The Abbot's Gibbet aktm-5

by Michael Jecks

  “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?”

  “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 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

  Hugo walked through the crowds peering about him as he sought the man again. 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 how much more dangerous not 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 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 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. 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 Orleans 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 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.

  He looked up at the sound of a door opening and shutting. After a few moments, he heard the light step of his son, the heavier tread of Luke.

  “You deigned to return, then? How kind of you. Perhaps you would like me to kill the fatted calf?”

  His sarcasm had no effect on the good humor of his son. “Father, you may be irritated, but I have had a pleasant evening and I will not allow you to spoil it. Come and pour ale, Luke. My father needs something for his digestion.”

  “No, we’re due with the Abbot, and we’re already late. You can drink when we are with him. At least there we’ll get good wine, instead of this muck.”

  He scowlingly pulled on an over tunic and coat, giving his son’s attire a swift appraisal. Pietro had dressed well for his girl. He wore tight hose under his shirt and short tunic, and his best fur-lined cloak: he would do for their host. “Come along, then. I don’t want to see the Abbot upset because of your lateness.”

  They crossed the Great Court, past the stables and storerooms, past the sties and kennels, and entered the Kitchen Court. Walking through it, they came to the prayle – the yard before the Abbot’s lodging, where he kept a small orchard and garden, secluded from the busyness of the Great Court, in which he could sit in peaceful contemplation.

  The Abbot’s hall was in a building that formed a part of the Abbey’s main perimeter wall. They entered and ascended the stairs to his rooms, following behind an elderly servant.

  “My apologies, Father,” Antonio said as the door swung open. “My son forgot the time, and has only now returned. I trust we have not delayed your meal?”

  “Not at all, not at all. Please, come in and take some wine with us.”

  While the wine was poured, Antonio surreptitiously kept an eye on the others. The bailiff, he knew, was married to the blonde woman, but the knight appeared to be paying great attention to the widow. Antonio stored the information for future use. It was always best, as an international trader and merchant, to log any points that could be of interest. If he was questioned, as he often was, about who knew whom and whether they were friendly toward each other, tiny snippets as to who was wooing which lady could be useful. Dealing with officers of kings he always found distasteful, but sometimes giving away gossipy items about people as a spy was the only way to avoid the more penal rates of tax. And sometimes information like this was useful locally; after all, any lord in the area could have an interest in someone as important as the Keeper of the King’s Peace.

  The servants were seated at a second table nearer the door. He saw Pietro frown as a monk entered with the knight’s servant, Edgar, who stood surveying the room before walking to his own place between Peter and Hugh.

  At his own table, the Abbot sat to one side, giving pride of place to Baldwin, his most important ranking guest. Antonio and his son took their seats near Baldwin, next to Simon and Margaret, while Jeanne was placed beside Baldwin at Abbot Robert’s insistence.

  Jeanne gave a bright smile of apparent pleasure as the Abbot helped her to her seat, but in her heart she would have been happier to curse him. Champeaux’s motives were transparent, and she didn’t want a new husband yet.

  It was not that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was unattractive. While he was chuckling at a quip from Margaret, she took the opportunity to study his profile. He was quite comely, she thought – a strange mix of Norman and Celtic, with his swarthy skin and dark hair. The scar on his cheek gave him a reckless, devil-may-care air, though she was sure it didn’t reflect his nature. He appeared too solid and considerate. From the short conversations she had held with him, it was obvious that he was concerned for those poorer than himself, although his reticence about the Church was curious to her. She didn’t know he had been a Templar, and since the destruction of his Order had held the Pope and his cardinals in low regard.

  It was a pity, she felt, that she had not met Sir Baldwin before and got to know him. Now, under the gaze of so many others, especially the bailiff’s wife, she felt as if she was being forced into a courtship for which she wasn’t ready.

  The bowl arrived, and she dipped her hands in it, taking the towel and drying them. Afterward she caught Baldwin’s eye, and saw that he was nervous, too. Jeanne was offended. What reason did he have to be nervous? The man should have found her perfectly desirable; she wasn’t too old for him, surely? That Baldwin might be experiencing similar qualms as herself made Jeanne quite annoyed – and then she saw him give a quizzical look, and almost laughed out loud as she recognized the irony.

  Their predicament was largely due to the matchmaking zeal of Margaret and the Abbot. Their attempts at subtlety were a farce, Jeanne thought without rancor. They were trying, no doubt to help their friends fin
d happiness, though how curious it was that they should think they knew the key to other people’s contentment.

  As if by agreement, both chose not to speak to the other. It was not a conscious decision on either side, more a reaction to the air of anticipation in which they were watched.

  Margaret noticed the apparent coldness between the two. During the course of the meal she had seen that Baldwin and his elegant neighbor spoke little if at all, and she felt a growing frustration that her hopes might be thwarted, for she was keen to see him marry someone who could provide him with company and children, and this was the first woman in whom he had displayed any interest. That they should suddenly have developed a frostiness was worrying. She cast a quick look at her husband to see whether he had also noticed, but he was talking to Antonio. She heard the Venetian say:

  “You mean to say that the dead man was not the stranger, as everyone thought?”

  “No, sir. The man who was killed was a local farmer by the name of Roger Torre. He was in the tavern as well that night.”

  “But I thought… I assumed he must have been identified. How could you have been so mistaken?”

  “Yes, why could you not tell at once?” Pietro frowned. “Did no one bother to view the body?”

  “Of course,” Simon explained patiently. “But the killer had cut off the corpse’s head and hidden it. It’s hard to recognize a body when there is no face.”

  Pietro and Antonio exchanged a baffled look. It was the father who stammered, “His head? Why… I mean, why should a man do that to his victim, bailiff?”

  Jeanne pursed her lips in distaste. “It seems a particularly cruel thing to do to a victim: take the life and then desecrate the corpse.”

  “That’s what worried us as well. It makes no sense.” Simon broke off a piece of his bread and chewed it meditatively. “We have arrested the man in whose yard the head was buried.”

  Baldwin was glad that Simon carefully avoided suggesting he thought Elias was the murderer. Enough people would be bound to assume his guilt without their help. He waved a hand, vaguely encompassing the borough outside the Abbey. “There is no need to worry all the traders. I daresay it was a dispute of some sort which quickly led to blows, and for some reason the killer decided to take the head.”