The Abbot's Gibbet aktm-5

by Michael Jecks

  “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 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 half-expected 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 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.

  “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.

  Breathing noiselessly, his mouth open, ears alert to catch the faintest sound, he cautiously stepped round the wall, keeping the light over his head so that he remained in the gloom beneath. The dust would protect him, shining in the light while he passed behind, but soon he realized that while it protected him, it also helped his prey remain hidden. It was impossible to penetrate the column of sunlight as he walked behind it; it was too bright, the rest of the chamber too somber.

  He heard a cautious footstep crunch on a loose pebble. Holding his breath, his scalp tingling with anticipation, Baldwin drew his dagger and edged silently into the room.

  24

  Simon pelted along past the infirmary, glancing at the door. If Luke had dashed in there, the bailiff reasoned, they must have heard the door slam as they came out of the lodging. Ignoring it, he rushed on to the herbary. Here he found an elderly monk raking a patch of neatly tended soil. The old man looked up, startled to see a breathless man rush past, and as Simon skidded to a halt, staring round the dog-leg toward the well, he leaned on his rake and watched silently.

  “Has someone passed by here? He might have had your Abbot with him.”

  The old monk shook his head, still mute, and Simon paused only to mutter an imprecation against the servant, whirled, and ran back the way he had come. Looking down, the monk sighed, shrugged, and began raking again to cover up the bailiff’s footprints.

  Baldwin took step after tentative step until he was at the entrance to an aisle between immense vats which stood one on top of the other, rising high over his head. He was aware of a tension, as if he was a machine moving forward, impelled by a great spring that took every ounce of his energy to simply move his legs on. It exhibited itself as a hollowness in his throa
t, and a certain lightheadedness. He was less aware of his arms, his legs, and how to use them. They were useless appendages now. His every fiber was focused on his eyes and ears. All his faculties were concentrated to ensure that in this infernal darkness he might see and hear the servant.

  As he entered among the false pillars of wood, he was tempted to withdraw and seek Simon. It was less a reflection of his fear than of a natural anxiety to prevent the escape of the man he sought. While he bumbled around in the dark, for all he knew Luke might have sidled round to the doorway, and be preparing to escape.

  The thought made the knight want to turn and watch the doorway, but he must not, he knew. His only protection from the servant’s little knife was to keep his eyes constantly fixed forward. Only that way could he anticipate an attack. If he was to spin round, the man could be on him in an instant if he was nearby, and somehow Baldwin was sure he was close.

  Taking another silent step, he thought he heard a noise, and he stopped, one foot half off the ground. It sounded like a quiet hiss, and he reflected that the noise seemed familiar. Then he heard it again, and leaped forward: it was the choking sigh of a man being throttled.

  The huge barrels ended in an alley along the wall, and Baldwin ran into the stonework at full tilt. Momentarily winded, he turned this way and that seeking the source, then rushed off to his left. The sound came from there.

  He heard it again, and skidded a little on the flags. Ahead, a short way down another narrow pathway he could see the two men. The Abbot appeared to be on his knees, his captor behind him, the two locked together in a hideous embrace. Baldwin shouted, gripped his dagger tighter in his fist, and charged. He saw the servant look up, the Abbot, released, tumbled forward to lie choking on all fours, and the knight felt a sudden loathing for the little man. He drew back his hand threateningly, but as he did so, his boot caught a lifted slab stone, and he lost his balance. With a horrified gasp, he threw himself sideways to avoid the servant’s upward-thrusting blade, and struck his shoulder on a barrel. It winded him, and he bounced forward, landing on his chest and striking his head on the stone of the floor. His dagger caught in a barrel as he dropped, and the blade snapped, leaving only the hilt in his hand.

  In an instant Luke was on him, the knife under his ear, and he heard the man whispering viciously, “Silence, or you’ll die.”

  Baldwin was still. With the man resting a knee on his back, he had no option but to remain there with Luke’s breath rasping in his ear. He heard footsteps, slow, quiet and stealthy pacing, that approached along the next lane among the stores, then silence.

  “Baldwin? Are you here?”

  The sound of his friend’s voice gave a renewed vigor to his strained nerves and muscles, but the knight hoarded his energy, willing his wounded body to remain still. There was no honor in winning a coffin, and he wanted Luke captured. While the servant crouched over him, he lay as one dead.

  Hearing the steps retreat, Luke eased his grip on his prisoner’s throat and risked a careful glance all round. He could not escape through the windows, they were too high. This man, this strong, self-sufficient knight would make an admirable captive to guarantee his safety. They would surely not threaten Sir Baldwin’s life by trying to catch Luke while be could hold his hostage under the threat of instant death.

  The feet hurried toward the door, and passed outside. Baldwin was suddenly aware of the weight on his back disappearing, and then he was hauled up by a hand on the neck of his tunic. All the time the point of the blade remained unwavering at his jugular.

  “You will not make a sound, or your vein will be opened. You understand me? One move, and you die.”

  He felt a fumbling hand tugging at his buckle, and there was a lightening at his waist as his sword fell to the floor with a dull clatter. Outside, running feet passing by the door, then Simon’s voice came from a distance, calling his name. Suddenly he felt a kind of appalled despair. The shame of being snared in this way and held hostage by such a mean-spirited man was galling, but as he was pushed along, a hand clutching his tunic, the other at his throat, he knew he could do nothing. He, a strong and honorable knight, was entirely at the mercy of a mere servant. The thought made him give a bitter little smile.

  As he came toward the end of the alley, he formed his resolution. He would not step into the daylight as a prisoner. It would be better to fight, even if he was doomed to failure. He would try to strike the knife from his neck at the end of the lane and attempt to turn the tables on Luke.

  Even as he formed this resolve, as he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, he heard a quick gasp. For a moment the knife was less painfully sharp against his skin, and he took his chance. He stopped and thrust back with his shoulder, whirling, and grabbing at the knife-hand. Luke was off-balance, and his hand was knocked away easily as Baldwin tried to grab at a barrel. It moved, and he fell back, and instantly the blade was back at his neck. Luke ducked as a dark shape loomed overhead.

  There was a creaking, and a familiar voice called, “God’s teeth!” and then Baldwin saw the whole wall beside him moving. From the corner of his eye he saw the barrels slowly, but with a horrid inevitability, start to topple. Luke recognized the danger, and Baldwin felt the knife at his throat release its pressure a little. The knight grabbed Luke’s knife-hand and shoved it away, and as he did so a figure dropped to the ground beside him, catching Luke’s arm and hauling him back from Baldwin. The servant gave a short shriek, and even over the rumble of falling barrels Baldwin heard the sharp snap of breaking bone. Then his shoulder was taken in a firm hold and he was pulled to a safe distance from the collapsing wall.

  The Abbot was carried gently upstairs to his chamber, and the infirmarer was called to examine his master. Simon stood by his side as the monk inspected the man’s throat, and finally declared him to be all right, providing he rested for a couple of days. The Abbot gave him a look of gratitude. “I never expected to hear you speak again, brother. Your words are exceedingly welcome.”

  Hugh and Holcroft had bundled Lybbe and the Venetians back to their cells, and the room seemed oddly quiet after the sudden violence. When Baldwin entered, Simon led him to a chair. The knight was pale, but collected, and he cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “I’m fine, but no thanks to you!”

  His bantering tone took the sting out of his words. Simon shook his head in mock disgust. “You think I failed?”

  “I heard you shouting and yelling for me in the yard.”

  “That,” Edgar said, “was what we agreed.”

  Baldwin looked from him to the bailiff. “You agreed?”

  “I knew you were in there,” said Simon. “I heard something falling to the ground.”

  “It was my sword – he took it from me.”

  “We thought either you had your victim or he had already captured you. You didn’t call for help, so I pretended to be looking for you outside while Edgar slipped in.”

  “I thought it would be best to climb higher to see where Luke was hiding,” Edgar explained. “When I saw you, you were in the next alley, so I jumped over. Luke heard me, and glanced up, just as you turned to free yourself, and that was why he stopped dead like that. But my weight loosened the barrels, I could feel them going, so I hopped down and pulled you away.”

  Baldwin nodded, his eyes fixed on his servant. It was all said in a matter-of-fact voice, but Baldwin knew what risks Edgar had taken. He gripped Edgar’s arm. “Thank you.”

  “You saved my life once. It was nothing.”

  The Abbot cleared his throat. “Where is Luke?”

  Simon answered, “He’s having his shoulder bound in the cellar. Edgar broke his upper arm in several places, and it’s a mess. Right now Luke’s learning the meaning of the word pain, though it hardly seems worthwhile taking such care over him and getting his arm set when he’s going to end up on your gibbet.”

  “I almost regret he didn’t get crushed by a falling barrel and die in the storeroom, after all he’s done. But perhaps
it’s best that he should stand trial for his crimes so that the townspeople can all see that Jordan Lybbe is innocent. Otherwise some might look at him askance for the rest of his life. This way Luke’s guilt can be demonstrated in my court.” Champeaux closed his eyes, resting his head on the pillow. He desperately wanted a sip of wine, for his throat was on fire, and his skull felt as if a sharp dagger was slowly being inserted into each temple. The infirmarer had said it was the effect of being strangled, but all the Abbot knew was that it hurt. “I must thank you both. You have saved the reputation of the Abbey and our fair.”

  Baldwin reflected that it was typical of the man that he should thank them for saving the Abbey and its income from the fair as if they were more important than his life. But the Abbot knew the Abbey was more important, he corrected himself. The Abbey was there to save humanity: the Abbot was only a short-term tenant. For hundreds of years after Abbot Robert’s death, his Abbey would stand and flourish.

  The Abbot was speaking again, quieter, and with a contemplative sadness in his voice. “So many deaths, and all because this man Luke was trying to conceal past crimes. Yet even if he had been denounced as the robber and killer of Bayonne, it would hardly have endangered his life here. Gascony and England have their own laws. It was sheer folly to cover up his crimes there by killing a man here.”

  Baldwin gave a faint smile as he took a seat near the Abbot. “Not, perhaps, so foolish.”

  “But a crime committed in the King’s territories abroad wouldn’t be punished here.”

  “No, Abbot, but a man’s crime committed here would be.”

  “Ah, but I meant there was no need for him to try to kill Lybbe here just to hide what he had done in Bayonne,” the Abbot explained.

  “I know, but Luke was guilty of crimes here already. Do you feel well enough to listen to what happened? May I bring in witnesses? I would not ask while you are recovering, but a man lies in prison unjustly.”

  “If it is a matter of justice, I have a duty to listen to whatever evidence you have.”