Hermitage thought perhaps part of her dress was missing. Above a long neck, a clear, intelligent face sat beneath very well-tended dark hair. This had clearly been professionally arranged, although that was some time ago. Strands were making a break for freedom and might be thought of as unkempt on the whole.
Hermitage looked back to the face and concluded that such comments would not be welcome. The intelligence flitting between brown eyes and smiling lips was clear. It was also clear that the intelligence knew best. Probably about everything. It had that distant, slightly contemptuous cast to it. The one that said, “I shall smile and laugh but if you stop me getting what I want, I will do something quite awful. And unexpected.”
Hermitage swallowed. He swallowed again when he considered the nose. It was the only feature to spoil this vision of domineering beauty. As the intelligence flitted from eyes to mouth, it had to take a not insignificant detour round the nose. And once it reached the mouth, it probably thought night had fallen, such was the shadow. Hermitage thought he recognised the shape but couldn't recall who had a similar appendage. Apart from a sundial, perhaps.
It was clear that Wat could not think of anything to say as he appraised the girl. His mouth moved about, but the right words wouldn’t come out. Eventually he just shook his head in despair and reached for a plate. Hermitage followed the lead and they piled up a passable looking stew. Real vegetables and a piece of meat for each of them. Genuine meat, recognisable as an animal, and one which hadn't passed away under suspicious circumstances. Hermitage wasn't sure whether it was mutton or beef, but to have that choice was a huge improvement.
The jug contained wine. It was a similar colour to that provided by Lolby, but this stuff was just more wholesome somehow. It had a tang of fruit to it rather than the cloy of the mould that remained after the fruit was long gone.
Hermitage and Wat sat down on the floor, filling the available space, but finding it was the only way they could accommodate the feast. Briston and the girl shared a plate on the bed, offering one another titbits of food in a most revolting manner.
Hermitage thought about asking several interesting questions, but his stomach rejoiced at the experience of eating and he wondered how long it was since he had a decent meal. Well, half decent. Days, he was sure.
The two men focussed on the task at hand, happy to make interrogation wait upon their stomachs' convenience. As they mopped the last gravy with the final crumbs of bread, belches of comfort invited explanations to enter the room.
'You were about to explain yourself?' Wat prompted as they rested after the meal – Briston on the cot with the girl at his side, Wat with his back to the chest, and Hermitage resting against the wall by the single window.
'Ah yes!' Briston's voice was full and round as if it came from the depths of his stomach. Which was itself full and round. 'I have made the Tapestry of Death. I suppose that's where it all starts.'
'Rubbish,' Wat replied with a snort of derision – a snort which also contained a goodly spread of undigested crumbs. 'For one thing, the Tapestry of Death is a fairy tale to frighten apprentices, and for another, if you had made it, you'd be dead. Hence the name: Tapestry of Death.'
'Well, obviously I haven't made that Tapestry of Death!'
'Obviously.'
'But I've made a Tapestry of Death.'
'Also rubbish.'
'It's a marvellous idea,' Briston went on, ignoring Wat's disbelief. 'I've made a tapestry that will bring death to my enemies. One which gives me the chance to vanish and start again.'
'Sounds like a very interesting tapestry,' Wat said, clearly still not believing such a thing existed.
'It is.'
'And the pig in the tapestry?' Wat asked.
'Gave me time to get away. I was hoping I wouldn't be discovered at all. You know, buried with all due ritual and, low and behold, Briston the Weaver is no more. Might even get The Hoofhorn to officiate at the ceremony, death of a master weaver and all that. Few months later, I pop up down south somewhere. New name, new life. And if anyone from the old world pops up to bother me, I slap them with the Tapestry of Death and they leave me alone.'
'So why send me the death note? Why not just vanish with your pig and leave me out of it?'
'What's the first thing Virgil would do if he got word and found me wrapped up in the tent?'
'He'd unwrap you.'
'Exactly, but with you there, death note in hand to testify, he might not bother.'
'He did bother,' Wat said.
'Oh bugger,' Briston said, but he still seemed unreasonably cheerful about the whole business. 'Bit quicker than I thought.'
'And what about Cwen?' Hermitage put in. 'Was it necessary to trick her into believing your death as well?'
'She's a bright kid, that one. She'll go far. Wasn't much more I could teach her.' Briston continued to smile.
'A female apprentice!' Wat shook his head in despair. 'And one who cared for you. Deeply upset at your death. And all to allow you to have what you want.'
Briston simply shrugged and belched again.
'Briston all over!' Wat was contemptuous. 'And you've got another woman within a day. I don't know what it is they see in you, really I don't.'
'Good times Watty. Sophistication, the pleasures of the day. You were always too restrained, understated, quiet, unassuming,' Briston paused for another word, 'dull,' he paused again, 'dull, dull, dull.'
'I imagine she's modelling for new works?'
Hermitage was horrified at this disgusting suggestion, but Briston didn't deny it. The girl giggled.
'Why try to escape now? You've been in worse scrapes than Virgil and Dextus looking for you.' Wat's face showed his puzzlement.
Briston looked at the floor. 'I've been planning it for a while. Virgil was getting closer and closer. I knew I wouldn't be able to avoid him much longer. Dextus's interest was new and you know what the church is like when they take a shine to you. I'm getting tired, Wat. I'm heading for thirty. How much longer can I go on before someone finds me in an alley one morning? Then I thought of my Tapestry of Death and knew it would work.'
'Yes.' Wat was still full of contempt. 'This Tapestry of Death. What sort of tapestry is going to stop Virgil and the like from hunting you down, or even better, bring about their own death?'
'Oh, you ought to see it, Watty. A stroke of genius, if I say so myself. To be honest, I'm not sure I could have done it without Cwen. It's almost as good as some of your stuff. You know that one with the fifteen novices and the sheriff?' Briston was reminiscing happily.
'What do you mean, without Cwen?' Wat demanded.
'Well, she made it, didn't she?' Briston explained. 'She's really very good indeed.'
'But,' Wat clearly objected, 'she's a girl,' was all he could say.
'And a very good weaver. Tiny little hands, good eye for thread. I just gave her the sketches and she did the rest.'
'The guild will have your guts,' Wat muttered.
'They probably think they've already got them, but I've got a Tapestry of Death, haven't I?'
'It works against the guild?' Wat was very surprised.
'Oh yes, very well indeed.'
'You still haven't said what this tapestry is or how it could possibly work,' Hermitage asked as Wat seemed once more dumbfounded by the concept of a female weaver.
'No I haven't,' Briston replied. 'And, of course, I won't.'
'Oh.' Hermitage was rather disappointed. It all sounded terribly exciting and new. He liked to hear about new things.
'That's part of its magic. You don't get to see it. You just have to hear about it.'
'We haven't even heard anything about it.'
'Even better. Lots of mystery Build up the legend. All I can say, and I can say it because I want you to repeat it, is that it works. The Briston Tapestry of Death will bring death to my enemies. You aren't my enemies and so I can't tell you about it. No, I mean I won't tell you about it. That's right.' Briston nodded to himself as
if checking he'd got his own plan right.
'I have to say,' Hermitage had to say, 'it does seem rather unbelievable.'
'Because it is,' Wat interrupted. 'The whole thing is just a trick. Typical of Briston. Like the time he told the moot court in Hull he'd done intimate tapestries of the blacksmith's wife when she was young. And how if they didn't let him leave town, instead of hanging him as they planned, he'd pin it up on the church door.'
'That's awful!' Hermitage breathed in sharply at the thought of anyone even thinking such an appalling thing.
'Particularly as it wasn't true.'
'He hadn't made the tapestry?'
'Blacksmith's wife had been dead for years,' Wat said.
'But then?' Hermitage thought this most odd.
'Blacksmith wasn't part of the moot court and everyone was too embarrassed to ask him. Typical Briston. Chancer.'
'This one is different,' Briston argued. 'The tapestry is real and it does what I say.'
'Where is it then? This magical tapestry.'
'Safe,' was all Briston said.
'I hope it's not in your box.' Wat looked at Briston seriously.
'Nah,' Briston smirked. 'I've put it somewhere no one would ever think of.'
'Hermitage will,' Wat said.
Oh, that would be good, Hermitage thought before he remembered that meant him.
'I will?' he asked in surprise.
'Of course. This is the King’s Investigator,' Wat boasted. 'He solves puzzles like this all the time.'
'He can have a go if he likes,' Briston smiled his constant smile. 'He'll never get it.'
Hermitage looked to the weavers in the small room and felt the familiar weight of expectation. He never carried this weight particularly well. He looked at Wat with hopeless eyes.
'It could be anywhere,' he said, his eyes having leant their hopelessness to his voice.
'Exactly,' Briston smirked.
Even the girl poured her scornful look on the monk.
'No, it couldn't be anywhere.' Wat was confident. 'It can only be in the place it's in.'
'That's not much help,' Hermitage moaned.
'Think of it as one of your puzzles, an argument to be dismantled. Where is the last place anyone would look for a tapestry?'
Hermitage looked blank and his mind followed suit. He had no ideas. Not even one. He even lost the idea of having an idea. This was followed by the disappearance of any awareness of where he was and who was with him. His mind often went like this when he was considering some particularly ticklish issue. The spelling of Nebuchadnezzar, for example.
He found his thoughts in this empty space once more. All the pieces of the question before him were out of sight – there was only a big blank. Into this space, an ancient and never-before-recalled memory popped up. It leapt around in the vacancy of his thoughts, waving at him. An old riddle, told by the ancient priest who had been his guide and mentor and, yes, his friend. In fact, the only friend prior to Wat. The riddle had been about the books of the bible being in the book that was the bible. It wasn’t a very good riddle.
'In a book,' he said, as much surprised by the words coming out of his mouth as the others in the room.
'Beg pardon?' Wat said, not getting it at all.
Briston guffawed loudly.
‘Sorry, I mean the books of the Bible are hidden in a book, which is the Bible. You see?’
Wat was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You are supposed to be thinking about the tapestry, not the Bible.’
‘Oh yes,’ Hermitage shrugged. He really didn’t have any more to offer.
‘What made you say that?’ Wat really was quite cross.
‘I don’t know really. It’s an old riddle. Where do you keep the books of the Bible? In a book. The Bible. Don’t know why I thought of that really.’
‘The books are in a book?’ Wat’s face was stiff and unfriendly.
Hermitage shrugged hopelessly.
The face of the weaver softened. ‘The books are in a book,’ he repeated, this time with some enthusiasm.
Hermitage nodded without any idea where this was going.
'So where is the tapestry?’ Wat asked. ‘In a tapestry.'
He turned to look at Briston, who had gone very pale all of a sudden.
'Aha!' Wat said in long drawn-out triumph.
Hermitage smiled broadly. 'Beg pardon?' he asked, when he realised his happiness had overtaken his understanding.
'Within the picture of one tapestry lies another tapestry.'
'Oh,' Hermitage said, getting it now. 'Like a tapestry of a castle wall that has a tapestry hanging on it.'
'Exactly.'
'Clever.'
‘Yes,’ Wat said. 'I might use that myself.'
'But, which tapestry?' Hermitage wailed. 'Mr Briston must have done hundreds.'
Wat’s thoughts ran ahead. 'Except, of course, he didn't make this one. He said that Cwen did it. So it must have been recent.'
'I knew we’d get there,' Wat sneered at Briston.
Hermitage nodded, still smiling, but still not quite sure why.
'The one that went to Master Stott,' Wat concluded with a flourish.
'Oh bloody hell,' Briston wailed now.
Wat went on, 'When you think about it, it's a bit of a coincidence, Briston being in Baernodebi when all this happens. It's not the sort of place a lot of his customers would live. So, if he decided to escape his life at this moment, the tapestry in question must be very recent indeed. Not only did Briston hide this Tapestry of Death within the tapestry of Master Stott, he then sold it to Stott. What better place to hide it? In the manor of an old widower who probably has very few visitors.'
An idea struck Hermitage. 'And you said pieces like this weren’t shown in public, so no one would see it. Master Stott was rather ashamed of the piece anyway.'
Wat nodded now. 'I reckon Briston knew that. It was exactly as Stott said, he only asked for a pleasant reminiscence of his wife and that was what Briston promised. When he delivered the work, Stott would have been appalled, but it was exactly what Briston meant to create all along.’
'Alright, don't go on,' Briston sulked, all good cheer firmly put in its place.
Wat folded his arms and stared. 'That didn't take long, did it?
Briston quickly recovered his composure. 'Doesn't matter,' he said. 'So you two figured it out. No one else knows and I'm sure my old friend Wat and a devout monk wouldn't breathe a word.'
'Don't have to,' Wat replied. 'There's a whole host of trouble you don't even know about.'
'Such as?' Briston was contemptuous, clearly thinking Wat was making this up.
'Oh, the fact that Virgil has just gone to Stott's manor along with Dextus.'
'What?' The colour left Briston's face once more, probably looking for somewhere a bit less changeable.
'Except, of course, that doesn't matter so much because Stott's burned the tapestry.'
'He what?' The pale Briston had started to shake slightly and his full and wholesome voice sounded like the death rattle of an emaciated wren.
'Oh, it gets worse.' Wat seemed to be taking some pleasure in this. 'Virgil sent us to find you, and if we don't take you back, he'll kill Cwen.'
Briston had no words left. No sounds at all judging by the state of him. He even seemed to have lost weight.
'Good plan though,' Wat nodded. 'Looks like the Tapestry of Death might work yet. On you.'
Caput XVIII
That Cellar Again
Dextus wound himself to his feet and woozily wandered to the table. He rested his hands on the edge to stop himself falling down again. He blinked several times and gently shook his head to make his eyes work. They eventually focussed on the tapestry.
'Ah,' he said, clearly recognising something he didn't really want to see.
'Does your mission make sense now?' Virgil asked.
'Yes,' Dextus admitted. 'I rather think it does.'
'A quite remarkable piece, wouldn't you say?
' Virgil asked.
Dextus simply grunted.
'No wonder the church wants to get hold of it. At all costs, I would think.'
Eadric and Firman were at the table, but the tapestry was upside down in front of them. They twisted their heads to take in what was presented.
'Oh my,' Firman's educated tones were surprised. 'Is that…?'
'Yes it is,' Eadric broke in. 'And there's another one.'
'Well, I never.'
'No,' said Eadric. 'I don't think many people have.'
Firman continued to turn his head this way and that, trying to accommodate all of the details. The Castigatori and Virgil's men were coming to their senses now and they made it to their feet one by one. They wandered over to see what the fuss was about, brushing Eadric and Firman aside. There was much muttering and pointing and some elbows dug playfully into sides. Virgil took one end of the tapestry and held it up to the light of the torches. The colours in the piece leapt to dancing life. Flesh pink mainly, but a splash of dark hair here and there. Mostly there. The crowded cellar gathered round like peasant villagers in front of a mummers’ play: eyes slack and jaws wide.
'This is appalling!'
Stott burst forward and brushed people aside with remarkable strength. He snatched the tapestry from Virgil's hand and started to roll it up again. It took quite some time and the rest of the audience watched as the very widest variety of scenes disappeared into the rolling cloth like boats passing the bend in a river. Boats full of very rude people in full display. 'I will not have the likes of you gazing upon the likes of the parts of my wife.'
'Your wife is the least of it!' Virgil laughed.
Stott glared and used the finally rolled up tapestry, which weighed quite a bit, to smack Parsimon firmly on the head.
'It's not really her,' Cwen tried to sooth the old man. 'I used your description for her face, but it isn't her body, erm, parts, erm, person.'
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