THE TAPESTRY OF DEATH
by
HOWARD OF WARWICK
The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage
Volume the Third
Published by The Funny Book Company on Smashwords
Dalton House, 60 Windsor Ave, London SW19 2RR
www.funnybookcompany.com
Text copyright © Howard Matthews 2014
The right of Howard Matthews to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book will be published in print in February 2018 ISBN 978-0-9929393-5-9
Cover design by Double Dagger.
Original artwork by Adam Fisher.
www.fisherart.co.uk
Also by Howard of Warwick:
The First Chronicles of Brother Hermitage
The Heretics of De'Ath
The Garderobe of Death
The Tapestry of Death
Continuing Chronicles of Brother Hermitage
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other
Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids
Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns
Yet More Chronicles of Brother Hermitage
The Case of the Clerical Cadaver
The Case of the Curious Corpse
The Case of the Cantankerous Carcass
A Brother Hermitage Diversion (and free!)
Brother Hermitage in Shorts
Also:
Howard of Warwick does the Middle Ages: Authenticity without accuracy.
The Domesday Book (No, Not That One.)
The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)
Explore the whole sorry business and join the mailing list at
Howardofwarwick.com
Another funny book from The Funny Book Company
Greedy by Ainsworth Pennington
Contents
Caput I Tie, Die
Caput II Guild Goings-on
Caput III Tapestries Revealed and Revealing
Caput IV A New Ritual
Caput V The Secret’s Out
Caput VI Sullied Stotts
Caput VII The Girl
Caput VIII To The Manor Forlorn
Caput IX Quarrels
Caput X Castigatori
Caput XI The Giant
Caput XII Peasants, the lot
Caput XIII Loins
Caput XIV Cellars
Caput XV The Other Village
Caput XVI Back to The Cellar
Caput XVII Tapestries in Tapestries
Caput XVIII That Cellar Again
Caput XIX Plans Afoot
Caput XX Knock Knock
Caput XXI Weavers
Caput XXII What Animal?
Caput XXIII Normans
Caput XXIV At Home with the Normans
Caput XXV How to Disguise a Hoofhorn
Caput XXVI Once a Norman, Twice a Norman
Caput XXVII To the Manor Shorn
Caput XXVIII Aha!
Caput XXIX No Cunning, No Plan
Caput XXX Back to Business
Caput I
Tie, Die
The body of Briston the Weaver was tied up. Definitively, comprehensively, and indubitably tied up. All over. From head to foot, he was bound in close fitting cord; apart from his boots, not a peep of his body was visible. Not that Brother Hermitage wanted any peeps of dead bodies.
Even though he didn't like to disturb the practical details of the world as they passed him by, he could see that someone had done this. It was not the sort of thing anyone could manage to do to themselves. In fact, there was more tying up than body, which raised interesting questions of nomenclature.
The fellow who had summoned him and Wat the Weaver to this gloomy place stood respectfully by the entrance of the canvas mausoleum. Perhaps out of respect for the dead, but more likely because Wat had said, “Move and you're dead” when they entered the tent.
'Not Briston.'
Wat's voice was intense as he looked down on the tied up body.
Hermitage gave his companion a few quiet moments for contemplation while he thought about this. Perhaps it shouldn’t be tied up Briston at all. Maybe Bristoned tying up?
The dull light of an oil lamp hanging from the centre of the tent dropped slowly on to a sad scene, somehow made more poignant by being at this early hour of the night. Poor Briston's body had expired with the setting of the January sun, and his soul's journey faced the long darkness of a winter night. The lamp was old and the oil was cheap. The light was not comforting and seemed to press on Wat's drooping shoulders.
'We've been forced to look into two deaths now, Hermitage, and I couldn't have given a hoot about either of them. But Briston?'
Hermitage, still recovering from the rush to get here, didn't have the breath to chide his friend for thinking ill of the departed. Albeit that the particular departed they'd just dealt with had been an old monk due to die anyway, and a rather despicable Norman.[ The volume entitled The Garderobe of Death will reveal all…]
He also didn't like to interrupt. For once. There was real emotion in the weaver's words. Hermitage relied on Wat as his rock. A firm, steady presence in the face of life's travails. Wat could always find some note of optimism, even when Hermitage's execution was being arranged, usually for the deaths he was actually investigating.
His lungs told him they hadn't been full since they set off at a run from Castle Grosmal, which was only round the corner really. He was still young, even a couple of years younger than Wat, but life had prepared him for mental rather than physical exertion. He saw his appointment as King's Investigator, first by Harold and now by William, as an opportunity for careful thought and analysis. If the job was going to involve a lot of running around, he might have to resign. He imagined resigning from a job King William gave him was quite straightforward. You died then you didn't have to do it anymore. If you weren't old enough for death, or just weren't keen on the idea, you simply carried on.
'We go so far back.' Wat was shaking his head and running his hands over his face. 'And, he was my age.' Wat seemed to find this fact particularly unbearable. 'At twenty-something, you think you'd have a good ten years left at least.'
On their journey, Hermitage had tried to get more information about the victim, about Wat's relationship with him, and about weaving in general. Wat always seemed reluctant to discuss his trade.
'All will be revealed, Hermitage,' was all Wat would say. 'All,' he added, as if the Book of Revelation was going to be explained. But that needed no explanation as it was as clear as day to Hermitage.
'You,' Wat snapped, emerging from his reverie and striding across the tent to the man by the entrance, whom he grasped firmly by the throat. 'What do you know about this?'
Wat gestured to where Briston lay, like some awful caterpillar.
The ex-weaver's tent was the last thing standing from that day's Great Market of Baernodebi, a title so adrift from reality it had floated over the horizon. It may have been great once upon a time, but certainly not in living memory. The truly g
reat markets of Lincoln or Nottingham with their bustling business, bubbling with the raucous energy of a hundred tradesmen, were magnificent places. Still further afield, markets in Norwich or the amazing London were simply dazzling. Exotic goods and people jostled with rich merchants, nobles, and the ordinary man. Even if you had nothing to buy you would go, simply to gawk at the marvels brought to your doorstep.
If you wanted to gawk, you could also go to Baernodebi. You'd want to gawk from a distance, preferably up a hill and most certainly up wind, and if you did gawk close up, it was essential you didn't touch anything. Quite apart from the risk of disease, the merchants were a jealous lot. The slightest hint of a sale would have the purse out of your breeches before you could say, 'Do you mind?'
Hermitage had noted the place was deserted when they arrived. Only Briston's tent remained standing in the small square field surrounded by hovels. If just three hovels can surround anything. True, everyone else had departed with the falling sun, but it had also been the case that Briston was the only trader who had a tent.
'What do you know?' Wat repeated slowly, having had no reply.
Hermitage gently touched his friend's arm and indicated that the man in Wat's grasp was being most effectively throttled and couldn't get a word out. Wat let the man go, but a glare kept him in his place.
'Nothing,' the fellow croaked. 'I just brought you the news. I found him after the market closed. Everyone else had gone, but his tent was still up. I thought he was probably doing business and obviously didn't want to get too close.'
Hermitage frowned at this piece of information. It sounded like some sort of contagion. It was only weaving. Perhaps Briston did business with nobles and well-to-do folk and so couldn't be interrupted. Hermitage remembered the market field and the hovels, and thought it highly unlikely a noble would come anywhere near the place. The Normans had been in the country for months now, ravaging, pillaging, and just plain stealing everything that wasn't nailed down. Even they hadn't touched Baernodebi market, and their standards were remarkably low.
'And, when you did get close?' Wat demanded.
'We found him. Like this. All weaved up.'
Hermitage thought this a fine description. It was indeed as if Briston had been woven to death. He squatted at the side of the body and examined the cord, except it wasn't cord or rope. It was tapestry thread, the thin delicate strand from which great beauty sprang. In this case, many strands had been wound to make a thicker binding and the only bits of Briston visible were his boots at the bottom and a clump of hair at the top. They certainly didn't look beautiful.
Most incongruously of all, the colour of the thread was flesh pink.
Hermitage acknowledged that whoever had done this had been very neat. Each pass of cord was precisely laid against the next, and the whole formed a rather agreeable pattern. This body-shaped tapestry was lying on its left side, its face pressed against the wall of the tent. Evenly laid bands ran round and round his legs and on to the torso, clamping the arms to the side. Indented towards the top was a most effective and well-ordered noose, which tightly grasped the man's throat. This continued on around the head until the whole ensemble finished in a masterful knot on top, leaving those few wisps of hair struggling out.
'Weaved up is right,' Wat breathed. 'So you came straight to us in Castle Grosmal?'
The man held out a crumpled piece of pale cream parchment, 'I found this.'
Wat took it while Hermitage looked in wonder. It appeared to be a fine piece of material, ill-used, no doubt, but the quality was visible. Clear writing could be seen, and in a good hand. Wat looked at the thing and handed it to Hermitage, keeping his attention on his captive. The monk reverently turned it over in his hands. It was indeed of high quality, or rather had been some time ago. It had weight and durability. Some of the edges were frayed, but that was to be expected. It had clearly been crumpled and thrust into this fellow's pocket. A thought that gave Hermitage the shivers. He looked at the paper and the writing upon it. This too was old, but completely legible. He read it to himself once and frowned deeply.
'Recipe for the sousing of herring gizzards?' he read out loud, wondering what on earth that had to do with the murder of a weaver.
'The other side,' the man bemoaned.
Hermitage turned the paper over and read more writing. This was in a far less learned hand, but the words were simple.
'If I die,' Hermitage squinted and read out slowly, 'he's misspelled “die”, by the way.'
Wat simply glared.
'Sorry. If I die, pass this to Wat the Weaver. He is now at...' Hermitage held the paper some distance from his eyes. 'There's a lot of writing and crossing out. Looks like a list of some sort.'
'It is,' Wat said. 'Just read what's at the end. Not crossed out.'
'Erm,' Hermitage scanned down the document to find something he could make head or tail of. 'Castle Grosmal,' he read out in some wonder. 'How did he know you were there?' He looked further. 'Before that it says De'Ath's Dingle, crossed out. How did he know you were at the monastery?'[ You can find out why Wat was at the monastery by reading The Heretics of De’Ath]
'He was worried,' Wat explained. 'It's a death note. Look.'
Wat released his prisoner with a glare of warning and pulled another piece of parchment from a small pocket in the waistband of his breeches. This was neatly folded and in much better condition. He handed it to Hermitage.
Unfolding it the monk read, 'If I die, pass this to Briston the Weaver, he is currently at... then it's blank?'
'That's because I wasn't worried someone was going to kill me. Briston plainly was. It was an arrangement we had.'
'A rather risky one,' Hermitage observed. 'If the threat of death arrived, you'd hardly have time to find out where your friend was and then write it down.'
'We get threatened all the time,' Wat shrugged. 'You get to know when it's serious. That's when you start keeping tabs on one another. Pick up word from the markets, other travellers, that sort of thing.'
Hermitage shook his head. It was clearly an appalling way to live.
'Wouldn't it be more effective to have a help note?' Hermitage asked. 'One which said “someone is after me, come and help”. That way you might not have to actually die before help arrived. Which is a bit extreme, and a bit late, if I may say so.'
'It's just a sort of will, Hermitage,' Wat explained. 'We weren't tending one another like lambs.'
Hermitage didn't find this satisfactory, but Wat clearly didn't want to go into the subject any further.
'Who would threaten you?' he asked instead. 'And what for? I don't understand what you could possibly do in the way of weaving that would make someone want to kill you. And all these crossings out,' Hermitage reasoned, 'show that your friend had been under serious threat for some time.'
'He always was a chancer.'
'A chancer?' Hermitage hadn't heard the word before.
'One who takes chances, risks, always on the lookout for big fortune. Perhaps taking some money for something he hadn't done. Passing off work as his own when it might not be. That sort of thing.'
'Ah. Dishonesty, but not you.' Hermitage stated a fact.
'Cautious and steady, me. Always have a fall back.' Wat was reassuring, but he hadn't actually denied being dishonest.
'You've done very well for yourself.' Hermitage acknowledged the fine cut of Wat's clothes and the quality of his boots.
'I have. And when someone wants to kill me, my general approach is to avoid them. Briston's approach was usually to rob them some more.'
'How awful.' Hermitage gazed at the body as these revelations about life in the world were more shocking than those of Saint John at the end of it. 'Still,' he tried to sound positive, 'we've resolved issues such as this before. We've found killers. I'm sure we could do it again.'
'That's the easy bit,' Wat said, standing once more. 'I know who did it.' There was steel in his tone.
'Really?'
Hermitage was
impressed. They'd only been in the tent for a few minutes and Wat had already identified the murderer. Hermitage looked around in some intellectual frustration. What clue had he missed? He checked the old parchment in his hand in case Briston had written the name of his killer on it. He held it loosely as he considered the processes required to make a note of a murderer's name while you're being murdered. He considered it unlikely.
'It's a guild execution,' Wat announced.
The man with them, who had been sidling towards the door since getting his throat back, now made a run for it, shouting, 'Assassins, assassins,' all the way back to his hovel where he bolted inside and threw a goatskin over the entrance.
'Let him go,' Wat said as Hermitage started to move after the man. 'He didn't have anything to do with it. I just thought he might have seen something.'
Hermitage returned to Wat's side and they looked down on Briston's woven resting place.
'It's called the Tapestry of Death,' Wat explained.
Hermitage thought this was a fine expression, but no explanation. He turned his head to his friend and raised eyebrows in question.
'It's the ritual of execution for those who breach the code of the guild.' Wat was sombre and serious. 'There's an awful lot of ritual in the guild. Books and books of the stuff, but this is the end of it all.'
Hermitage nodded sagely. Then he had some thoughts.
'Weavers?' he said, incredulity creeping into his voice.
'Yes,' Wat snapped back.
'The guild of weavers executes people?' The incredulity had gone up a notch and had been joined by an undertone of mocking.
The Tapestry of Death Page 1