The Tapestry of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  'Yes?' Parsimon asked with remarkable poise for a gnat about to be blown away by a gale.

  'Correct answer,' the giant replied. 'I'm Virgil and these are variously my friends, enemies, and complete strangers. We've come to stay.'

  'How lovely,' Parsimon replied. 'Unfortunately, it's not convenient. My master is unwell and the house is small.'

  'Most kind,' Virgil said as he strode past Parsimon into the body of the hall with his little band in tow.

  Dextus at least nodded an apology to Parsimon as he entered accompanied by the Castigatori, who were still rubbing various damaged parts. Two of Virgil's men sidled past the door as if they were hoping the room wouldn't spot them. They meandered off left and right, examining everything and peering everywhere. The last of their number brought up the rear, his knife still out and still pointed at Cwen, whose continuous sulking grumbles had prompted a couple of sharp jabs with the weapon. They were all followed by Firman and Eadric, who looked like they were about to walk away rather than enter. A glance back from Virgil changed their minds.

  'Who the devil are these people?' Stott demanded as he stood, master of his hall. For now.

  'The devil?' Virgil asked amicably. 'Yes, not far off, as it happens. We've come in out of the cold to wait for a delivery.'

  'This is my home,' Stott wailed.

  'Hold on to that thought,' Virgil responded with mild nuances of menace.

  'Well, what are you having delivered?' Stott asked. 'I'm sure I can send it on somewhere. Anyway, what are you doing having things delivered to my house?'

  'My my, you are a curious old fellow.'

  Virgil approached Stott. He held out his hand to shake, which Stott refused. Disappointed, Virgil grasped the Stott beard firmly in his right hand. He lifted the ancient Saxon from the floor and ignored the ancient Saxon squeaks that came from the mouth. Holding Stott face to face, the old man's feet a good two feet off the floor, Virgil explained.

  'Shut up,' he said. 'With any luck, we'll be gone by tomorrow evening.'

  Stott spluttered and threw both hands to his agonised face, as Virgil lowered him to the ground.

  'Without any luck, we'll take a shine to the place and keep it.'

  'Are you Normans?'

  'Good God, no,' Virgil spat on the floor.

  'I say,' Parsimon piped up looking at the mess the massive mouth had deposited on his flagstones.

  'Well, what are you doing threatening good Saxon folk?' Stott demanded.

  'I'm just generally threatening,' Virgil replied, stating a fact. 'It's what I do. Being my size, I find it comes easy.'

  Stott just stood and blustered through his beard. It was obvious neither he nor Parsimon had the power to make this man do anything other than exactly what he wanted.

  'Well then, who are all these other people?' Stott seemed to need an outlet for complaint.

  'Oh, the usual bunch. A priest, some violent monks, my associates, a couple of strangers from the road who are up to no good, and a hostage.'

  'A hostage?' Stott was shocked. 'What sort of man are you?'

  'Oh, nasty.' Virgil nodded at this happy description.

  Stott scanned the assembly. Most of them had slumped to the floor and were resting against the walls. Particularly the Castigatori, who needed to rest their bodies somewhere. Dextus stood in silence by the door, arms folded, while Eadric and Firman had approached the table and found all the seats full of pewter. Cwen was seated on the floor, but curled up with her arms across her knees and her face buried. Her guard stood over her. Stott frowned at the shape with some glimpse of recognition. He was about to say something when one of Virgil's men approached his master.

  The great head sank in the room and words were whispered.

  'Fine collection of tapestry you have,' Virgil observed.

  Stott said nothing.

  'I have an interest in tapestry myself.'

  'Really?' Stott pondered, in the disbelieving tone that comes out when your garderobe cleaner tells you he could value your jewellery for you.

  'Oh yes,' Virgil now looked around the hall, where the words of his man had directed him. 'I see you have an early Mundham.' Virgil gestured at one of the largest works on the wall.

  This was at least ten feet square and insulated the outside wall of the hall. It had maidens and roses and dragons galore.

  'Erm, yes,' Stott said, taken aback somewhat that this monster actually knew what he was talking about.

  'I met him once, you know. Mundham.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Just before he died, as it happens,' Virgil nodded sagely to himself. 'Great work though. Had a very fine green, did Mundham.'

  'He was known for it,' Stott commented, glancing at the vivid greens that danced from the foliage of the tapestry.

  'Yes.' Virgil was reminiscing about something. 'Wouldn't share it with anyone.'

  'Ah.'

  'More than his life was worth, he said.'

  'Did he?'

  'He was right.'

  'Ah, and is that a Blazon?' Virgil gestured to an old and ragged hanging, which clung to the wall to the right of the fireplace. This was much smaller and was so faded it was hard to see what the image was.

  'It is.' Stott was cautious. 'It was handed down from my great grandfather. Made in the time of Alfred, they say.'

  'You should hang on to that.'

  'I will,' Stott said in some defiance.

  'My delivery's to do with tapestry.'

  'I still don't see what it has to do with me or my house,' Stott grumbled quietly, finding being lifted by the beard an uncomfortable experience.

  'You're just in the wrong place at the wrong time.' Virgil smiled. 'Bad luck.'

  'What do you propose to do? Just loll about here and get in my way?'

  'Oh, not at all.' Virgil was accommodating. 'We'll have a nice meal, fine conversation, get warm by the fire, and lots of drink. You do have lots of drink, I take it?'

  'I…' Stott began.

  'Excellent. My men have gone to explore your cellars. I'm sure they'll come up with something suitable.’

  'Parsimon,' Stott called, but Parsimon had already set off after the men exploring the cellars.

  He found them tapping barrels, lifting sacks, and opening crates.

  'Be careful,' he called.

  The men looked at him but made no visible attempt to increase their care.

  'What's round here?' one of the men asked in tones so nasal Parsimon assumed he was doing a funny voice. Hardly the time for humour.

  'Nothing,' Parsimon answered as calmly as he could. “Round here” was his locked corner with its shelves of treasures. He imagined these men liked treasures. Especially other people’s. 'Just some new wine, not ready yet. The good stuff is this way.'

  He beckoned to the other end of the vaulted cellar and was gratified to get the appropriate reaction to the expression “good stuff”. He did indeed lead them to the good stuff, reluctantly. Stott's personal collection of beers and wines. The man may hate the Normans, but he didn't mind drinking their wine. Parsimon leaned against a wall with folded arms while the men went from barrel to barrel, tapping each in turn with leathern mugs until they found one to meet their approval.

  'We'll take this one,' the second man whispered. Where his companion's voice seemed to be generated, rounded and delivered entirely by his nose, this fellow spoke as if he only had so much voice for one lifetime and was saving it for something important.

  'Beg pardon?' Parsimon asked, partly because he couldn't make out the quiet voice and partly because he wasn't sure what he was being asked.

  'We'll take this one,' the quiet one repeated.

  'All of it?' Parsimon couldn't believe the request now he had heard it.

  'You have seen the size of Virgil?' the nasal one asked.

  'How am I supposed to get the barrel upstairs?' Parsimon asked.

  'Don't mind,' the whisperer answered, as if it was some sort of quiz.

  'I'll fetch Virg
il.' The one with the talking nose scurried back up to the main hall.

  Some moments and several loud thumps, crashes, and significant bits of damage to the fixtures and fittings of the Stott Manor later, the barrel of wine sat on the main table in the hall. Virgil had simply lifted it from its resting place and carried it upstairs. He had also drunk about a quarter of it already. Much of Stott's pewter collection lay on the floor and Virgil had ruthlessly scooped the stuff from the chairs to join it.

  'What do you want all this stuff for anyway?' he had asked Stott.

  The old man had tried to answer, but it was clear Virgil wasn't really interested.

  After he had quenched his thirst on Stott's finest French vintage, he invited the others to take their fill. Even Dextus and the Castigatori were instructed to drink.

  'Come, girl,' Virgil called to Cwen who was still hunched double. 'No good sulking yourself to death. Your friends think you're still alive so will be carrying out my little errand. Personally, I don't care if you live or die.'

  Cwen's eyes peered out over her arms. She looked at the barrel with obvious thirst and reluctantly unwound herself. Her body tried to make it clear that she wasn't doing this because Virgil said so, but because she wanted to.

  'It's that boy again,' Stott called. 'I thought I recognised him.'

  'Ah,' said Virgil, massive eyebrows raised in massive interest. 'You've seen this slip of a thing before then? It is a girl, by the way.'

  'No it isn't,' Stott simply explaining the fact.

  'Boy or girl, where have you seen her before?' Virgil asked.

  'Here of course. She was with that nosy man and his monk.'

  'A monk?' Virgil was very interested, 'Brother Hermitage, the King’s Investigator.'

  'No, there was only one of him. Most impertinent pair.'

  'What brought them here?'

  Stott paused for a moment. The wobble of his beard said that he rather wished he hadn't said anything.

  'Come now, Master Stott, I want to know.' Virgil's voice said that he always got what he wanted.

  Stott tried to sound dismissive, 'They were asking about some weaver or other. I forget his name.'

  'Briston,' Virgil prompted.

  'That’s the fellow.'

  'Why did they come here to ask you about Briston?'

  'That’s what I said. Most impertinent,' Stott huffed.

  'We assume it was simply because we are the local manor and Master Stott owns the market,' Parsimon spoke up for his master. 'Apparently this Briston was murdered at the market.'

  Virgil glanced to Parsimon with suspicion. 'When I want you to speak, I will make it quite clear,' the giant said. 'When I don't want you to speak, I will pull your tongue out.' He finished the threat with a quality glare.

  'Only trying to help,' Parsimon muttered under his breath.

  'Well, don't.' Virgil turned his full attention to Parsimon. 'Killing old people should be less of a crime, you know,' he proposed.

  'Really?' Parsimon asked, a slight choke in his voice.

  'Yes, you've not got many years to go anyway. If I kill you, I'm only robbing you of what? Three or four years at most. If I kill a baby, I'm taking away forty, maybe even fifty years. If it's a high born baby.'

  Parsimon seemed quite content that Virgil could kill old people and babies, and anyone in between if he put his mind to it. He closed his lips tight, giving every impression that he was never going to let another word pass through them.

  'Good.' Virgil turned back to Stott. 'You were saying, Briston the Weaver and this girl?'

  'Boy,' Stott corrected.

  'Boy then.' Virgil raised his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation at the old man's idiocy. 'This boy. Why were they here?'

  'Well,' Stott said. Parsimon held his breath. 'It's as my man says. I own the market and where else would you go to report a death?'

  Parsimon breathed again.

  'The monk is the King’s Investigator. Why would he report to anyone? People should report to him. And you said they were impertinent. They weren't reporting a death. You can't report impertinently.'

  'I just didn't like them,' Stott shrugged as if Virgil would understand this.

  'So who is the girl, boy?' Virgil asked the direct question.

  'How should I know?' Stott replied.

  'He came with the impertinent monk and you seemed quite surprised to see her. Him.' Virgil seemed to be getting quite frustrated at having to deal with Stott's wandering mind.

  'Well, I am. I sent them away. I don't expect people I send away to come back.'

  Virgil threw his large arms in the air and paced backwards and forwards. 'I'm worried that if I hit you to tell me the truth, you'll drop dead. Perhaps if I hit your man and he drops dead, you'll tell me the truth.'

  'Now you're being impertinent,' Stott grumbled.

  Virgil stepped forward and took hold of the Stott beard once more. He didn’t lift this time but his face was threat enough. 'Why were they here?' he spelled out.

  'I told you,' Stott retorted, attempting to brush Virgil's fist out of his beard. 'They came to report the death and wanted me to do something about it.'

  'What?'

  'Tell them who was at the market, where people lived. They wanted to investigate. Apparently the other fellow was Wat the Weaver and he was a friend of this Briston, the dead one. Quite frankly, they're both disgusting and if I'd known, I wouldn't have let any of them into my market.'

  Virgil released the beard, turned around, and grabbed Cwen, who had been standing with her back to the room, helping herself to the wine. She squeaked as she was lifted from the floor by her tunic.

  'So girl boy,' Virgil snarled, 'who are you?'

  Cwen looked at the man in defiance, even though her feet were a good distance from the ground.

  'I am Briston's apprentice.' She held her head as high as possible.

  'No you're not,' Virgil replied.

  'Because I'm a woman?' Cwen asked sarcastically.

  'Yes, of course,' Virgil answered, lowering her again.

  She straightened her tunic and stared challengingly at him.

  'Whoever you are, you know where he's gone,' Virgil replied.

  'I don't,' Cwen snapped back. 'He tricked me as much as anyone. I thought he was in the Tapestry of Death.'

  'Or it was all an act. You're here to make sure we accept he's dead and then you run off to join him. His little woman.'

  'I am not his little woman,' Cwen flared. 'I am his apprentice.'

  'He is married, you know,' Virgil stated for the record.

  'I don't care if he's The Queen of Sheba's pussycat,' Cwen shot back. 'I am his apprentice, learning the trade. If you can't cope with that, it's your problem. I do not know where he is. If I did, I would be with him. If I found out where he was, after he had run off, I would still be with him, kicking him hard in the soft bits.'

  'Oh, there is more going on here than meets my eye,' Virgil said slowly, glaring at everyone in turn. 'And my eye is very large indeed. My arrival here seems to be at a moment of good fortune. These old men are hiding something and I don't believe the girl is telling me a word of the truth.'

  The giant's tone was serious and even his acolytes seemed tense, wondering what was going to happen next.

  'Bring the girl to the cellar,' he commanded.

  'Why the cellar?' Parsimon asked, forgetting his promised silence.

  Virgil gave him a horrifyingly frank stare. 'Because I always do my best torture in a cellar.'

  Caput XV

  The Other Village

  The sun was retreating towards the safety of the horizon as Hermitage and Wat left the site of Hamard's charnel enquiries. Their pace was quick, Wat having argued they would be able to catch up with Briston if they moved fast. More importantly, he indicated the likely outcome of being found by Normans while travelling at night. Hermitage hurried.

  'He's had hours of advantage,' Hermitage panted as they stepped briskly. 'We know he left here this tim
e yesterday. He could be, erm…' Hermitage paused and did the necessary calculations. 'Fifteen miles away by now. An impossible distance.'

  'There is one fact about Briston you aren't aware of yet,' Wat said as he negotiated a pile of horse dung in the middle of the path. 'Bloody Normans,' he swore at the obstruction.

  'What's that?' Hermitage asked.

  'He is enormously lazy. Monumentally, fundamentally idle. If he can find a reason not to do a job, he will. Even better, he'll find a reason for someone else to do it for him.'

  This puzzled Hermitage. It didn't seem to fit the image he'd built up. 'But all the tapestries, the business, the tent, the apprentice and all the people after him. He seems to have been quite busy.'

  'Like I said, a chancer. Gets other people to do most of the work, and if people are after him, it's probably because he hasn't delivered. I can see why he'd be terrified of getting in with Virgil. The giant man would make him do a day's work for once in his life. Followed by another one and another one. Poor Briston.' Wat smirked. 'If he put as much effort into doing his work as he does into avoiding it, he'd be rich and safe.'

  'Oh.' Hermitage tried to reconcile this with all the other information he had. 'Perhaps that explains Cwen? Get someone else to do the work for him.'

  'And a, erm…' Wat couldn't bring himself to say it.

  'Woman?' Hermitage offered.

  'Quite. Someone who couldn't go complaining to the guild, fraternise with other apprentices, or be likely to inflict the Apprentice Complaint on someone twice her size.'

  ‘Apprentice Complaint?’ Hermitage asked, wondering why the phrase was being given such prominence.

  ‘Just a means of complaint that apprentices can use in extreme situations. When their master is really getting out of hand. It is very rare though.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Oh, well, the apprentice just kills the master,’ Wat said.

  ‘What?’ Hermitage was horrified. ‘An apprentice kills their master?’ He could only imagine that this was over and above the simple sin of murder. Any guild worth its name would certainly want to take action to stop that sort of thing. It was like a novice killing an abbot. Mind you, there had been a few occasions… Hermitage put that thought out of his head immediately.