The Tapestry of Death Read online

  Parsimon coughed loudly.

  'If you were offended by his works,' Hermitage asked, 'why did you visit him?'

  'Ah, well...' Stott's beard ruffled up and down in a series of incoherent mumbles.

  'You had gone to collect a piece from him?' Wat sought confirmation. He had intended to sit down and had pulled a chair out from the table for the purpose, only to find it was covered in bits of pewter.

  'All I said,' Stott pronounced clearly, 'was that I wanted a reminiscence of my dear wife, the Lady Lorinda. Garden, dress, that sort of thing.'

  'Dragons?' Wat suggested.

  'Exactly. So I go to the fellow's tent and what do I see?'

  'A rather more explicit reminiscence?' Wat offered.

  'Doesn't even begin to approach the scene,' Stott agreed.

  'Briston does rather specialise in the reminiscence of the deceased wife,' Wat explained to the room. 'Very popular after a death in childbirth,' he added with an entirely inappropriate grin.

  'Obviously, in my younger days, I'd have given the fellow a damn good thrashing and run him out of town.' Parsimon's cough returned. 'But what can an old man do?'

  Hermitage had a new thought. He considered that Stott appeared to be a man of some money and therefore influence. He also considered the nature of the offending tapestry. 'Did you by any chance report him to the weavers' guild for the work he'd done?'

  Wat looked at his friend with widened eyes. That wasn't a thought that had occurred to him.

  'No, I didn't,' Stott was upset again. 'It's bad enough that Parsimon and I know about it. I'm not going to go spreading word of the ghastly thing. At least I know, now the weaver’s dead, there's no one else who knows anything of it. No one has any inkling of the foul scene.'

  It was Cwen's turn to cough.

  'Do you have the tapestry?' Wat asked.

  'Certainly not!' Stott was outraged.

  'You refused to accept it?' Wat asked.

  Hermitage thought this a very clever ruse: see if this Stott fellow was going to lie.

  'Ah, well, no, not actually, as such.' Stott returned to his bearded mumble.

  'You took it?' Hermitage knew the answer and was grateful to hear the truth.

  'Of course, like I said, didn't want anyone else looking at the thing.'

  'Can we see it?' Wat enquired.

  'Certainly not! I wouldn't besmirch the memory of my dear wife any further. In any case, it's gone.'

  'Gone?' Hermitage couldn't imagine the man would have given the thing away to someone else.

  'Yes, Parsimon destroyed it, didn't you?'

  'Yes sir,' Parsimon confirmed.

  'How?' Wat asked, full of suspicion.

  'I got him to unpick the thing thread by thread, isn't that right?' Stott and his beard nodded at Parsimon.

  'That was my intention, sir, but the thing in question was rather large for such a task. I had to burn it instead.'

  'Burn it, you say?' Stott asked.

  'Indeed.'

  'Good show! Even better.'

  'Oh dear,' Hermitage dropped his head in thought.

  'Oh dear?' Stott was back in outrage. 'Oh dear, sir monk? You of all people should not be searching after such images as this. Your mind should be on higher things.'

  'No, no,' Hermitage protested, 'I don't want to see it. Not really.' He realised that he really did want to see it, but only for entirely selfish reasons. He even realised that if he did get to see it, he'd wish he'd never seen it. 'It's just that it was connected to the murder. It could have been useful to see the original work.'

  'Not if you want to go to heaven when you die,' Stott commented. 'Anyway, how could it be a useful?'

  'I don't know really.' Hermitage realised he really didn't know. Now he knew Stott didn't report it to the guild and the killer hadn't taken it either, so that was it. No connection. Wat could be right. The guild were just making an example of Briston, or they'd found out about a female apprentice. He really hoped it was the former, for Cwen's sake. 'I just thought there might be something in it,' he tailed off.

  'There was far too much in it, young fellow,' Stott bridled. 'And it's best burned to a cinder.'

  'You're sure that Briston was alive when you left him?'

  'He was counting my money, impudent wretch.'

  'Ah,' Hermitage didn’t want to press the question about why he paid up for a horrible tapestry he didn’t want.

  'What time was this?'

  'Early morning, soon as the market opened. I was anxious to see the work. Until I saw it, of course. Then I was anxious again but for a different reason.'

  'And you haven't seen him since?'

  'Never want to see the fellow again. Not that I will now, eh? Came straight back here. Hung it on the wall.'

  'You hung it on the wall?' Hermitage couldn't understand why he'd have done this.

  Stott's beard flapped about. 'By the time I'd got it home, I'd convinced myself it wasn't as bad as I thought. When I hung it on the wall, I remembered it was worse. Took it down and got rid of it.' Stott was final.

  'You didn't go back and visit him again?'

  'Certainly not.'

  'And you didn't send anyone?'

  'Parsimon here?' Stott scoffed. 'He's hardly the stuff murderers are made of.'

  'You have no other servants?'

  'No he doesn't,' Parsimon said with some feeling. 'There's the old lady's maid, but she really is old.'

  Hermitage's mind gaped at anyone this wrinkled ancient would call really old.

  'And there's the house maid, but we don't let her go out.'

  Hermitage nodded, all well and proper so far.

  'Did you see anyone else around Briston's tent?' he asked.

  'Absolutely not!' Stott was offended. 'Place was deserted when I arrived and I had to loiter about looking at some pewter before I dared leave. Couldn't let anyone know the sort of thing I'd been given. Heaven forfend I'd meet anyone I know.'

  'You didn't see Cwen here?' Hermitage gestured at the girl, who had propped herself on the edge of the pewter-laden table.

  'The young man? No.' Stott cast his eyes around the room at the assembly crowding his pewter. His face darkened, under the beard. 'I don't know what's going on here, master monk, but I am not inclined to continue this conversation. In my own home!'

  'I am sorry, sir, but if we are to find out who killed Briston, we need to find out as much as we can.'

  'Well, you can find things out somewhere else when I have my servant here throw you all out the door,' Stott snapped.

  Wat and Cwen eyed Parsimon, who made it quite clear he was going to attempt no such thing.

  'You have been most helpful.' Hermitage nodded and smiled in gratitude.

  'I hope not,' Stott grumbled as he returned to his seat by the fire. He waved the back of his hand at them, inviting them to leave. Immediately.

  Parsimon closed the door dismissively behind them. The three stood in silence for a moment.

  'Well,' Hermitage said eventually, 'I think that was very useful. We know that Master Stott left Briston alive in the early morning. Cwen saw him at midday. We found him that night.'

  'How's that useful?' Wat asked. 'He died sometime during the day. We knew that already. We knew he was killed by the guild already. I'll admit we now know the tapestry was not reported to the guild, so that can't be the reason for the Tapestry of Death. All we're left with is what we had in the first place. Briston was killed as an example for the Normans, or as an example to anyone thinking of getting a female apprentice.' He glared at Cwen who glared back very effectively.

  'Of course, we did get a bit more information,' Cwen said through her gritted teeth; teeth that looked like they wanted to be gritted on some of Wat's more delicate places.

  'Which is?' he asked with contempt.

  'Parsimon was lying.'

  Caput IX

  Quarrels

  'I have got to find that tapestry,' Eadric mumbled to himself as he stepped as smartly away f
rom the guild as he could without calling it running.

  The open road seemed awfully open. All directions held peril – the peril of the guild and The Hoofhorn behind him, and the peril of Baernodebi, and a dead body ahead. The peril of simply running away was equally real. It was clearly the favoured option, but he knew what the guild and The Hoofhorn were capable of. He'd done most of what they were capable of for them. They never gave up. Well, he never gave up, mainly because they kept paying him. He did wonder who they would send. Who they could send. Without him doing their dirty work, who would they get? Old Acca, the last guild enforcer, was well past it.

  He had seen The Hoofhorn in action. The chase had been very close and if the loony old rag bag hadn't simply stopped for some reason, Eadric's head would be boiling in the cauldron right now. His mind made up, he strode along, anxious to get to Baernodebi and resume his search. The wretched thing must be somewhere.

  'Ha, fine fellow!'

  A loud voice from behind knocked Eadric from his thoughts with a start. He turned and saw a bright-eyed, smiling figure almost skipping along the road towards him.

  'Hi, hi,' the figure called with laughter in his tone.

  Eadric watched in some astonishment. He looked warily around the open countryside, but couldn't see anywhere this man could have come from. His eyes twitched back and forth nervously.

  'What a relief to find a fellow traveller,' the figure said when it reached him.

  'Which noble's table did you fall off?' Eadric asked, eyeing the new arrival.

  The clothes were all well fitting and clearly made to measure. Bright breeches and a matching jerkin were cowled in a thick winter coat – the sort of thing that could keep a small family warm. Thick boots at the bottom and a jaunty cap at the top finished the picture. The jaunty cap even had a jaunty feather in it. Slung across the back was a well made and rugged pack. The sort designed for comfort as much as load bearing. The whole ensemble screamed money.

  The jaunt of the cap was matched by the figure's stance – right foot back, left slightly forward, as if the fellow was about to start a dance. The left hand was on his hip and the other hung at his side, except it didn't hang naturally – it was posed, palm outwards. The head was held back slightly and the smile on the face was as shallow as a swallow's toilet. The whole ensemble screamed arseling.And a big one at that.

  'Firman, at your service,' the new arrival said.

  He bent at the waist, leaving his feet where they were, while sweeping the hat from his head with his left hand in a flamboyant bow. Firman's smile spread to a genuine grin of pleasure at meeting Eadric, as if he was an old friend.

  Eadric stared in astonishment at everything. The clothes, the stance, the performance, but most of all the face. Firman's face had basically been borrowed from a horse. Very recently. If they'd met in the dark, Eadric would have led the man straight to the stable. His eyes seemed to have wandered to the sides of his head and, in doing so, had pulled the nose up. The complete absence of a chin, and cheek bones that had been lined up with a ruler, meant this man would be very unwise to enter a field of stallions.

  'Firman, you say?' Eadric asked.

  'Indeed, and grateful I am to find a fellow traveller. We can journey together to avoid the attention of robbers.'

  'Robbers?' Eadric said in disbelief, looking around at the open country and the wide road. There wasn't a hiding place for a robber in sight.

  'Or Normans,' Firman said.

  Eadric did acknowledge this threat with a short nod of his head. 'Where do you travel to?' he asked blankly.

  'To Lincoln, but tonight I shall seek an inn or tavern in Baernodebi.'

  'An inn or tavern?' Eadric asked in wonder. 'Have you been to Baernodebi before?'

  'No, but I'm always fascinated to see new places.'

  'You'll be warmer sleeping in your coat,' Eadric observed, 'and it's probably more spacious than most buildings in Baernodebi.'

  'You're familiar with the place then? Excellent. This is a most fortuitous meeting.'

  'Yes, isn't it?' said Eadric without any fortune in his voice.

  With a reluctant raise of his eyebrows, he indicated that this Firman character could accompany him. It never did any harm to travel in company and at least Firman didn't present any sort of threat himself. Mind you, he wouldn't be much help if any robbers actually did turn up.

  They plodded off along the road to Baernodebi. Eadric said nothing, but his mind cantered around. It was odd enough to meet a stranger on the road, let alone one who wanted to travel with you. His recent experiences had made him nervous and wary. The sight of Firman was enough to put anyone on their guard.

  Firman himself kept up a stream of irrelevant and irritating observations about everything. From the spacing of the trees to the surface of the road. From the weather for the time of year to recent developments in timekeeping. The one thing he seemed poorly informed about was silence.

  'Why are you travelling alone?' Eadric interrupted a fascinating, one-sided conversation on the best luggage makers north of the Humber.

  'Beg pardon?' Firman seemed surprised to be spoken to.

  'Why are you travelling alone?' Eadric repeated. 'You are obviously a man of substance,' he gestured at the man's clothes and pack, 'and you are rightly worried about robbers. You seem to be the type who could bring a couple of large fellows with you to keep the robbers away. Not rely on strangers you meet on the road. In fact, I could be a robber.'

  'Oh no, no,' Firman laughed. Eadric didn't. 'I could tell straight away you were an upright and decent fellow.'

  Both wrong, thought Eadric. 'But you still travel alone?' he pressed.

  'To tell the truth,' Firman dropped his voice and stepped close to Eadric, beckoning him to receive a secret, 'I am on a mission,' he hissed.

  Eadric's eyes narrowed, 'A mission? What sort of mission?'

  'Oh, I couldn't possibly say.' Firman tapped the side of his nose.

  'Surely all the more reason to be accompanied?'

  'Ah well. Family, you see. Always troublesome, eh?'

  'Your family is why you're travelling alone?'

  'It's the mission. Can't have them knowing exactly what's going on,' Firman nodded significantly, as if this explained everything.

  'A secret family mission in Lincoln makes you travel the road alone, dressed in your finest? The mission is so secret no one can come with you, yet you tell a total stranger?' Eadric had stopped walking and had folded his arms.

  'Who safer?' Firman was amiable. 'I don't know you, you don't know me. Worst case would have been meeting someone I knew. They'd have put two and two together.'

  Eadric stood frowning.

  'Shall we?' Firman gestured to the open road and stepped off along it.

  'I don't believe a word of it,' Eadric muttered.

  . . .

  'So,' Hermitage tried to sound bright, but didn't feel it, 'what do we do now?'

  His urge to interrogate Cwen about Parsimon's lying was like an unreachable itch. It burned his tongue, which almost writhed in his mouth, wanting to throw the necessary question into the cold air. He did feel rather ashamed at having dragged them all this way for nothing. Anyway, Cwen and Wat had returned to their hostile, staring silence. Hermitage thought if he asked Cwen a question, Wat would only dismiss it as nonsense.

  'Back to Baernodebi for the box and then the guild,' Wat said.

  As they walked, Hermitage did try to prompt some lively conversation about the information they had got from Stott and Parsimon. Despite his making it entirely relevant to the matter in hand, he couldn't get Cwen and Wat to engage. Basically, he couldn't get them to speak to one another at all. At one point, Cwen had a bit of a coughing fit and Wat scoffed as if she was doing it just to get attention. They would both speak to him, but only separately. And when they did, they were full of sympathy that poor Hermitage had to speak to the other one. After a spell of flitting to and fro, which achieved nothing, Hermitage walked ahead a few steps a
nd stopped in the middle of the road. The others had no choice but to stop too.

  'You two are a disgrace,' he lectured.

  They looked at him in surprise and actually stole a glance at one another.

  'Wat, are you dead?' Hermitage asked.

  'No, of course not,' Wat replied, not understanding.

  'Cwen? Have you been bound in tapestry and left in a tent?'

  'No,' Cwen replied, anger conquering grief.

  'Are we together in this place to resolve the apprenticeship issues of the weavers' guild?' Hermitage carried on before there could be an answer, 'Or are we here, perhaps, to determine the relative merits of the acquaintances of Briston? No. We are here to find his killer. I admit we got little from Stott, but we are on the trail again, so you two need to cooperate.'

  'If he'd turned up earlier, Briston wouldn't be dead at all,' Cwen accused Wat with a dismissive gesture of her thumb.

  'And if she wasn't a girl, the guild wouldn't have had a perfectly good cause to kill Briston in the first place,' Wat spat back.

  Hermitage folded his arms and glared. He'd never done real glaring before. He knew what the physical process was – he'd been glared at enough in his time, and had even tried to copy the effect when alone in his cell. Now he felt there was something authentic in his look. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the hardening of his mouth, and the stiffness in his neck came from somewhere inside. It wasn't a physical imitation of someone who was good at glaring; it was a sincere, heartfelt, pointed glare.

  Wat and Cwen swayed backwards slightly and looked at the road.

  It had worked. Hermitage could now glare. He would have to remember the moment.

  'So?' he asked.

  Wat and Cwen mumbled through their dropped heads.

  This was most gratifying. He would have to try it out on some of his more troublesome Brothers if he ever met them again.

  'If we could leave behind our personal animosity and concentrate on the journey at hand, we might make some progress.'

  'Yes, Hermitage,' Wat said.