Eadric looked to Firman to answer.
Firman didn't answer.
'Keeper of the ritual,' Eadric almost yelled. 'There. I've said it. Ha ha. Do what you want, Hoofhorn.' He did a little dance around Dextus.
'Master Eadric, are you alright?' Cwen asked.
'Oh yes, fine now. Now it's all clear.' Eadric's voice seemed to have stuck in a higher register. 'The world must know. There's no hope for me, but you can save yourselves. The Hoofhorn is the keeper of the ritual of the weavers' guild. He has powers. Strange and mysterious powers. And he's got a sword. Bloody big sword. First you think he's a harmless old man and then he comes after you with the sword.'
'Does he?' Dextus asked quietly of the man who seemed to claim the sheep were following him, or something. Armed sheep apparently.
'And don't forget the pigeons.'
'We won't forget the pigeons,' Dextus promised, edging closer.
'They were dead!' Eadric cried in anguish. And wrung his hands, which were now well and truly wrung.
Dextus smiled. 'We can bury them,' he offered.
'Bury them?' Eadric demanded. 'Bury pigeons? You're as mad as he is.' He pointed at Firman.
'He's got the tapestry though.' Eadric nodded knowingly at them all. 'He could leave us alone and be gone. Return to his master. But he won't.'
'Won't he?' Dextus was very close now.
'Of course not. He's got to kill us all. So we never talk. Like the pigeons.'
'The pigeons could talk?' Dextus asked as calmly as he could.
Eadric stood up straight. 'What is the matter with you?' he asked the priest. 'First you want to bury the pigeons now you want to talk to them? What is it with you and pigeons?'
'What is it with you and sheep?' Dextus responded. 'Start at the beginning.'
Eadric scanned the room as if he was a lamb at a wolf reunion.
'I had to get the tapestry,' he eventually mumbled, averting his eyes.
'You did?' Dextus asked.
'Yes.' Eadric continued to twitch. 'The master of the guild made me do it. Only when I got to Baernodebi, Briston was already tied up. The Master hadn't given me details of the tapestry, just that Briston would know which one it was.'
'So Virgil was right, you were after Briston,' Cwen accused.
'Not now, not now,' Eadric responded looking at the tapestries on the wall as if they were ganging up on him as well.
'So I went back to the guild and the Master set the Hoofhorn on me.'
'The one with the sword?' Dextus checked.
'And the powers, don't forget the powers.' Eadric pointed a shaking finger at Firman.
'And what did this Hoofhorn do, exactly?' Dextus was contemptuous of the whole story.
'He came at me with the sword,' Eadric nodded violently.
'The Sword of Tup,' Stott spoke quietly from his fireside retreat.
They all turned to face him.
'Yes, yes,' Eadric blurted. 'The Sword of Tup. He knows, he knows.' He pointed his accusatory finger at Stott now. 'Oh my God, maybe he's one of them.' He hid behind Dextus.
'The sword is true,' the old man nodded slowly as he appraised them all. 'The Stott family has always been connected to tapestry. We've commissioned some of the finest works in the land. Naturally that gives you good access to the guild. The keeper of the guild's ritual is called The Hoofhorn and he carries the Sword of Tup. Usually for ceremonial use, but I don't suppose the sword minds one way or the other.'
'Are you saying that our rambling friend Eadric here really is being chased by this Hoofhorn?' Dextus still didn't believe it.
'That I cannot say.' Stott was sombre. 'All I can say is that there is a Hoofhorn, or rather was.'
'Did you ever see him?' Cwen asked in some awe.
'Oh yes. The Stotts were allowed to attend some of the rituals. Only the minor stuff of course, but I saw the Hoofhorn in, oh, when was the last time? Sixty Two?'
'So it would have been the same Hoofhorn,' Cwen concluded, apparently content that there was such a being.
'Could be,' Stott acknowledged. 'It was a job for life.'
'And is Firman the Hoofhorn?'
'Good Lord, no,' Stott responded without looking. 'The Hoofhorn was an ancient old boy, beard to the floor, all rags.'
'He's shaved,' Eadric protested, 'and he's in disguise.'
No one said anything. No one seemed to have anything to say. Looks of befuddlement and sympathy crossed from face to face. Eadric wasn't going to come out from behind Dextus until Firman was dealt with.
Firman's face was the picture of befuddlement and sympathy.
Stott had relaxed back to his fire that Parsimon was tending. Dextus for once looked like he was completely out of his depth. Only Cwen was thinking about it.
'Think about it,' she prompted the company to do the same. 'Eadric was at the weavers' guild and was instructed to get the tapestry from Briston. Briston was tied up so Eadric couldn't complete the task. He goes back to the guild and the Master isn't happy. We know there is a Hoofhorn now, so the Master sets him on Eadric.'
'An old boy with a beard and all in rags?' Dextus said. 'Shouldn't be much of a problem for Eadric.'
'But he has special powers,' Cwen said in a voice labouring with intensity.
'Special powers?' Dextus almost laughed. 'What? The Hoofhorn, the pixies, and the Green Man?'
'He might have,' Cwen protested.
'No. He might not,' Dextus contradicted. 'Ghouls, ghosts and weavers' ritual keepers, none of them have special powers. There's no such thing as special powers. Believe me.'
'Mister know it all, eh?'
'No, mister done it all. The Castigatori and I have dealt with things that would scare the trousers off a four-legged man. And in none of them did we find “special powers”. Came across lots of people who claimed to have special powers, of course. Lots of them. Trouble was their powers weren't special enough to stop them being castigated. One could talk to dogs, one was the son of the mountains of Wales, one was even King Arthur. None of them had enough special power to stand up to a slap around the face. Loons, all of them. If there is a Hoofhorn, and I'll take Stott's word for it that there is, he is a man. A normal man, prone to the vagaries of a normal life. Broken fingers, bleeding noses, normal.'
'But he could be after Eadric,' Cwen persisted.
'He could. And if he turns up, we can give him a bloody nose and send him on his way. He's not going to have the power to smash Virgil to a pulp. Not unless he's nine feet tall. Is he nine feet tall?' he asked Eadric.
'No,' Eadric had to admit.
'There you are then. Mister Firman is not nine feet tall either. He'd have to be really good at disguise.'
'But if Firman isn't the Hoofhorn, the real one could be out there. Perhaps he did in your Castigatori,' Cwen proposed.
'Ridiculous!' Dextus dismissed the suggestion.
'What was it then? What was it beat a giant to death and knocked your men into next week?' Cwen asked. 'Eh? What was it?' she asked some more.
'Not an old man in rags with a beard to the floor,' Dextus insisted.
Firman took a step towards the fire.
'I really don't know where this is getting us,' he said. 'Whatever the truth or otherwise of Mister Eadric's tale, we don't have a killer for Virgil.'
Eadric, seeing Firman approach, skipped away towards the still half-open door.
'Why were you on the road then?' he demanded in a voice with the barest hint of sanity. 'Now I've said that I was after Briston, what's your tale?'
'I've already told you,' Firman sighed.
He folded his arms as he saw that Eadric was not paying attention any more but was looking out the door.
Eadric turned to face the group. The madness had returned to his face.
'What is it?' Dextus snorted. 'The Hoofhorn?'
Eadric shook his head in despair, 'Worse,' he croaked. ‘Normans.'
Caput XXVI
Once a Norman, Twice a Norman
While the occupants of Stott manor were worrying about who or what killed Virgil, not far away, Hermitage and Wat were squatting by the fire in Gilbert's keep considering a much more physical problem.
'You know,' Hermitage whispered, 'I'm not sure we should be here for the triumphant return of little Aveline.'
'Why not?' Wat whispered back. 'Take all the credit for your thinking. Besides, we need the little favour.'
'But,' Hermitage responded, holding up the fingers of his left hand to count points of interest, 'one, her father is going to ask her where she’s been. And she’ll say at the Bigby inn. Two, he'll ask her who she was with. She could say she was with the fat weaver who's currently sitting by the door. Three, he'll ask what she was doing. It's possible she'll say she was letting the fat weaver make rude tapestries of her. Four,…'
'He'll ask if anyone else was there,' Wat took up the count, 'and she'll say yes. The monk and that other man were there as well.'
They looked at one another.
'Five,' Wat concluded, 'he'll kill us all.'
'She might not say anything,' Hermitage offered. 'She’d be too embarrassed. Hardly the sort of thing you tell your father.'
'Oh yes? How many sixteen year olds do you know wouldn't try to blame someone else if they were in trouble? And who wouldn’t say something shocking to their parent just to annoy them.'
'I don't know any sixteen year olds.' Hermitage replied.
'Well, think of yourself when you were sixteen and got into trouble.'
'Trouble?'
Wat appraised Hermitage, 'Forget it.' He gave up on the concept of Hermitage doing wrong, unless it was an accident.
'I don't think Gilbert will be keen on us leaving until his daughter is safely returned,' Hermitage suggested.
'You don't say.' Wat's scorn warmed itself by the fire
'I do.' Hermitage was sincere. 'What are we going to do?' he squeaked. 'If we hadn't found his daughter, he'd probably have killed us just for being Saxon and not finding his daughter. Now we have found his daughter, he's going to kill us anyway.'
Wat was decisive. 'We've got to get to the daughter before he does.'
'What good will that do?'
'If we get her story straight, we can all walk away.'
'What?' Hermitage screwed his face up. 'Get her to lie?'
'Erm,’ Wat paused, knowing what offence this would cause his companion. 'Yes.'
'Oh, Wat.'
'Look,' Wat explained, 'if she tells him all we've just assumed, he'll kill us, right?'
'Right,' Hermitage said, as if this was actually the correct thing to do.
'But what do you think he'll do to her afterwards? A hefty punishment, I should think. One she’d be best to avoid.'
'More likely give her a new pair of shoes to cheer her after such an awful experience?'
'Oh,' Wat said. 'Yes, could be. Not much incentive to keep quiet then. Bugger.' He lapsed into thought again.
They peered at the fire, hoping it might inspire them. Or perhaps leap out and burn Gilbert to death.
'I've had an idea,' Wat said in some shock.
'Go on.'
'It's awful.'
'I rather thought it might be.'
'No, I mean really awful. It's sinful and just horrible.'
'I don't suppose there's any chance of you keeping it to yourself?' Hermitage asked.
'I don't think I can. You'll need to know so you can play your part, and then you can pray for the forgiveness we'll need.'
'Wat,' Hermitage said. 'I have seen the sort of tapestries you do. You make them and I've looked at them. I'm already praying for our forgiveness.'
'Ah,' Wat smiled. 'That's good then, I suppose.'
'Just tell me what it is, for goodness’ sake1' Hermitage was resigned to hearing it. 'If it stops us getting killed, I suppose it might have its merits.'
Wat told him.
'Wat, that's awful!' Hermitage breathed in some awe that a human mind could come up with such things.
After a few hurried and shameful whispers, Wat stood.
'Excuse me, my Lord.'
'What is it?' Gilbert called from the corner where he was sharpening his sword.
'Where's the privy?' Wat asked.
'Over there,' Gilbert gestured to the corner of the keep opposite Aveline's cot.
'No, I, erm, mean the, erm, garderobe.' Wat sounded embarrassed.
Gilbert snorted, probably at such soft civility. 'Bottom of the mound,' he said, 'Aveline made us move it outside.'
'Thanks, back in a bit.' Wat scurried from the room, bypassing Briston but giving him a warning stare as he went.
. . .
The return of the lady Aveline was an event of considerable moment. The horseman despatched for the task had clearly set about it with a will. He was returning through the stockade gate just as Wat got to the bottom of the hill.
The Lady Aveline was not happy.
Everyone knew that the Lady Aveline was not happy.
Even the horse that brought her home knew she was not happy.
The Norman on the horse had taken some pleasure in throwing Aveline over its neck and holding her there with a mailed glove. The grin on the man's face said that this was the sort of opportunity he'd been praying for. The horse’s flanks told it not to go near the small human in the frock ever again. The long dress made it look as if Aveline had no feet at all. The horse knew different.
'Come on then, my lady,' the Norman horseman called as he brought his reluctant beast to a halt. He swung himself from the saddle and dragged the lady down. As he did so, he accidentally cuffed her round the head with his mailed glove.
'Oh, pardon me,' he said, clearly not asking to be pardoned at all.
The Lady Aveline stamped and fumed like the horse. Wat almost expected to see steam rising from her head. He really didn't want to talk to her at all, but his life was on the line.
'You,' the Lady Aveline spat as she saw Wat approach.
'Lady Aveline, as I now know. I need a word with you before you see your father.'
'My father cuts people's heads off, you know,' Aveline said, looking at Wat's head and assessing the level of force required to remove it. She also gave encompassing glances to the Norman and the horse.
'I'm sure he does, and that's what I need to talk about.'
Wat got as near to Lady Aveline as he dared and whispered urgently.
In the face of Wat's whispered onslaught, the lady's face remained as stern as the back of a boat. The hissing words were accompanied by a variety of gestures and indications. At one point, Wat stepped back slightly and used his hands to indicate the entirety of the lady's person. He then pointedly looked around the stockade and noted several of the Norman soldiers milling around. Finally he looked to the keep and shrugged a shrug of helplessness.
During the tirade, if tirades can be delivered in low voices, Aveline's face transformed. From affronted innocent about to do harm, or rather instruct someone else to do it, she went as pale as a bucket and her mouth fell open. She too looked at the soldiers milling about and then at the keep.
'You wouldn't,' she said without really closing her mouth properly.
Wat simply shrugged and nodded. Whatever it was she thought he wouldn't do, he was reluctantly confirming that actually, yes, he would.
A calculation seemed to pass across her face, but it was a short journey. The lady stiffened and her mouth now clamped shut, forming a very straight line. She gave Wat a look she had clearly inherited from her father, picked up her skirts, and made for the keep.
Wat followed close at heel, anxiously appraising Aveline's face and posture to see if he could read her intentions. They weren't friendly but then that seemed normal.
At the top of the mound, she threw the doors of the keep open, nearly taking Briston completely out of the picture.
'Aveline,' Gilbert cried out and strode through the smoky murk to embrace his daughter.
The daughter stood and took the embrace, much
like a stinking dog takes a bath. She allowed a kiss on each cheek and then stood as stiff as a day-old corpse and folded her arms.
'I haven’t decided if I'm staying yet,' she said.
'Where have you been?' Gilbert asked. It wasn't clear whether he was ignoring his daughter or was simply too pleased to see her.
Wat held his breath. Hermitage looked at Wat holding his breath and held his breath. Briston rubbed his head and looked in alarm at the woman who'd come closest to removing his need for it. He gaped at Wat in genuine alarm. Wat gestured him to silence.
'I've been to the town,' Aveline grumbled.
'Why? What's the town got that we haven't?' Gilbert held his arms wide to indicate the magnificence of his surroundings.
'Other people. People who aren't all soldiers. People who don't spend their days in conversation with their horses. People who laugh and talk about clothes and things. People who go to the tavern and hear stories. Travelling merchants with wild and exciting adventures.'
If Wat and Hermitage could have done, they would have held some more of their breath.
'I know what happens to girls who mix with merchants. They come to a sorry end. And if my girl mixes with a merchant, the merchant will come to a sorry end as well.'
'Oh, don't worry about me,' Aveline whined.
Wat and Hermitage breathed again.
'I'm back again, aren't I? Back in this hole on a hill, just one of the many I've been dragged around. Back to lead a dull and pointless life with a bunch of dull and pointless soldiers, who wouldn't know how to treat a lady if they found one lying in a ditch. Mind you,' she said and strode off towards her cot, 'women lying in ditches are probably all they do know. I'm a lady now and I'm not going to stand for it. What on earth do we have to have a fire in the middle of the room for when we've got no chimney? Have you seen the state of my clothes? And we're not having the privy in here anymore. You can get a pot like town folk do, and clear it out every morning. And another thing...'
The voice of the lady droned on, expressing its deep and heartfelt dissatisfaction with everything and everyone about her.
The look on Gilbert's face, which had been one of joy at the recovery of his daughter, was now one of recollection of what it had actually been like when his daughter was here. He sighed and followed, mumbling the odd “yes and “no” as required.
The Tapestry of Death Page 24
