The Tapestry of Death

by Howard of Warwick

  The large weaver had his large grin back and was bubbling with joy. 'We saw them off, eh Watty?' He rubbed his hands in glee.

  Wat reached for his belt and pulled out his death note. He opened the parchment up and presented it to Briston's eyes. Holding the thing at the top, he grasped the skin either side of a small tear in one side and pulled it apart.

  Hermitage winced at such a nice piece of parchment coming to an end like this. Still, he could probably save the remainder and have two bits of smaller parchment.

  'We are finished, Briston. You nearly got us all killed through your thoughtless and selfish stupidity and I want nothing more to do with you. If death threatens you, if the grim reaper comes knocking on your door, he can have you. I might come to your burial, if I'm not busy.'

  Briston's face fell, but it looked like it had been pushed. It was a picture of mock fear and shame. The sort the child who has killed the chickens uses while he's planning the next massacre.

  'Please yourself,' Briston said as the face sprang back up. 'We'll be on our way. Shame Dextus took the box,' he shrugged. 'Still, we can always make some more, eh?' He winked at Cwen.

  'We?' Cwen asked. 'What's this we?'

  Now Briston did look worried.

  Hermitage welcomed the girl's stand. Perhaps there was hope for her if she was rejecting the works of Briston. He could see that the weaver wasn't happy. If Cwen had produced the Tapestry of Death, she really was very good. Briston wouldn't be happy losing her.

  'Cwen,' Briston did shock again but it was a bit more genuine this time. 'After all I've done for you?'

  'You're right,' Cwen said. 'You have done a lot for me. Taught me the craft when no one else would.'

  Wat tutted at this.

  'You showed me the trade and let me develop my skill.'

  Briston nodded in recognition of his good works.

  'All of it to your own advantage,' Cwen was now fierce. 'And all of it as a weasel in a wolf pack compared to this last stunt. Letting me think you were dead and running off? How could you?'

  'And he wouldn't come back to save you either,' Wat put in.

  'Don't you start,' Cwen turned on Wat. 'Mister “girls can't weave,” “Women can't make tapestry!” If I were you I'd keep my mouth shut.'

  Wat's mouth dropped open but no words came out.

  'What do you think you're going to do then?' Briston's voice was spiteful now. 'Just turn up at a workshop somewhere? I don't think you'll find any masters prepared to take you in, even if you do look like a boy. and behave like one,' he added.

  'Oh, I shall find plenty of work,' Cwen insisted. 'And it'll show up the rubbish you make.'

  'Where?'

  Cwen moved over to Wat's side and took his arm. 'Wat's going to set me up.'

  'Is he?' Wat said, momentarily interested in who was going to take Cwen in. 'Oh,' he added as recognition of the name came to him.

  'It'll be good for him,' she went on, 'and he'll get a quality weaver at very decent rates.'

  'Now just a minute,' Wat began.

  'What a good idea,' Hermitage spoke up.

  'And of course it's me who's got all the preliminary sketches.' Cwen tapped the side of her head. 'In here, along with a list of all Briston's clients, the works he's sold and for how much.'

  'What?' Briston was horrified.

  'I do pay attention, you know,' Cwen scoffed at him. 'So, if you don't want me going to them all and offering new works direct from the maker, you'd better clear off.'

  Wat was grinning. 'I think she's got you, Briston,' he snorted.

  'I'll have you next,' Cwen snapped.

  Wat stopped grinning.

  'Are we clear?' Cwen demanded. 'Briston,' she instructed, 'you clear off and never come back. Do what you like as long as it's nowhere near me. If it is, I'll remember who your clients are and tell them you've confessed all to the Normans.'

  'You wouldn't,' Briston protested but it was more plea than protest.

  He sent his plea round the room. There wasn't much point really. Stott and Parsimon were still asleep by the fire and Wat was no friend any more.

  Hermitage gave him a look he hoped said something about shame, and just desserts, and the wages of sin.

  Briston frowned as if wondering why the monk was squinting at him.

  'Go!' Cwen barked, making Briston jump slightly.

  He wandered slowly towards the door as if expecting to be called back at any moment. When he reached the threshold, he looked at them all once more. Cwen stood with arms folded. Eyes glaring. Briston left.

  Hermitage turned and smiled at Cwen and Wat. Events seemed to have come to a conclusion and they were all still alive. Well, Virgil wasn't obviously, but no one seemed to be concerned about that.

  But, Cwen and Wat weren't smiling.

  'What's this about me taking you in?' Wat was incredulous.

  'It makes perfect sense,' Cwen answered.

  'To you maybe.'

  'You were the one who went after Briston and brought him back just to save me,' she smiled.

  'That was only right and proper,' Wat protested. 'You know my views on women weavers.'

  'Another good reason for you to take me in. You need some education. Wouldn't you agree, Brother?'

  Hermitage became the centre of attention. With remarkably rapid insight, he realised this was a dangerous debate to be anywhere near.

  'I think it’s probably best if you work this out for yourself,' he nodded. 'Perhaps of more immediate import is what we do now. Wat and I can hardly go back to Castle Grosmal. Not that we'd want to. Cwen, you have no home now Briston has gone. Even Lolby's hovel has been destroyed. I doubt if Master Stott is feeling hospitable after all he's been through.'

  As if to confirm this, Stott grumbled and mumbled in his sleep by the fire.

  'That's alright,' Cwen said. 'We'll go to Wat's place.'

  'Derby?' Hermitage didn't like the sound of such a long journey. At least he assumed it was long from what Wat had said.

  'Oh, that's where it is, eh?' Cwen nodded.

  'Thanks, Hermitage.' Wat sounded like a broken man, but a man who didn't actually mind being broken very much.

  'Not far then,' Cwen went on. 'Once we're there, we can settle down and sort out what's what.'

  'Not far, eh?' Hermitage frowned at Wat. 'I suppose I could go back to De'Ath's Dingle,' he muttered without enthusiasm.

  'You're coming with us,' Wat ordered. 'I'm not going there on my own,' he cast a sideways glance to Cwen, 'I think I'm going to need help.'

  'I don’t suppose if you're returning to tapestry, I might persuade you to review your subject matter.' Hermitage saw that accompanying the two to Derby would be a chance to achieve some good in the world. 'And I have been discharged from De'Ath's Dingle.' His mind was bright at the idea. Then it darkened again. 'But I'm supposed to be King’s Investigator.'

  'You are,' Wat acknowledged. 'Which, it turns out, comes in handy now and then. Of course, you could go and ask the king if he's got any more investigating he wants done.'

  Hermitage accepted that this probably was his duty.

  'If you can find him, of course,' Wat added, 'because he won't be at Castle Grosmal anymore.'

  'And the people there are probably sworn to keep the king's whereabouts a secret,' Cwen added.

  'Why?' Hermitage thought this was an odd thing for a king to do.

  'Not exactly popular at the moment?' Cwen suggested. 'The invasion? The killing of a lot of Saxons? Best not to be in the country of your new enemies and then tell them exactly where you're going to be.'

  'I suppose not.' Hermitage was learning more and more about the real world all the time. And he thought the monastery of De'Ath's Dingle was bad.

  'I'm sure if he wants you he'll find you.' Wat was reassuring.

  'You could be right. And I must say, I think the goings on outside of the monastery wall warrant some serious attention.'

  'Really?' Cwen asked, clearly not seeing anything in particul
ar.

  'The fact that tapestries are made of the most appalling subject matter?' Hermitage offered as his first example. 'That priests and bishops of the church are mired in this sin? That criminal elements try to take over the business for their own gain? The list goes on. Even resolving matters involved lying and threatening people, including young women, that distasteful pictures would be released if they didn't cooperate.' Now Hermitage catalogued the details, his level of being appalled rose further. He wasn't sure he had the capacity to be this appalled.

  He found he did have some more room when he noticed Cwen had stopped listening and had gone over to Stott and Parsimon. 'Well really,' he huffed.

  Cwen was gently prodding Parsimon who was dead to the world. It had been a long and troublesome night.

  The man woke, alarmed and disorientated.

  'It's alright,' Cwen soothed. 'Just wanted to let you know we're off.

  'Off?' Parsimon's dozy state wouldn't let him take this in.

  'Off?' Stott woke as well. 'Where are you off to?' The old man was quite used to waking up suddenly and carrying on a conversation as if he'd never left.

  'We're leaving,' Cwen explained. 'Everyone else has gone,' she spread her arms to take in the empty hall.

  'What about my door?' Stott asked, nodding towards the wrecked woodwork as he rose from his seat.

  'I'm sure it can be fixed,' Cwen soothed.

  'Yes, but who by?' Stott demanded. 'I don't see why I should pay for it.'

  'Well, I suppose it was the Godwins who damaged it in the first place, and that Norman Ricard who finished it off. Perhaps you could ask them?' Cwen asked sweetly but with a hint of steel.

  'Where's the dead one?' Stott went on, having given up on the door.

  'Dead one?'

  'The big feller? Rough type? Dead?'

  'Oh, Virgil?'

  'That's the one.'

  'Erm,' Cwen was reluctant, 'in the, erm, cellar?'

  'In the cellar? Well, he's no good there, is he? Don't want dead fellers in the cellar. Stink the place out. He'll have to be moved.'

  'I'm sure your staff could move him,' Cwen suggested.

  'I don't think so,' Stott argued. 'Old Parsimon's not up to that sort of thing. And the maid? I hardly think moving dead bodies is in her line of work. And the size of him? Have you thought about that? He's not a small chicken. you know!'

  Cwen started to edge back towards the door.

  'It'll take several strong men,' Stott was insistent. 'Or some equipment. Pulleys, rope, that sort of thing. Then there's the grave to dig.' Stott's worries were piling up.

  'I'm sure you'll think of something,' Cwen offered.

  'It's all very well you young people killing one another like this, but you never think it through. No thought for the practicalities.'

  'We really must be off.'

  'You can jolly well shift him first,' Stott was not giving up. 'That weaver fellow and the monk, they can do it. And him!' Stott pointed a shaking hand to the door.

  Cwen turned and saw the figure of Eadric backing in through the remains of the door.

  'Get away from me,' he was calling in a high pitched voice which had just a touch of the deranged about it. 'Get away. You're not real. You can't touch me!' With this, he turned on his heels and ran to the back of the room, where he crouched on the floor and hid behind a pile of pewter, mumbling and pointing.

  There was a rustle of leaves from the door. Cwen, Wat, and Hermitage looked to see what on earth had frightened Eadric. What, in fact, had made him come back at all.

  'Ha, ha!' A degenerate figure leaped into the room like a rotting jester – a jester who had jested in his youth, perhaps to some success, but who had seriously let himself go. He was all beard and rags but still pranced on the spot. His metaphorical bells had lost their clappers and his bladder leaked. Behind him he dragged a huge sword. The manner of his dragging said that he had carried it for a while but soon found it too much. Any thought of care for its cutting edge had been abandoned when the thing simply got too heavy.

  'If greeted by The Hoofhorn be

  Then straight obedience he must see.

  All gathered there, be friend or foe

  No one is allowed to go,'

  The Hoofhorn cackled.

  There was a stunned silence in the room as they all surveyed the thing in front of them.

  Cwen giggled.

  'By the power of the Hoofhorn. By the authority of the great guild of weavers!' The Hoofhorn's voice rose to a scream. He dropped the sword, which landed with a clang. He raised one tattooed and wrinkled arm and pointed a bony finger at each of them in turn. 'Where is the tapestry?' he demanded.

  They all looked at The Hoofhorn and then at one another.

  Wat replied calmly. 'The Godwins have it.'

  The Hoofhorn's wild eyes and wild appearance stiffened as if he would never relax again.

  'Oh bugger,' he said.

  FINIS

  The works of Howard of Warwick are alarmingly numerous and several are available in paperback. Read on to find out what you’re missing - and perhaps make plans to avoid it.

  Once upon a time there were some Heretics of De’Ath.

  The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage, Book 1

  England 1066: During an utterly pointless debate at the austere monastery of De’Ath’s Dingle, a monk dies in mysterious circumstances. Standing accused is Brother Hermitage, who needs to work out who did it before he’s executed. More medieval than detective, he finds a companion in Wat the Weaver, producer of tapestry to make Beowulf blush. Naive and blindly deferential, Hermitage is helped through events by Wat, coming to a conclusion as startling to him as anyone. With monks, nobles and even a King, The Heretics of De’Ath does for the medieval crime genre.

  Smashwords

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9929393-0-4

  And then Brother Hermitage fell into a Garderobe:

  The Garderobe of Death

  The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage, Book 2

  England 1067: Henri de Turold, King William's favourite hunting companion has been murdered. How anyone actually did it, given the remarkably personal nature of the fatal wound, is a bit of a mystery.

  Lord Robert Grosmal, of disordered mind, disordered castle and Henri's host at the time, knows that King William gets very tetchy when his friends are murdered. He sends to the nearby monastery of De'Ath's Dingle for a monk to investigate.

  Medieval monks are usually good at this sort of thing.

  Brother Hermitage is a medieval monk but he's not very good at this sort of thing. Motivated by the point of a sword he and his companion Wat the weaver set off to solve the crime.

  Oh, by the way King William is arriving that night so they better get a move on.

  Smashwords

  ISBN: 978-0-9929393-1-1 £7.99

  After which he dealt with the awful

  Tapestry of Death

  The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage, Book 3

  England 1067: Briston the weaver has been murdered – in a very special way – and it is up to his old friend Wat to avenge his death.

  Brother Hermitage will naturally support his companion in the quest, but the young monk worries as the number of suspects keeps rising. He's never been good with crowds.

  When events take a turn for the truly bizarre, Hermitage and Wat find themselves up to their Saxon socks in people who want them dead, people who want one another dead and people who seem to want everyone dead.

  They must find a missing maiden, placate a giant killer and reveal the awful secret of the Tapestry of Death before matters are resolved. Resolved largely unsatisfactorily, but then that's life.

  With a monk, tradesmen, priests, Normans and Saxons, The Tapestry of Death should be a solid, traditional medieval who-done-it, but it isn't. Really, it isn't.

  Authentic and accurate representation of the time? Barely.

  Historically informative? Certainly not.

  Hilarious and very silly? Now you're g
etting warm.

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9929393-5-9

  Also available: Howard of Warwick’s History as it might have happened – but probably didn’t.

  The Domesday Book (No, Not That One)

  A book so epic it has a map.

  William of Normandy has just won the battle of Hastings, but has lost something precious; so precious no one must even know it is missing.

  Reluctantly assembling a team of incompetents, he sends them on a mission of recovery. But his secret is out and another band is after the treasure.

  In a race across a savage land, through a population of confused misfits, against the clock and against one another, two forces hurtle towards a finale of cataclysmic proportions; all in 29 concise and entertaining chapters.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9929393-2-8

  The Magna Carta, (Or Is It?)

  .

  Read the full text of Magna Carta in Latin and English here! But don't take the tale of its production too seriously - or seriously at all..

  To mark the 800th anniversary, Howard of Warwick has forced his attentions on the most famous charter in history. Here is a Runnymede full of real people; confused, squabbling, ill-informed and largely incompetent. Never mind 800 years, it's a miracle the charter survived to the end of its first week.... if it did!

  In The Magna Carta (Or Is It?) we discover that King John entrusted the copying of the original charter to one Aelward Dunktish, a man not normally reliable enough to pour water. The King must be up to something. And so must the nobles who want Dunktish for their own purposes. And then there are the King's notorious mercenaries, the men of Touraine, who have ideas of their own, all of them involving death and horses.