‘Not usually one apprentice on their own, of course,’ Wat explained. ‘They’d have to get together to take out a master. Particularly in this case, what with Cwen being so small and Briston being quite a big chap.’
It was all Hermitage could do to gape at this information. He would have to examine it in detail when he got his mind in order. There were more pressing matters to consider. Though what could be more pressing than apprentices killing their masters, he couldn’t immediately bring to mind. The problem of Briston was here and now. At least that was something to be dealt with immediately.
'So you think Briston may not have gone far?' he asked.
'That's why we'll catch him. He wouldn't run anywhere. Out of sight out of mind isn't an expression to Briston. It's a way of life. As soon as he can't see the people chasing him anymore, he stops and puts his feet up. Then he seems surprised when they appear again.'
'I imagine he will think people are still after him though.' Hermitage thought Wat's description was of a very foolish sort of fellow.
'Not with his pig trick. He'll think that's put them off the scent and he's set us after him and knows we won't do him any harm.'
'This Tapestry of Death that he claims to have made seems to be at the heart of it, at least according to Hamard.'
'It's a fairy story. It certainly isn't the reason behind all this.'
'Then what is?' Hermitage was anxious to know. Just like a child pretending to rescue the maiden, or defend the castle, he had to know why. Chasing errant weavers across the country was fine, as long as you knew why.
'Who cares?' Wat replied, which was not the answer Hermitage needed. 'We're just worried about finding him and bringing him back. If we don't, Cwen gets the Virgil treatment.'
'If Briston is as lazy as you say, we may find him well within the allotted time.' Hermitage nodded some comfort.
'If Virgil hasn't finished her off already, along with the rest of them.'
Hermitage was appalled. 'I'm appalled,' he said. 'The man told us to find Briston or Cwen would suffer, not find Briston and Cwen will suffer.'
'He is a violent, giant lunatic,' Wat explained.
'He wouldn't,' Hermitage said.
'Why not? Save all the trouble of looking after her until we get back. We do his searching for him, find Briston, deliver him, and Cwen turns out to be dead. What's he lost?'
'His eternal soul.' Hermitage felt rather sick.
'That's long gone,' Wat said, and strode on.
'So why?' Hermitage couldn’t bring himself to ask why they were bothering.
'Because he might not have done anything. It's the chance we have to take and the one Virgil knows we have to take.'
'The others will protect her.' Hermitage spoke solely to give himself some assurance.
'Stott and Parsimon?' Wat laughed, 'I don't think they'll be protecting much. You saw what he did to three Castigatori. Dextus and those two strangers will be no contest.'
'Yes, who do you think they were?' Hermitage's bottomless well of curiosity bubbled once more.
'Probably customers after Briston as well.'
'So Virgil was right on that account.'
'Once again,' Wat said with some finality, 'who cares?'
'So we just need to save Cwen.' Hermitage nodded to himself.
'That's it.'
'Rescue the maiden,' Hermitage mused.
'Hardly that,' Wat protested. 'Just, erm, avoid an innocent party coming to a nasty end.'
'Yes,' Hermitage said, smiling out of Wat's view.
Night was falling now, the sun having abandoned its daily doomed attempt to shed light on the world. Darkness swam across the land, hiding those things from sight that were best hidden. Creatures that used the night to cover their activities scurried from their holes and homes. The creatures that liked to jump out on things that used the night did likewise. Tiny mice scurried through the undergrowth, seeking insects to grasp in their tiny paws before nibbling them with sharp but tiny teeth. Massive owls sat in trees, waiting to descend in deadly in silence on tiny mice, like God throwing houses at people. Houses with razor sharp feet, ready to snatch a mouse before swallowing the beast whole. The digestive system would do the rest. Inequity was everywhere.
Fortunately, a large moon provided some pallid light to the scene, only hiding every now and then behind convenient clouds.
'I say we press on,' Wat said. 'No way will Briston walk anywhere at night.'
'What about the Normans?' Hermitage asked, looking round as if the conquerors came out of holes in the ground at night.
'Bigby's not far. We'll definitely make it,' Wat said. His legs did not share his confidence and he broke into a slow trot down the road. Hermitage followed suit.
'I don't know if I can keep this up,' Hermitage panted after a few minutes. 'I declined any of the foods the peasant Lolby offered. I know he ate them, but he was probably used to them.'
'We'll keep on to the inn at Bigby. I'll bet you his pig that Briston's there.'
They hurried on through the encroaching night in silence. The path was clear and the moon made their going easy. Scrub and trees crowded the way but didn't overgrow the road. In places, bits of stone emerged from the ground and some places were almost paved. Another Roman highway fallen into complete disrepair.
At least this gave Hermitage's mind something to ponder as they made their way. He needed something to ponder, silence not being his natural state. He wondered about the men who had made this road. Of course they'd probably been slaves, local people forced into labour, but time had taken the edge off such inhumanity and given it a warm historical glow. Common thought was that these historical figures had all been brilliant minds and outstanding engineers. Every Roman who ever trod the shores of Albion was raised to the status of genius/saint. Hermitage was sure that couldn't be the case. Some of them must have been normal people like him. Well, like Wat, perhaps. No, not Wat. Maybe like, erm… He thought for a moment trying to recall if he actually knew anyone normal.
Maybe, in years to come, history would look back on this time with similar eyes. People of some hugely distant future, say the year 1250, would think of Hermitage's folk as mythical creatures, possessing great knowledge, wisdom and insight. He thought he better write something down to make sure they got the true picture. It would be a great disappointment of course but the truth had to be known. Or at least it did to Hermitage. No one else seemed that bothered. This prompted a new thought. Maybe it was him who wasn't normal? Maybe all the wrong people were normal? It was a ghastly thought.
His musings had achieved very little but had passed sufficient time for them to arrive at the gates of Bigby.
These gates were high, and black in the night, and shut.
'Hi,' Wat called over the ten foot high barrier that barred their way.
The village must be very proud of its protective shield. There weren't many these days that retained their defensive capability. The Normans took a dim view of such things and brightened their outlook by tearing them down and setting light to them.
'Ho,' Wat called. 'Anyone there?'
'They may not admit visitors after dark,' Hermitage proposed.
Wat was not interested in this idea and hammered on the door with his fist and kicked it with his right foot. There was no response and he stepped back to look left and right.
The gateway was fitted tightly between two buildings. Large planks of ancient wood were firmly fixed to the buildings and looked like they had been so for some time. In the middle of their expanse, which must have been nearly twenty feet across, the outlines of the two main gates could be seen. These, once open, would be large enough to admit a whole cart. As long as it took the gap slowly and carefully.
Set into one of the gates was a smaller version of the same thing. This was plainly for people only, and could doubtless be opened separately. As if completing the set, an even smaller door sat high in the woodwork, probably the peep hole from which the village guard would be
able to judge visitors. Wat thumped them all to the same effect.
'This is ridiculous,' he complained. 'Where is everyone?'
Hermitage could only shrug. Of course he had no idea. How could he have? He didn't live here. He realised this was one of those moments not to take things so literally. He nodded sagely to himself.
Wat strode off first left and then right to see if there was a way round the gate. The buildings were solid.
'Come on,' he said to Hermitage. 'Let's go round the walls and see if there's another gate.
Choosing the direction to his right for no particular reason, Wat led away from the gate. They left the path and walked across some rough ground. Hermitage trod in something soft and remembered what villages tended to use the rough ground outside their walls for. He would wash his feet when they got inside. If they got inside.
The moon lit their way past the first building, after which Hermitage expected to see the next one closely butted up.
In fact, there was a gap. More than a gap: it was the end of a street. The street led out of the village on to a track that snaked off into the darkness. Its other end opened on to the main road they had been on, where torches hung from a few buildings, lighting the way for strangers.
'What?' Wat cried in frustration. 'What was the point of the bloody gate if the next street round is wide open?'
'Perhaps it's a relic,' Hermitage suggested. 'It could be that, in historical times, the whole village was surrounded but the rest of the walls have fallen? Or the Normans took them down?'
'Then why close the bloody gate and make us walk round?' Wat was clearly very unhappy with this arrangement. Perhaps he'd trodden in something as well.
They trudged up the street to the main road and looked left and right. To the left, the place was deserted. The inside of the gate they'd been hammering on could be seen only a few yards away. It too was deserted and so Wat's calls and knocks had been for nothing.
The weaver, with an angry look on his face, strode off down the road. He grasped the wooden bar that held the gates closed, lifted it from its iron cradle, and threw it into the road. He then dragged the gates open and strode back to Hermitage.
'Stupid bloody people,' he muttered as he headed off in the other direction.
Hermitage scurried after. He was desperate to ask if Wat was allowed to open the gates, but had a pretty clear idea of what the answer would be.
The village was made of so few buildings, all of them poor, that Hermitage wondered what the gate was for anyway. The two either side of the gate looked like homes of the very poor. Probably quite a lot of them. The next two, one of them next to the street they'd come up, at least had torches and looked lived in. Lived in by people of little pride and with no time for maintenance, but nonetheless, they were signs of reasonable habitation. Only two more structures sat in the road before another gate could be seen, straddling the highway. This one was wide open.
'For goodness’ sake,' Wat exclaimed at this frustrating sight.
The house to their left was ablaze with light. Torches hung on the outside and more light staggered into the night from an open shutter. A sign above the door declared this to be The Green Man, and although wood smoke poured from a chimney and a steam of heat rose through the window, the place was remarkably quiet.
The smell of a large cook pot introduced itself to Hermitage and his stomach groaned. Without word, he and Wat made for the door. They pushed it open and were greeted by the traditional silence reserved for strangers in small villages.
They'd expected no less, but they noticed that no one even bothered to look at them. No heads turned at the unexpected opening of the door. No glares from locals were thrown at the newcomers. Even the landlord, whose job it was to check arrivals, making sure they weren't going to rob the customers or wreck the place, paid them no heed. This was bizarre.
Hermitage had not entered many inns in his life at all. This number was in single figures since putting on the monk's habit. Every occasion had been the same though. He'd been invited to leave. Immediately. Monks always put a curse on an inn. They either lectured the locals or drank the place dry without paying. His exits had mostly been rapid and many had been violent.
He exchanged a puzzled look with Wat and they surveyed the crowd.
It was a crowd. Everyone from the village and probably the farms nearby must have been here. Every seat was taken and people were standing around the edges of the room.
This was not a large place, perhaps twenty feet across at best. Off to the left was the landlord's window, the small opening through which the man could serve his customers. Small enough to stop the customers getting through and helping themselves. The window was currently full of the landlord. A red faced, whiskered fellow whose head and shoulders were so tightly framed it looked as if the window would go with him when he moved. Across one corner of the room was a large rounded bench with a high back, doubtless the usual resting place for the regulars. It was big enough for three but five were squeezed in now.
In front of this, a table had created a seat for three more. The floor was covered with cross-legged men and Hermitage noticed that those gathered round the edge of the room were women. It was not unusual for women to visit the inn; their toil was hard and the reward of the inn was shared across the population. Tonight it looked like the whole population was being rewarded.
There must be thirty people in the place. Remarkable. All of them were facing the large fire that blazed in the wall opposite the landlord. Seated in a most comfortable padded chair, drawn up close to the fire, with the best mug of the best ale in his hand, a figure sat. The figure was talking quietly and the audience was rapt. The chair was angled to the door so Hermitage could not see who sat there. He and Wat sidled into the room to get a better view.
This was doubtless some travelling storyteller. A wandering character that would appear in villages such as this perhaps only once a year. He would tell tales of the world, bring news of great moments from distant parts, or even just some gossip from the nearest town, which many of the poor local folk would likely never have seen.
He would, of course, tell the traditional stories, the ones demanded by every audience. King Arthur and his knights, lost Roman legions, saints, and dragons. Each individual would have his own theme though. One might be renowned for bizarre encounters with mysterious creatures from the magical realms of Africa and Scotland. Another might have adventures from the east with awful revelations of heathens and how they could fly and eat rocks.
This would explain why the whole populace had turned out. Hermitage would be most interested to hear what this fellow had to tell. Previous experience had showed that many of these men were, at best, ill-informed or, at worst, downright liars.
Hermitage had himself exposed a so-called story man in his local village. It transpired this fellow only ever moved between the same four villages. This didn't stop him reporting on the most outrageous events from wildly far away with apparent authority. His fabrication even led to a small war between two towns. Hermitage still felt the injustice that it was he who was run from town, not the storyteller.
The audience gasped as he and Wat got within sight of the figure in the chair. The quietly speaking figure had clearly reached the denouement of his narrative and expertly led his listeners to the peak. It must have been a tremendous tale, judging from the silence that reigned. Only one member of the audience, a young man of some twenty summers, spoke out.
'Phwooar,' he said, in a crude and lascivious manner. 'With both of them? At once?'
Hermitage was taken aback somewhat and looked to Wat.
The weaver was standing with hands on hips. He gazed across the seated throng straight at the storyteller.
'Hello Briston,' he said in a loud, clear voice. 'I heard you were dead.'
Briston the Weaver grinned at the words.
Wat was not grinning at all. 'In fact, it was you who told me.'
Caput XVI
Back to The
Cellar
The Stott manor was in uproar. Well, it was bubbling along just below uproar. The massive figure of Virgil had made it clear he was not going to accept any uproar. There were protests at least. Stott's beard grumbled and mumbled and intimated that torturing young women was not a decent sort of thing to do. At least he now seemed to accept that Cwen was a girl. It wasn't clear if he thought torturing boys was any better.
Dextus had stepped forward from his standing place by the door and the Castigatori had gone to his side. Eadric and Firman had muttered some words of disapproval. They indicated that if they had been in a position to do anything about this, they would do something about it. What a pity it was that they weren't, so they couldn't.
Parsimon was giving Virgil a very hard stare.
Cwen was pale and shaking.
'What is it exactly you hope to achieve?' Dextus demanded.
'Pass the time?' Virgil suggested.
Dextus glared.
'I will find out where Briston has gone and what he's up to,' Virgil glared back, more fiercely and from much higher up.
'You've already sent the monk and Wat to find him. What's the point?'
'Oh, come on,' Virgil responded. 'You know how this works, Dextus. You've been in the church long enough. How do I know those two are going to come back at all? It turns out this girl is closely connected to Briston. She'll tell me things if I cause her some pain. They always do.'
'I don't know anything.' Cwen's voice was half terror, half anger.
'They all say that,' Virgil admitted. 'Then they find that they do know something after all. Bring her!' He gestured to his men who stepped from the shadows to grab Cwen by the arms and lead her after Virgil towards the cellar steps.
The Castigatori stepped forward to block their way.
Virgil turned and looked to Dextus. 'I'll kill them this time,' he said in all seriousness.
The Tapestry of Death Page 15
