The Abbot's Gibbet (14 page)

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The merchant eyed his daughter with good-humored cynicism. “Oh? And I suppose you didn’t tell him where we were staying, is that right?”

“He
would
keep asking,” she said serenely.

“Avice Pole, I don’t know what will become of you.”

Her father took a deep breath and cast a sidelong glance at her. “You know your mother is set on John and . . .”

“Father, I don’t want to argue about it,” she said firmly.

Arthur Pole blinked slowly in exasperation. In his house he knew that his servants called him the “scold’s saddle,” and he often felt he deserved it, for no matter how often he tried to impose his will on Marion, his wife, he usually tended to be pulled round to her point of view. She overrode his objections and forced him to agree with her. It was much easier and created a better atmosphere in his home if he surrendered. When he looked at Avice now, he could see in her the woman he had married—and yet Avice was more than that. With her fine features and wide-set green eyes, she was more beautiful than even Marion had been. Her face was perfect, with high cheekbones, a healthy pale complexion dotted with small freckles, and marred only by the pugnacious set of her chin. As he glanced at her, he saw her eyes light with glee at the sight of the Venetian. There was little doubt that she had her heart firmly set on the boy.

“Master Pietro,” he called coldly. “What a coincidence you should be here.”

“Hello, Pietro,” Avice cooed, and her father shot her a glance. She was growing too fast, he thought. Her tone held just the right note of flattering pleasure and promise. Arthur determined to set her maid to watch her.

“Sir,” Pietro said, then bowed. “Miss Avice.”

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She preened—she positively preened herself, Arthur saw. One bow and his daughter lost all control. He set his jaw. It was all too likely that this jackanapes Venetian was only after one thing, and Arthur Pole would protect his girl against a predatory foreigner. “Can we help you?”

The boy was dressed outrageously, in a manner which would have been ridiculous for an Englishman. At least that must count against him. The Venetians, with their fleet of ships and vast financial resources, could afford pretty much what they wanted, and now, with the money being generated in England, they could behave as they pleased, but the rich red velvet of the boy’s cloak, the fur lining of his hood, the hose of green and red, all pointed to an opulence which was outlandish, and more than a little embarrassing. Arthur felt sure his girl could not be attracted to such a vain boy for long.

He was wrong. The startling flamboyance of Pietro’s dress was the very core of his attractiveness to her. Avice eyed his costume with unconcealed delight.

“Sir, after meeting your daughter this morning I have not been able to forget her, and I came here to wait, hoping I might be able to catch a glimpse of her.”

“I don’t think—” Arthur began haughtily, but Avice cut him off as their door opened.

“What a pretty speech, but I hope you have not been chilled by the wind. Pietro, you must come inside and warm yourself by our fire. Would you join us in a drink? We have some very good wine from Guyenne. Father, if you could see to our guest’s needs, I shall join you shortly. First I must go and tidy myself.”

He gave her a longsuffering look as she walked The Abbot’s Gibbet

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away. Waving Pietro into the hall, Arthur stood a moment, listening. He could hear her footsteps on the hard floor. As she turned the corner of the corridor to make her way to her room, he heard her suddenly rush. Her sedate walk had been only a masquerade, hiding the urgency of her mission, and as soon as she knew she was out of sight, she had hitched up her skirts and run.

Her determination, even at the risk of upsetting her father, made him eye the Venetian sourly, but the boy kept his gaze fixed firmly to the door where Avice would return. Arthur cleared his throat irritably, and at last the Venetian gave a start and recalled the presence of his host.

“Well, Pietro? Would you like some wine?”

“Yes, please, sir. Some wine would be very pleasant.”

His apparent nervousness endeared him to the merchant, and Arthur nodded to the steward. “Bring wine and three goblets.”

“This is a very splendid house, sir,” Pietro said hesitantly as the servant departed. Arthur could hear the tremble in his voice, and felt warmer toward the lad. He could remember his own courting of Marion, and the gut-wrenching horror of being alone in the same room as her father under similar circumstances, terrified lest an unwary word should offend and blight his chances. “We were lucky to be able to rent it at short notice,” he said diffidently.

“It’s not your own?”

“No, we only come every second year to the Tavistock Fair. There’s no need to come more often than that. What would I do with a place such as this for the rest of the time?”

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“And your good lady wife? She is with you here?”

“No, she is at the fair, buying many things she needs at home. She’ll be back later. Where are you staying?

Do you have your own house?”

The Venetian shook his head. “No, we are staying in the Abbey while my father negotiates with the Abbot. Abbot Champeaux has a good-sized flock of sheep and wishes to guarantee the best prices for his wool. My father has ships and could help transport the wool abroad, and with his banking interests we may be able to help the Abbot in other ways.”

That gave Arthur pause for thought. The boy was offhand about his father’s work, but he knew his position in the world. If Antonio had a banking business and access to ships Pietro’s family were not only prosperous, they were affluent. Arthur had met some bankers, mainly from Florence and Genoa, and knew how much wealth the city-states had accumulated through their dealings with the east. If this young man was the son of a banker, he would be a far more useful son-in-law than John of Hatherleigh. Marriage into a baronial family was one thing—getting Avice connected with a foreign trading business was another. Arthur began to see possibilities in Pietro. It might even persuade Marion to change her mind.

“And what then?”

“My father will return to Venice.”

The servant returned with his tray and set it down on a table. He passed the wine to the Venetian. Arthur took his own and gulped greedily. If there was one thing he would never get used to, it was this ritualized process of purchasing a husband for his daughter. He loathed the thought that it must inevitably lead to his pure and sweet Avice being tied The Abbot’s Gibbet

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to some callow youth he had no knowledge of, like John, purely because he was titled. What if he was the kind who regularly beat his woman? What about this Venetian? He shot a glance at Pietro. It was so venomous that the young man spilled wine over his lap. He was still staring at it in dismay when they heard the steps in the corridor.

Arthur was pleased to hear Avice’s hurrying feet slow as she approached the doorway. By the time she came into view, her breathing had almost steadied. Arthur sighed when he saw the crimson tunic shot through with golden threads that shimmered in the candlelight as she walked. It was, he knew, her favorite dress, and it showed off her colors to perfection, the crimson glinting just as did the auburn tints of her hair as she walked past sconces and candles. She ignored her father, preferring to speak directly to Pietro. Arthur knew all her moods, and today he could see she was minded to win the heart of the youth. He was still eying Pietro appraisingly when he heard his wife’s voice. His eyes shot guiltily to the doorway as she came in.

Marion stood taking in the scene a moment. Avice met her steady gaze defiantly. Looking at the Venetian, Marion saw his ardent expression, and her own face hardened.

“My dear, let me present Pietro da Cammino. You remember, we met him and his father on the ride here.”

She inclined her head gracefully. “I was not expecting to find a guest. Please forgive me for not being here to greet you.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. Father and I have entertained him.”

“I am sure you have, Avice,” said her mother with 120

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honeyed irony. “And now, sir, I am sure you will excuse us, but we have many purchases to sort through. Avice, please come and help.”

“Can’t your maid help you, Mother?” said Avice coldly.

“I would prefer my daughter to show her excellent taste,” Marion said, and only someone who knew her could have told that her gentle voice hid a steel resolution. Avice sat still, inwardly raging that her mother should demand her attendance as if she were a mere serving girl. She was tempted to refuse and continue speaking to Pietro, but she knew that her mother would wait, outwardly patient, until obeyed, and eventually Avice
would
obey. She had no choice while she lived under the same roof.

But she could demonstrate her rebellion, and she did so now. She stood, and smiled dazzlingly at the Venetian, curtseying politely, before turning and leaving the room, ignoring her mother.

Marion had not finished. She turned to her husband.

“It is always nice to meet new people, Arthur, but you must be careful now Avice is betrothed. It is best that there is no hint of scandal, for that might endanger her reputation, and the young wife of a noble can’t afford a stain on her character.”

She swept out, and when Arthur saw Pietro’s face, he felt a quick sympathy. The boy looked devastated.

“My apologies for that, my friend,” he said kindly.

“My wife holds strong feelings when it comes to her daughter. It is no reflection on you, of course.”

Pietro hardly heard him. Marion’s meaning had been all too clear to him. Avice was betrothed! His argument with his father was in vain. He couldn’t have her anyway.

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Then a firm resolution strengthened him. He could not have mistaken Avice’s mood. She wanted him as much as he desired her. He
would
win her. He
must.
Rising, he thanked the merchant, explaining he had business to attend to.

In the street, he stared back at the house before turning to walk down the hill toward the Abbey. After only a few yards there was a whistle, and he spun to see his father’s servant leaning negligently in the shadows against a wall. “What are you doing here, Luke? Father told you to check on me, did he? You can tell him that his precautions seem unnecessary.”

Luke glanced at the building with frank amazement.

“She rejected you?”

“Oh no. Not she.” Pietro gazed into the distance as they began walking back to the Abbey. “She seems as interested in me as before. No, it is her mother who wants to keep me from her.”

“Do you know why? Has she heard something about your father?”

“Be still!” Pietro hissed. “Don’t say such things even in the street!” He continued more calmly, “No, I don’t think she has heard anything about Father. She’s just got someone else in mind for her daughter.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Don’t worry about that. If anyone had heard about my father, the Abbot would have been told. There’s no risk—when her mother hears about our negotiations with Champeaux, she’ll probably fall over herself to try to get me back to woo her daughter.”

Jordan Lybbe leaned against the pole of the awning and yawned. The day had been busy, and he could nod with inner satisfaction as he saw how his stock had 122

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been depleted. Now the throng before his stall was reducing, and he had time to rest a little. The pair of men came along the little alley where his bolts of cloth were set out, talking to all the other traders. Lybbe’s boy, Hankin, watched them approach with eyes like saucers. They strode with cudgels in hand, and Hankin saw them taking money from all the stallholders.

“Good day, gentlemen. How can I serve you?” he began, but he was thrust aside. The watchmen wanted his master.

Lybbe sat on a box and waited while the two surveyed the produce in his stall. He radiated comfortable enthusiasm, as if hoping for a sale.

“You have good cloth. Is this the first time you have been to Tavistock Fair?” one of them asked. Lybbe nodded, beaming. “Bonjour.”

The two looked at each other. “You understand English, don’t you?”

“Pardon?” After so long his Gascon accent was perfect.

Long Jack frowned. He hadn’t met a stallholder who couldn’t speak English before. He spoke no Gascon or French, and the breakdown in language wasn’t something he’d anticipated. Gesturing with his cudgel, he indicated all the merchandise. “This! It’s all good cloth. You’ve got to pay us for looking after it. You understand?”

Lybbe nodded and ducked his head, smiling. “Oui, c’est bon, n’est-ce pas?”

“This is a waste of time,” Little Jack said to his companion.

“Just take one of the bolts, then. We haven’t got all day.”

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Little Jack moved toward a rack of cloth and selected one. Lybbe nodded happily, and Little Jack turned to leave the stall. Instantly a thin cord whipped round his neck, and he was jerked backward, off balance, held by the throat with all his body’s weight drawing on the thong. He gurgled and gave a hoarse cry, the muscles on his neck standing out as he fought for air.

“Now then,” he heard an amiable voice say beside his ear. “You weren’t trying to take a present from an honest trader, were you?”

The watchman scrabbled with his hands to tug the ligature free, dropping cloth and club together. Lybbe continued cheerfully, “I like giving presents, but only when I’m ready. I don’t like people trying to force me into giving them things; I don’t like that at all. So when I let you go, you’ll just walk out into the street quietly and we’ll say nothing more. And if anything happens to my stock in all the time I’m here, I’ll be visiting
you.
You understand? I’ll come to ask you why such a big strong watchman like you couldn’t stop someone stealing my stock, or burning it, or just tipping it into the mud. And I’ll ask you all about when you were near my stall, so I can find out when the people did the damage. And I might just get angry then and lash out at someone. Anyone who’s close at the time. Know what I mean?”