The Tapestry of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  'Perhaps we could lure it into a trap,' Parsimon suggested. 'Lay out a trail of tapestry. When it follows the trail, we drop a box on it or something.'

  Cwen snorted, 'Or perhaps we just give it all the tapestry it wants in one go and then run away?'

  'And I rather think a box or something isn't going to hold it,' Eadric added.

  'Silence,' Dextus called and held his hand up.

  They listened. All of them seemed expectant that the quiet was going to be torn by the screams of another Virgil.

  Ears were cocked, heads tipped over as if to help any sound drop into ears.

  There was a very faint rustling sound, like leaves circling in a wind dance, or running away from something horrible. Three loud thumps on the main door made them all jump. They'd been listening so intently for any sound that they'd stopped expecting one. Everyone looked to Dextus. He didn't hesitate and strode across the room to fling the door open.

  Someone had used the Castigatori as door knockers. The men lay in a heap on the floor as if each one had been simply cast aside once his head had been smashed into the door. Other than the crumpled pile of habits, there was nothing to be seen.

  'Are they?' Cwen asked as she peered around Eadric, the rest of the band having gathered to see what was going on.

  Dextus knelt at his pile of men and rolled them over until he could get at each one. He examined heads and lifted eyelids. He laid his hand on chests and lifted arms to let them drop again.

  'No,' he said, 'just badly damaged. Let's get them in.'

  'They must be getting used to it by now.' Eadric arched an eyebrow.

  He and Dextus made rapid trips from door to fire, depositing two of the Castigatori in front of the blaze. Cwen and Parsimon struggled with the last one, half dragging him across the floor and doing more damage as they bumped the body into most of the furniture on the way. Cwen said sorry every time this happened, but the castigator didn't seem to mind.

  Back at the door, Dextus looked out but could see nothing. He stood at the entrance, challenging whatever it was to try the same thing on him. After a few moments of nothing, he swung the door closed and turned back to the room.

  'What was that?' Cwen cried out.

  'What?' Dextus was alert.

  'That noise.'

  'What noise?' Eadric asked, 'I didn't hear anything.'

  'Just as Dextus closed the door,' Cwen insisted. 'It sounded like a sort of bleat.'

  'A bleat?' Parsimon was scornful. 'Young lady, you have goats on the mind.'

  'Probably just the hinges of the door,' Dextus said, although he didn't go back to open it again to prove the point.

  'We're doomed,' Cwen tried to intone, but her voice was too high and anxious to bring it off.

  'Doomed?' Eadric asked, clearly thinking the word ridiculous.

  'Of course. There were thirteen of us to begin with and one of them was a giant. All awake and fully functional. Now there are five. All in the space of half a candle. Who's next?' She looked around the room nervously. 'Probably the old men.'

  'Now look here!' Parsimon and Stott objected together.

  'Or maybe not.' Cwen's nervous look twitched about the room. 'It started with Virgil, then his men and then Dextus's. It'll probably have Eadric or Dextus next. You know, leave the weak behind, easy pickings.' She drew closer to the fire.

  'It's nothing of the sort.' Dextus sounded calm and confident. 'Yes, something killed Virgil. These things happen.'

  'Not to giants who love nothing better than hitting things and killing people. And then your men get it. They're supposed to be strong and powerful, I suppose.'

  'Of course.'

  'They don't look it,' Cwen gestured to the sleeping forms on the floor.

  Dextus shrugged. 'The point is, whatever killed Virgil escaped the cellar and went outside. My men found it and it took them by surprise.'

  'Surprise?' Cwen squeaked again. 'It used them to knock on the door, one at a time, and then piled them up for collection.'

  'They probably disturbed it.'

  'It disturbs me.'

  'I assure you there is nothing to fear.' Dextus reinforced his statement by holding his hands out, palms down.

  'Excuse me, yes there is.' Cwen was not placated. 'I've been in many situations when there was something to fear, and believe me, this is another one.'

  She was even more disturbed when Dextus headed back to the door.

  'Where are you going?'

  'I'm going to find the tapestry. It's probably outside somewhere.'

  'How are you going to find it in the dark? When your head's been caved in by the, the…' she searched for the best word, 'the giant battering goat monster,' she blurted out.

  Everyone raised their eyebrows at this.

  'I shall be prepared,' Dextus said. 'I will not be surprised like the Castigatori.'

  'You don't know they were surprised,' Cwen persisted. 'Perhaps they were introduced to whatever it was bashed their heads in. Maybe they had a nice chat before the head bashing started. Maybe this thing is stronger than all of us.'

  'I'm gratified by your concern,' Dextus bowed slightly.

  'I'm not worried about you. The question is, who's going to protect me if you're dead? Eadric will be next and that's that.'

  'Well then, what do you suggest, young lady?' Stott was impatient, but was at least getting the gender right.

  'Bar the doors, shutter the windows and wait 'til daylight. Hermitage and Wat will be back before dark and we'll at least be able to see what we're dealing with. Or run away, obviously.'

  Dextus just shook his head. He stopped shaking it when there was massive blow on the main door. One that shook the hinges and knocked a chunk of plaster from the wall.

  'There's no one left out there to use as a knocker,' Cwen observed. 'This must be the real thing.'

  The door shook again.

  Dextus glanced to the cellar door and back to the main entrance.

  'Bar the doors and shutter the windows,' he said, as if it was his idea. 'We'll wait 'til daylight.'

  Caput XXI

  Weavers

  The new day made cautious advances into Briston's chamber, as if concerned it might get hit on the head and tied up. It gently illuminated a scene that might have come from a tapestry in Briston's box. One weaver lay on the cot, another was tied up and unconscious on the floor, while a monk snored in a corner. Whatever had gone on the night before must have been pretty riotous.

  Hermitage was first to stir as the light bothered his brow. He didn't know where he was for a moment. Was this his chamber at the monastery in De'Ath's Dingle? No, far too warm and comfortable. His first thought on waking was not that he was on the verge of starvation. Could it be some dark corner of the castle of Robert Grosmal? No, his waking mind seemed to recall leaving that place. He had to back track the events of the day. Was he in the hovel of Lolby the peasant?

  Ah, now it flooded back, and he wished the tide would go out again. His task on this morning was to take a bound and reluctant weaver and deliver him to the hands of a deranged killer.

  He knew his life at De'Ath's Dingle had been harsh and horrible and he had often longed for any change. Yes, he had now escaped the place and had even eaten and slept comfortably, but was he putting his soul in peril? The chain of events that led to this sorry morning was simply incredible. His monastic life had at least been one of order and obedience. Cruel order and frequently pointless obedience, but even so. He sighed before moving and looking over at Briston.

  At least he was taking a thoroughly disreputable weaver, who made the most disgraceful images, into the hands of the killer to save a young woman's life. That was alright then. Actually, he was rather sure that it wasn't alright at all, but didn't have the capacity to analyse the theological issues at this hour of the day.

  He couldn't tell whether Briston was still unconscious or just asleep. Wat clutched the jug in his arms as he snored on the cot. He looked rather guilty, like a cat sleeping amo
ngst the bones of a fish intended for the family dinner.

  'Wat,' he hissed.

  There was no response so he dragged himself to his feet and tip-toed over to give the weaver a nudge.

  At first contact, Wat flapped into life as if the fish had been resurrected. 'What, what?' he cried out, brandishing the jug.

  'It's morning.' Hermitage gestured to the rising sun to prove his point.

  'Oh, erm, right.' Wat shook sleep from his head and tried to make wakefulness take its place. The bleary eyes said it was a struggle.

  'Shall I go and get the cart?' Hermitage offered.

  Wat looked at him as if he'd just been asked if he'd like a cart for breakfast.

  'To put Briston in?' Hermitage explained.

  'Ah, yes,' Wat said, sense forcing its way past his numbed senses. 'Here, take this.'

  Wat thrashed around on the cot for a few moments as he recovered a purse from his belt. He emptied the contents into his hand and Hermitage gaped at the bright and shiny things nestled there. As a monk, he had made a vow of poverty – it had never taken much effort to stick to this, as no one ever gave him any money. He had seen coins of course, even used them in his younger days. They had always been battered and damaged things. Usually long overdue their return to the king's mint for re-issue.

  As an intelligent and intellectual person, he understood the uses of gold and silver. He knew their role in the economy of nations; he even understood something of the methods of production. He'd heard of the gold mines in Wales and the silver in the far south. He had never realised that he would drool when he actually saw some. No words came out of his mouth as Wat popped most of the haul into another purse. He handed the one now containing two silver coins to Hermitage.

  'Give this to the landlord. It should ease our passage.'

  'Ah,' Hermitage said. It wasn't an "ah" of understanding, it was an "ah" of oh-my-goodness-I've-got-some-real-live-silver-in-my-hands.

  'Well, go on then.' Wat waved the monk away as he looked at the still recumbent form of Briston, and hefted his jug once more.

  'Go on then,' Hermitage repeated rather mindlessly as he stepped from the room, carrying the silver as if it would break.

  Down the rickety stairs he went, nearly breaking his leg because some fool had taken away the banister. In the main room, he came face to face with the landlord who had risen to start the fruitless task of trying to clean the place before the dirt of another day moved in.

  'Oh, yes, good morning, landlord.'

  The landlord frowned at the monk.

  'How many people been sleeping in my room?' the man rumbled.

  'Oh, erm, we're just on our way.' Hermitage scrabbled for the purse, which he thought would ease his passage. 'I was just wondering to myself,' he paused and waited for the reply, "what were you wondering."

  He got a slightly revised version of the frown. Revised downwards.

  'I don't like monks in my inn. It's a reputable house.' The landlord was rumbling and frowning at the same time now.

  'Aha, yes indeed,' Hermitage nodded agreement. 'I was wondering whether there might perhaps be something, anything really, in the form of a, erm, sort of cart available?' He tried grinning.

  'A cart?' The frown of the landlord deepened into a scowl of suspicion.

  'For rent, of course,' Hermitage added, holding out the purse.

  A scowling face extended a suspicious arm and took the purse. It tipped the contents into an open hand and promptly transformed into gap-toothed grin.

  'Cart, sir? Of course,' the man said, with what Hermitage supposed passed for a smile in these parts. It was still rather alarming. 'How big?'

  Hermitage was about to reply that one big enough for a large sleeping weaver would do the trick, but caught himself just in time. 'Oh, I don't know. What have you got?'

  The landlord led him from the inn to the stable next door. This wasn't really a stable any more as the Normans had taken all the horses. It still had a flat-bedded cart in it though, and Hermitage saw it would do the job.

  'You'll have to pull it yourself,' said the landlord in a rather odd tone.

  Hermitage interpreted this as an indication that if enough silver were available, the man would strap himself into the harness and drag the cart up a mountain or two.

  'Yes, that's fine,' Hermitage said, noting the disappointment. He was just starting to think of an excuse for the cart, a rather complex web of half truth that would satisfy the man's curiosity and avoid too much interest in their nefarious plan.

  'Please yourself,' the landlord said as he wandered off counting his silver. He only needed to get to two so it was a pretty straightforward task. This didn't stop him repeating it over and over again.

  Hermitage shrugged his shrug of bewilderment at the behaviour of people and pulled at the cart. It wasn't actually a bad piece of machinery. Hermitage's normal dealings with people ended with him being supplied with all sorts of rubbish. If he got fish for the monastery, it would be rotten. If he was sent by the victualler to get game from the butcher, it would be hung the requisite time. Then some more time. Then it would be taken down because no one wanted it. Then it would be hung up again and finally it would be sold to Hermitage.

  He fully expected all the wheels of the cart to fall off the moment he tried to move the thing, but it stayed intact.

  He loaded it with a gathering of straw left over from the horses and dragged it round to the window of Briston's chamber.

  'Wat,' he hissed.

  'Wat,' he hissed again, as he climbed on to the cart, his head just a couple of feet below the window.

  'Wat,' he said normally and with some impatience.

  Wat's head appeared at the window and he looked down at cart and monk.

  'Well done.'

  He sounded surprised that Hermitage had actually achieved this simple task. He raised a hand, and ducked back into the room. The next thing to appear, after a few moments and some rather odd noises, was the still sleeping head of Briston. Hermitage suspected that the fellow might have been on the receiving end of the jug again.

  'Hadn't you better lower him feet first?' Hermitage reverted to hissing.

  'He's heavy enough as it is, never mind getting his feet out of the window.'

  Wat was struggling with the bulk of the weaver, but managed to push and pull until the man was balanced on the window ledge. The large stomach took the weight – head dangling out of the window and feet presumably dangling inside. Hermitage stood on the cart ready to lower the figure into place on the straw. Wat simply tipped the legs up, and down came the weaver.

  Hermitage realised two things as he looked up at the descending mass. One, his outstretched arms and slender frame were not sufficient to the task of stopping the body of a large weaver as it fell from an upper storey window. Two, it was too late to get out of the way.

  He closed his eyes, at the same time wondering, from an intellectual standpoint, what effect closing the eyes could have when someone was about to land on you.

  The unstoppable weaver hit the immovable monk.

  'Well caught, Hermitage,' Wat said from his window, as he watched a Benedictine habit disappear under the significant bulk of Briston. He vanished from the window as the fallen weaver started to make stirring noises. Wat headed for the cart and fell down the stairs. He grumbled and moaned his way to the cart where Briston was now awake. He was not happy.

  Hermitage wasn't very happy either. The two men had spent some uncomfortable moments extricating themselves from their jumble. This was not a straightforward task when the larger of the two was tied up.

  'Wat, you untie me,' Briston demanded as his fellow weaver arrived.

  'Erm,' Wat thought about it for a moment. 'No,' he thought some more. 'I could knock you out again if you like?' he offered, holding up the jug he had brought with him. Hermitage wondered how many more times this jug could be used for the purpose. It must be of remarkably robust construction.

  'What the devil are you pla
ying at?' Briston strained against the rope that was not going to give way.

  Hermitage wormed his way off the cart and stood next to Wat.

  'You have got to go and see Virgil,' Wat explained in clear and serious tones. 'You wouldn't do it of your own volition, so you're going to do it of my volition. You can either sit on the cart and enjoy the journey or I can keep hitting you on the head until we get there.'

  Briston glared.

  'Personally, I'd prefer to keep hitting you.'

  'What's happened to you, Wat? This monk has been a bad influence, I can tell.'

  Hermitage looked surprised, he was sure this had nothing to do with him.

  'You're the influence, Briston.' Wat was suddenly fierce. 'You always have been. You got us into this.'

  'Me?' Briston would have held his hands out in innocent supplication, if they hadn't been tied behind his back. 'I was minding my own business and you came after me.'

  'Not just this,' Wat snapped, 'everything. Virgil, the tapestries, everything. It's all your fault. You were the one who had to find out what that man wanted.'

  'What man? I think you've lost your wits.'

  'It's not all I've lost. If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't be in this wretched trade. I wouldn't even know Virgil and Cwen wouldn't be at risk of death.'

  'And you wouldn't be wearing all those fine clothes, have a large house in Derby, and a purse full of gold,'

  'There's more to life than that,' Wat said with some feeling.

  'No there isn't,' Briston replied, clearly not understanding the concept.

  'There we are then,' Wat concluded. 'You stay tied up, I take you to Virgil, and we see what happens next.'

  They glared at one another.

  Wat broke the silence, 'I think I'd like to hit you again now.'

  Hermitage took his arm and gave a slight shake of the head.

  Wat considered for a while and eventually put the jug down on the back of the cart.

  They rearranged Briston and used some of the rope around his wrists to secure him to the vehicle.

  'Virgil will only kill you both as well. And he's probably already done Cwen in,' Briston argued.