'Nothing to go on at all,' Hermitage wailed, holding his arms out to encompass the scene.
'At least we can be fairly sure of what actually happened,' Wat said. Hermitage looked at him.
'Briston had everyone after him,' the weaver explained. 'Virgil, the church, the customers, everyone. Some wanted him dead, others wanted a refund. Knowing Briston, I'm not sure which'd worry him most. What to do? Disappear. Get a pig, tie him up in the Tapestry of Death, send me the note, and problem solved. Quicker than an arrow in the eyeball.'
'Wat!' Hermitage reproved his friend. 'Surely he'd be discovered when the tapestry was opened?'
'Ah, but it shouldn't be. That's the point of the Tapestry of Death. Once bound up, the victim is dead and buried. The ritual doesn't allow the tapestry to be opened again.
If opened be
The tapestry
Of death once it is woven
Great evil will
The world up fill
Unless it is recoven.'
'Recoven?' Hermitage was aghast at this nonsense, and the appalling use of the language.
'Don't know,' Wat shrugged, 'I think it's a sort of mix of recovered and re-woven. Most of the guild ritual is in awful rhyme.'
'So, he'd have got away?'
'Yep. We'd all have gathered round the graveside. The church would have lost their man, Virgil would have lost his income, and the guild would bury a pig. I'm sure there's something in the ritual about that being a bad thing,' Wat mused. 'Meanwhile, Briston's away and clear.'
'He left everything.' Hermitage wondered if the man would do that. 'His normal tapestries, the other ones, a whole box full. They must have been worth a lot. His tent, chairs, everything.'
'Small price to pay for all your enemies forgetting about you.'
'And Cwen!' Hermitage thought this was the worst of all.
'Yes,' Wat looked at the ground. 'She wasn't happy, was she? Clearly had no idea. Briston used her to make it all more realistic. What better than to have someone genuinely weeping at your departure?'
'Heartless,' Hermitage concluded.
'And he sent me the death note. We'd agreed that should only be used for the real thing.'
Wat was clearly angry at this. Hermitage imagined the poor fellow must be in turmoil. To find your friend dead is awful. To find he's not dead must be good. To find he's tricked you into thinking he's dead, when actually he's alive and has used the trick to let everyone else think he's dead, well? Hermitage had completely lost track of his own thought.
Wat must be confused. Or annoyed. Or something. Hermitage had never been very good with emotions. His own were bad enough but other people’s were a closed book with big locks on.
'He's deceived us all,' was all he managed to come up with.
The two men stood in disheartened silence.
'It's not enough.' Wat had come to some conclusion.
'Not enough?'
'The church, Virgil, a dodgy customer or two? Should be normal business to Briston. I said he's a chancer, so he spends his days avoiding people like that without any trouble. What's changed? Why would he suddenly go to extremes?' Wat took to pacing up and down by the pile of discarded tent. 'The Tapestry of Death is bloody expensive,' he mused. 'I really can't see Briston making that sort of investment over a bit of customer trouble.'
'We still have nothing to go on,' Hermitage complained. 'It's all very well knowing why he did what he did, but the fact is he's gone. If we don't find him and take him to Virgil, Cwen is in trouble.'
'I know,' Wat grumbled back. 'What would he have done?'
'Who? Virgil?'
'No, not Virgil,' Wat was impatient, 'Briston. What would Briston have done?'
'How do I know?'
'We have to put ourselves in his shoes,' Wat thought out loud.
'Are they still by the tent?' Hermitage looked over to the pile.
Wat sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. 'We have to imagine that we are Briston. Perhaps if we do that, we'll have an idea what he did.'
'Ah.' Hermitage saw that the idea was a good one, but imagination was another problem area for him.
As a child, he'd been expected to pretend he was in a castle or somewhere. He then got in trouble for walking through the imaginary walls or off the top of the imaginary battlements. He couldn't fight imaginary dragons if he didn't know how big they were, and he certainly couldn’t rescue the maiden. He hadn't been given her name, any indication of her life history, or a credible explanation for her incarceration. He stopped being invited to play.
'So,' Wat said, 'here I am in the middle of the tent.' He stood in the place the tent used to be. Hermitage was impressed.
'Stott's got his tapestry, Cwen's gone for the water, I'm on my own with a good stretch of time before anyone comes back. Which way do I go?'
Hermitage looked around. All directions seemed the same.
'Not north,' Wat concluded.
'Why not north?'
'He's well known in the north. That's his territory. He wouldn't go north if he wanted to get away from everyone.'
Hermitage nodded. Using someone else's imagination was much easier than using your own. He followed this thought and came to a wider conclusion. If you could use another's imagination, their inmost thoughts, you could use their outer bits as well. Like eyes.
'South then,' Hermitage concluded, ready to set off.
'Or East or West?' Wat proposed. 'Maybe across to Wales or a ship from the coast?
'Ah,' Hermitage paused, he hadn't considered Briston would go to such extremes. To take your life in your hands by travelling such distances, to be threatened by the monsters everyone knew lurked in those parts, to risk being eaten by giants or incarcerated by witches? And if he didn't go to Wales, the boat trip would be even worse. Hermitage hated the sea. It was so messy, moving about all the time, coming and going. No order at all. His thoughts meandered on.
'What time is it?' he asked.
'What?' Wat was thrown off his imaginary stride.
'What time is it? In the tent. When you're getting ready to leave, as Briston?'
'Oh, erm. Don't know. Does it matter?'
'I think so,' Hermitage pondered. 'We know Cwen left at midday and Lolby found what we now know to be a pig in the evening.'
'Yes.'
'So what was going on here in between? The evening arrives early at this time of year. I know it's not a busy place, but there must have been other market stalls. Perhaps someone actually saw him leave?'
'He could have wandered off at any time. Could have gone into the woods to relieve himself. Gone backwards and forwards several times.'
'Even so, it might help?'
Wat glanced at Lolby. He wandered over nonchalantly and squatted at the peasant's side. Hermitage joined him and stood looking down.
Lolby had removed all the thread and was stroking the pig, using his own imagination to predict the taste by the look of it.
'When did you last see Briston alive?' Wat asked.
'Eh?' Lolby jumped, all his attention being focussed on his future dinner.
'You found this thing in the evening, with the note stuck in the thread?'
'The note was on the ground, not in the thread,' Lolby corrected.
'It would have to be,' Hermitage said. 'How could Briston have stuck the note in his own Tapestry of Death?'
'Alright, you found the note on the ground,' Wat sighed at apparent pedantry.
'Yeah?' Lolby was suspicious, mostly of someone stealing his pig, judging from the way he wrapped protective arms around it.
'When did you see him before that?'
'I didn't have anything to do with him.' Lolby was full of pride, expressing standards far higher than those who visited a weaver such as Briston. Not too proud to hug a dead pig in a field of mud though.
'You noticed Stott coming and going. You noticed the apprentice,' Hermitage observed. 'You're clearly a very observant fellow, keeping an eye on the market like that.'
Wat r
aised eyebrows at this tactic of flattery.
'Well,' Lolby softened. 'You never know when there might be a profitable errand to run.'
Hermitage picked up this thread, 'So who else was at the market? Who might have errands for you?'
Lolby looked at them through screwed-up eyes. He clearly thought these questions were suspicious and dangerous, but couldn't quite figure out why. 'There was the pewter stall, of course,' he said. 'Clopper. Regular he is. Usually does some business. Tries to bring something unusual for Stott if he can.'
'And others?'
'There's Master Baker.'
'What does he do?'
Lolby surveyed the idiot monk. 'He's the baker.'
'Ah, oh. I see.' Hermitage blushed.
'And Briston?' Wat prompted.
'He came and went. Arrived before dawn like normal. The apprentice set up the tent and Stott turned up first light.'
'And when did Stott leave?' Hermitage asked.
'Don't know exactly. He was picking over Clopper's stall for a bit before he went off.'
'Did he find it?' Hermitage asked.
'What?'
'The bit he was looking for on Clopper's stall?'
'Eh?'
'For goodness’ sake, Hermitage,' Wat half growled, half sighed.
Hermitage looked to his friend for an explanation. There was none so he just shrugged. He'd ask later.
'So Stott goes off home, then what?' Wat pressed Lolby.
'Dunno. Coming and going. The apprentice goes off about midday, I suppose.'
'To get some fresh water, we know,' Wat said.
'Round here?' Lolby was incredulous. 'Oh, the big fellow came after Stott had gone.'
'Which big fellow?' Hermitage asked.
'The one who was here, throwing the monks about.'
'Virgil,' Wat explained. 'Yes, we know about him as well.'
'Big, isn't he?' Lolby was impressed.
'Very,' Wat agreed. 'And he wants to find Briston. And he's told us to do it.'
'Well, good luck,' Lolby said quite genuinely.
'If we don't manage to do it, big Virgil is going to start killing people.' Wat stood up to give his words added emphasis.
'Ah.'
'And once he gets started, he tends not to stop until there's no one left to kill.'
'I can imagine.' Lolby still didn't get it.
'And he'll kill you as well.'
'Me?' Lolby’s voice rose to a shriek. 'Why would he kill me?'
'You can ask him just before he does. So? What else happened at the market? Who else was there?' Wat spoke slowly and deliberately, making it clear that the answers were as much in Lolby's interest as theirs.
At least the man had developed a sense of engagement now.
'I suppose there was the usual crowd of locals. People getting bread and stuff. The ones who could afford it. No strangers.'
'How many?' Hermitage asked. 'How many locals were there?'
'Over the course of the day? 'Bout twenty, I suppose. They come in from all around for the market.'
'Oh, Wat, this is hopeless,' Hermitage wailed. 'Twenty people? That's a whole throng. And they came from all over the place. We don't have the time to go and find them all and ask them if they saw Briston.' He looked around the space, almost hopeful that Briston was going to pop up from behind some bush now that everyone had left.
Wat too looked rather despairing.
'What about other stalls?' he asked Lolby.
'Like I say, just the usual.'
'Yes,' Wat ground out through his teeth, 'but we don't know what the usual is, do we? We're not from round here, thank God! So you have to tell us.'
'Oh right,' Lolby nodded with understanding. Wat buried his face in his hands and Hermitage sighed and looked to the sky.
'You only had to ask,' the peasant grumbled. 'So, who we got so far?' Lolby counted the stalls off on his fingers, 'Clopper, Baker, your Briston.'
'Yes,' Wat and Hermitage encouraged together.
'Then there'd be Tailor, Wheelwright, and Grocer,' Lolby finished.
'And what are their names?' Hermitage asked.
Lolby just looked at him.
'Ah, of course, Tailor, Wheelwright, and Grocer.' The monk nodded. This information about the workings of the modern market was fascinating. Perhaps he should have called himself Brother Monk all those years ago instead of Hermitage.
'Where do they live?' asked Wat
'All over, really.'
'Did any of them see Briston?'
'How the hell should I know?' Lolby was defiant.
'You didn't see them talking? Sharing information? Chatting like market folk do?'
'People tended not to share or chat with Briston.'
Wat walked round in a small circle. Hermitage followed him with his eyes.
'What are we going to do?' Hermitage was lost and in despair. He always found his way there eventually.
'Why don't you talk to Mister Butcher? Lolby suggested.
'The butcher?' Hermitage checked.
'Of course.'
'Why the butcher?' Wat asked with the suspicion Lolby knew something he wasn't telling.
'He's local, lives in the next valley. You'd get to him quick.'
'But we'd have wasted our time if he has nothing to tell us,' Wat hissed.
'It wouldn't be a waste of time though, would it?' Lolby said as if they were being stupid.
'Why not exactly?' Wat demanded.
'Because he must have spoken to Briston.' Lolby seemed confused that they weren't following him.
'If he spoke to Briston why didn't you tell us?' Wat shouted in frustration.
'I don't know that he did,' Lolby shouted back.
Wat's frustration rendered him speechless. Hermitage drew up to Lolby. 'What makes you think that speaking to the butcher will help?' he asked in reasonable tones. 'What makes you think Briston and the butcher spoke?'
Lolby pointedly stroked his treasure and shrugged. 'Where else is a weaver going to get a pig?'
Caput XIII
Loins
'Why didn't I think of that?' Hermitage was crying out and beating his sides with his fists as he and Wat left Lolby behind and strode as fast as they could into the next valley. 'The man had a pig. A large dead pig. Where else was it likely to come from? Was it just walking by when Briston persuaded it to help him with a devious plan? Perhaps the pig tied itself up and Briston had nothing to do with it.'
'Hermitage, you're getting hysterical,' Wat chided.
'I'm entitled,' Hermitage responded. 'I'm supposed to be the King’s Investigator. What sort of investigator doesn't wonder where a fully grown pig has come from? In a weaver's tent?'
'Good heavens,' Wat said. 'I've never seen you so excited. It's only a pig.'
Hermitage paused for a moment. It was true, he had never been so excited. Why was that? 'It was a pig, Wat,' he moaned. 'That was it. It was the pig.'
His new career as an investigator appealed to him in many ways. Dealing with dead people, kings, and killers didn't appeal at all, but the intellectual exercise was stimulating. Just as he hated misreading a piece of scripture or overlooking a poorly structured argument, so he found irritation when facts he should have seen emerged.
'A butcher's tent, fine. If Briston had been the butcher, his whole tent would have been hanging with pigs and we'd have wondered where the tapestry came from. Why did I not ask the immediate question. Immediately?'
'It's not the sort of thing you expect to see. A pig tied up in a tent? I've got a collection of the very strangest people in the kingdom for my clients and none of them ever asked for anything like that.'
'Really, Wat,' Hermitage frowned his distaste at the weaver. 'The point is it was out of the ordinary.'
'I'll say.'
'So, I should have spotted it and then asked why it was there, where it came from, who brought it.'
'Well, you found out.'
'Only after Lolby told us. I shall have to pay more a
ttention to the details in future.'
'More attention?' Wat gave a little sigh, as if having Hermitage pay more attention to details was going to be a bit of a trial.
Their journey had taken them south from Baernodebi into woods, but the trail was strong. Following Lolby's directions, they turned off the main track and headed up a short rise on a well-beaten path. The path lifted itself over a hillock of sorts after only a few hundred feet and the next valley was revealed. The trees were thin and scattered and the view opened before them.
'Ah,' Wat said.
'Oh,' Hermitage said.
The valley was not much of a valley really. The land hereabouts was only undulating at best, so there was no expectation that valleys would be great gouges cut from the sides of monstrous mountains. This place was more a dent, and a small one at that. The two companions could see why the butcher lived in the next valley. On his own. The best description that came into Hermitage's head was that this was the site of a battle. Probably an Old Testament battle. Great forces had been unleashed and thine enemies had been well and truly scattered. The butcher's enemies were scattered everywhere.
Hermitage wondered for a moment why this man had become a butcher as it looked look like he wasn't very good at it. On the other hand, it may have been his only choice.
Perhaps he had been sitting in his house one day when a limitless army of animals appeared through the trees. House was a very generous description of the assembly of rubbish piled slightly higher than the surrounding ruin. The man had leapt to the attack, slaughtering everything mercilessly. Then he simply left the dead where they lay and went back indoors.
The man probably emerged every now and then to drag some remains away and do whatever it was he did to them before he took them to market. Hermitage was no victualler but he was certain nothing here would be bought by anyone with the smallest iota of discernment. He wondered how Briston had got such a neat and new looking pig. The things that lay on the valley floor bearing the strongest resemblance to pigs were hard to discern from the things which bore resemblances to sheep or cows. Or cats? A creep ran down Hermitage's back and he looked away.
'Blind me,' Wat said, as he wrinkled his nose and gazed about. 'This man is a butcher?'
'Plainly.' Hermitage's eyes were still wide from the first revelation.
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