd know about the Tapestry of Death though. 'What was he like, this Norman?'

  'Like I said, odd. Kept mumbling to himself. Took one look at the work on the walls, had a quiet chat with Briston, and left. Walked around the outside of the tent a couple of times and then wandered off round the hovels.'

  'Probably measuring the place up for another bloody castle,' Wat grumbled. He thought on. 'The merchants and the regulars wouldn't do for Briston. Where would they get their favourite tapestries?. Tell me about the local. What was he like?'

  'Bloody old boy, name of Stott,' was the comprehensive description.

  For a moment, Hermitage wondered if Stott had been covered in blood and was therefore a suspect. He realised the child swore and tutted disapprovingly.

  'I think we should see him,' Hermitage said.

  Wat gave him a look that said the debate about what the missing tapestry looked like was over.

  'I must say this weaving of yours is most disappointing.' Hermitage shook his head. 'I was expecting enlightened artisans producing fine works that enhanced the human spirit. Instead I've been shown pictures of things that shouldn't have pictures made of them at all. And the artisans are widely reviled, if not actually hunted down.'

  'Oh, and there was Virgil,' the apprentice threw in.

  'Virgil?' Wat almost shouted.

  'The poet?' Hermitage asked.

  'The lunatic, violent giant?' Wat asked.

  'No, no, he was a Roman,' Hermitage corrected.

  Wat huffed at Hermitage before turning to the apprentice. 'Are you telling me that in all our talk of death and murder and who killed Briston, you didn't think to mention that Virgil had been round?'

  'Briston owed him money.'

  'Better and better.' Wat threw his hands in the air and walked a small circle round the tent, avoiding the box and the body.

  'Who is this Virgil?' Hermitage asked. 'Obviously not the poet. Who's been dead for quite a while, come to thin
k of it.'

  'No, not the poet. Not that I knew there was one called Virgil.'

  'Oh yes, he wrote the Aeneid.'

  'Never mind what he wrote. The Virgil we're talking about is a giant.'

  'I got that.'

  'A giant, violent lunatic.'

  'Yes, you said.'

  'A giant, violent lunatic who thinks that our weaving business should be his.'

  'Is he a weaver then?'

  'Only if you count killing weavers, slicing them into bits, and weaving them together.'

  Hermitage considered the proposition for a moment. 'No,' he concluded, 'no, I don't think I would.'

  'He knows our market is a profitable one and he wants the weavers to work for him.'

  'Why would you do that?'

  'Because he's a violent, giant lunatic? Didn’t I mention that? When one of them gets hold of you, the inclination is to do as he says.'

  'But why's he picked on your trade in particular?' Hermitage was thinking things were getting steadily worse. First there was a killer. A good one. Now a giant that specifically went round damaging weavers and presumably the people who were with them at the time. Being a lunatic.

  'Because he knows no one will come to our aid. He can threaten us and steal our work and make our customers go to him because they're too scared of being named.'

  'Named and shamed,' Hermitage offered.

  'Yes, thank you, Hermitage.' Wat seemed to be getting a little testy about the disparagement of his trade. 'So, when he finds a weaver, he threatens them. Some give in straight away. Others, like Briston and me, avoid him like the plague.'

  'Does he have the plague as well?' Hermitage asked, thinking that a giant, violent lunatic with the plague was a bit much.

  'No, he doesn't have the plague.' Wat was getting more and more annoyed.

  'What the hell possessed Briston to borrow money from Virgil? He knows that's the end. Sorry, knew that was the end.' The question was harsh and was directed at the apprentice.

  'I don't know.' The apprentice started howling again. 'Briston didn't tell me anything.'

  Wat's irritation was fanned by the crying and he stepped up and cuffed the child round the back of the head. It wasn’t hard, more of a push than a slap, but it knocked the hood from the head. The revealed face was grimed with the tracks of ancient tears, but underneath the skin was clear, not yet marked by the passage of time. The child had an elfin chin, a slim nose not yet filled out, and eyes of dark green in a field as white as snow. It gave Hermitage a moment's pause. It was a face of purity. A face of the innocence of youth. As he looked, he realised it was a face of something much, much more significant.