The Tapestry of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  Cwen nodded.

  'Good.' Hermitage lightened and his glare lifted.

  He turned his back on them and walked on along the road, 'Cwen,' he prompted, 'you were suggesting that Parsimon might be lying?'

  'Oh, erm, yes. He did seem a bit fidgety, not quite looking at anyone, stepping from one foot to the other. Like some of the customers. ’

  ‘The ones who don’t want anyone else to know they are customers?’ Wat added.

  'That's them,' Cwen confirmed. '“Oh it's not for me, I'm just getting one for a friend”, or “it's a joke for my cousin's wedding”. I've heard them all and seen them all. Fidgety, never look you in the eye, can't wait to get away.'

  'I can imagine,' Hermitage said, thinking such behaviour would be perfectly reasonable if you were buying one of those awful tapestries.

  ‘I mean, if Stott found the tapestry so shameful…' Cwen went on.

  'Which we know it was,' Hermitage put in.

  'Yes. He could really have ordered it to be destroyed. But it was one of our best and most expensive works, even for someone with Stott’s money. Big step for a chap in Parsimon’s position to burn something that was worth a month’s food. Or maybe Stott’s lying?’ Cwen’s eyes widened as her own thought processes raced along. ‘Maybe he really did want it. Paid for it, kept it, and all the rest is show. Complaining to Briston, making a fuss about how disgusting it is. Then he’s gloating over it by the fire?'

  'He did seem genuine in his disgust,’ Hermitage observed. ‘In which case, he's probably telling the truth. He ordered it destroyed and wouldn’t dream of telling anyone about it.'

  'I'd say it's very likely,' Wat nodded.

  'Cwen?' Hermitage sought the girl's attention even though Wat was largely ignoring her.

  'S'pose so,' she grunted. 'Stott does come across as a mush head.'

  'I concur,' Hermitage put his hands behind his back as he strolled along. 'I did not detect anything in Master Stott's nature to indicate scheming or dishonesty. He was slightly put out at our appearing in his home and interrogating him, but apart from that, nothing.' He furrowed his brow and thought as he walked.

  'Let us assume then,' he carried on, 'that, as far as Stott is concerned, the tapestry is destroyed. Stott himself is shamed by the whole event and simply wants to be left alone. If Parsimon is lying and has kept the piece for himself, he’s hardly likely to report it to anyone, let alone the guild. And I don’t think Master Stott is the type to go and directly hire a killer.’

  The others nodded their agreement.

  'Mind you,' Cwen added a thought, 'if Parsimon did want to steal valuable tapestries, the old man had a very good collection on his walls.'

  'I noticed that,' Wat nodded agreement. 'Some very good examples and a very old work by the fire. I'd say he knows his tapestry.'

  'Enough to arrange for the murder of a weaver?' Hermitage couldn't make the connection from tapestry lover to weaver murderer. 'Offended that the whole of tapestry was besmirched?'

  'Well,' Wat thought and clearly couldn't make the connection either, 'no.'

  ‘Marvellous,’ Hermitage said in a very heavy tone. ‘We are no further forward. Briston was alive when Cwen left him and dead by evening when Lolby found him.'

  'And the guild killer did it.' Wat was insistent and final.

  They took a few steps in silence.

  'I think,' Hermitage said, but knew that his thought was not going to be welcome. 'I think it's time to talk to the other person we know was there, this Virgil character.'

  'Oh, Hermitage, give it a rest.' Wat did sound annoyed now. 'We know the guild did it. We've looked at your Stott and that's taken us nowhere. We go to the guild, we find the killer, and that's that. I know you'd like it to be more complicated, more motives, more suspects, more interesting facts to hammer to death, but really, this one is very straightforward. Find guild killer. Kill guild killer. Go home.'

  Hermitage studied the ground.

  'If Virgil is as you say, he might know who the killer actually is,' he offered quietly. 'We've got to go to the guild to find out. Perhaps we could find out straight away if we ask Virgil?'

  'I wouldn't advise it,' Wat replied, putting his irritation behind him in the face of Hermitage's persistence. The persistence of a puppy trying to climb on its mother's back.

  Cwen coughed sarcastically.

  'Well, you go and ask him if he knows who killed Briston then,' Wat snapped at the girl. 'When he says he does, and asks what you’re going to do about it, you'll have your answer.'

  'It's you who's supposed to be avenging your friend,' Cwen snapped back. 'If you think Virgil knows, we should ask him.'

  'Right!' Wat threw his arms up in loud surrender. 'Let's go after Virgil then. The biggest, maddest killer in the kingdom. We'll ask him if he knows Briston's killer and then see if he'd like to kill us as well.'

  'Stop,' Hermitage said.

  He didn't say it loudly; he wasn't even aiming it at the squabbling weavers. They had arrived at Baernodebi and the sight before his eyes put fear where his stomach used to be. He knew they'd been seen. The loud argument had drawn attention their way. There was no chance of walking quietly from this ghastly situation.

  Wat and Cwen removed their attention from one another and gazed across the market field.

  'Oh, bloody hell,' Wat gasped as he saw what had filled the space.

  Coming up the road from the other side of the market field, Eadric and Firman had stopped as well. Looks flew between the two small parties. Looks of sympathy and resignation. The sort of looks people probably exchanged when they entered opposite ends of a bottomless bog and knew there was nothing for it but to drown together, yards apart.

  'What do we do now?' Cwen asked.

  'Pray?' Hermitage suggested.

  Caput X

  Castigatori

  'You!' A large finger on the end of a large arm pointed straight at Hermitage. 'Come here,' the voice was large as well.

  Hermitage's old feelings of insignificance swamped him. His knees trembled, his stomach grumbled and he felt as if he was back in the monastery of De'Ath's Dingle, about to be damaged in some way. He looked briefly to Wat and Cwen. Not in hopes that salvation would come, or that they would step forward in his place, more as a sort of resigned goodbye.

  Wat looked at him with sympathetic eyes. Hopeless and resigned, but still sympathetic.

  Cwen was looking backwards and forwards from Hermitage to the gaggle of figures gathered around what was now the wreckage of Briston's tent.

  'Coming, Father,' Hermitage called as he left the comfort of his friends and strode as obediently as he could towards the large priest – owner of the finger, the arm, and the voice.

  The large priest was accompanied by three figures all dressed in ecclesiastical garb. The garb had to be large, simply to accommodate the men inside. Hermitage recognised the habits. The cuts of the cloth and the quality of the weave said they were Castigatori. The girdle that closed their waists confirmed the fact: it was blood red. These select few spent their time visiting brothers around the country, castigating them. Obviously this was a good thing as even devout monks need to be reminded of their path now and again.

  The problem was the Castigatori only carried out castigation. Occasionally, an exemplary religious house was found, where everything was correct and proper, where the leaders of the community and the brothers themselves spent their lives in true devotion and dedication. The Castigatori would naturally find little to criticise in these institutions, but that didn't stop them castigating. It was reported such places inspired them to exceptional vigour, as if they'd been irritated by finding good work. It didn't do to irritate the Castigatori.

  If appearance was anything to go by, the tent of Briston the Weaver had irritated them to the end of their wits – which they kept close by. The Lord, while blessing their physicality with a surfeit of treasures, had been positively parsimonious when it came to the power of thought. It was said their leaders
simply pointed them in the required direction and let go. Stopping was not part of their training.

  As Hermitage drew up to the priest, the motto of Castigatori came to mind: “If it moves, castigate it.” He also recalled the motto of those about to receive a visit: “If they can string two words together, they aren't the Castigatori”.'

  'Father.' Hermitage kept a safe distance from the priest and bowed his head. All around him was the ruin of the tent. To his right the fabric, the tent poles, and the camp chairs were piled up, just waiting for a torch to set the lot on fire. Neatly stacked to his left were the tapestries that had hung on the walls. The Castigatori were gathered around these, turning them over one by one. Each image was examined as if they were unable to understand how pictures worked. Incongruously of all, the bound body of Briston still rested where it was, the world around it having been well and truly dismantled.

  'What do you know about this, Brother?' the priest asked, spreading his arm to take in the devastation.

  Hermitage looked up from his bow and appraised the fellow. At close range, the voice was a lot smaller and it was educated. Granted, the frame was huge, probably six feet tall at least, but the face was not that of the Castigatori. This face displayed the spark of intelligent awareness. Hermitage couldn't help but think the man was too good for this place. There was no smile or welcome in the features. Hermitage detected a sort of disappointed resignation at the events of the day. Probably of the world in general. It was the look his father usually carried whenever Hermitage tried to talk to him. Unlike his father, this priest's eyes were focussed on Hermitage and were waiting for a reply. This was most unusual as none of the priests Hermitage ever met listened to anyone.

  The man was quite young, perhaps only a year or two older than Hermitage. Young to be a priest and have charge of a band such as the Castigatori. He was clean shaven and his cowl was thrown back across his shoulders. Most alarmingly of all, he was completely bald. No monk's tonsure, of course, but Hermitage could see traces of stubble on the man's head where he had clearly shaved. Remarkable. It certainly made him look intimidating. Well, more intimidating. That was probably the idea.

  'I don't know, Father,' Hermitage followed the beckoning arm. 'The place was certainly intact when we left it.'

  'It was intact when we arrived,' the priest explained with some impatience and a troubled glance towards the Castigatori.

  'Ah,' Hermitage said, remembering what the Castigatori were best at.

  'What's your name?' the priest demanded.

  'Brother Hermitage, Father.'

  'Odd name for a monk,' the priest frowned.

  'Indeed.'

  'What are you doing here, Brother Hermitage? And what were you doing here when the place was intact?' He said these last four words loudly and directed them at the Castigatori. Hermitage detected criticism, but the Castigatori took no notice.

  Without Wat at his side, Hermitage had only one course of action in a situation like this. Tell the truth. The skills of deceit and misdirection he had gained in Wat's company washed away in the face of religious authority. Any authority would do, but religious was best.

  'I was summoned here by a villager,' he said. 'I was at Castle Grosmal when word of the death of Briston the Weaver was brought.'

  'And why would this villager immediately run for a monk, rather than, say, a shovel?'

  'Briston told him to.' Even to Hermitage's ears this exposition was not going well.

  The face on the front of the bald head frowned. 'A dead man sent a villager to fetch a monk?'

  'Well, not exactly, I suppose.'

  'Well, what exactly then?'

  'Yes.'

  'Pardon?' It seemed the priest was losing both patience and interest at the same time.

  'It was Mister Wat. Briston left a note to be read upon his death. The note said to fetch his old friend Wat. And I was with Wat.'

  The priest frowned, 'Shouldn't you be in a monastery?'

  'Oh, I was but, erm…' Hermitage didn't like to mention the king and investigating. His natural modesty meant he would not bring the topic up voluntarily. He also knew some people reacted badly if they thought someone was trying to threaten them with authority. This priest looked like he could react badly to the very widest range of circumstances, and that surely would not go well for anyone around him.

  'Are they with you?' The priest pointed over to Wat and Cwen, clearly thinking that Hermitage was some sort of idiot. That suited Hermitage down to the ground.

  'Oh yes,' he said, 'that's the Wat I was telling you about.'

  The priest beckoned them to come over. His beckon was instruction rather than invitation. Hermitage watched as Wat looked behind him, trying to see who the priest was beckoning to.

  The priest rested his hands on his hips to give his impatience expression. 'I can ask my Brothers to come and get you,' he offered across the market place.

  Wat's face lit up in recognition of the request and he strode happily across the space.

  'Sorry,' he said as he and Cwen arrived. 'Thought you wanted another monk.'

  'This one's quite enough.' The priest tipped his head towards Hermitage, who tried to look helpful.

  'And who are they?' The priest pointed to the space where Eadric and Firman were wandering slowly away, looking with interest at the ground and the trees, apparently in deep conversation.

  'No idea,' Wat said. 'Definitely not with us.'

  The departing pair had their backs to the tent so the priest could not beckon them over. He drew breath to call out and thought again. He looked to his Castigatori, who were now starting to push and shove one another around. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a moment.

  'Brother,’ he said very reluctantly towards the band of jostling monks.

  One of their number threw his head up and looked expectantly at the priest, rather like a dog who's just heard the word “ball”.

  A nod towards the two figures sent the castigator scurrying across the field to invite the two men to join his leader. He rubbed his hands in some pleasure at the prospect.

  The priest sighed again. Hermitage interpreted it as the sigh of someone who thought all this was beneath them. He'd come across that quite a lot as well.

  Wat was about to speak when the priest held up his hand for silence. 'We'll wait for this pair,' he said. 'Don't want to go through this more than once.'

  Hermitage got a sinking feeling about what “going through this” might mean.

  The new arrivals were herded like sheep by a dog, if the dog had hands and continually cuffed the sheep around the ears to make them move faster.

  One of the men kept up a fairly constant stream of complaint about this treatment. The other just rubbed his ear each time it was struck.

  'Right,' said the priest when they were all gathered, 'I am father Dextus.'

  'Dextus?' Hermitage interrupted, unable to contain himself. 'How fascinating. A Roman name, if I'm not mistaken.'

  Father Dextus stopped and looked at Hermitage, his weariness with the world falling upon the young monk like a pillow smothering a kitten.

  'It is, and if you interrupt me again, I'll get one of my Brothers to do to you what the Roman at the foot of the cross did to our Lord.'

  Hermitage gaped. Violence and blasphemy. From a priest. The violence obviously, but the blasphemy was shocking. He kept quiet.

  'Good,' Dextus went on. 'I am here on church business and you are going to help me.'

  Faces fell at the thought of helping the church with anything. People who went to help the church with its business tended not to be seen again.

  'Oh, anything at all,' Wat offered.

  Dextus frowned at him. 'Why are you here?' He directed the question at Wat.

  Wat gave Hermitage the briefest of glances during which the monk gave his shrug of the shoulders and innocent face look. The one that said “whatever it was you would rather I hadn't said, I have probably just said”.

  Wat returned to Dextu
s. 'I was called here by Briston the Weaver. He and I had an arrangement if harm should fall.'

  Dextus's eyes narrowed. 'Wat? The monk said you were called Wat.'

  'Did he?' Wat said while casting a sharp look in Hermitage's direction.

  'Wat the Weaver?' Dextus enquired.

  Eadric's face showed surprise. Even Firman seemed impressed.

  'Yes,' Wat replied with confidence. The sort of confidence that said he knew people, people more important than some priest with a funny name.

  'That's handy,' Dextus responded. 'I've got a bishop who'd like to know where you are.'

  'Many of them do,' Wat said. 'He probably wants to pay me.'

  'No,' Dextus said quite explicitly, 'it definitely wasn't that.'

  'And you?' Dextus turned to Cwen.

  'Leofcwen, weaver's apprentice,' Cwen held her ground and her head high.

  'I hardly think so,' Dextus guffawed slightly.

  'Now, you two who aren't with this lot,' Dextus addressed Eadric and Firman. 'Although it's a bit of a coincidence this many people arriving in Baernodebi at the same time. Bit odd this many even being here at all.'

  'I'm Eadric and I'm just passing through. Mister Firman here just joined me on the road for safety.' Eadric shrugged.

  'That didn't turn out well, did it?' Dextus arched an eyebrow towards the castigator who still stood at their shoulder.

  Eadric grinned weakly while Firman's attention flew all over the place, taking in the tent, the tapestries, all the people.

  'Back to business then. What are you doing here?' The question returned to Wat.

  'Like I said, Briston and I had an arrangement. Word was sent and I came. Too late, it seems. What brings a major expedition such as yours here?'

  Dextus looked at Wat. Just looked. There was no way on earth he was going to answer any questions.

  'I imagine you know the works of Briston well, being in the same line of business. He said the word “line” as if it was the border between Sodom and Gomorrah.

  'I'll be sure to pass your observations to the bishop,' Wat quipped. 'He's such a devotee of my line of business that he funds a lot of it. When he pays.'