The Abbot's Gibbet aktm-5

by Michael Jecks

  Antonio shook his head. “That was because of the mob. Didn’t you hear? They were incited to attack me by the friar. We didn’t want to remain where our lives might be in danger.”

  “It had nothing to do with fear of being discovered to be the murderer?” Simon asked sarcastically.

  “I know nothing of any murder,” Pietro stated. “I wanted to get away so that I could be with Avice, that’s all.”

  “And I joined him willingly!”

  Baldwin turned to see the girl being led on her mare by a sweating, grumbling watchman muttering, “She took us halfway to bloody Oakhampton.”

  Kicking her feet free of the stirrups, Avice sprang down and ran to Pietro. “I love him, and I won’t marry the man my father has chosen. This is the man I will wed.”

  Baldwin scratched his cheek and threw a glance at his friend. Simon was watching the couple doubtfully.

  There was no denying the fact that the lad didn’t look like a crazed murderer, the sort to kill a monk because he thought him a rival. And then another thought struck the knight. “Avice, when did you agree to elope with this lad?”

  And he knew her answer before she spoke.

  Jordan and Elias Lybbe sat for the most part silently. The sun was creeping toward the horizon, and the stifling heat of midday in the cell was giving way to a damp chill. During the day the temperature had built steadily. The stone walls should have kept the little jail cool, but the wide, barred window allowed the hot air to smother the interior, and in the absence of any wind the two men sweltered, sweating profusely. The little water they had been given when they entered was long since finished, and both felt its lack.

  “You should never have come back.”

  Jordan’s tongue felt as if it was covered in rabbit fur, and swallowing was difficult. “It seemed right to come back and see you. I’d been away for so long, I just wanted to see the town where I was born one more time.” He knew his brother couldn’t understand the homesick aching in his bones. It had been unwise to return, as Elias said, but it was an urge which couldn’t be refused.

  “There was no point,” Elias persisted miserably.

  “It seems not.”

  “I wonder what will happen to me?”

  “You should be all right. They’ll soon catch the Venetians, and then you’ll be safe enough. Not like me: I’ll go to the gibbet.”

  Elias brought his legs up and rested his head on his knees. He knew his brother was right. There could be no defense for a man once he was declared outlaw. “You shouldn’t have come back,” he repeated dully.

  “At least I’ve seen my town again,” Jordan said softly. “I’ve lived too long abroad. The land is good, rich and fertile, and the people live well, but it’s not my home. I couldn’t die happy there. Here I can die content.”

  “Did you never marry?”

  “Yes. She caught a fever and died. We had no children.”

  “That boy – he’s not your own?”

  “No.” Jordan chewed his lip. He hoped Hankin was unharmed. “I took him on when he was newly orphaned. He was a comfort to me, and I was able to keep him alive, so we were well suited.”

  Elias grew too hot, huddled as he was, and stretched his legs out before him, groaning with the aching in his joints. He needed water, but it wasn’t that which gave his voice its sharpness. “Was that to atone for what you did?”

  “I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, Elias, believe me,” Jordan said tiredly. It was hard to talk about the matter, it was so long ago. The bloody axe sprang once more to his mind, the woman’s mouth wide as if screaming as she lay by the side of her husband’s body, the girl sheltered behind her skirts. The memory made him close his eyes with a shudder. Although he hadn’t known it at the time, that event marked the end of his old life. And now it had returned to haunt him and end his whole existence.

  “The gang killed them all, didn’t they?” Elias asked remorselessly.

  “What could I have done against so many?” Jordan rested his head against the wall. He had always known his brother didn’t believe his protestations of innocence.

  Elias looked away. A member of the gang had approved, confessed in exchange for his life, swearing he told the truth. There was no reason for him to accuse Jordan if he had nothing to do with it. “The bastards left an orphan, though, just like the one you picked up.”

  “I remember.” Jordan gazed at the clear sky through the window. It was not something he could forget. The girl had been struck down, and with all the blood in the room, the men had assumed she was dead. It had been a huge relief to him when later he had seen her breast move, and he had taken her up and carried her away from that charnelhouse. It never occurred to him that he might be accused after saving her, but he had been, and he had to run for his life before he could be arrested. “I’m only glad that I was able to make sure she lived.”

  Elias sighed and shifted. Stones on the ground dug into his thin buttocks. “Yes, but what about the lad?”

  “Which lad?”

  “The one you rescued – the one at your stall.”

  “Hankin? He’ll have to make his own way, I suppose.” Jordan stared up at the sky once more, and had to blink away the tears, not only of self-pity but also futility. There was nothing more he could do to help the lad, he told himself. Hankin might be able to fend for himself… if the Abbot didn’t take everything that Jordan owned as an amercement he could give it to the boy.

  “With nothing, there’s not much chance of him surviving.”

  Jordan faced his brother. “If you do get out of this, Elias, promise me you’ll look after him.”

  “Me!”

  “Someone has to, and the poor lad has no one. He hardly even speaks English now, he’s been away so long. Swear to me, Elias – it’s the last thing I’ll ever ask you to do for me.”

  “And it’s no small thing you want me to do – only to spend the rest of my life protecting a beardless boy!” Elias grumbled, but before long Jordan had the promise he needed, and he could relax and slump back against the wall once more.

  It was little enough for him to leave behind, but at least he had the satisfaction that Hankin would be provided for. Elias was scruffy and lazy, and he had a capacity for whining which disgusted his older brother, but he was sound enough, and Jordan was sure he would be secretly delighted to have the company of the boy. Hankin had been a good friend. It would have been an intolerable weight on Jordan’s mind, going to the gallows knowing Hankin was deserted.

  He looked out at the fresh, free world again, wondering what had happened to that other orphan, the little girl – whether she had survived the pain and terror of losing her parents so needlessly. It would ease his death if she had not suffered too much torment.

  At the sound of harnesses and shouting, the Abbot left the refectory and hurried down to the Great Court. The men were all climbing from their horses with the steady and deliberate movements of the enormously tired.

  “Sir Baldwin, you are all well? No one was hurt?”

  “No, no one was harmed. And you need not fear for your harriers or berner. They are fine.”

  “Sir Baldwin, they were far from my mind,” the Abbot chided him, but the knight saw his gaze moving past him to the wagging tails of the pack. “The girl?”

  “She is well, tired but fine – and her father will be delighted to know that she is not harmed in any way at all.”

  “That will be a relief to him,” the Abbot agreed. “Now, do you want to question the men immediately?”

  Baldwin eyed the bedraggled figures on their horses. The shadows were lengthening, and dark was not far off. “No, my lord Abbot. I am exhausted, and so are they – we have ridden almost to Lydford and back. It would be better to wait until the morning. Let my bones rest a little before I confront them, so I can think more clearly about what I am saying.”

  “I will have them chained up in the cellar.”

  “I wouldn’t bother. And I am not so sure you need f
ear their escaping. Just leave a man at their door.” He nodded to the girl. “Avice should be escorted back to her father’s house.”

  “I don’t want to go! Let me stay here with Pietro!”

  “You are your father’s responsibility, not the Abbot’s,” Baldwin said exasperatedly. “And it would hardly be fitting that you should be kept in a room with two men – especially a dungeon. Come – let us take you home; I shall accompany you.”

  “I’ll join you,” Simon volunteered. His legs were stiff after their long ride, and he was keen to stretch them. Baldwin, he saw, seemed preoccupied, and while they proceeded up the road, the knight kept silent, his brow furrowed.

  It took little time to get to the merchant’s house. Arthur was waiting, and Simon explained for Avice how she had been brought back to the Abbey. “She is perfectly well, sir. Have no fears for her, er…” He trailed off, with no idea how to finish the sentence. He wanted to say, “She hasn’t been touched, there wasn’t time for them to spoil her,” but somehow the words were trite and irrelevant.

  Avice stood beside him, her eyes downcast, and Arthur was caught between anger and sheer delight: anger that she had run away with the boy and not considered her parents; and fierce joy that she was back. As Simon watched, his expression softened, and he put his arms out. Avice seemed to be pulled forward as if by an invisible magnet until she was within the circle of his arms. There was a cry from within, and Simon recognized the strident voice of Avice’s mother; the man and his daughter didn’t appear to notice, but simply stood quietly in their firm embrace. After a moment, Arthur caught Simon’s eye, and there was suddenly a tear falling down the merchant’s cheek.

  The bailiff nodded, smiling, and turned to go, but before he could leave, Arthur grasped his arm. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

  Then he had gone, and the door closed quietly behind father and daughter.

  Simon gave a long, slow sigh. It was hard to imagine how he would have reacted had it been his daughter who had disappeared and then been recovered. It was nothing to do with Pietro: Simon was sure that whoever the boy might be, the fears and anxiety would be the same. Their potency could not be diminished by legal status or class. If his daughter was to go away, leaving her parents without a word, Simon knew he would be distraught. Arthur’s gentle acceptance of her return made the bailiff hope he would continue to be as calm and understanding, swallowing his anger with his gratitude at seeing her safe home once more.

  The memory of that silent grip at his arm made him fully aware of the merchant’s pleasure. He had not been able to express his feelings in words, but that solid grasp had said as much as any sermon, and the bailiff joined his friend to walk back to the Abbey with a sense of pride at a job well-performed.

  Baldwin had other thoughts on his mind. He had hardly noticed that they had given the girl back to her family. His attention was focused firmly on the murders, and he had no interest in Avice any more: she was an irrelevance now that she was found and her attempted ravisher – whether she might have been a willing or unwilling victim – was under lock and key.

  The murders of Peter and of Torre remained unsolved. Baldwin did not like loose ends, yet there appeared to be many. “Simon, do you think we are any nearer an answer to these killings?”

  Simon shook his head. “The more I think about it, the more confusing I find it. Elias had all the evidence pointing to him, but when we found his brother, everything which had indicated Elias pointed to him instead – especially since he admitted taking Torre’s head. And his background as an outlaw shows he’s capable of murder. But the Venetians are themselves felons – they were prepared to steal from an Abbot, for Christ’s sake! If they could steal from a man of God, they must be capable of anything. And Pietro was seen in a monk’s habit, which could mean he was the thief as well.”

  “Jordan Lybbe is most likely – as you say, he was an outlaw.”

  “Yes. But why should he kill Torre?”

  “Similarly, what was Pietro’s or Antonio’s motive?”

  “You don’t like Lybbe’s explanation: whichever of them killed Torre thought he was preventing his own discovery?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Something is wrong about all this, Simon. My whole soul is shouting to me that I have missed something. There is only one thing I am sure of, and that is that Pietro didn’t kill Peter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Peter was killed after Pietro saw Avice. Avice had promised herself to him when they met last night, so his motive disappears. There was no point in his killing the monk.”

  “I see no reason for Antonio to have killed the monk.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “So we are back to Lybbe.”

  “Yes,” said Baldwin, but when Simon glanced at him, his friend looked no better pleased than before.

  23

  The next morning Baldwin rose from his bed feeling unrefreshed after a sleepless night. He had hoped that some inspiration might strike him while he slept, but as he stared out over the court he felt no nearer a solution.

  Seeing a figure hurrying across the court his mood lightened as he recognized Jeanne. She at least was fresh and wholesome. Her face would be a welcome sight after his dislocated sleep. Even as he was aware of the thought, she made her way across the court and through the door that led toward the Abbot’s lodging.

  Baldwin dressed and walked down to the court, sitting at a bench, Edgar at his side.

  His servant had seen him in similar moods before. The knight sat with his chin resting in the palm of his hand, elbow on his knee, in an attitude of absolute concentration. His glowering eye was fixed on a monk sweeping the court, and he didn’t glance at the servant by his shoulder. This was Edgar’s accustomed place, a point from which he could protect his master. It was the station he had accepted when Baldwin had saved his life in the hell-hole of Acre, when they were both much younger and before they had joined the Knights Templar together. Edgar and he had been among the last to leave the city as the Saracens took the place, and it was due to the heroic bravery of the Templars that the two of them had managed to escape, so when they had recovered, both felt the same urge to join the Order which had saved their lives.

  Later, when the Order they both revered had been destroyed to fuel the greed of a King and a Pope, Baldwin had been prone to darkly introspective moods, and today Edgar was at first anxious that his master had succumbed again. But then he caught sight of the knight’s eye and saw the gleam. This was no black despair. Baldwin was simply focusing his entire being on the problem of the murders.

  “Master?” he enquired quietly.

  “What is it?” Baldwin snapped.

  “Do you want breakfast?”

  “I cannot be troubled with food now!”

  “Master, you should eat something.”

  “There’s some detail we’ve missed, something crucial. But what?”

  Edgar shrugged. “Those who are innocent will surely be able to prove it.”

  His master grunted dismissively. “Like our Order did, you mean? Since when has innocence been a matter of justice? If you look right for the part a jury will assume you were responsible – you know that as well as I do.”

  “You mean Pietro?” asked his servant with a frown.

  “I don’t know who I mean – I haven’t seen proof of anybody’s guilt,” Baldwin muttered irascibly. He was about to continue when the bell sounded for Mass. “How can they think clearly here when the damn bells toll every few minutes?”

  Edgar smiled to himself, and was about to speak when he caught sight of the startled expression passing over his master’s face. “Sir, what is it?”

  “Gracious God, I thank You!” Baldwin cried, and rising quickly, he turned to Edgar. “Find Simon and bring him here immediately. Go!”

  Edgar set off at a smart pace to the Abbot’s lodging where Simon and his wife had their chamber. Before long he was back. “He’s just dressing.”

  To his surpris
e, Baldwin chuckled to himself and rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! And soon this whole matter will be behind us.”

  True to his word, Simon appeared within a few minutes, his hair tousled, and his expression one of comical annoyance at the early summons. Simon liked to stay in his bed later than Baldwin. “What’s the matter?” he yawned.

  “I have a clue, no more than that, but from that clue I think I can form a new solution to our problem.”

  “And what exactly is that clue?” Simon demanded eagerly as they toiled up the hill toward the jail.

  “It will wait, my friend. For now we must get to the truth of another matter.”

  They had arrived at the Abbot’s clink, and Baldwin spoke quickly to the watchman at the door. The man glanced behind him. “He’s with the friar right now, Sir Baldwin – do you want me to interrupt them?”

  Baldwin considered, and shook his head. “No. It would be offensive if he is making his confession. We shall wait.”

  It was not long before the friar came out, and Simon was struck by his thoughtful attitude. He scarcely glanced at the two waiting men. The guard leaned through the doorway. “Lybbe? Come out here, mate – someone wants to talk.”

  The merchant appeared in the doorway, blinking and scratching in the cool of the early morning, and gratefully left the jail to stand in the sun.

  Baldwin eyed him with sympathy. “Jordan, I know you have no desire to assist us in finding the killer, for it can hardly help you, but I would ask for your help to stop someone dying unnecessarily.”

  Jordan Lybbe cared not a fig for the fate of anyone else. His own life was soon to end, and that was a hard enough fact to come to terms with. “Why should I help you?” he asked listlessly.

  The knight could see his resentment. It was there in his eyes, glittering with jealous malice as he stared at a man who was not under sentence of instant death as soon as he was denounced. “Lybbe, I cannot save you, but another man might be wrongly convicted unless I have your help.”