'I mean butcher in the sense of someone who prepares meat for consumption, not someone who just kills things.'
'Perhaps he started with the latter and moved into the former.'
'Sell meat as a way to support his little…' Wat searched the valley for the right word, 'hobby?' he suggested. 'Who'd buy any of this stuff?'
They exchanged looks, realising there was nothing to do but walk through the scene of animal destruction. If this man had anything to tell them about Briston, Hermitage was determined it would be done quickly.
As they passed the outer reaches of the deceased, swarms of insects rose around them.
'Flies,' Hermitage observed. 'In January,' he shivered again.
'Hi,' Wat called loudly, with a slight tremor in his voice. He was clearly hoping the owner of this appalling scene would come to them, so they wouldn't have go any deeper into his diseased realm.
A man emerged from the shapeless shape in the middle of the destruction. He had a knife in his hands.
'Good morning,' he called in a round and well-filled voice. He waved his knife in what appeared to be a friendly greeting. Bits of stuff flew off the blade, anxious to join the larger heaps scattered on the floor. Unfortunately, the man made no attempt to come to them so they picked their way through the fleshy obstacles.
'Are you the butcher?' Hermitage asked rather pointlessly when they reached the knife wielder.
'I've got a lot of explaining to do if I'm not.' The butcher grinned and held out his arms to encompass his demesne.
Wat looked at the man as one can only look at a man who appears to be mad while holding a large knife covered in blood.
'We, erm, just wanted to ask about the pig,' Watt said. 'Erm, Briston. Briston, the pig, erm, his pig. Briston's pig. The pig Briston the Weaver got from you. May have got from you. Possibly.'
Hermitage looked at Wat with some anxiety. The weaver was always so controlled and calm, but he seemed positively jumpy.
'Did you supply a weaver at Baernodebi market with a pig?' Hermitage asked more reasonably.
Wat was staring around as if the bits on the floor were about to leap up.
'Oh yes,' the butcher replied. 'Fine specimen. One of my best.'
'Your best?' Wat's voice broke into two squeaks.
'Absolutely,' the butcher nodded as if this would be clear to anyone. 'Come see.' He beckoned them to join him inside his dwelling, or slaughterhouse, or whatever it was.
'I'm not going in there,' Wat mumbled so only Hermitage could hear him.
Hermitage tutted and followed the butcher to the interior of what could only be described as a shack.
The inside was remarkable. Not for the fact that it was basically a continuation of the outside with a roof on, but because in one corner was an immaculate scribe's lectern, complete with parchment, inks, and quills. Hermitage was so taken aback by the unexpected piece of furniture that he didn't immediately notice the rest of the place.
As his eyes got used to the gloom, he saw that the lectern had a half-completed drawing on it. He drew close and found it was an anatomical diagram – one of remarkable accuracy and detail. He then noticed that the thing of which it was a remarkably accurate and detailed drawing was lying on a table to the side, gently leaking on to the floor.
'My gracious me!' Hermitage found it hard to reconcile the scene of destruction and death with the fine work. 'Are you a butcher or a scholar, sir?'
'Ah well,' the fellow replied in his educated voice. 'That's an interesting tale.'
Hermitage found himself weighing the man up now. He acknowledged that when he had thought the fellow a simple butcher, perhaps a careless and slovenly one but nonetheless a tradesman, he had given him little heed. Now it was clear there was more to him, Hermitage paid attention.
The man was dressed in a butcher's apron, but his feet were shod in solid black shoes that rose to his ankles and then turned over in the fashionable manner. An expensive use of material. The head was a mop of straight, dark hair, tied in a tail behind him. Presumably to stop it dipping into the gore. His face was clear and seemed untroubled by the wreckage around him. The skin was wrinkled with age rather than worry. He must have been at least forty, but still looked to be in good health. The eyes though were much younger; they bubbled with enthusiasm and commitment. Hermitage recognised something of himself in them.
'I have always had an interest in the workings of the body,' the butcher-academic explained. 'My first choice was to become a physik, which I did. Briefly.' The words tailed off.
'Why briefly?'
'There were, erm, unfortunate incidents with some of my patients.'
'Ah.'
‘Yes. One or two of my treatments proved to be, what can we say? Harmful.'
'Oh dear.'
'Well, quite a lot of them did, really. Word got around. Outrageous exaggerations, of course, but you know what the common folk are like. Don't go there, you'll get poisoned. Never ask him to fix your foot, he'll chop your leg off.'
'I say!' Hermitage expressed sympathy at the outrageous impact of gossip.
'I know!' The butcher was defensive. 'And that only happened the once. Or twice,' he added. 'Some of them even objected to me making a record of their parts with my drawings, can you believe?'
Hermitage was not surprised. The common folk were always suspicious of developments in thinking.
'How are we ever going to advance the practice of medicine if we don't have details of the injuries people suffer and the route to their cures?’ he said. ‘I can see it would be essential to have comprehensive notes and diagrams of the affected parts.'
'Oh, I do all the parts,' the butcher smiled his enthusiasm. 'Affected or not. I wanted the whole picture.'
'Oh.' Hermitage could see that this might cause some offence.
'It was the husbands who caused most of the trouble.'
Hermitage's mind hopped back to some of the tapestries he had seen. Perhaps this fellow and Wat ought to get together. On the other hand, no, they most certainly should not.
'So, driven from my study of the human body, I turned to animals. No one makes a fuss about them. I got hold of some for my research and then folk started asking if they could have the leftovers.'
'For food,' Hermitage understood.
'Oh!' The man seemed surprised. 'Yes, I suppose that must be it.'
'So, you sell the parts to fund your study.' Hermitage saw this as a most constructive arrangement.
'No,' the butcher replied. 'Money's not really a problem, the family support me. I rather suspect they pay me to stay away. I am quite grateful when the locals come to take some bits. It is getting a bit messy out there. Problem is they've even stopped doing that since this Norman business.'
'The invasion?'
'Yes, that's it. Some Normans did turn up, but they didn't stay long.' The man shrugged.
'In my experience, they have no great interest in learning,' Hermitage shrugged himself.
'I'm happy enough here so I shall just carry on.'
'What about your family, though? Will they be safe?' Hermitage knew the whole country was in turmoil. There was no guarantee this man's money supply would be safe in a Norman country.
'Ah, I hadn't thought of that.'
This man reminded Hermitage of himself in so many ways. The enthusiasm for his subject, the single-minded devotion, the complete absence of common sense. He realised how much he had changed since meeting Wat. Looking at this man, he saw that most of it was actually for the better. Besides the topics of Wat's tapestries.
'What is your name?' Hermitage asked the blunt question.
'Hamard,' the butcher replied. ‘Hamard Godwin.'
'Oh,' Hermitage managed to say while his mind was screaming, “Great God Almighty and Lord preserve us.” The old King's family. If the Normans had known who this man was, they'd have left him in the same state as his meat.
'So, your erm…' Hermitage didn't know how to frame the question.
'Uncl
e,' Hamard answered. 'Harold, yes.'
'You heard that he, erm...'
'Yes. Hastings, I gather. I've never really been one for all that family business.'
'Might I suggest you take that a stage further? Change your name. Never tell anyone you are called Godwin. Certainly never mention it to a Norman.'
'Do you think so?'
'Most assuredly.'
Hamard looked at Hermitage, clearly grateful for the advice, but not absolutely clear why it was needed.
Hermitage recalled the reason why they had come here and combined it with a new-found need to leave quite quickly. He didn’t want to be within a mile of this place when any Normans came back. 'So this pig?' he asked.
'Which one?' Hamard looked around clearly trying to recall which bits had been pig.
'The one for Briston?'
'Ah yes, the weaver. Charming fellow, I must say.'
'You gave him a pig?'
'Yes, a whole one. It was slightly disappointing as I was planning to get a fine representation of the fiery humours of the loins.'
'Loins?'
'Yes, it's a favourite topic of mine. First male, then female, make a detailed comparison and determine where exactly the procreative fundaments are located.'
Hermitage felt his eyebrows raise of their own accord. 'And this was your topic with your human patients as well, was it?'
'Oh yes,' Hamard answered, 'but it caused no end of trouble. People are awfully sensitive, don't you think?'
Hermitage easily cast his mind to when his own simple enquiries into the scriptural justification for an individual's action had led to a punch on the nose. He could only imagine the consequences of enquiring about the fire of someone's loins. Let alone ask to draw a picture.
'Did Briston say what he wanted with the pig?'
Hamard shrugged and looked away to his drawings. 'Only that it was vital to his plan.'
'Really?' Hermitage was encouraged. Hamard could be a source of useful information.
'I say,' Hamard said with excitement. 'You're not Wat the Weaver, are you?' He looked at Hermitage's habit. 'Ah, no. Of course not.'
'No I'm not,' Hermitage said with equal enthusiasm, 'but the fellow outside is.'
Hamard's eyes lit up. 'How marvellous. I've got a message for him.'
Hermitage quickly ducked out of the hovel-heap.
'Wat,' he called and beckoned over the distance the weaver had put between himself and the dwelling of Hamard.
Wat looked very unhappy at being called back.
'Hermitage,' he called and beckoned in the opposite direction.
'There is information,' Hermitage shouted.
'Good,' Wat called back. 'It'll sound much better over here.'
Hermitage put his head back in the building, 'I'm sorry Mister, erm, Hamard. Would you be able to join Wat outside?'
'Of course, of course,' Hamard wiped his hands on his apron, which did little for his hands, but added ruin to the apron.
Picking their way through the wreckage of research, Hamard and Hermitage joined Wat on top of the rise out of the valley.
'Oh dear,’ Hamard said looking back. 'It is a mess, isn't it?'
'You wanted Wat? This is he,' Hermitage introduced the two.
Hamard held his poorly cleaned hand out. Wat bowed his head.
'You had a message?' Hermitage prompted.
'Ah yes,' Hamard brought his attention back to the situation. 'Master Briston told me you might have some fine sketches of loins.'
No words came out of Wat. He looked from butcher to monk and back.
'It's Hamard's special area of research,' Hermitage explained. 'Purely academic interest.'
'That's what a lot of 'em say,' Wat sneered.
'Was that the message?' Hermitage was disappointed.
'Um, eh?' Hamard stumbled through reality. 'Oh no. Just a personal question. Master Briston explained his work and we had a fine discussion on detailed points of anatomy.'
'I bet you did,' Wat leered now as well.
'The message?' Hermitage prompted.
'Ah yes. Master Briston said you might find me.'
'Did he?' Wat was sceptical.
'Absolutely. He said Mister Wat was working with the King’s Investigator and would trace his steps in no time at all.'
Hermitage and Wat just exchanged glances.
'Good job you didn't bring this king's fellow with you. Might have been awkward. Anyway, Briston said that he had to leave.'
'Because people were after him?' Hermitage prompted.
'No, apparently that was quite normal. He said to look out for a churchman called Dextus and for Virgil. I assumed the poor fellow thought the poet was still alive, but it seemed not.'
'Most assuredly not,' Hermitage confirmed.
'Briston said not to worry about them. He asked if you could look out for someone named Cwen,' Hamard went on.
Wat cast his eyes down at this request.
'He apologised for using the death note, whatever that means.'
'I understand it,' Wat said.
'Good. He then said not to look for him. You would understand if I said that he had made the Tapestry of Death.'
'We know,' Hermitage put in. 'It's a special weaver's binding for the dead. Covers the body completely. That's what Briston put on the pig to make everyone think it was him.'
'How clever,' Hamard appreciated.
'That's not it,' Wat said.
'Not what?' Hermitage was confused.
Wat breathed deeply and had a significant frown on his face. 'The Tapestry of Death that wrapped the pig is woven, never made.'
'I don't understand.'
'There are really two Tapestries of Death,' Wat explained. 'It's all in the ritual. The first is the one we saw, the second is a joke.'
'A joke?'
'Or is it a myth? Whatever. It's suggested that a tapestry can be made that brings death to its creator. It is an image of the truth of the world.'
It was all Hermitage could do to gape rather openly. This wasn't making any sense at all.
'A weaver could make the Tapestry of Death either by chance or deliberate act. The image in the second reveals everything. The truth. The ultimate scene. God, if you like.'
'How could a weaver make an image of God?' Hermitage was disbelieving. 'No one knows what God looks like.'
'And no one knows what the tapestry would look like. That's why it's a myth. We use it to frighten apprentices. Weave what you're told or you might create the Tapestry of Death by mistake and you'll instantly burst into flames.'
'Nonsense.'
'Of course it's nonsense. A fairy tale and clearly not true. This is what he told you to say?' Wat asked Hamard, apparently convinced the butcher had got this completely wrong.
'Exactly his words. Tell Mister Wat that I have made the Tapestry of Death. He was quite explicit that I got it right.'
Hermitage rubbed his hand across his tonsure absentmindedly, wondering if this would help his thoughts move about.
'When did all this happen?' he asked.
'Yesterday,' Hamard replied, confident in his memory.
'Yes, but when yesterday, what time?' Hermitage pressed.
'Oh,' Hamard replied, finding this question a bit trickier. 'Let me see. He glanced at the sky. 'I think he came to collect the pig about midday, or soon after.'
'After Cwen had left for water,' Hermitage exclaimed.
'I'm sure I wouldn't know,' Hamard replied in some confusion.
'Did you see him again?'
'Oh yes, he came through on his way. That's when he left the message.'
'When would that have been?'
'You worry about the time too much,' Hamard noted.
'It is important. Please think,' Hermitage encouraged the rather vague butcher.
Hamard looked to the sun again, 'About this time, I suppose.'
Wat thought quietly for a moment but nothing seemed to come to him. 'Which way did he go?'
'He said
not to tell.'
'I expect he did. Unfortunately, the Cwen he asked us to look out for is currently in the hands of a deranged killer.'
'Oh my! There are so many about these days.'
Wat asked again, 'If I assumed it was south, would I be right?'
'Obviously I can't say you're right, that would be breaking my word.
'You could tell us we're not wrong,' Hermitage suggested, 'that wouldn't be telling us which way he went, which would be breaking your word, but would, in effect, be not telling us in which direction he didn't go!' Hermitage smiled.
Hamard smiled as well. 'How erudite,' he said.
'What?' Wat said gaping at the pair.
'It's quite straightforward,' Hermitage started off. 'You see, if we aren't told in which direction...'
'Shut up,' Wat interrupted. 'We're going south. Quickly. We have to find him and bring him back before tomorrow evening.'
Wat made to leave, while Hermitage paused to check with Hamard.
'Would you be in a position to not tell us where he wasn't going? Exactly.'
‘If such a question were posed,' Hamard responded, 'I would only be able to not tell you that he wasn't going to Bigby. It's the next village down the road and has a renowned inn. Many travellers make for it.'
'Thank you.' Hermitage nodded his head.
'You two deserve one another,' Wat snorted.
'Oh, before you go?' Hamard asked.
'Yes?' Wat snapped as he was clearly anxious to get away.
'You look like a fit young man. I don't suppose I could do a drawing of your loins?'
Caput XIV
Cellars
Thelred Stott's views on visitors are already well known. The very low level of Parsimon's desire to meet Virgil has been indicated. Both old men suffered disappointment through a single knock on the door. Only one knock was required to get the old retainer running. It was of such violence that some of the pewter fell off the table.
'Normans?' Stott cried out as he leapt from his chair by the fire. Well, lifted himself as quickly from his chair as his aching bones allowed.
Parsimon shrugged a shrug of worry. He opened the door his usual half an inch only to find the thing nearly thrown from its hinges. In place of the door was another door. This door was just as big and strong, but it was man shaped. Apart from the fact men didn't come in shapes this big.
The Tapestry of Death Page 13
