The Tapestry of Death Page 6

  Wat stopped and gawped.

  Hermitage, unusually, couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Some thoughts came to him, eventually.

  'Oh,' he said, turning to Wat. 'Apprentices aren't supposed to be girls, are they?'

  'No,' Wat said most emphatically, staring hard at the girl, who did not return his look. 'They are not. The guild has very strict rules about passing the secrets of the craft outside the prescribed paths.'

  'Do I need to guess,' Hermitage sighed, 'what your book of ritual says the penalty is for having a female apprentice?'

  Wat smiled grimly. 'The Tapestry of Death for the master,' he said. 'Just plain death for the apprentice.'

  Caput VI

  Sullied Stotts

  'It's no good, Parsimon. It simply has to go.'

  Thelred Stott stood in the main hall of his modest manor and looked at the tapestry hanging on his wall. It was on a quiet part of the wall, away from the main thoroughfares of the room. Certainly not above the fireplace. Even so, the work did stand out. It was a large piece, much longer than a normal tapestry, but only about two feet tall. It stretched to left and right. Its purpose was not to stop the draft whistling through one of the manor's large expanses of stone; it had been ordered as a decorative piece to be gazed upon, admired, and to bring happy reminiscence. Now it was just being gazed upon. Admiration and happy reminiscence had been asked to leave.

  'It is,' Parsimon, Stott's lifelong servant, just a touch less ancient and decrepit than his master, searched for the right word, 'unique,' he said as he gazed upon the acquisition.

  'Unique?' Stott raised an eyebrow in his traditional expression of complete outrage. 'It's disgusting is what it is.'

  Parsimon nodded his agreement.

  'I mean, for goodness’ sake,' Stott grumbled into his grey beard that seemed to bridle of its own volition at the scene before it. This growth was of such magnificence it could be used for a tapestry itself and while a field of featureless grey would make a very boring scene, it would be more acceptable than the one currently dangling before Stott's eyes.

  'All I asked for was a remembrance of my dear wife. I gave the wretched man a charming description of Lady Lorinda's manners and pastimes, her appearance, and her favourite dress. I asked for something of her in a garden, perhaps with a dragon nibbling the roses.'

  'Tradition,' Parsimon approved.

  'What do I get instead? This monstrosity. I mean, why's it so big for one thing?' He gestured at the picture spread out before them.

  Stott had admitted the likeness of his lady was a good one, but that only made it worse. Yes, it was in a garden, yes, there was a dragon, but there was no sign of the dress. Or any dress at all, come to that. There was one other main figure he assumed was meant to be himself, but the likeness was very poor. And he had certainly never done anything like that. Neither had Lady Lorinda.

  Thelred and Lorinda Stott had been married for thirty years. How this tapestrier could represent bits of his wife he had never seen himself was beyond him.

  Next to lady Lorinda, a trail of men stretched off into the distance of the scene, all of them carrying out some act of indecency. It looked like nothing less than a play written from the depths of an imagination upon which its audience floated like scum. The thing had to be large simply to fit all the various activities in.

  The figures were all very lifelike and of high quality, but it was pretty obvious they were forming a very sinful queue, waiting to take over once Master Stott had finished whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. The tapestry was vivid and detailed. If it hadn't been hanging on a wall, it could have formed the frontispiece of a physik's directory. The sort of directory physiks kept locked away. The activities of the two figures were complex and intensely personal. Poor Stott had never seen anything like it. He didn't know people could do things like that to one another, let alone that a picture could be made of the frankly revolting result. He'd once seen a contortionist at a fair, but doubted that even a professional could get in the position his dear departed wife appeared to have adopted.

  'Lorinda would be appalled,' Stott's beard seemed to mumble to itself.

  'Indeed,' Parsimon nodded.

  'Why did the man think I wanted something like this? Why would he think anyone would want something like this?' Stott's questions were those of a man who knows only up and down suddenly being asked to move sideways.

  'Why would anyone want something like this?' His puzzlement was complete.

  'I gather there are certain markets.' Parsimon did not complete the thought.

  'Really?' Stott was genuinely amazed.

  'Yes, sir. A lively trade in images of this nature carries on up and down the country.'

  'You don't say?'

  'I do, sir.' Parsimon hesitated slightly. 'I also recall mentioning that this Briston character might not be the most suitable artisan.'

  'But there are so few who come by these parts. And he did have some charming works on the walls of his tent. Just the sort of thing I wanted.'

  'But the bulk of his trade is of a more, erm, personal nature.'

  'Who was that other fellow we heard about?'

  'Wat the Weaver, sir?' Parsimon enquired.

  'That's the one.'

  'Oh Lord, no, sir,' Parsimon urged, as if his master was about rest his feet in the fire. 'The work of Briston is, erm, very intimate.'

  'I think it goes beyond intimate,' Stott harrumphed.

  'Those of Wat the Weaver are of an altogether different order.'

  'Worse?' Stott's voice found this incredible.

  'Not worse as such, sir, more life-like perhaps. I did see one once and it was if the characters were in the room with you.'

  'Without any clothes on?'

  'Quite naked.'

  'And, erm, doing things?'

  'Many things. With many people.’

  'Ghastly.' Stott shook his head in disappointment. 'Do people buy these things?'

  'Oh they do. In great numbers and at great prices.' Parsimon paused. 'Or so I've heard,' he added quickly.

  'They should be ashamed of themselves.'

  'I rather think they are, sir.'

  'I never thought to see the like in Baernodebi. It's such a charming place. I shall have the fellow banned. I can do that, can't I?' he asked his retainer.

  'Oh yes, sir,' Parsimon confirmed. 'The market is yours. The Normans didn't seem interested.'

  'Excellent.'

  Stott had clearly done with the piece, but could not drag his eyes away from it.

  'Take it down, would you, Parsimon?' he eventually managed to mumble.

  The servant stepped forward and unhooked the tapestry from the hanger, which had been specially prepared to receive the image of Lady Lorinda.

  'Appalling,' Stott mumbled again. 'You don't suppose…'

  'Suppose what, sir?' Parsimon asked, as he rolled the offending work up.

  'That lady Lorinda? Ever?' He nodded towards where the tapestry had hung, 'you know.'

  'Oh no, sir,' Parsimon said with confidence.

  Lady Lorinda had come to the Stott house from one of the best families as a young, pure, unadulterated virgin. Parsimon was confident that when she was carried from the place on her last journey, the only change was that she wasn't young any more. He certainly knew from the maids that the lady allowed them to go only so far when undressing her for the night. After that, it was everyone leave, torches out, door shut. No, the image on tapestry had to be pure speculation, or more likely copied from someone of less modesty. Copied from someone of no modesty at all judging by some of the details.

  That the Stotts had no offspring was unsurprising. The master had been brought up in a refined house. His two older brothers had been expected to continue the family line, and had been sent into the world to do so. Stott had remained behind to engage in learning and book work. The Stott house never invited the facts of life to stay overnight. His father was proud of his three strapping sons, but nev
er explained to his youngest where any of them came from. Having survived the birth of three large boys, Stott's mother had retired to her tower and locked the door. When the two older brothers, who were very light on learning, were killed in a hunting accident, having shot one another, the Stott line went with them.

  Parsimon suspected that Stott wanted children, but had no idea where they came from or how two adults went about getting one. The old boy probably thought one might still turn up, even though his wife was now dead and buried. Or perhaps because his wife was now dead and buried.

  The real world had never impinged on his consciousness. Even this small image of a bit of it, albeit a very uncommon and disreputable bit, had disturbed the old man.

  At least he had been too old to go and fight for Harold; he'd never have survived that. All he was good for was pottering around the manor, not doing anything of any value.

  'Take it back and have it unpicked,' Stott waved the rolled up tapestry away.

  'Yes sir,' Parsimon bowed and left his old master ruminating in the cold hall, alone once more with only the memories of his departed wife. Memories now well and truly sullied.

  Parsimon took the tapestry away, but he made no move towards the market at Baernodebi. Instead, he took the roll of material down into the cellar, into his personal area of the cellar, the one behind a locked door to which he had the only key.

  At the back of the room there was a stack of shelves, more like open-sided boxes piled one upon the other. Parsimon selected a suitable niche, moved a few objects around, and slid the roll in. He angled it slightly and then moved the objects back so that the tapestry was invisible to any passing eye. The passing eye would have to enter the manor, go down to the cellar, through the locked door, and know which niche to look in, but you could never be too careful. Parsimon was about to leave the room when he stopped. He went back to the niche, moved the objects, and retrieved the tapestry. He unrolled it until the first major scene of the work was revealed. He gazed at the remarkable image of his erstwhile mistress. His prudish, demanding and difficult mistress.

  'Oh dear, oh dear,' he grinned. He put the work back in its place and left the room, locking the door behind him.

  As he climbed the stairs back to the hall, he continued to comment. The farther he went, the more his words morphed into laughter. 'Dear, oh dear, oh dear,' the tears rolled from his eyes and he was almost in hysterics by the time he got back to his chamber.

  Caput VII

  The Girl

  'So you did kill Briston,' Wat accused the girl, who had the grace to look down.

  'How?' Hermitage asked. 'Could an apprentice do the Tapestry of Death?'

  'Didn’t have to,' Wat said. 'She did it by being a girl. Why are you a girl?' he demanded of the apprentice, who now sat with head bowed, all resistance gone.

  She shrugged.

  'She can hardly help her birth,' Hermitage put in. 'The question, my dear, is why you are an apprentice?'

  The girl shrugged again.

  'Do you have a name?' Hermitage asked.

  'Leofcwen,' the child mumbled.

  'Well, Leofcwen.'

  'Most people call me Cwen.'

  'Very well, Cwen it is. So Cwen, how come you are an apprentice?' Hermitage asked, before realising this was the wrong question. 'Are you, in fact, an apprentice?'

  'Well,' Cwen began.

  'She can't be,' Wat interrupted his pacing. 'She's a girl, apprentices are boys. Therefore, she can't be an apprentice.'

  Hermitage raised an appreciative eyebrow, 'While that is a very good argument, it doesn't explain the situation,' he responded. 'What were you doing with Briston? Maybe that's the best place to start.'

  'I was his apprentice,' Cwen admitted.

  'Ha,' Wat raised his arms.

  'I was,' Cwen insisted. 'Briston was teaching me all he knew. I’ve been with him for two years. He's teaching me the craft.'

  'He can't, erm, couldn't…' Wat was exasperated.

  'Why not?'

  'Because you are a girl,' he reemphasised.

  'I don't think that makes sense,' Hermitage reasoned. 'Consider the case. A girl is in the same room as an apprentice, a boy apprentice. The master is talking to the boy, instructing him in some part of the trade. If the girl listens as well, is she not also taught?'

  Wat frowned, dropped his head slightly, and looked long and hard at Hermitage. He puzzled the proposal through until he had the answer.

  'No,' he said.

  'Why not?' Hermitage thought it was perfectly clear.

  'Because she is a girl,' Wat repeated slowly, this time for Hermitage's benefit.

  'Ah,' Hermitage said with some realisation. 'You mean that if a girl learns something of weaving, she is not being taught.'

  'Erm, no.' Wat's frown said he was starting to get lost.

  'What is it then?'

  'Eh?'

  'What is it, if I show a girl how to, I don't know, make thread.'

  Wat looked puzzled and out of his depth.

  'I don't know.' He threw his hands up again. 'Stop trying to confuse me.'

  'Let us take it that Briston was, erm, showing Cwen here some elements of weaving.' Hermitage waited for objection but there was none. He went on, 'This explains her presence.'

  Wat said nothing but stood, arms folded, glaring at Cwen.

  'It also gives us reason to question her about Briston's movements.' Hermitage turned to Cwen. 'You say this Virgil character was here? He surely sounds the most likely killer. He seems to know about weaving. Perhaps he can do the Tapestry of Death.'

  'Hardly,' Cwen snorted. 'And he wouldn't kill Briston, would he?'

  'Why not?' Hermitage was doubtful. Surely a giant, violent lunatic was just the sort of person they were looking for. Not that he actually wanted to find one.

  'Because Virgil wanted his money back. He needed Briston to carry on working so he could pay him back . He's hardly likely to kill someone who pays him, is he?'

  'Hum.' Hermitage could see that this was sound. 'What was the conversation with Virgil like? Any promises of death? Or even hints?'

  'Oh yes,' Cwen responded with alarming candour. 'It was quite a routine visit, you know, a few threats, shouting, bit of pushing and shoving.'

  'Anything about a particular tapestry?' Wat asked, apparently now willing to actually talk to the girl.

  She looked at him as if he'd spoken Welsh. 'No.' Her impudence was not diminished and seemed to prefer Wat.

  'There's one missing from the box. Where is it?' Wat asked, implying she'd deliberately taken it.

  'How should I know?' Cwen replied, implying that she'd like to shut Wat in the box, with a tapestry shoved down his throat.

  'Not much of an apprentice if you don't know where the works are.' Wat huffed off on another short walk.

  'Briston always dealt with those works himself,' the girl explained.

  'I bet he did,' Wat snorted.

  'The customers didn't like having anyone else around. It put them off paying.'

  'So you know the nature of the works?' Hermitage asked in his reasonable tone, a tone completely out of place in this conversation between the weaving fraternity. Or should that be sisterhood? No. Perhaps association. Back to the point Hermitage, he told his wandering mind.

  'Of course I do. Briston wasn't proud of it but it was profitable.' She shrugged a sad and tired shrug.

  'There appears to be a work missing, as Mister Wat says,' Hermitage explained.

  Even at the mention of the name, the girl snarled slightly.

  'Would have been tied up in gold thread?' Hermitage prompted.

  'I know,' she reluctantly admitted to Hermitage, making it clear with a glance that she wouldn't have told Wat. 'The Stott work, a reminiscence of Lady Lorinda.'

  'You know it?' Hermitage was immediately excited at the prospect of finding out what the thing looked like. He then found himself rather disappointed by the fact this young girl knew of the work, which was bound to be very r
ude. He now found Wat's trade totally abhorrent. That children should be involved made it worse for some inexplicable reason. Children should be clearing dung, fighting, wholesome pursuits.

  'I made most of it,' the girl boasted.

  'No,' Wat stated. 'You couldn’t have.'

  'What was all that poking a needle through the cloth I did then? A needle with thread attached to it? The one I tied off before I did a thousand more? That thing was bloody enormous.'

  'It does sound like making a tapestry.' Hermitage thought it pretty closely matched his definition.

  'Only masters make tapestry.' Wat's arms must be getting tired of being thrown into the air with every sentence. 'I've got apprentices at my workshop – real boy apprentices. They put needles through cloth, but it's still my tapestry.'

  Hermitage was about to bring up Wat's comments of weeks ago when they first met. Wat had never actually been made a master. He'd also said Briston had paid to become one, while he clearly hadn't. By his own argument, he could not make tapestry. He thought his thought and saw that expressing it would not be constructive. It would upset Wat and would probably send the conversation off in a pointless direction. He marvelled at this unusual flourish of perspicacity.

  'Whatever you think.' Cwen's face said she no longer cared about any opinion of Wat's.

  'The point is,' Hermitage said, trying to get them back to the topic in hand, 'that it is missing. It doesn't matter who did what to it. It's not here.'

  'Course it isn’t missing,' Cwen explained. 'Stott took it.'

  'Why didn't you say so?' Wat seemed unable to classify Cwen. His voice said idiot, fraud and girl, all in disparaging tones.