'Yes?'
'I've finished it off.'
'Go on then,' Wat said.
'Never put off 'til tomorrow what you can do today. Avoid it altogether and it might go away!' Briston chuckled at his own cleverness.
'You talk to him, Hermitage,' Wat said in resignation.
'Me?' Hermitage was not all prepared to be drawn into this.
'Yes. Tell him about his eternal soul and damnation and all that stuff.'
Hermitage thought for a moment. He weighed up Briston's responses thus far and drew his own conclusions about the man's priorities. 'I rather think damnation at the end of his life is less troublesome than Dextus's ministrations in the next day or so.'
'Spot on, monk.' Briston congratulated Hermitage with a wink.
'So that's it then, is it?' Wat looked down at Briston sitting on the cot.
'I think we've covered everything,' Briston nodded.
'I’d better go back and tell Virgil you aren't coming. Perhaps I can intervene.'
'I wouldn't if I were you. You know what Virgil's like once he gets going. He'll more than likely kill you as well. In fact, he's bound to. It's his standard response to bad news.'
'Come on, Hermitage,' Wat said.
Hermitage stood ready to leave. He looked out the window at the dark. He glanced at Wat, hoping to bring his attention to the dark as well.
'One last swig of wine and we'll risk the darkness and the Normans to go back into danger.' Wat gestured at the jug which sat empty on the chest. 'In fact, I don't even care about the Normans,' he added with remarkable recklessness.
Hermitage's curiosity about all of this trumped the prospect of tramping in darkness in which danger lurked. He took the jug and handed it to Wat.
'Good luck,' Briston said with a guffaw at the pomposity.
'We'll need it,' Wat said as he brought the jug crashing down on Briston's head.
The weaver slumped over.
The girl screamed and leaped up.
'Wat!' Hermitage exclaimed.
Wat shrugged. 'Not the first time I've had to do that,' he said. 'Let's get him tied up and head back. You've seen what trouble he is when he's awake.'
'You can't do this,' the girl hissed an objection, pushing Briston's shoulder to see if he would wake.
'Just have,' Wat shrugged again.
Hermitage looked at the recumbent weaver and weighed him up. 'We'll never carry him all the way back to Stott's,' he argued. 'Not at all, never mind in the dark. He's a big chap.'
'What about me?' The girl's voice remained a hissing rasp of hatred. Hermitage thought this was more in anger at the inconvenience caused to her, rather than the damage caused to Briston's head.
'Count yourself lucky.' Wat gave her a sideways glance. 'His last girl lived about two years. With him out of the way, your life expectancy's gone way up. I should just go home if I were you.'
'Right!' The girl scoffed at the idea.
Wat frowned at Briston but did seem to realise the problem. 'We'll get a trolley.'
'A trolley? We're going to wheel an unconscious weaver down the road in the middle of the night? That'll take some explaining to the Norman patrols.'
'What do you suggest?' Wat put his hands on his hips and glared at Hermitage.
Hermitage thought. This wasn't the sort of thing his mind was used to. Getting unconscious people from one place to another was a very practical problem. He didn't do practical.
'Erm, wait till morning, get a bier, and tell the Normans he's a leper we're taking on pilgrimage?' he offered with a flash of very practical inspiration.
Wat's eyebrows rose. 'Very good,' he said.
Hermitage grinned.
'Where do you take lepers on pilgrimages round here?' Wat asked.
'Well, I suppose the closest religious institution is the monastery at De'Ath's Dingle.'
They looked at one another in silence at the mention of that place.
'No,' they said together.
'I suppose the sea is always good for healing,' Hermitage admitted. 'But then I don't think the Normans will know any better.'
'Good point. We'd better tie him up though. First thing he's going to do when he wakes is try and get away.'
'Right,' Hermitage said, oozing positivity.
'Right,' Wat said with enthusiasm.
They looked around and at one another. And then at the girl.
'I think you'd better go,' Wat told her. 'We're dealing with some very bad people. If they get a sight of you, they'll do some of their very best bad things.'
'Where am I supposed to go?'
'Anywhere that isn't here, really. Go and help the landlord.'
'He's disgusting.'
'And Briston isn't?'
She didn't move.
'Tell you what,' Wat proposed, 'you stay here with Briston, we'll knock you out as well and take you to the mad Virgil and the dangerous priest. Assuming we don't get killed by the Normans on the way.' He smiled broadly and reached for the pot that had contained the stew.
The girl glared at them both, looked at the recumbent Briston, and stamped her foot. She seemed most angry with Briston for letting her down like this. She strode from the room with a snarl and slammed the door behind her.
'Young people these days,' Hermitage tutted as if he knew a lot of them. Or any of them. 'So,' he turned to Briston. 'What, erm…' he hesitated to ask, 'what do we, erm, tie him up with? I mean, what do you generally tie people up with?' He assumed Wat was familiar with this sort of thing.
Wat scanned the room, 'Your belt?' he asked, pointing at the thin piece of rope that bound Hermitage's habit to his waist.
'I don't think so,' Hermitage reasoned. 'It's not very strong at all. And if I take it off, my habit blows about all over the place. What about your belt?' Hermitage pointed out the fine piece of leather embroidered with delicate weaving that circled the weaver’s breeches.
'Oh no,' Wat said. 'This is a precious piece. Can't have it damaged. Is there any other rope?'
Hermitage looked around the room now. 'No,' he concluded, not really expecting to find a handy coil of rope nearby. 'Perhaps we could ask for some.'
'There must be some somewhere,' Wat said as if rope was always close to hand.
'I wouldn't know,' Hermitage replied. 'It's never really played a significant part in monastic life. It's the sort of thing Brother Ambrosius might know about.'
'Really?'
'Yes, you know, the monk who died in the debate about sandals?[ Sounds fascinating, doesn’t it? It’s those Heretics of De’Ath again.] He tended to focus on domestic supplies. Only in the context of their biblical significance, of course.'
‘You don’t think his being dead is going to put a dampener on his helpfulness?’
It was Brother Ambrosius's death that first brought Hermitage and Wat together. Wat had been contemptuous of the deceased brother's interests then. Perhaps he wasn't feeling so clever now.
'Well, what do you normally do in these situations?' Hermitage asked.
'It's not a normal sort of situation,' Wat shot back. 'I don't regularly need to tie people up.'
'I have seen those tapestries, you know.' Hermitage brought one of Briston's works to mind. That had involved quite a lot of tying up. He tried to persuade it to leave his mind again.
'What about some thread?' Hermitage suggested. 'Have you got any of that we could tie him up with?'
'Tend not to carry large quantities around with me.' Wat seemed to be getting frustrated at Hermitage's lack of cooperation.
'People are always getting tied up in tales. You know, the thieves tie up the lord of the manor before taking his treasure. The evil knight ties the maiden to the tree. The sheriff's men tie up the outlaws. How do they do it?'
'I rather think they go prepared. Take the rope with them. After all, if you're a thief, an evil knight, or a sheriff, tying up is likely to be a routine requirement.' Wat was getting positively snappy.
'I'm only asking,' Hermitage res
ponded with his own brand of impatience. This went unrecognised.
'Go outside and look around. See if you can find some,' Wat ordered.
'Why don't you go outside?' Hermitage asked.
'Because one of us has to look for rope while the other stays here and hits Briston on the head again if he starts to wake. Which do you think you'd be best at?'
Hermitage looked at the sleeping weaver. 'I'll look for rope,' he said as he headed for the door.
Hermitage stepped out into the darkened landing and let his eyes adjust. The weak red glow from the fire below illuminated the scene very slightly. Everyone had left the inn for the night and the place was deserted. At least no one was going to challenge him. He crept along a very short passage to the top of the stairs that led down to the main hall. Stairs was a bit of a generous description for the rickety ladder propped up against the eaves of the roof into which Briston's chamber had been squeezed.
Putting his hand out to steady his descent, Hermitage grabbed hold of the simple banister that hung at his side. The simple banister made of rope. He got to the bottom of the steps before he realised the thing he had been clinging on to for dear life was made of the stuff he was looking for. He unhooked the bottom of the rope from the ladder and used it to haul himself up, releasing it from the top as well. He entered the room rather triumphantly with his rope in hand, just as Wat hit Briston again.
'Was he waking already?' Hermitage asked.
'Nope,' Wat said without the slightest hint of guilt. 'Ah, excellent,' he smiled at the rope.
Taking it from Hermitage, he quickly and expertly bound Briston's legs and arms with the single long length.
'You have done this before,' Hermitage accused.
Wat said nothing.
'How are we actually going to get him out?' Hermitage recalled his experience on the ladder. 'He won't want to go and he's going to be difficult to manoeuvre. The landlord might have a cart we can rent, but he's not likely to look the other way as we carry his tied up guest out of the place.'
'You'd be surprised what landlords turn blind eyes to,' Wat said, patting the small but heavy purse tied to his belt. 'As for getting him out of here…' Wat walked around the small room. He opened the door and looked out before closing it again with a frown. He looked Briston's recumbent form up and down. He then went over to the shutter and opened it, stretching his head out to look below.
'If he cooperates, we'll take him down at first light.'
'I don't think he'll cooperate,' Hermitage said.
'In which case, at first light you, go and get a cart and bring it round to the side of the building.'
'What are you going to do with Briston?'
'Throw him out the window.'
Hermitage was shocked, but thought it through. The building was not large. Their window was probably only some seven feet from the ground. 'I could load the cart with a bed of straw,' he suggested.
'Nah,' Wat said, accidentally kicking the unconscious Briston as he climbed over him to get to the cot. At least Hermitage assumed it was an accident.
'He'll bounce.'
Caput XX
Knock Knock
This time, the Stott manor really was in uproar. Full blown, out of control, hide-the-children uproar.
Virgil's men had gone. As soon as they came up the cellar steps from the body of their master, they headed straight for the door. It was dark and dangerous outside at this time of night. Clearly they thought it not as dangerous as being inside a house containing something capable of killing Virgil. The remainder of the company gathered by the fire.
'Well, really,' Stott mumbled, offended that someone had the temerity to commit murder in his own cellar. Without asking.
'What do we do?' Parsimon's voice squeaked and shivered despite the warmth of the fire.
'Don't move until daylight,' Cwen said. 'Hermitage and Wat will be back by evening. Then we can all go our own way and forget about Virgil. Good riddance,' she added as an afterthought.
Dextus was pacing up and down in front of the fire, which now blazed with the fresh logs Parsimon had piled on. The Castigatori formed a protective ring, their faces turned to the body of the hall, their bodies ready.
Eadric sat on the hearth stone, his legs stretched out in front of him.
'There is one problem,' Dextus said. 'Whatever it was killed Virgil took the tapestry.'
'Good luck to them, erm, it,' Cwen snorted.
'The tapestry I must have,' Dextus finished off.
'Well, good luck to you as well,' Cwen answered.
'My tapestry,' Stott put in,'which I shall thank you for its return.'
Dextus ignored him. 'We must find whatever it was that killed Virgil and took Firman.'
'We?' Cwen questioned. 'I don't want to find it at all, thank you very much.'
'What could do such a thing?' Parsimon whimpered. 'Virgil was a giant. A massive, strong giant. Mister Wat said he was a violent lunatic and I concur. What on earth is there in the world capable of doing that to him?' He pointed a shaking finger to the cellar door. 'It looked like he'd been battered to death.'
'Yes, it did, didn't it?' Eadric spoke.
'Whatever it was, it has taken the tapestry.' Dextus was a man with a mission. So far, he was the only one. 'Perhaps it was taken by design, perhaps by accident.'
'Accident,' Cwen said, ‘definitely accident. Mister Parsimon's right. Virgil must have been killed by a what not a who. An animal. No human could have done that. But, animals don't steal tapestries,' she followed her trail of thought. 'An animal might eat a tapestry . Perhaps it was a goat?'
'A goat?' Stott was contemptuous. 'I don't keep goats in my house, young lady.'
'And it would have to be a very large goat to finish off something the size of Virgil,' Eadric observed. 'And a very clever one to lay him out on the table afterwards, stop for a nibble of tapestry, and then make off with Firman.'
'I don't hear anyone else coming up with ideas,' Cwen retorted.
'Perhaps it was Firman?' Parsimon put in.
'Don't be ridiculous,' Cwen replied. 'That's even more stupid than the goat. Mister Firman couldn't have knocked Virgil's foot off a stool, let alone break all his bones in one go.'
'Maybe he just fell?' Stott proposed.
'He'd have to fall several times from a very great height for that amount of damage. Bit tricky in a cellar. And he landed on the table every time?' Eadric dismissed that idea.
'Could it be an ague?' Parsimon piped up. 'I heard of this old man in the woods who caught an ague from Oak bark beer. Came out in boils all over.'
'Virgil didn't have any boils,' Cwen observed.
'I'm not saying it was the same ague. Obviously it wasn't the same ague. I'm just saying that they're funny things, agues. You never know what you're going to get.'
'I once had an aunt who got an ague of the leg,' Stott began.
'It was not an ague.' Dextus was firm, trying to get the subject back to his mission.
'Medical man as well now?' Stott mumbled.
'No, just brimming with common sense. There is no ague in the world that breaks a man's bones.'
'Maybe the ague made him thrash about until he broke them himself,' Stott persisted.
'Then where is Firman and what happened to the tapestry? Or is this an ague that makes giants thrash about until they break their bones but makes other men disappear and devours clothwork?'
Stott returned to mumbling.
'Are you saying it was a man?' Cwen asked Dextus.
'Who or what it was does not matter. What matters is the tapestry. We must search for that.'
'There you go with that "we" again,' Cwen said.
Dextus turned to Stott, the old man having returned to his seat by the fire. 'Is there another way out of the cellar?'
'Oh, several.' Stott sounded as if he was going to set off on another tale of olden times. 'There's the hole in the wall for the water. The well's just outside and there's a very sophisticated piece o
f machinery that actually brings water directly into the house without anyone having to go outside.'
'A bucket and a channel?' Dextus suggested.
'How did you know?'
'Everywhere has them.'
Stott seemed disappointed at this. 'Then there's the old chimney. Not used anymore, but it runs the full height of the house.'
'Why would you have a fire in the cellar?'
'Great grandfather had it put in. He, erm, tended to live in the cellar, mostly.'
'Any more?' Dextus's tone said he hadn't expected a comprehensive directory of all the exits from a simple cellar.
'Just the steps and the hole in the wall.'
'A hole in the wall. Not very secure?'
'It's been there years. Just never got round to mending it.' Stott turned to gaze into the fire.
'So whatever did that to Virgil could be anywhere. It's probably not in the cellar as we didn't see or hear anything. If it could kill Virgil, it wouldn't hesitate with the rest of us.'
'Charming thought,' Eadric said.
'Or, it could have simply left and be miles away by now.' Dextus expressed his frustration by pacing up and down with more conviction.
He beckoned the Castigatori to him and they gathered in a huddle. After some whispered instructions, they split up. One man returned to the cellar, one headed for the main door, and one for the upstairs chambers.
'I say,' Stott started to rise from his chair.
'Do you?' Dextus asked with an insistent stare.
Stott did some more mumbling and sat down again.
Within moments, the castigator from the cellar returned shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. Seconds later, the one from upstairs did likewise. Dextus gestured they should join their fellow outside.
'What are they going to do if they find it?' Eadric asked. 'Run?'
'Report back and then we can all tackle it. Recover the tapestry.'
Eadric looked about the small gathering, 'I think you're on your own there, friend.'
'Absolutely,' Cwen seconded the motion. 'If the thing wants tapestry, give it tapestry. It can have these as well.' She gestured to the hangings on the wall and to the box on the floor that contained Briston's works.
'Now then, young man,' Stott mumbled. 'Can't be giving away me tapestry.'
The Tapestry of Death Page 19
