The Tapestry of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  Dextus looked and reluctantly nodded his men back to his side. He whispered fiercely as they joined him.

  Virgil took two heavy and flaming torches from high on the wall and led the way, his men dragging Cwen between them. Dextus and the Castigatori followed with Parsimon in tow.

  'Where do you think you're going?' Virgil asked.

  'We're going to stop you,' Dextus said, as if it was decided.

  Virgil laughed and carried on down the cellar steps.

  Dextus turned and glared his glare at the others in the room. Stott, Parsimon, Eadric, and Firman looked guilty and reluctantly followed.

  The cellar itself was large enough for a decent torture chamber, but was very poorly equipped. Music, tapestry, riding, and the collection of pewter had been the main activities of the Stott manor. None of which required much in the way of torture. Stott had once described Parsimon’s lute playing as torture, but that was as close as it got.

  The space was lined with barrels of wine and beer and, of course, Parsimon's secret corner was in the corner. Secretly.

  There was a table in the middle of the space, which was itself dominated by arches of stonework leaping from the floor and running across the ceiling before diving into the ground again. The table was mainly for putting the jugs on before and after they were filled with wine or beer. In fact, that was all it was for.

  Virgil cast about the place with his eyes, searching for something.

  'Where are your irons?' he demanded.

  'Irons?' Stott asked as he joined the group gathered around the table.

  'Irons, man. Your instruments?'

  'I've got a lute upstairs,' Stott replied, hopelessly out of his depth.

  'What do you use for punishing your staff?' Virgil was insistent.

  'My wife tended to deal with that side of things,' Stott sniffed in reminiscence.

  'Well, what did she use?' Virgil pressed.

  Stott thought for a moment. 'Sarcasm, mainly,' he shrugged.

  'Oh, this is hopeless. Bring the girl over here and I'll just hit her a bit.'

  'If you tell me what it is you want to know, I'll tell you, if I know.' Cwen stifled her fear. 'I've got no loyalty to Briston. He ran off and left me here. If it was him on the table, I'd fetch the irons myself.'

  Virgil looked at her. There was something in the shape of him that said he wanted to hit something. And soon.

  'Where is he?' he asked instead.

  'That I do not know,' she said as honestly as she could.

  'Ah, what a shame, because that's what I want to know.' Virgil reached out a great arm, grabbed Cwen by the scruff of her neck, and sat her on the table.

  'I know all about his tapestries,' Cwen said, clearly hoping this would stop whatever it was that was about to happen.

  'So do I. In fact, I've got them now.' Virgil was weighing up Cwen's figure as a stonemason weighs up a wall, working out just how hard to hit it.

  'In fact, I made most of them,' Cwen blurted out.

  Virgil had been reaching out to take Cwen's arm, presumably to break some bits of it. He paused.

  'You?' He was both mocking and disbelieving.

  'Yes.' Cwen's old defiance surfaced. 'I don't know why everyone finds it hard to believe I could make a tapestry. My hands are smaller than Briston's, my eyesight's better, I've got a better eye for colour, and I'm a damn sight less lazy.'

  Virgil nodded slightly at this last point.

  'So, if you damage me, you'll be damaging the one who creates the Briston tapestries,' Cwen went on. 'It's no good getting hold of him. I can't remember the last time he put thread to needle.'

  Virgil was thinking. At least he wasn't hitting at the same time.

  'Even if I assume that what you say is true, I still need Briston.'

  'Why?'

  'Because no one is going to buy a tapestry made by a girl, are they?' Virgil stated a plain fact of life. 'They want to know they came from the workshop of Briston.’

  'They buy tapestries made by a girl now,' Cwen retorted. 'They just think they're made by Briston.'

  Virgil looked around the cellar. Dextus and the Castigatori were close, presumably waiting to pounce the moment he made his move. The rest of them were either looking at Virgil or gazing around the place, looking everywhere, but at Virgil.

  'No, no, no!' Virgil seemed to shake his thoughts away. 'This is ridiculous. I don't know who the hell you are. You're telling me you make tapestries just to stop me breaking your fingers. It seems you know Briston and that's enough for me.'

  He reached out again for Cwen's arm.

  His own arm was pushed aside as Dextus came in from behind. Virgil was forced to turn slightly, exposing the ribs under his right arm. Dextus drove a devastating blow into this sensitive area and was gratified to hear a grunt from the giant. Virgil turned full circle and surveyed the room. Dextus nodded and indicated the bottom of a pillar where Virgil's men lay. They had clearly been dealt with quite effectively by the Castigatori. Cwen scurried from the table, which Virgil knocked aside.

  'I say,' Stott complained, seeing his furniture maltreated.

  'About time we sorted this, Dextus,' Virgil snarled as he turned and stepped forward, arms outstretched to grasp the priest.

  He was surprised as Dextus actually stepped towards him and ducked instead of running away. The great arms closed on nothing, but Dextus's sprang up and head-butted Virgil cleanly on the chin. The massive head went back and a Castigatori leapt on it from behind. While he pulled, his colleagues attacked the legs. They struck hard behind his knees and Virgil could do nothing but buckle. With a Castigatori pulling his head, two pushing his legs, and Dextus adding to the lever, he went down.

  He only went to his knees though, which still left him as tall as most in the room. His arms were free and he used one to grab the Castigatori still clamped to his head. He pulled this man over his shoulder and threw him into the opposite wall. Dextus and the remaining Castigatori threw their weight against Virgil, trying to get him on to his back. Presumably so they could kick him to death.

  'Could do with some help here,' Dextus grunted to Eadric and Firman.

  The two men checked with one another and acknowledged that they really had no choice. They added their weight to the pile and Virgil roared his resistance.

  Stalemate.

  That was good. It was clear Virgil was applying all of his massive strength to the task of getting a load of people off his chest. He was achieving nothing. Neither was Dextus. The whole press of priest, the two conscious Castigatori, Eadric, and Firman were a perfect balance for the giant's strength.

  Stott and Parsimon stood by, knowing that hopping from one foot to another was not really helping much. They also knew that stepping into this fray would be the end of them.

  The struggle was going nowhere, but was doing so very noisily. Both sides grunted and strained as they tried to achieve superiority. Out of sight to their side, Cwen had found a bucket. It was wooden and it was heavy, but she swung it easily. Approaching the struggling mass of men, she took a careful aim and swung her weapon, ready to bring it over on to Virgil's head. She chose her moment, let the bucket fly up and over her head, and brought it down.

  Virgil caught sight of it from the corner of his eye and relaxed. The force of Dextus's party pressed forwards as the resistance faltered.

  The grin of triumph on Dextus's face was fixed, so fixed that it didn't even fade when he was hit on the head by a bucket and collapsed to the floor.

  'Oh!' Cwen called out, as her rescuer rolled onto his back.

  Virgil threw the remaining restraints off, stood and neatly despatched the Castigatori with hearty blows to the heads. Eadric and Firman retreated quickly and joined Stott and Parsimon, trying to look as if they'd never been involved in the first place.

  'Now then,' Virgil said as he stood once more, his head brushing the cellar roof. 'Where were we?'

  He grabbed Cwen with one arm and lifted her from the ground. With the oth
er, he put the table back on its legs and sat her on it once more.

  'I can prove it,' Cwen gurgled as the neck of her jerkin started to throttle her.

  'Prove what?' Virgil asked, his voice full of impatience and the desire to get on with things.

  'That I did the tapestry,' Cwen tried nodding but Virgil's great hand was in the way.

  'I'm starting not to care anymore,' Virgil growled. 'I'm being mucked about and I don't like it. If I break your arms, I can always find another weaver. Briston may be laziest in the kingdom but I'm sure I can persuade him to greater efforts.'

  'But if I can make tapestries as well, that would be even more profit,' Cwen offered.

  Virgil paused slightly at this. 'Suppose I could always break your legs. Don't need them for weaving.'

  'Unless I need to do treadle work?'

  Virgil said nothing, but his brows drew together as if in secret conference.

  'You make Briston's tapestries?' Virgil was at least trying the concept out.

  'I do.'

  'The real ones, not the roses and dragons?'

  'The real ones.'

  'Right!' Virgil was scoffing now.

  'Yes, right. I'm not as young as I look. I can pass for a ten-year-old boy, but I'm seventeen. I've been around a bit, seen things, been told about others. Takes a lot to shock me. And I have one major advantage over most of the men I've ever met: I actually know what a naked woman looks like.'

  'The Garden of the Seven Eunuchs?' Virgil threw in.

  'Oh,' Cwen blushed. 'Yes, that one was a bit of a surprise.'

  'I'll bet it was.'

  'But I did the leather work and some of the equipment.'

  'You said you had proof.' Virgil was at least pursuing this idea.

  'I do. There's a tapestry missing from the box.'

  'I saw the golden tassel,' Virgil sneered.

  'It's an important work. The most important I ever did. Briston did give me clear direction for this one. He didn't just say he wanted this many of those, and that many of these, and those should be doing that to these.'

  'Very clever, I'm sure. And this proves you made it, does it?'

  'It's got my mark on it.'

  Virgil released his grasp and looked at Cwen through hooded eyes. 'You have a mark? A weaver's mark?'

  'I do.' Cwen held her head high.

  'How?' Virgil was still having trouble.

  'Briston taught me about them, how a weaver always puts one in every tapestry. Mark of the maker.'

  'And what's yours?' Virgil asked. 'And what's Briston's?' He tested Cwen's knowledge.

  'Briston's is an antler. Mine's a holly leaf.'

  Virgil just looked now. 'Show me,' he instructed.

  Cwen turned to survey the room. One of Virgil's men was just coming round, but the Castigatori slept. Dextus was still on his back, but stirred and groaned as encroaching consciousness sent advanced word of the pain he was about to be in. Stott, Parsimon, Eadric and Firman occupied the far wall, trying to vanish between the barrels.

  'Mr Parsimon,' Cwen called. 'Would you fetch the tapestry?'

  Parsimon looked genuinely nonplussed. He scanned the room, but could see no tapestry.

  'You'll have to go and fetch it,' Cwen pressed.

  'Fetch what tapestry, young lady? From where?'

  'The reminiscence of Lady Lorinda. And fetch it from where ever you've got it.'

  Stott now looked startled and worried. 'My dear young man,' he said, confusion returning, 'I don't know what you had to do with that ghastly work, or even how you know of it at all, but it is gone. Destroyed.'

  'I know of it because I made it,' Cwen said.

  'What?' Stott's horror took over his face and beard. Both writhed in agony. 'You made such images of my own dear wife? Such intimacies.'

  'I am a woman myself, you know,' Cwen explained.

  Stott could only make noises.

  'And it's not destroyed. Mister Parsimon has it.'

  'I can assure you…' Parsimon began.

  'And so can I,' Cwen interrupted. 'I've been around this trade long enough to know the customers. They're all deeply ashamed, deceitful liars. I can spot them a mile off. When we were here with you before, you were lying. Shifting about on your feet, looking out of the window, or up at the ceiling. It got really bad when you told your master you'd burned the tapestry, which means you hadn't. You've still got it.'

  'Parsimon! Is this true?' Stott asked his servant with disappointment.

  Parsimon was clearly not a very good liar, and went completely to pieces when challenged by his master.

  'Well, erm, you see. The point is. I...'

  'Parsimon,' Stott said. 'How could you?'

  The servant hung his head in shame.

  'Well, go and get it then,' Virgil demanded.

  Parsimon sidled off to his secret corner.

  Dextus had recovered enough of his senses to sit up. And enough of them to know he shouldn't try to do any more. Eadric and Firman approached the table now. Threats of revenge on Virgil's behalf had not materialised and the appearance of the tapestry seemed to motivate them to action.

  Parsimon reappeared with the rolled up work.

  'Parsimon, really!' Stott's head shook and Parsimon's sank further. 'What were you thinking?'

  'That it was a Briston, an original,' Parsimon mumbled. 'They're worth quite a lot, you know.'

  'Money,' Stott spat contemptuously.

  'It's different when you haven't got any,' Parsimon mumbled under his breath.

  He laid the roll on the table and Virgil threw it open. He seemed surprised when it spilled over the side of the table and on to the floor. He immediately moved the thing around to look in the lower left corner. Cwen's slim fingers pointed out the antler of Briston and her own holly leaf.

  'Hum,’ Virgil thought and looked at Cwen with more interest.

  He returned his attention to the work and took in the whole scene.

  'Oh, I say!' His eyes widened and his mouth followed them into a grin.

  Cwen frowned this time. Surely Virgil had seen far worse than this.

  'Put it away, for God's sake,' Stott pleaded, averting his eyes.

  Eadric and Firman were all attention and poured over the picture.

  'Oh Dextus,' Virgil had a laugh in his voice. 'You've got to come and look at this. No wonder the church want to get hold of it. I can see why Briston's run away now. This is incredible.'

  Caput XVII

  Tapestries in Tapestries

  Briston would not talk to Hermitage or Wat until he'd collected all the donations from his audience. For this purpose, he had a young woman with him, who shuffled amongst the crowd, making sure she got them before they had a chance to leave. Hermitage assumed she was the landlord's daughter or maid. Each person in the room gave very little but it soon added up. Even with the tales told and the money gathered in, he made them wait until he had secured the room for the night, which seemed to be part of the package.

  With all of this sorted, he still gestured them to silence until they had followed him to his chamber, he had closed and bolted the door, and shuttered the windows.

  A pair of candles sitting on a crude chest behind the door lit the reunion scene. There was straw on a cot in one corner and on the floor and it looked relatively fresh. The room was barely big enough for the three of them, but at least Hermitage could say this place was better than Lolby's hovel. Before it fell down.

  He stood back and observed as the two weavers, friends from boyhood, made their greetings. Briston was not at all as Hermitage had imagined. His mind's eye had the man a slight and twitchy fellow. Briston should be nervous and watchful, bowed down by his worries and his conflicts. His cheeks would be sunken and his eyes darting and hooded. The weaver's frame should be almost wasted by the need to be constantly on the move, and by the trade he followed. Hearty meals should not be enjoyed by any who profited from sin.

  In fact, Briston looked more like a jolly friar. The sort who
ate too much and drank fully from the cup and from life. The eyes were merry, the cheeks red, and a laugh hid behind the tongue, ready to emerge at any moment. The head was partly bald, but wisps of hair seemed to dance, leaping from the scalp in spikes of amusement. Hermitage could not reconcile the man before him with anything he had heard.

  Wat stood with arms folded. 'You bastard,' he said.

  'Now, now, Watty,' Briston lowered his plump frame on to the cot. 'Is that any way to greet your old mate?'

  'It is when the old mate has sent me a death note and dragged me across the country into the hands of people I really don't want to meet only to find he's faked it all.'

  'Would you rather I were trussed up in the tapestry then?'

  'I might do it myself if there isn't a damn good explanation.' Wat took half a step back and lowered himself on to the chest. He shuffled over to make room for Hermitage.

  'Where would you like me to start?' Briston asked as he pulled his boots off and put his feet up.

  There was a knock on the door before Wat could answer.

  Briston jumped up, drew back the bolt, and opened up to find the landlord's girl bearing a tray. There was a large pot of something that smelt to Hermitage very much like food. Edible food. A jug, a stack of plates with a loaf on top, spoons, and cups completed the set.

  'Stick it on the chest,' Briston bubbled with good cheer.

  The girl smiled winningly and put the tray down as Hermitage and Wat made room. The woman looked at the monk with a frown.

  She returned to the door and closed it. From the inside. She grinned at Briston and sat next to him on the cot.

  'Eat and drink,' Briston commanded. 'Conversation always goes best with victuals.'

  Wat gaped at the girl. 'Who the hell is this?'

  'Perhaps she's my new apprentice,' Briston roared with laughter and patted the girl on the knee.

  Hermitage took the time to examine the girl now that she seemed connected to Briston. Connected in a rather intimate manner, judging from where Briston was now resting his hand.

  She was young, probably about Cwen's age or a bit more, but there was no doubting she was a girl. No one was going to mistake her for a male weaver's apprentice. She was garbed in fine clothes and shoes. A long, heavy winter dress hung to the floor, with embroidery tumbling from shoulder to hem. It must keep her legs and body very warm. She was obviously less concerned about the temperature of her chest. Her neckline was bare and plunged like a waterfall – a waterfall that disappeared between two round ponds that seemed anxious to break their banks.