The Abbot's Gibbet aktm-5

by Michael Jecks

  Peter dithered in the street. He knew he shouldn’t be here, but after hurrying back to tell the Abbot about the head, Champeaux had sent him off to find Baldwin, and he was dawdling on his way. He had much to consider.

  His vows were to be made soon, and after that he would be committed to God. Once he had entered the gates of the Abbey that last time, he would be lost to the world. From then on, he would no longer be of the material, corporal world, but part of God’s kingdom. His body would have been left at the Abbey gates; only his soul would enter.

  All he had ever wanted was to be a man of God, but now secular interests were distracting him.

  The monks of the Abbey were a mixed bunch, ranging from the completely other-worldly, whom he could hardly understand as their thoughts were so concentrated on the life to come, to the frankly dishonest. These last consorted flagrantly with the people of the town, chatting to them through the Abbey’s gates when they could, and sharing ale and gossip; some of them dallied in alehouses and taverns when they should have been at their work. It confused the young man, whose vision before coming to Tavistock had been of a dedicated community serving God and God alone. Here, under the relaxed management of Abbot Champeaux, the monks appeared to work as hard to earn money as they did to earn their place in Heaven.

  No matter how often he tried to tell himself that the behavior of the others was irrelevant, that it was for him to live as he knew he should, looking to the future in Heaven, interceding for the people of the world, and praying for those who had already died that they might be granted entry to Heaven and not hurled into the pit – he sometimes had doubts.

  He had been told that doubts were necessary. It was only through facing doubts that a man of God could recognize his own failings and come to that state of grace in which he could serve his Lord fully. One had to confront one’s weaknesses before one could give up the world and live solely to pray and save souls.

  But Peter was assailed by doubts of a virulent nature. He had thought that his weakness was his laziness, that he might find himself unable to wake in the middle of the night for the service of nocturns, or, worse, might fall asleep in the middle of them. This dull aching desire was something he had never considered.

  Yet it was there, and now it appeared to be taking over his entire concentration. Where before there had been only the bittersweet adoration of his God, now he found his thoughts always turning from his duties toward the gorgeous, scented figure of Avice Pole.

  He shook his head harshly, like a dog drying itself. This was all wrong. He was about to dedicate his life to God, and every time he tried to consider the great burden he was taking on, Avice Pole’s face insidiously intruded. The way that she held her head, the way she walked, the slight narrowing of her eyes as her mouth widened in a grin, all were indelibly printed on his mind, and he was finding it harder and harder to shake them free.

  A door opened, and he felt an overwhelming urge to flee as he recognized Avice, as if she was sent to lure him from his vocation.

  She came out with a maidservant – and she looked at him with a kindly warmth.

  Peter felt his heart dissolve into molten lead. It was heavy with longing, burning with lust for this woman. For a moment he wondered whether the stabbing agony was proof of his own death, but then the instant red-hot flush that scorched his cheeks made him realize that dying would be preferable. It would not be so embarrassing.

  Avice stifled a giggle. Her maid clucked with disapproval, but the girl could see nothing wrong with talking to a monk, especially one who was so obviously tongue-tied with adolescent yearning for her. He was endearing, she thought. Like a puppy.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Peter swallowed. He felt as if a large stone had materialized at the base of his throat. All he could manage was a grunt.

  She began to walk, her eyes on him the whole way, and as if hauled along by a rope, he found himself trailing beside her, half unwillingly, half drunk with pride that she should want him to join her.

  At home she was used to lovers who waited hopefully outside her door. That the monk might have been simply walking past with no knowledge that she lived there did not occur to her. Avice assumed, not vainly, but simply as a matter of logic, that he must have been waiting to see her, and she was determined to repay him for the compliment. She talked kindly to him, prattling about the excitement of the fair, telling him of her purchases and what she must still look for, and he drank in her words like a wine, and was drunk with admiration for her.

  Avice had no idea how total was his ardor. She had grown up in Plymouth, where there were many young men, and she was used to their adoration. In the small town there were no competitors to her beauty matched with her father’s wealth. To her, it was merely a whim that she should reward his worship. She had no realization that a few words from her could cause him to reconsider his vocation, that over the space of a few short yards she would convince him that he could not renounce the world and hide from such tender beauty as she possessed. If she had understood the turmoil in his heart, she might have relented and been curt to him, as a kindness. But she could not appreciate how a young man’s desires could be lighted; still less that a monk was a man, possibly a man of even more passion than the weak, vapid youths of her home town.

  Peter was fired with adoration. He would give up his cloth, leave the monastery and become an ordinary man: he would marry this woman.

  For Avice it was all the more gratifying to receive his attentions because he was a monk. If even a man of God should recognize her beauty, she felt in her youthful arrogance, she must be destined for a great marriage. She couldn’t possibly wed John, he was a slob. He had no understanding of art or beauty. No, Avice must find a husband with whom she could create a dynasty. With that gratifying thought her mind turned once more to Pietro.

  She was resolved to marry him. She was convinced that he and his father were rich, and that her mother could not object to the match when she saw the true value of the Venetians’ estates. For Avice it was irrelevant. Pietro appreciated her – something of which John was incapable.

  They were approaching the tavern. Avice remembered the place with fondness, now that the mistake of the previous evening was cleared up. She could recall the doubt and upset while sitting there for so long, waiting and waiting for Pietro to arrive, and then realizing he wasn’t going to. It had been terrible – the worst night of her life. But his apologies had been so fulsome this morning that she had forgiven him.

  She could just make out his figure standing opposite the tavern, and she smiled inwardly. Peter mistook her expression as being on his behalf, and he sighed happily. This, he thought, was the woman for him. She was so kind, so soft and gentle, she would be the perfect wife, an angel on earth. When he was ill, her cool hand would caress his brow; when he was well, she would be a staunch friend and the mother of his children.

  He was reflecting happily on his fortune in finding so wonderfully beautiful a mate when he saw the Venetian. The monk was feeling a spark of irritation that the foreigner should interrupt his walk with his woman, when his muse gave a small gasp of delight, and his dreams shrivelled in the heat of his dismay: he had a competitor, a man who was not sworn to chastity. In that second Peter made the decision that would change his life.

  Avice hurried forward, her steps light now as she saw her man, and her maid had to collect her skirts in her hands to keep pace. Peter halted, his belly churning.

  “My lady, I am honored to meet you again,” Pietro said softly. “May I join you?”

  “No, you mayn’t,” her maid declared hotly. “She doesn’t talk to every foreigner in the town, not when she doesn’t know them.”

  “Don’t worry,” Avice said, her eyes fixed on her lover. “He has met my parents. Father let me walk with him this morning.”

  Her maid muttered darkly, but dared not gainsay her charge. She knew perfectly well that her lady could have a will of steel when it pleased her.

  P
ietro glanced behind her. “Who is the little monk?” he asked patronizingly.

  His tone stirred her caprice. She turned and waved. “He is an admirer of mine, no mere monk. I may marry him.”

  “Marry him? A monk?” he sniggered.

  His amusement stung. “Monk he may be, but he would give it all up for me.”

  “Oh? And what of the noble John?”

  “Him?” she said scornfully. “He revolts me. He’s a fool, a buffoon. My mother likes him because he is related to a lord, but he is nothing to me. No, I will not marry him. But a young monk? What better proof of devotion could there be, than that a man should give up his religion, his life, everything for his woman? I think he is rather noble.”

  “You think so?” Pietro studied her smiling face. It had been bad enough to hear that she was betrothed to a squire, but her denial persuaded him. Yet now she asserted her passion for a feeble monk! He looked back at Peter, suddenly filled with an unreasoning hatred. No boy would come between him and Avice, he resolved. If he was prepared to renounce his calling for a woman, he was no monk, and his cloth wouldn’t protect him.

  Avice saw his stare, and felt convinced that this man would fight for her if he had to. It was deliciously stirring – and pleasurable.

  Abbot Champeaux bowed, smiling, as the Venetian walked from his hall, but by the time he had returned to his table his face had become thoughtful. Cammino’s idea was interesting, he acknowledged. His proposal to export the wool from the Abbey’s flocks by galley instead of slow cogs could well increase their profits. The Venetians with their fast vessels could move it over the Channel to France in half the time – if the weather was good enough – and Antonio appeared keen to form a close alliance with the Abbey, promising loans at low rates if he won this deal.

  Yet Antonio da Commino was the very kind of man Champeaux had learned to distrust. The Venetian appeared to have few opinions of his own; he molded his every word to suit his prospective partner, and Champeaux had the feeling that if he was to say that all merchants and bankers should be hung and drawn, the other would wholeheartedly agree.

  The Venetian had made a great play of his contacts, giving the name of the Bishop of Exeter as someone who could confirm his probity and integrity. Perhaps, Abbot Champeaux mused, Antonio had expected to be taken purely at his word; perhaps an Abbot should trust to a man’s honor – but Champeaux was too wily in matters of business. Something had struck him as false, and as he already had a man going to Exeter, he had sent a message to Stapledon to confirm Antonio’s credentials. The reply lay on his table. Stapledon’s steward apologized that the Bishop was away, and denied any knowledge of a Venetian called Cammino. The Bishop had never, to his knowledge, had any dealings with such a man. Abbot Champeaux was forced to conclude that he was the target of a trick. It made him determined not to accept the Venetian’s offer.

  The Abbot stared up through the window toward the west. The sky was purple and golden above the hill, an impossible mixture of colors, and once again he thanked God that his predecessors had chosen to have the Abbey’s precincts facing westward instead of east. He knew it was because of the flow of the river and the lie of the land, all logical, sensible reasons, and all unutterably mundane, but they gave him this magnificent view of the setting sun, and for that he was enormously grateful.

  Robert Champeaux had much to be grateful for. He had a good, thriving Abbey, excellent farmland, a prosperous borough, and the conviction that he would be viewed as a patron of the Abbey after his death, which was an honor he had struggled to achieve all his life as Abbot.

  The Abbot had always wanted to leave his mark on the Abbey. To him it was a sacred enterprise, one which required all his efforts. The Abbey was a crucial part of the fight against evil, an essential fort in the spiritual conflict, and he intended leaving it in so strong a position that it would last for a thousand years. That was his legacy to Tavistock: a religious institution that would rival the best and strongest in Christendom. If he could have his way, he would like to be remembered on the same basis as one of the founders of the Abbey.

  That was why Holcroft’s words had unsettled him. It was inconceivable that a monk could attack and rob a man, but Champeaux had evidence from a reliable witness, and as the arbiter of justice in the town, he couldn’t ignore what he’d been told. He knew of Will Ruby; the butcher was known as a decent man by all who passed his shop. It would be different if the allegation had been made by a feckless individual like Elias, but when a man like Ruby spoke, only a fool would ignore his words. If Ruby said that a monk had robbed him, unpalatable though that news might be, the townspeople would think it was true, and that could be enough to cause a riot.

  Champeaux stood and wandered over to the window, frowning. He must tell the bailiff and his friend, no matter how potentially dangerous the information could be. If they were to come across the story later, they would be justified in being suspicious about his motives for concealing such important evidence. It was distasteful, but necessary.

  His decision made, he returned to his desk and sat. His musings were interrupted by a monk tapping at his door. It opened to reveal Margaret and Jeanne.

  Margaret had left Hugh to transport their purchases to their chamber next to the Abbot’s hall. The servant had said nothing, merely turned and shuffled off with his load like a long-suffering donkey, but Margaret refused to be influenced by his mood. Jeanne had made some good recommendations, and between them, the two women had overloaded Hugh with materials bought at great discount from the curious trader.

  The Abbot was at first baffled by their torrent of chatter. “Ladies, please, one at a time,” he protested as they burst out with the story of their adventure.

  Jeanne dropped into a seat as Margaret explained what had happened to them. Now she had a chance to collect herself, Jeanne found her humor falling away like a cloak. She had an irrational loathing for the stallholder: irrational because he had been protecting himself and his goods, and it was the right and duty of any man to protect himself and his property. Yet something about him as he had stood in that vengeful pose had fired a hatred within her, as if it had stirred an ancient memory.

  Robert Champeaux greeted Margaret’s story with appalled astonishment. It seemed impossible that such an overt attack could have been perpetrated during his fair. As she finished reciting her tale, he found he had to close his mouth; it had fallen wide open in his dismay. “But… are you both all right? You were neither of you hurt?”

  “No, no, Abbot,” Jeanne said gaily. “We were fine, it was only the two trail-bastons who were hurt – and their friends, I suppose, if only in their pride.”

  “This is dreadful,” the Abbot insisted. “That men should dare to commit acts of such outlawry, and during the fair too – where were the watchmen?”

  Margaret threw a quick glance at Jeanne. The widow was about to speak when Baldwin and Simon entered.

  Simon greeted his wife with a suspicious narrowing of his eyes. She looked too cheerful for his purse to have been undamaged after her foray into the fair. Margaret interpreted the look and grinned broadly. “No, I spent less than you would have expected, husband, but only because of the attack.”

  “Attack?” Baldwin asked sharply. “What happened?”

  His face registered his shock as he heard their tale. Simon merely dropped into a seat and nodded. “I’ve seen Hugh in action before.”

  “Is that all you can say?” Baldwin demanded. “This is terrible! What if Jeanne or Margaret had been hurt?”

  Margaret heard the order of the names and glanced at her new friend. To her pleasure she saw that the widow too had noticed.

  Simon shrugged. “When you’re raised as a farmer out in the wilds, you soon learn how to fight. Hugh was trained by protecting his sheep from wolves on four and two legs. If he ran, his father would beat him, so getting into a fight was at least a way of avoiding a thrashing. He learned how to fight well, and not to lose. I pity the man who tries to harm
him while he’s got a weapon of any sort to hand.”

  “And you are sure you’re both all right?” Baldwin asked the two women.

  “Yes, we’re fine,” Jeanne said. Margaret knew there was no need for her to answer.

  “You say this merchant sold you his goods at a low price?” Simon pressed relentlessly. “Does that mean you spent less, or that you bought so much more that you ended up losing all your money?”

  “We spent little, especially when you see what we bought,” Margaret beamed.

  “And you, Sir Baldwin,” Jeanne added, “will soon have a new tunic and cloak.”

  “A new tunic and cloak?”

  He looked so crestfallen that even the Abbot burst out with a guffaw. “Sir Baldwin, how could you refuse new clothing from two such kind patrons?”

  “With difficulty.”

  “I fear I will have little to do with it,” Margaret said. “Jeanne wishes to do all the work herself.”

  Simon saw the quick look Jeanne gave his wife and correctly surmised that this was news to her, but he was also pleased to see that she appeared more than happy with the offer. “Yes, Sir Knight, if you will allow me, I would like to.”

  “I would be honored, my lady,” he said self-consciously.

  The Abbot was still considering the problem at the fair. “Where were the watchmen when these men committed this outrage? I will have to make sure that the men on duty are punished for allowing this.”

  “Don’t be too hard on them,” Baldwin said as he sat near Jeanne. “How many hundreds of stalls are there here? You have people from all over the kingdom and over the sea visiting your town. Do not be surprised that there is a minor incident.”

  “You are right, especially since there is a more serious matter to attend to. You found the head, Peter tells me,” the Abbot said slowly, “but it belonged to the man called Roger Torre.”

  “Yes. The head was buried in Elias’ garden, but we still have no idea why Torre should have been killed. We have arrested the cook.”