The Tapestry of Death Page 3

  'Just samples,' Wat explained as he saw Hermitage's disappointed expression. 'The good stuff will be in the boxes.' He gestured to the pile of packing stacked against one wall.

  The works on display were all standard scenes. The first was that old familiar, some maidens lounging in a garden, apparently completely content that there was a small dragon nibbling the roses. The second would be for the male customer. A knight on horseback, the horse's face being the more intelligent of the two. Finally the scene of aspiration. A large figure off to one side, gazing out in command across a valley, which was probably his little kingdom. Hermitage peered more closely and could make out tiny figures in the valley carrying out their daily tasks – harvesting the corn, building a bonfire, putting the witch on top. Hermitage reviewed his judgement. These were good pieces. Or rather, they had been some time ago.

  'All very normal.' Hermitage turned to Wat and shrugged.

  The weaver looked his friend in the eye and took a deep breath. 'Hermitage,' he said.

  'Yes?'

  'It's time we had the talk.'

  Hermitage loved to talk; he preferred it to listening, but he wasn't aware there was a single talk to be had.

  Wat went over to the pile of cases and examined them, looking for one in particular. Spotting what he wanted, he moved several boxes out of the way until he revealed a nondescript wooden case about three feet long, one wide, and the same deep. This was well made and solid. He dragged it out into the middle of the tent. Placing it between the two chairs, he gestured Hermitage to sit. Dropping on the other chair, he leaned forward to the box. The thing had a large and complex catch, a decorated wide metal bar that clamped the lid shut and ended in a very expensive looking lock. Sophisticated machinery in a place such as this gave Hermitage pause. This was clearly a significant box. Wat pulled on the catch and it immediately sprang open.

  'Should it do that?' Hermitage asked, thinking that it wasn't very secure.

  'No, it shouldn't,' Wat replied, examining the lock closely and holding it up to show Hermitage where the wood behind the catch had been scraped by a hard object.

  'Forced open,' Hermitage concluded.

  'Yes. Could be we won't find anything. This was probably what they were after.'

  Hermitage watched closely as Wat opened the box. Perhaps it contained poor Briston's life’s earnings. That would explain a murder. Not why it was carried out by his own guild, of course. Unless they were plain greedy. His opinion of weavers thus far had been based on Wat. He'd assumed they were all intelligent, caring, helpful people, who simply weaved. A whole new world was opening up before his eyes now. He hated it when that happened. He forced himself to stop speculating as Wat examined the contents of the box.

  'Seems to all be here,' he said, in some puzzlement. 'Perhaps they left it as a warning to others.'

  'What is? Who did? What warning?' Hermitage asked.

  If curiosity killed the cat, it had claimed sanctuary in Brother Hermitage's head. The opening of a book was a wonder, never mind a box full of secrets. He leaned in close.

  'Now, Hermitage,' Wat produced a rolled up tapestry and pointed it at the monk.

  'Yes?' young Hermitage bubbled.

  'What I am about to show you will be a great shock.'

  If it had been Wat's intention to get Hermitage even more excited, he was succeeding.

  'Marvellous,' the brother breathed.

  'It won't be marvellous,' Wat said in all seriousness. 'It will be disappointing. It will be alarming and you will feel enormously let down.'

  'Oh.' Hermitage knew what being let down felt like. For some reason, an image of his father came to mind. That hadn't happened for a while.

  'You will have a lot of questions,' Wat continued. 'For which I will have answers. Which you will not like.'

  Hermitage had forgotten the threat of a letdown and was positively panting to see the tapestry.

  'I'll answer your first questions before I let you see this.' He waved the tapestry again.

  Hermitage's eyes followed it like a starving man watching a dying cat. Wat touched Hermitage's shoulder with the tapestry and held his eyes with his own.

  'Yes, this is the sort of business I am involved in,' he said. 'Yes, these are the sorts of tapestries I make, and the ones I have made all my money from. Finally, yes, they explain the death of Briston.'

  With a flourish he closed the wooden box again and threw the tapestry open on top. It covered the surface of the box and trailed over the sides in all directions. The main scene was clear, and Hermitage gobbled it up eagerly. He put his head over to one side and then the other, trying to make sense of the picture in front of him. Wat's head sagged as he saw realisation dawn on the monk.

  'Oh my,' Hermitage said, his jaw low and his eyes wide.

  'I know,' Wat acknowledged.

  'I can see why this sort of thing would be locked up.'

  'Of course.'

  Hermitage examined the work in some detail, stroking his chin now and nodding.

  'So?' Wat asked as the time seemed to be stretching.

  'Well,' Hermitage said leaning back, 'as a representation of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, I imagine it is accurate. It appears to be very detailed indeed. All the people are individually picked out at the height of their sin. I can certainly see why Briston needed so much pink thread.'

  'It's not a representation of Sodom and Gomorrah,' Wat said.

  'Oh?' Hermitage frowned for a moment as he considered his scripture. 'The daughters of Lot, perhaps?'

  'No. Not the daughters of Lot. Someone’s daughters certainly, but not Lot's.'

  'No, I see that now. Too many of them. And the men with them are certainly not angels. Not judging by what they're doing, or what they're doing it with.'

  Hermitage bent closer still and considered the little pink figures dancing before him. They even appeared to be anatomically correct, which was an awful lot of trouble to go to for a tapestry.

  'The wives of Solomon?' he speculated. 'Although I can't see why it would get someone killed.'

  'You're on the wrong track altogether.' Wat shook his head at the tenacity of the monk's innocence.

  'Really?' Hermitage was fully engaged. What a fascinating puzzle.

  'Yes, you're being too, erm, biblical.'

  'Too biblical?' Hermitage said. This really did cause him trouble. How could you be too biblical?

  'Psalms?' he speculated.

  'No, Hermitage.' Wat ran a hand over his face. 'You’re being biblical at all is too biblical.'

  Hermitage stopped. He really had nowhere else to go.

  Wat drew breath and explained, 'It's a Christmas gathering at the hall of the Bishop of Dorchester. The year 1062, if I'm not mistaken, given the number of goats and the jester with that rather unique staff.'

  Hermitage looked from tapestry to Wat to get the joke. He saw there was no joke.

  'Oh my,' he glanced to the box.

  'And the rest of them are the same,' Wat acknowledged. 'Well, different situations and subject matter, but the same quantity of clothing on the subjects.'

  'None at all, you mean,' Hermitage said with a touch of irritation.

  'Afraid so.'

  'Well, I can certainly see what all the trouble is about,' Hermitage was matter of fact. 'Do you make these things too?'

  'I do.' Wat hung his head.

  Hermitage said nothing.

  'Except,' Wat added, 'mine are better.'

  'In what way “better”?' Hermitage asked.

  'Better quality,' Wat blustered. 'More, erm, realistic.' His voice faded off as he realised this was not a good thing to be talking about with a monk.

  'I'd better see another one,' Hermitage said, in that tone parents use when their children have confessed to doing something naughty with their neighbours’ chickens when, in fact, they've killed the lot.

  Wat's head drooped as he rolled up the Dorchester Christmas, opened the box, and exchanged it for another tapestry. He thre
w this one open on the top.

  'Oh my gracious me, good heavens above, and all the saints.' Hermitage tried to move backwards in his chair.

  'Personal, isn't it?' Wat said with a shrug.

  'Definitively.' Hermitage tried to make his eyes stop working.

  This was a much more straightforward image – a simple one of two people. A loving couple, Hermitage sincerely hoped. They had been caught in the middle of their loving, and depicted in the most minute and unnecessary detail.

  'And, people pay for these things?' Hermitage asked.

  'Very well. Not the sort of thing you can get over the counter in a public place.'

  'I should hope not. Who buys them?' Hermitage's voice squeaked with offended disbelief.

  'Everyone,' Wat replied.

  'Everyone?'

  Hermitage could not believe this. He certainly didn't know anyone who'd bought one. He'd never seen anything like it before. Or had he? His mind wandered back to an alarming tapestry he'd seen in his old Abbot's study. That was a depiction of the fate waiting for sinners inside the gates of hell. He'd assumed it was there to focus the Abbot's mind on need to battle evil. Now he thought about it, he recalled that most of the sinners had been women. And none of them had any clothes on. He thought about asking Wat. Perhaps the weaver knew the work.

  'That's the joy of it,' Wat was explaining. 'Everyone buys them, but they all think it's only them. It's not the sort of thing they talk about, or show visitors. They certainly don't hang them on the wall.'

  Hermitage drew breath at the thought.

  'Well,' Wat considered. 'Except in the case of Baron Lasder, of course, but then he is rather unique.'

  'I think I may have seen something a bit like this before,' Hermitage admitted.

  'Been in a bishop's private chamber after dark then?' Wat asked.

  'Dorchester?' This really was too much.

  'Most of them actually.'

  'Appalling.'

  'Anyone who's got any money at all really. From the lowest born to the most high. I did several for King Harold. Very fond of the bathhouse was Harold.'

  'But,' Hermitage's thought processes were recovering from the shock, 'if everyone has them, why is Briston dead?'

  'Because everyone thinks they are awful and sinful and says so. And of course the guild agrees. In public.'

  'So everyone has them, but everyone says they're sinful and no one should have them?' Hermitage's thinking was not built for such naked contradictions.

  'That's it.'

  'But that's hypocritical.'

  'It's what?' It was Wat's turn to be thrown off his stride.

  'It means preaching one thing while doing the opposite,' Hermitage explained, 'more or less.'

  'Oh right,' Wat nodded. 'Quite common then. Yes, it's hypocritical. Everyone has one in private, but in public they go on about how they should be banned. How the weavers responsible should be punished. How the common man must have nothing to do with this sort of thing.'

  'So they can keep it to themselves,' Hermitage concluded.

  'Very good, Hermitage. You've grasped a real piece of human nature.'

  'I wish I could let it go again.' Hermitage pondered this new found information and concluded it was best left alone. 'But if everyone has them, why have Briston killed? Doesn't that cut off supply?'

  'Hermitage, you're thinking like a real merchant.'

  'Oh dear.'

  'No, it's good. It's the right question. We've been at this business for years. What's happened to bring this about now?'

  Hermitage hoped this question was rhetorical. He liked rhetorical questions generally, but he simply didn't want to speculate about the answer in this case. He offered the standard response to a question like this. The words every Saxon used these days when asked “how's things?”, or “been up to much lately”, or “what's new?”

  'The Normans have invaded,' he said.

  There was hardly an aspect of life untouched by the new overlords. And their touch tended to be very heavy. He couldn't immediately see why this would have descended on the world of weaving though.

  'They have, haven't they,' Wat replied in a speculative tone. 'And we know they don't like this sort of thing.'

  'Do we?' Hermitage didn't have any information about Norman taste in tapestry. He and Wat had been together since the invasion and they hadn't discussed Norman decorative arts at all.

  'I picked up some useful information when we were at the monastery in De'Ath's Dingle[ Hence the title, The Heretics of De’Ath…] from Brother Amsom after his trip to Lincoln,' Wat explained.

  Well, that was a bit much. Hermitage had tried to ask Brother Amsom about his visit to Lincoln, and what the latest developments were in the lexicography of the post-Exodus prophets. The Brother claimed to have bumped his head and lost his memory. Given what he now knew of Wat’s trade, it was somewhat vexing that the weaver had been better accepted in the monastery than Hermitage, who was a monk, after all.

  'If it's not a representation of a battle, or a horse, or preferably both, they aren't interested. If it’s anything remotely intimate, they express the strongest objections. Apparently they found a weaver's apprentice in Lincoln making a copy of an early Briston.'

  'Like this?' Hermitage gestured at the work that was still revealing itself to him. He was horrified at the thought of a child being exposed to anything like this.

  'Nah,' Wat was dismissive. 'Mild stuff. Could show it to your grandmother. Didn't stop the Normans breaking all the tools of his trade though.'

  'His needles and looms?'

  'No, his fingers.'

  Hermitage shivered. 'So the Normans killed Briston?' He wasn’t surprised by the Norman response to things they didn't approve of.

  'No, the guild killed Briston.' Wat seemed annoyed that Hermitage had forgotten this. 'Remember? The Tapestry of Death?'

  'Ah yes. Maybe the Normans asked them to do it?'

  'Or they did it to show the Normans what fine fellows they are. To show how they despise this disgusting stuff and are dedicated to putting a stop to it.'

  'Kill one of their own?'

  'Better than having the Normans take out their annoyance on the whole guild. They are a bit, what's the word? Unsophisticated?'

  'After looking at the works of Briston, I don’t think we can criticise the Normans for being unsophisticated,' Hermitage sighed and looked at the field of pink laid out before him. 'Can we put it away now?' He gestured at the tapestry.

  'Of course.' Wat rolled up the picture, opened the box, and put it back. He left the lid open and went through each rolled up tapestry, touching them in turn and mumbling under his breath.

  'What are you doing?' Hermitage asked in some horror.

  'Stock check,' Wat replied. 'Making sure they're all here.'

  'Are you so familiar with his work?' Hermitage's horror at the subject matter, and his horror at this latest revelation about mankind, was joined by a dawning horror that his friend was up to his knees in this stuff. Even the image of Wat being up to his knees in it was horrible.

  'Oh yes,' Wat replied. 'As you've seen, Briston and I were close. We let one another know the sort of thing we were doing so we didn't tread on one another's toes.'

  'So your, erm, material is different?'

  'Not really. We just made sure we weren't making duplicates. Even though people never talk about their purchases, it would be a bit risky to try and sell the same scene.'

  'I can see that,' Hermitage said, 'Oh Wat,' he sighed.

  'I know,' Wat shook his head slightly. 'I know it’ll be no comfort, but it is just a job. I don't have any of these things myself. In fact, I find it quite hard to understand the sorts of things people want to look at. I can understand their money though. I suppose that's a sin on its own.'

  'Yes, it is,' Hermitage was quite clear. 'So why do them?'

  Wat left his stock taking, stood, and paced up and down the small space of the tent, pausing each time as he passed by Briston's re
mains. 'I got dragged into it when I was an apprentice. In fact, I was with Briston. Some freeman came into the shop, asked for something, and the old master kicked him out. Well, you can imagine we were intrigued. We found the fellow and asked him what he'd said to the master. He told us.' Wat shivered slightly at the memory. 'And, when he told us how much he was prepared to pay, we said we'd do it for him.'

  'Corruption of the young,' Hermitage commented.

  'It certainly was. We didn't have a clue where to begin. We didn't even really understand the full details of what the man actually wanted. Briston asked one of the journeymen and got a clip round the ear. Two young lads being told that something wasn't fit for their ears.'

  'You had to find out.' Hermitage shook his head in sorrow.

  The tale had a certain familiarity. In his youth, he had been told certain matters weren't for him, ideas and discussions not to be raised or brought into his father's house. Of course, Hermitage's insatiable curiosity could not stand such a challenge. He had gone ahead, deceived his father, and met secretly with people who were prepared to talk on forbidden topics. When he was found out, his father washed his hands of the young man. Why any son of his would want to read, praise God, and do good was beyond him.

  'And we did find out,' Wat continued. 'There was an old man in the village called Parbul. He'd sell children mead, buy anything they'd stolen, and show them his...'

  'Yes, yes, I can imagine the type.'

  Wat stopped pacing and looked into the distance. Which wasn't very far away. 'He told us exactly what the man wanted. In detail. And how much we could really charge for it.'

  'And that was it,' Hermitage nodded. 'The downward slope.'

  'Helped by the fact Parbul offered to buy three more from us,' Wat grinned. 'Briston and I set to work and delivered them. Word spread and within six months. We were as rich as our master.'