The Abbot's Gibbet (22 page)

He watched the lad affectionately. Hankin was only ten years old. Lybbe had saved him when his parents had died of a fever, over in Gascony. The town had been unwilling to take on an orphan, and it had been difficult for the English boy in a strange land with no friends. He had become like a son to the lonely Lybbe. As Hankin went inside with the cloths and made himself a bed of rugs on the grass, Lybbe stood and breathed in the clear evening air.

A breeze flapped the pennants and flags, whipping away the thin gray coils of smoke from the fires out behind the ground where the tents and wagons stood. Fires might be illegal within the fairground itself, but The Abbot’s Gibbet

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men still needed to keep warm. The wind brought the tang of burning faggots with it, and hints of cooking, making Lybbe’s empty stomach rumble. Although it was chilly, it was a relief after the heat of the day. The coldness reminded the merchant of his youth here in the town.

He stood in the alleyway between the stalls and stared up at the heavens. The sky was a deep blue, with a thick sprinkling of stars shimmering and dancing high above. Lybbe was not given to contemplation, but when he saw those glittering specks, the thousands upon thousands of pin-pricks of light high overhead, he felt an awe and reverence for God.

Slowly he began to make his way toward the town. The fair was quiet now, but just beyond its ditch were small groups sitting at fires, warming their hands and chatting easily about the day’s business. At this time of evening, all the customers had gone and the only people remaining within the perimeter were the stallholders or their guards. After standing all day and shouting their wares, most were exhausted, and needed to rest their feet and throats. They drank from pots of ale or cider, talking in muted voices as they stared wearily at the flames, preparing for the night. Lybbe knew a few, and called out to them as he passed, feeling again the gratitude that among so many visitors he would be unlikely to be recognized, especially with his beard. He looked nothing like the youth who had been forced to leave after the murders.

At the entrance to the fairground he paused. Lybbe had expected to find Elias waiting, but the cook was nowhere to be seen. There was no hurry. Lybbe found a log to sit on in the darkness under a low eave and folded his arms contentedly.

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Elias had been shocked to find Lybbe back in Tavistock. The last time they had met, Lybbe had been a fugitive, an outlaw, and Elias had given him food and a bed while they planned how to effect his escape—

the only alternative was the rope. That had been almost twenty years ago now, and Lybbe had been surprised by the force of the emotion he had felt when he had once more entered his town, the place he had known as home.

Once he had got over his initial disbelief, Elias had been effusive in his welcome, insisting on purchasing ever more ale, but Lybbe had an aversion to drinking too much. He was nervous of talking too loudly or unwarily, and knew how ale could loosen tongues. It had alarmed him when the watchmen had attacked him. He had assumed they were seeking him out for his crimes; it was only as they pounced that he realized they wanted to scare him after his refusal to submit to their extortion. In any case, Jordan Lybbe had a loathing for men who tried to coerce others into giving up their goods for no reason. He had put up with enough of that before, and wouldn’t accept it any more.

He found it worrying that Elias was late. After a separation of twenty years, he would have expected punctuality. There was so much still to talk about. Probably it was the horror of the previous night catching up with him, he thought.

Elias had been terrified. That was why Jordan had sent the cook away before he had swapped clothes with the man—and before he had hewn off the head. Elias wouldn’t have been able to cope with that. It couldn’t hurt the dead man, but it could protect
him,
Lybbe. Hearing steps, he glanced quickly down the street, The Abbot’s Gibbet

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but it was a couple. Peering, he recognized one of the women who had witnessed the attack on him. Baldwin did not know Lybbe, and had all his attention fixed on the woman at his side. Jeanne was giggling at a quip from him, and Lybbe smiled at their selfabsorption. It was good to see two people so happy in each other’s company.

To the knight, the fair was not as impressive as one of the huge ones in London or Winchester, but it was not so daunting either. The fairs at Smithfield and St. Giles were massive, attracting so many people they were quite fearful to the country knight. He sought a quiet and restful life, and Tavistock was better suited to his tastes.

There were a few people still wandering among the little lanes and alleys, and Baldwin kept his swordhand free. It had been drummed into him continually while undergoing his training that he should always be ready to defend himself and others who might need his aid, and with so many strangers in the town he felt a vague unease without his servant near to hand.

“You have never been married?” she asked.

“No. I spent my youth in Outremer, in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and then in Cyprus and Paris. I only returned to England four or five years ago when my brother died and left the estates to me. Before that I was without a lord or master of any sort—marriage was out of the question.”

“You could have married when you returned.”

“There has never been the time. As soon as I came back, I was asked to become the Keeper of the King’s Peace, and since then I have had little time to seek out a wife.”

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She threw a quick look at him from the corner of her eye. The idea that this knight should have been so continually occupied that he had no time left to find a woman was preposterous. He was a knight; he could make time to do anything he wanted.

“It wasn’t only that, though,” he confessed, seeing her shrewd glance. “I am not a youthful knight, am I?

Women expect young, chivalrous admirers, not hardened old warriors with few graces like me.”

She gave him a look of mock disgust. “Oh, Sir Knight, you’re right! You are so ancient and grizzled, how could any maid look upon you except with pity?”

“You see? Even
you
can’t treat me seriously,” he grumbled, but there was a vein of sadness in his expression which gave rise to a feeling of tenderness in her breast.

She tried to quash it as soon as she was aware of it, reminding herself that she did not need this man, and if he was still alone after so long, he must be dull indeed, but his loneliness touched her. “I am surprised you weren’t married when you were younger. Have you given up all hope of finding a wife?”

“It was not possible. At first there was the distraction of war, then the long process of recovery and at last the poverty of being a lordless outcast.”

Jeanne looked up at him. The starlight was kind to him, smoothing out the lines of pain and making him look younger. His hair gleamed in the gray light, giving him an air of quiet dignity, but there was suffering in his voice when he talked about his past. She couldn’t understand what made him so bitter, but she’d seen impoverished knights, as had everyone in Europe. All over Christendom there were knights who had lost their lords, whether from arguments, or because their The Abbot’s Gibbet

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masters had died, or for some other reason. Once they were without a home, they became wanderers, without income or patron, and with no source of food or even a bed. They were sad men, often proud and haughty beneath their dishevelled exterior, who had been struck down by a quirk of fate. Many resorted to villainy, robbing to live. Jeanne had never considered them before, but now found herself wondering how these knights survived. How would her own dead husband have reacted if he had not been able to inherit his lands and money but had been forced to seek a new master, only to find that his new lord was bested in battle, or killed, or died of a fever, and the son was not keen on keeping his father’s old retainers? She had little doubt that her husband would have taken to the woods, become a renegade and outlaw, and died young, hanging ignominiously from a tree. The thought made her shudder.

At once Baldwin was solicitous. “Are you cold?

Would you like to return?”

“No, Sir Baldwin, I am fine, really. Please, tell me about your home—about Furnshill.”

His voice softened. “It is an old house, long and narrow, on the side of a hill. There are woods behind and to either side, and a stream which starts from the ground near the house. I have good farmland, with several vills and bartons, and the villeins keep the house filled with food even when they have taken enough for themselves. On a clear day, I can sit before my threshold and look out over the hills for miles, and see almost nothing except trees and my fields.”

“I should like to see it.”

He glanced across, surprised. “Would you? You 196

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would be very welcome. I shall ask Simon to bring you the next time he comes, if you wish.”

“That would be very pleasant,” she said.

“And what of yourself? A woman like you could find another husband with ease.”

His boldness made her stammer. “Me? I . . . It is good of you to say so, but there are many widows, and more young women. Why should a man look to a woman of nine-and-twenty when he has his pick of younger ones? Anyway, I am content.”

Baldwin was about to answer when he noticed another couple. To his surprise he recognized the young monk and a girl; a maidservant stood nearby, clucking with disapproval. “I think we might have happened on a sad event,” he murmured as they approached. Avice was staggered at the effrontery. “You would like to marry me?
You?
And where would you have me live—in the gatehouse with the other guests?”

“No, my lady, I will find us a house. It needn’t be too large for only we two.”

“Oh yes? And how will you, sworn to poverty, buy food for us to live on? If your Abbot allows you to live outside the Abbey . . .
Can
he do that?”

“But it is arranged! I haven’t taken the vows yet. My Abbot has agreed that I may leave the Abbey,” Peter said desperately, confused by her rejection. He could not have mistaken her feelings, not when her smile at him had been so kind and sweet earlier that morning. She must be displaying anger because her maid was there, he reasoned. “All I have to do is tell the Abbot when I am to leave.”

“You may leave the Abbey when you like if you are so incontinent you may not swear to chastity, but The Abbot’s Gibbet

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don’t expect me to accept poverty for no reason. The thought of it! Quitting my home to live in a hovel like a peasant!”

“Leave us a moment,” Peter said to the maid. Avice stamped her foot. “Let her alone! She’s my servant, and if I wish her to go away,
I
will order her, not some impecunious monk!”

Avice was aggrieved that this scrawny little clerk should dare to embarrass her in front of Susan. Although she had proudly boasted to Pietro earlier that she had won the heart of the monk, she’d not realized her victory had been so complete. When she’d said that he would give up his service to God, she had been trying to make the Venetian jealous, nothing more. To be confronted with the adoration of the pasty-faced cleric was alarming; no, more than that—it was fearful. What would happen to her soul if she were to tempt a monk from his vocation, she wondered distractedly. The thought lent venom to her voice. “Leave me alone, I don’t want to see you again.”

“But lady, I . . .”

“I wouldn’t think of having you for my husband if you were the only man in Christendom, not if you were wealthy beyond equal, not if you were a king. To shame me in the street like this! No, go! Leave me alone, and never speak to me again.”

She swept on; the monk stared after her, his mouth open with utter dismay, but she didn’t look back. Uppermost in her mind was the long prayer she would have to say before retiring to bed, and the apology and confession she must offer to the priest at her next Mass. She was shocked,
horrified,
that the silly boy could think she would be prepared to give up her life and become his wife. “Who does he think he is?”

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“He thought he was the man you loved,” said Susan curtly.

“Don’t answer me back! Keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll see to it that you leave my father’s house.”

“It was your flirting that ensnared the boy, not my words. If you want to snap at someone, bite she who caused your troubles—
you
!”

“Be quiet!”

Susan shrugged, but without concern. She knew her mistress was making an empty threat; she would not give up her maid, not that she had much choice. No matter how much her father wanted to please her, he knew Susan had been picked by his wife, and Arthur would not risk offending Marion just to satisfy his daughter’s caprice.

As the boy hurried past, Baldwin called to him. “Peter?

Are you well?”

Peter’s visage was a picture of devastation. He stared without recognition at the knight, backing away, his mouth moving but no words coming. Suddenly he spun round and fled off, straight up the hill away from the town.

Baldwin made as if to run after him, but Jeanne laid a hand on his arm. “Leave him. I think he has a degree of pain and suffering that no words can heal.”

“But what could have caused it?” Baldwin asked. Jeanne motioned toward Avice’s speedily disappearing back. “I think you need ask her that. It was she who talked to him just now, and surely she must know what has cut his heart in two.”

Baldwin stood a moment undecided. “What could a young girl have said to have wounded a monk so grievously?”

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“I can think of a few.”

“That is hardly likely, surely.”

She made an exasperated gesture with her hand. “A young man is a young man, whether he wears the clerical garb or not. Just because he has a black habit doesn’t mean he can’t feel the same lusts as a normal boy.”

“But a monk!” Baldwin fell silent, deep in thought. He could remember a time when he was younger, recuperating in Cyprus. There had been a girl to tempt him then, and the anguish he had endured after giving her up was painful to recall. “I suppose he is a novice still and has not taken his vows.”

“Perhaps. But I think it would be more pleasant to go home the way we came rather than following after either of them, don’t you?”

Baldwin stared up the street as if seeking the monk, and nodded.

Hugo left the last of the revellers and walked back to the little house where he had lodging. It had not been a fruitful evening. Whenever he had seen a possible new theme for a sermon, the killing intruded on his mind, and the face in the tavern. It was frustrating—

and worrying—and he prayed for guidance as he walked up the hill.

A short way from the fairground, he saw two women approach. He did not recognize Avice, although her face seemed familiar to him, but when he saw the cowled figure that hurried from the shadows toward her, he was surprised. It was a young monk, who addressed the women with apparent familiarity. Avice clapped her hands with delight and allowed him to join her.

Hugo watched, stunned, as the three passed by him. 200

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No monk should be so familiar with a woman. There were no lights here, not with the strictures for safety imposed by the watch, but the three passed close enough for the friar to recognize Pietro’s face, and Hugo felt the chill of horror.

A lad who could steal a Benedictine habit and wear it in public, laughing as he polluted it by wooing a girl, was capable of anything.

Elias sat in his cell and wrapped himself in the rough blanket the watchman had sold him. The cell was a mere ten feet square, and Elias had been in it once before. That was twelve years ago now, when he had been found selling pies containing meat that had gone off, and he had spent a morning in the clink before being hauled off to the pillory, where the “putrid, stinking and abominable meat” pies were burned beneath his nose. It was a salutary lesson for a young cook, and had ruined his business for some months. It was not a serious crime. He had known as soon as he was caught exactly what would happen. It was a common enough sight to see a baker, cook or brewer being locked in the pillory for a day after adulterating their produce with cheap ingredients, or some which had gone bad. He’d known the risk and accepted it, because the pigeons had been too expensive to simply throw away, and he hadn’t expected anyone to realize there was anything wrong with them—he’d used his spices more liberally than usual to disguise the rotten meat. It had been typical of his luck that a couple of youngsters and a woman had been ill after eating them. But he couldn’t fool himself that he would get away with a day in the pillory or stocks with this. Why Lybbe had decided to hide the head in his garden he The Abbot’s Gibbet

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couldn’t understand. It was madness! Yet he realized Lybbe might not have known where else to hide it. He’d not been to Tavistock for many years, and wouldn’t have wished to wander round the town hunting for a suitable cache. Outside he occasionally heard the steady tramp of boots as the guard walked past, and the man’s shadow crept along the inner wall of his prison thrown by a blazing torch on the building opposite. It was one of only a few kept lighted to make escape difficult. Elias could see the market-place outside in his mind’s eye. It was a large area, roughly triangular, where the tinners regularly came to coign their metal and buy provisions. He’d always viewed it as a pleasant part of town, even after his previous confinement; it always seemed so busy and bustling.

His head drooped. He had done nothing wrong, but he was to stand trial for murder. He had no doubt of that after seeing the grim expression on Baldwin’s face. It was unjust, unfair, but he knew life was often both. Shivering, he pulled the blanket tighter round his shoulders and pessimistically considered his future. One thing he was determined on: he would not betray Jordan. In all likelihood it would do no good. It would only mean that both would hang. There was no point in dragging Jordan in and seeing him die too. Elias was a realist, and knew that Lybbe had no chance of escape if he should be called before a judge or coroner. That was the irony of the whole affair, his only protector was the one man he could not call, the only one who was in mortal danger should he be discovered. In any case, his word would be disbelieved, so his alibi for Elias could not help.

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deeper into his blanket. It was just his luck to have to share his cell with a rat. The scratching came again, and he jerked awake. At the barred window was an indistinct, crouching shape. Elias could just make out the head of a man. “What?” he asked irritably. “You want to gloat at a man’s misery, do you? Bugger off! Leave me al—”

There was a low chuckle, and he felt the skin on his neck stand vertical. “What are you doing here? God’s teeth, Jordan! What if someone sees you?”

“Hush! Nobody’ll see me. What are you doing here?

I thought you’d been waylaid when you didn’t turn up. I’ve only just heard you were taken by the watchmen.”

“They found the head.”

Lybbe felt the breath freezing in his chest. “They found it? Christ’s blood!”

“Yes, but don’t worry. I’ll—”

“You’ll what? You mustn’t die on my account, Elias. Oh, Good God, how can
You
let this happen?”

Elias gave a wry smile at the bitter tone of voice.

“
He
didn’t;
you
did. If you want someone to blame, blame yourself for putting the damned thing in my garden.”

“I must surrender myself. Admit to what I did and explain why.”

“You think that’ll help us? This is England, Jordan, not some wonderful place like the preachers talk about, where there’s justice and fairness for all and no one can be hanged and quartered on a whim.”

“I can’t let you die without trying to save you, Elias.”

“You can’t do
anything,
” the cook pointed out wearily. “If you confess to what you did, they’ll hold you too, and when we go before the judge, we’ll both The Abbot’s Gibbet

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be hanged. What good would that do? Leave me to my fate. At least if I say nothing, they’ll have to prove me to be a liar. Find me a lawyer and get him to stand and defend me. That’s the best thing you can do.”

“I can’t leave you there alone to hang in my place!”

“If you give yourself up, we’ll both hang anyway. At least this way it’s only one of us. Think of your mother, Jordan. What would she have preferred?”

“She was your mother too, Elias!”

“I know. Would she want both her sons to die, or just one so that the other can live? I’m not sacrificing myself, Jordan, I’m doing the only thing which makes sense.”

“They’ll rot in Hell for this, I swear.” Lybbe fingered the hard wooden grip of the dagger at his belt.

“Do nothing, Jordan. Don’t put yourself in danger again, not for me. What would be the point? Just find me a lawyer so that I can defend myself.”

“I will, but I—someone’s coming!”

“Go, go now! And don’t come back. Nobody knows who you are yet, so you’re safe. If you come back you could be seen, and then where would we be? Go, in God’s name, and leave me alone!”

Lybbe slipped silently into the shadows as the feet approached, and retreated around the wall. As soon as he was out of sight, he darted over the road and hid in a gloomy alley.

Peering cautiously round the corner, he saw a monk striding purposefully up the road. The man had his hood over his head, and Jordan was surprised. Most went with their heads bare in the warmth of late summer. There was something else that looked incongruous, but before he could put his finger on it, the figure had hurried away.

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He was about to go back to see his brother when he heard more steps approaching. This time he saw the heavy-set figure of a watchman. He heard the man snort, hawk and spit. “You awake in there? If I have to stand up all night to guard you, I don’t see why you should sleep comfortably, Elias Lybbe. Wake up, you bastard!”

“All right, Jack. I’m awake.”

“Good. Make sure you stay that way, or I’ll have to prod you with this.” There was a quick movement, and Jordan saw the figure thrust something between the oak bars of the window. There was a short cry. “Yes, well, if you sleep, that’s what you’ll get, so stay awake. I’ll be back to make sure you are.”

Jordan’s anger rose as he heard the blow struck, and he sprang forward, reaching for his knife, but the man had disappeared round the opposite corner of the building before he could even draw his blade. He stepped forward quickly, but as he came level with the cell window, he stopped at the sound of his brother’s voice.

“Jordan, don’t be a fool!” Elias hissed. “Do you want to hang? Go now, and don’t come back. The only thing that makes this bearable is knowing that at least you’re safe. Don’t make me feel I’ve died in vain. Go!”