The Abbot's Gibbet (20 page)

“Attack?” Baldwin asked sharply. “What happened?”

His face registered his shock as he heard their tale. Simon merely dropped into a seat and nodded. “I’ve seen Hugh in action before.”

“Is that all you can say?” Baldwin demanded. “This is terrible! What if Jeanne or Margaret had been hurt?”

Margaret heard the order of the names and glanced at her new friend. To her pleasure she saw that the widow too had noticed.

Simon shrugged. “When you’re raised as a farmer out in the wilds, you soon learn how to fight. Hugh was trained by protecting his sheep from wolves on four and two legs. If he ran, his father would beat him, so getting into a fight was at least a way of avoiding a thrashing. He learned how to fight well, and not to lose. I pity the man who tries to harm him while he’s got a weapon of any sort to hand.”

“And you are sure you’re both all right?” Baldwin asked the two women.

“Yes, we’re fine,” Jeanne said. Margaret knew there was no need for her to answer.

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“You say this merchant sold you his goods at a low price?” Simon pressed relentlessly. “Does that mean you spent less, or that you bought so much more that you ended up losing all your money?”

“We spent little, especially when you see what we bought,” Margaret beamed.

“And you, Sir Baldwin,” Jeanne added, “will soon have a new tunic and cloak.”

“A new tunic and cloak?”

He looked so crestfallen that even the Abbot burst out with a guffaw. “Sir Baldwin, how could you refuse new clothing from two such kind patrons?”

“With difficulty.”

“I fear I will have little to do with it,” Margaret said.

“Jeanne wishes to do all the work herself.”

Simon saw the quick look Jeanne gave his wife and correctly surmised that this was news to her, but he was also pleased to see that she appeared more than happy with the offer. “Yes, Sir Knight, if you will allow me, I would like to.”

“I would be honored, my lady,” he said selfconsciously. The Abbot was still considering the problem at the fair. “Where were the watchmen when these men committed this outrage? I will have to make sure that the men on duty are punished for allowing this.”

“Don’t be too hard on them,” Baldwin said as he sat near Jeanne. “How many hundreds of stalls are there here? You have people from all over the kingdom and over the sea visiting your town. Do not be surprised that there is a minor incident.”

“You are right, especially since there is a more serious matter to attend to. You found the head, Peter tells The Abbot’s Gibbet

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me,” the Abbot said slowly, “but it belonged to the man called Roger Torre.”

“Yes. The head was buried in Elias’ garden, but we still have no idea why Torre should have been killed. We have arrested the cook.”

“So you
do
think Elias was the killer?”

Baldwin shook his head. “I can’t believe he did it. He is too weak, and I don’t think he had time. What is more, he could not have committed this murder without getting blood on him. No, I find it hard to believe that Elias had anything to do with Torre’s death.” He explained that they felt Elias would be safer in the jail, and the Abbot nodded understandingly.

“That was a good idea. The mob here can be as unpredictable as the citizens of London. Anyway, there is something else you should know. A man has been attacked by someone in a Benedictine habit.”

“Surely the fellow’s brains are addled?” Simon protested when the Abbot had told them Ruby’s story.

“Who could accuse a monk of something like that?”

“Sadly, all too many people could believe the worst even of Benedictines. There have been too many tales of men of God becoming outlaws recently, and there are plenty of examples of monks who have chosen to ignore their oaths of chastity and take women. Only a short time ago I heard about a brother who was found abed with a married woman. It’s something which always gets bruited abroad, when a monk goes to the bad, and people then look on all as being corrupt and venal.”

“Do you think one of your monks could have done this?” Baldwin asked, toying with his wine. “Or is it a counterfeit?”

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“A few yards of cloth is all that’s needed to imitate a monk,” the Abbot pointed out.

Baldwin noted that he did not definitely deny that one of his monks could have committed the robbery.

“You have many men in cloth here.”

The Abbot shot him a glance. “We are a good size,”

he admitted. “Twelve monks including myself, and another thirty lay brothers and pensioners who also wear the cloth, but I doubt that any of them could have committed a felony like this.”

“No, of course not,” Baldwin said calmly, and the Abbot returned to musing about Elias.

“I’m pleased the cook is behind bars. You may not be convinced of his guilt, but why should someone else put the head in his yard?”

“My question is, why would Elias himself have put it there? Only a fool would bury it so near his own home.”

“He had no time before returning to the tavern,” the Abbot suggested.

“But he did afterward. Why not dig it up and take it to the midden, and throw it in? At least that way there’d be nothing to connect it to Elias.”

“Did you find a habit in his house?”

“No, my lord Abbot. But we weren’t looking for one.”

“If he had one, he would have hidden it,” the Abbot decided.

“I suppose so,” Baldwin agreed reflectively, “but what interests me is why he is shielding the man he drank with that night.”

The Abbot nodded absently, signing to his steward for more wine, and Peter appeared with a pewter jug on a tray. He poured wine for his master and guests, but then stood before Champeaux, staring at the The Abbot’s Gibbet

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ground, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side. “My son, is there something the matter?” the Abbot asked gently.

“Could I beg a moment of your time, my lord?”

“Friends, please excuse me.”

Baldwin watched with interest as the Abbot left the room with the monk, passing through the door behind his little dais, into his private chapel. The bailiff was less inquisitive than the knight, and walked over to chat to his wife.

It was some minutes before the monk reappeared, sniffing and wiping at his face. Behind him, Abbot Champeaux followed hesitantly. He went to his chair and sat, taking a deep draft of wine before staring contemplatively at the door through which the novice had left. “There are many things in this life which don’t make sense,” the Abbot observed.

Baldwin looked at him in surprise. Champeaux had lost his genial good humor. He looked sad and old. “Is something the matter?”

“There are times when my cross is heavy indeed.”

Baldwin nodded, and turned to talk to Jeanne, but every now and again he found his attention being drawn to the distracted Abbot, who gazed at the door and drummed his fingers on the table before him.

- 13 about him as he sought the man again. H ugo walked through the crowds peering Since Elias had been taken, he had wandered among the throng looking for the bearded man, but he had disappeared.

The friar was uncertain if he had done the right thing. Perhaps he should have trusted the tall knight and told him all he knew, but what if he was wrong? It was dangerous to trust to memory, especially after twenty-odd years, but ho

not

w much more dangerous

to report it? Then there was the bearded Jordan: telling Baldwin must surely result in Lybbe’s death. Yet Hugo would have to inform Jordan that Elias had been arrested, in case he had not yet heard. He pensively carried on down toward the square as he thought through his difficulties, and there he forgot his troubles in fascination at the plays and acrobatics displayed.

One of the hardest duties of a friar was finding new material for preaching. He, like the other members of the friars minor, believed that preaching dogmatically was pointless when the audience was largely uneducated. He was always on the lookout for material The Abbot’s Gibbet

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which would bring home moral points simply. It was with this in mind that his attention wandered over the people watching the miracle plays.

It was almost night when Marion Pole set her needlework aside and threw her husband an anxious glance.

“Where could she have got to?”

Arthur put his pot down and shook his head. “She must have chosen to watch some of the entertainments. Perhaps she has gone to a tavern.”

“You don’t seem very concerned about your daughter. She’s only young.”

“But clever enough to escape danger.”

“You may think so, but I’m not convinced of it.”

“Marion, she will be fine. She doesn’t often get the chance to see a fair.”

“Husband, have you forgotten about her and that foreigner? What if she is holding a secret tryst with him even now?” Her face hardened. “You don’t think she intended that, do you—that she went out hoping to see that Venetian again?”

“Marion, Avice is in the company of Susan. That maid would tell you anything that happened if it was remotely indecorous.”

“But what if your daughter was to commit an indiscretion?” Marion asked, her face blank with horror.

“Woman, are you suggesting that Susan would allow her charge to have a tumble in a common alehouse? Or do you think Avice could couple in the street without her maid noticing? Don’t be so ridiculous.”

“But Arthur, what if she’s been attacked? You hear such dreadful things about fairs, especially large ones like this. What if—?”

“What if the sky should fall in or the sun forget to 178

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rise in the morning,” he snapped. “Don’t be stupid, woman—she told you she would be gone for some time. It’s not compline yet. If something was to happen to her, Susan would stop Avice being harmed, and if she failed, I have Henry watching them both.”

“Henry?”

“Yes. And if our groom saw anyone trying to threaten our daughter, he would die rather than see her come to any harm. You know him as well as I do. So,”

his voice rose, “by God’s own blood, will you stop worrying and leave me in peace for a while? I have enough to think about with all the business I am conducting at this fair without your inane chatter!”

In his room, Antonio da Cammino paced angrily as the light faded outside and the monks entered to light the place. It was difficult to keep a calm exterior while these innocent fools went about their business, but he kept a tight rein on his tongue as the men slowly walked round with their candles and tapers, setting the waxen tubes down and lighting them. He even managed a smile of gratitude as they finished and left him alone.

Only then did he allow himself to consider his son again. The cretin had been behaving like a love-lorn squire from a courtly tale. Antonio walked to the window and stared out. He had meant what he’d said: he would not wait while his son indulged his whim for a girl. There were plenty of pretty maids at home; there was no need to seek one here in this godforsaken backwater.

From his room in the southern perimeter wall of the Abbey, near the Abbey bridge, he could look out over the river to the pastureland beyond. Cattle stood idly. The Abbot’s Gibbet

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A hog grunted at the edge of the trees, and he could hear doors slamming and people calling out as the town settled for the night. Whistling and shouting showed that not all were ready for their rest, however. Some of the youngest were looking for entertainment, and were determined to find it: there was a pattering of feet under his window as somebody rushed down the riverside path.

After his years in Gascony, Antonio was astonished that so small a borough could accommodate so many people. Obviously all the traders stayed with their goods, as there were not many who could afford to rent a room and hire staff to guard stock every night, and there was a large tented encampment east of the fairground where many of the excess people slept, but there was still a huge number who found houses in the town itself.

Of course, Tavistock was not in the same category as Orléans or Paris in France, or the English King’s fairs at La Rochelle, Bordeaux, Winchester and London, but it still had a huge attraction for many people. They flocked here, yet Antonio could not understand why. It was not that the town was easy to get to. For the most part the roads were poor, although Antonio thought they all were in this benighted kingdom. It could hardly be the climate, for though it had been warm and pleasant enough today he knew that here, near what had been the King’s forest of Dartmoor, the weather was apt to change in minutes from sunny and bright to gloomy, wet and miserable.

Antonio turned from the view and walked back to the table, resignedly pouring himself a large mug of ale. He disliked the weak and chilling, belly-filling flavored water the English peasants lived on. The Abbot, he 180

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knew, kept a good cellar of wine, but that was for his own use, and though the Abbey had a duty to provide hospitality to travellers, the Abbot had no compunction charging his guests for the wine they drank. It was a sign of parsimoniousness that rankled with the Venetian. His money was tight enough as it was. He preferred to force himself to consume this unwelcome brew while dreaming of the strong red wines of Guyenne. Abbot Champeaux was an odd fellow, he thought. Seemingly genial, he had a hard streak when it came to business. Antonio had hoped that his offer would have been taken up faster than this, and that he might have been away from here within a day or two. Instead it appeared that the other man needed time to consider his proposals. All it entailed was a monopoly on wool for three years, which was hardly a great period, and his offer of cheap loans should have made the Abbot snap up the offer.

Antonio hoped that the deal would go through. He needed the money that the wool would bring, especially after the fiasco in Bayonne where they had been chased out by a horde of angry townspeople. The resulting chase had almost cost them their lives. Luckily Luke had thought to cut the reins of the pack-horse, and without the slow beast to hold them back they had evaded capture. Not that Antonio had thanked his servant. It had been his duty to save the goods. Still, there was no getting away from the fact that when a knight, three squires, and two men-at-arms were thundering after you, it was better to cut the traces and one’s losses to stay alive.