The Abbot's Gibbet (37 page)

“And what of your friendship with Bishop Stapledon of Exeter?” asked Champeaux.

“What of it?”

“I wrote to him, and I have heard that he hardly knows you.”

“The Bishop denies knowing us?”

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Antonio’s eyes grew round, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. The expression was so convincing that the Abbot had to glance at Baldwin to gauge his feelings. The knight was nodding as if it were no surprise.

“Abbot,” Antonio pleaded. “Tell me what I am supposed to have done. Of what am I accused? Of trying to arrange a business deal with you? Of running from a mob determined to lynch me? What am I guilty of?”

Simon scratched his cheek. “There were many robberies while you were in Bayonne. You were in the tavern on the night Torre was murdered. Some have said you saw Lybbe and recognized him from Bayonne. They say you knew that if he spoke of what you had been up to there . . .”

“I wasn’t up to anything!”

“. . . you could be uncovered as a fraud and a thief, dressed up in expensive clothes. So you left before he could see you, and waited in an alley until he passed, then stabbed him. Thinking it was a job well done, you hurried back to be with the Abbot.”

“
Me!
I never killed Torre—why should I?”

“He looked the same as Lybbe, didn’t he, from behind? Especially in the dark. Their figures were very similar.”

“Why should I kill him? And why cut off his head?”

he demanded disbelievingly.

“Oh, we know all about that,” Simon said dismissively. “Lybbe saw the body and realized you had done it thinking it was him. He took the head. But he only damaged a dead body; it was
you
who actually killed the man.”

“No! I had nothing to do with it—
nothing
! We saw him in the tavern, yes, but that was all. I’m no murderer.”

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“And all so that you could rob the Abbey,” Simon continued.

“No, I swear . . .”

Baldwin turned from his ashen face to that of the son. “What of you, boy? Did you know about all this?”

“Me? All I know is that I wanted to marry Avice. I still do, I love her.”

“You were seen the night before Peter died, wearing a monk’s habit.”

The young man took a deep breath. “It is true, and I apologize, Abbot. I will undertake any penance, but I never . . .”

“What? Carried out robberies as you had done in Bayonne?” Baldwin said sharply.

“No. I have never robbed or stolen.”

“Then why the monkish garb?” asked Simon.

“How was I to meet Avice? Her father sent servants with her to prevent me from seeing her. I only used a habit as a disguise so that I could meet her. I returned it when I got back.”

“It was a serious crime, nonetheless,” said the Abbot sternly.

“You have my apology, my lord Abbot, but I did no harm.”

“Have you heard about the robberies?” Baldwin probed.

“What robberies?”

“When you were in Bayonne, there were rumors of a man in monk’s habit who was attacking people. His last victim died. We know a man in monk’s habit has been knocking men down here as well and stealing their purses.”

“It wasn’t me! That evening when I went to see Avice was the first time I ever wore a habit.”

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Baldwin saw the door open, and Holcroft’s face as he hurried in, Luke behind him. The port-reeve held a bundle in his hands. “My lord, this was found in Pietro’s bags.”

Champeaux stared as he shook out the Benedictine habit. The black cloth rippled as the Abbot met Luke’s eyes. “Where was it?”

“In the boy’s saddlebags.”

Pietro’s mouth fell open. “No! It’s a lie! It isn’t mine!” He moved forward convulsively, the chains of his manacles rattling as he reached toward the Abbot.

“Believe me, I know nothing about this.”

“Silence, Pietro!” Simon said quietly. Baldwin’s gaze was fixed on the servant. Luke was obviously terrified. It must be a novel experience to bear witness against his master, the knight thought. But not as novel as some of his other experiences. “Edgar?”

Champeaux heard the door to his chapel open, and turned to see Baldwin’s servant walk in with Jordan Lybbe. Baldwin glanced at the outlaw. “Well?”

“It’s him,” Lybbe confirmed, and pointed to Luke. The servant was transfixed. “What is this? Who is this?”

Baldwin relaxed in his chair. “Abbot, you told us that on the night Torre was murdered, Antonio and Pietro were here with you as the bell for compline rang.” He passed over the novice’s papers. “Peter’s notes confirm Lizzie’s words: she recalled the bell tolling as Torre left her. He was alive at compline, but then Antonio and Pietro were already here.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“But their servant wasn’t with you.”

“No, we had our food in my study. The servants were in the hall.”

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“This man went out of the Abbey and clothed himself in his habit. No wonder Torre didn’t try to protect himself. If he saw his attacker, he would never have associated a monk with danger.”

“No, sir, it was Pietro,” Luke said, his face white.

“Why would I have killed the man? Pietro knew that he and his father were in danger if Lybbe recognized them. You would hear that your business with them was false, that they were trying to steal from you.”

“They were with me when he was killed,” Champeaux said steadily.

“You don’t know that! How can you know exactly when he died? And why should I kill the boy, the novice? Pietro killed him because they were rivals for the girl.”

“That was what made me realize he could have had nothing to do with the murders. He knew he had no rival in love,” Baldwin said. “Pietro
already
knew she had refused the novice. She told him when he saw her up at the fair—when he had borrowed your robe.” That was a guess, but when he shot a look at Pietro, he saw the lad nod with slow, appalled understanding.

“Why should I kill the novice?” Luke cried beseechingly, holding his hands out to the Abbot like a supplicant. “I had no reason to, lord Abbot.”

Simon clapped a hand to his brow. “He saw you, didn’t he? He saw you in the street.”

“That’s it, Simon,” said Baldwin encouragingly. Champeaux looked from one to the other. “So what if he did? Surely there were hundreds who would have seen this man if he was impersonating a monk?”

“Hundreds or maybe thousands,” Baldwin agreed.

“But none of them would have seen more than a habit. A portman would look at the cloth and see a monk. The Abbot’s Gibbet

339

Another monk wouldn’t. A monk would see a man, and a man he should recognize. You have what—fifty men in the convent who wear the habit? Peter saw a man he assumed must be a friend, but when he saw the face he realized it was an imposter.”

“Abbot, it’s untrue!”

“Torre was killed because you thought it was Lybbe, and he could have guessed what you’d been doing, couldn’t he?” Baldwin mused. “And you had to murder poor Peter because he saw you in your robes.”

“No, this is all nonsense,” Luke declared, holding out his hands.

“You thought Lybbe might recognize you,” Simon said dispassionately. “You weren’t with Antonio when he came back here to dine with the Abbot. You saw your chance. Instead of going to eat with the other servants, you hurried to your room, took up your habit, and left the Abbey.”

“It was easy enough, for visitors are not to be kept imprisoned,” said Baldwin to the Abbot. “He went off to the tavern, found a suitable alley, and lay in wait. When he saw his man, or someone who looked like his man, he struck. In the dark he did not realize it was the wrong man. Later, he was merely surprised when he heard about the mutilation of the corpse. It was a horrible thing to have happened to a corpse, but what would Luke care? As far as he knew, it was still the correct man who had died, so what did someone removing the head matter? The threat to his life was gone, that was all that counted.”

“Abbot, please! This is all rubbish, complete gibberish. I’ve not harmed anyone; it’s a lie to say I killed these men.”

Baldwin ignored his cry. “But it was truly foolish to 340

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try to pull the same method of escape as he had used in Bayonne.”

“What do you mean?” Champeaux asked.

“That little mob at your gate? It was a stunt to scare Antonio into running away from here, so that all guilt could be deflected from Luke again, and he could quietly vanish in a different direction with the money he robbed from your townspeople.”

“It was the friar’s fault! He preached against usury!”

“It is easy to stand at the back of a crowd which has been drinking, and by dropping the odd word rouse them to anger—and who easier for a target than a usurer? Usury is a sin, yet usurers are rich. Jealousy as well as righteous indignation will make men want to attack them. You incited the people to anger against the bankers.”

“But why did he think he had to kill Lybbe?” the Abbott persisted. “So what if Lybbe was in Bayonne?

It was unlikely he would recognize Luke again—why should he murder on the off-chance?”

“Because I knew him from before then,” Lybbe interrupted firmly. “This man was the approver who accused me of being with his gang. It was this man’s word that declared me an outlaw.”

“Is this true?” the Abbot asked. He felt as if nothing new could surprise him today.

“No, my lord. He’s just—”

“Listen to me, my son. If it is true, I can at least pray and intercede for you, but if you continue to lie there is nothing I can do. You will go to your death in ignominious falsehood. It will not save you in this life, and God Himself, from Whom no secrets are hidden, will judge you in the next. Can you not see that there is no reason, no justification, no security, in lying to me The Abbot’s Gibbet

341

now? Please,
please,
as you love your everlasting soul, confess your guilt to me now if you can, for otherwise you will be damned!”

Simon knew how much the Abbot had liked the novice that this wretch had murdered, and if the bailiff had been in the Abbot’s shoes, he would have wanted only to damn the servant. Yet the Abbot spoke with a strained, desperate sincerity. He was begging the man to confess so that he could do all in his power to protect his immortal soul. It was not a task Simon could have undertaken. He realized with a jolt just how awesome were the responsibilities of an Abbot. Baldwin, he saw, felt a disgust similar to his own for the creature. His demeanor surprised the bailiff, for he knew of Baldwin’s past as a Knight Templar, and halfexpected his friend to desire the same protection of Luke’s soul as the Abbot, yet he could see the knight loathed the sight of the servant, and with a flash of intuition he realized why: the Knights Templar had been destroyed, Baldwin had once told him, by lying spies who dressed as Templars in order to denounce them. In his own small and mean way, Luke had done the same. If his petty thefts had become widely known, he might have ruined the faith of the portmen in their monks, and that was something Baldwin would never be able to forgive.

Simon kept his face blank. He was not prepared to give the man any sympathy. Luke didn’t deserve it. It was then that Luke moved. He must have planned it for some moments, for the action was so smooth and executed so flawlessly that it could only have been considered well in advance.

As Simon and Baldwin watched, and the Abbot leaned forward with sympathy in his eyes, Luke sprang 342

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forward, shoving Lybbe from his path. Baldwin and Simon were transfixed in astonishment as Luke spun to a halt beside the Abbot and whipped out a small knife from under his shirt. He held it to the Abbot’s neck.

“Keep back!” he snarled as Baldwin made to move forward.

Simon was rooted to the spot. The burst of energy had been so sudden, he had been incapable of action, and now it was over he was too shocked to move. The threat of the small blade was too obvious to risk. Baldwin was speaking. “You will never leave this room alive if you so much as scratch his flesh.”

“I’ll kill him if you come closer.”

“You will die first!”

“You think so? Maybe I’m better able to defend myself against you than you against me, knight! If you draw your sword, Abbot Robert will die.”

“I don’t need a sword against you. A sword is an honorable weapon.
You
only merit a dagger.”

“You hear that, Abbot? I only merit a mean weapon, not a true and honorable sword,” Luke hissed in the Abbot’s ear. “I feel so sad. Perhaps with my little knife at your neck you feel the same, eh?”

Behind him was the door to the chapel, still open from Edgar and Lybbe’s entrance, and while Baldwin sidled forward, Luke made his way toward it, still gripping the Abbot by the neck. He reached the door and entered, his captive glancing down with his eyes three times in rapid succession as he passed through. Simon was still gazing uncomprehendingly at the closed door when the knight made a stabbing gesture with his finger. “Edgar, wait here. If he comes out again, don’t let him pass.” The Keeper darted from the room as his servant drew his short sword with a slither of steel. The Abbot’s Gibbet

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“Oh, God’s blood!” Simon realized the Abbot had been signalling with his eyes: there must be another door from the chapel. Beneath was an undercroft, and there must be a stair going down to it. He barged the dumbfounded Holcroft from his path and rushed after his friend.

The tiny, narrow spiralling staircase took them down to the gate beneath the Abbot’s private chamber, and Baldwin saw in a flash that the door to the stew-ponds and orchards was firmly closed and bolted. Without looking for Simon he ran out into the prayle. He paused a moment to stare all round. There was no sign of the man. The Abbey church rose solemn and proud on his left, the dorter and reredorter were before him, the infirmary a broad block on the right, beyond which lay the small garden where the infirmarer kept his herbs.

The door to the undercroft was partly open. He made a quick decision and stepped to it, kicking it wide, peering in to pierce the darkness. There was no sign of Luke, but with the barrels and bundles lying all round that was no surprise. He muttered an angry curse. Motioning to Simon to run and check the infirmarer’s herbary, he entered the undercroft. A thin light lanced in through the narrow, high windows, and in it he could see the dust whirling and dancing. It lighted the stores, reflecting dully from the metal hoops and rivets on the barrels, glowing gently as it touched the yellow-gray sacks of meal and grain. He heard a skittering in a corner, and spun toward it, but the small shape that scuttled away so quickly was only a rat.