The Abbot's Gibbet aktm-5

by Michael Jecks

  “A curious trophy,” Antonio mused.

  “I expect you saw the dead man yourself, sir,” Simon continued, thinking of Elias’ words. “He was in the tavern at the same time as you.”

  Antonio shrugged. “The tavern? Which tavern?”

  “The one on the way to the fair. You were there, weren’t you? Torre was the man you barged into as you left,” Baldwin said, and was surprised when the old Venetian stared at him with suspicion.

  “Do you suggest that I was involved in this dreadful act, Sir Baldwin?”

  The Abbot interrupted soothingly. “The knight suggested nothing, Antonio. He was merely commenting that you might yourself have seen the man.”

  “Has the man confessed yet?”

  “No,” said Baldwin, returning to his food. Looking up, he noticed a strange expression on the Abbot’s face as he watched Antonio: suspicion mixed with a certain hardness. As Champeaux caught his eye, his face relaxed once more into genial hospitality. “More wine, Sir Baldwin?”

  “Thank you.” Baldwin waved the bottler on to Jeanne, whose goblet was almost empty. He was intrigued by the look on the Abbot’s face. It evidently betrayed some inner concern, but what that concern could be, he had no idea. Then he recalled that Roger Torre had made allegations against the Abbot just before he died. It was hardly conceivable that Robert Champeaux himself could have been involved in the murder, but he could have come to hear about it – there was always the confessional. That made him think of the monk. Baldwin found himself surreptitiously watching Champeaux and the novice Peter.

  Antonio was eager for any information about the murder, but that was no surprise. In Baldwin’s experience any murder attracted great public interest, and when it was as bizarre as this, with a decapitated corpse and a head found hidden in a vegetable garden, any man would be keen to know all the details. When he glanced over at Jeanne, however, he saw that the talk was offending her.

  She sat stiffly as the discussion ranged over the mystery, rarely looking his way. It made Baldwin a little sad. He had thought she was interested in him when they had first met, but now she concentrated on her food and rarely even glanced in his direction. The knight saw her eyes flit quickly toward Margaret, and then he understood. He had been aware for over a year of the solicitous marriage planning on his behalf which the bailiff’s wife had undertaken. It was as plain as a battle-axe in a church that she had decided the knight had found his mate; intuitively, he guessed that for her part, Jeanne de Liddinstone was fearful of being paired again so soon after losing her husband.

  But she was very attractive, the ideal vision of a knightly lady. And the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, the coy manner she had of peeping at someone from the corner of her eye, her intenseness when she listened, head set to one side as if he was the only person in the room, all made her desirable. That she was young and healthy merely added to her allure.

  Looking up, she saw his expression, and he was about to glance away, embarrassed to be discovered studying her, when she smiled, and suddenly he did not mind Margaret preening herself at the other side of the table.

  He was startled from his thoughts by the Abbot leaning toward him. “Sir Baldwin, would you like to arrange to come hunting with me?”

  “Yes, indeed – but do you not have other duties with the fair? It would be kind of you, but surely you have enough to do without seeing to the comfort of a wandering guest?”

  Champeaux shrugged. “My life is one of constant toil with God’s work: Opus Dei. Yet if tomorrow I have to celebrate our founding saint, I can take time the day after to relax. There’s little enough for me to do, in any case. The fair runs itself, with the port-reeve taking most of the burden, so all I am expected to do is wait here in case I’m needed, and usually on the third day of the fair I’m not. It’s too quiet. Will you join me?”

  “I would be delighted, Abbot.”

  “Then that’s settled.”

  The meal ended soon afterward. Compline was not for another hour, but the Abbot had many duties to attend to. As his guests prepared to leave, Baldwin found himself alone with Jeanne. Simon and Margaret pointedly waited at the door, looking at him.

  He could not simply walk away as if she did not exist. “My lady, I… er…”

  Once he began, he had no idea how to continue. Aware of the interested expression on Edgar’s face, he found himself coloring, and felt a rush of irritation. He was a knight trained in warfare. All over the known world he had travelled without fear, purely because of his prowess with lance and sword; yet now he was flustered, embarrassed and nervous simply because of a woman. It was insufferable.

  But of all the knightly skills, the one he needed most now was the one in which he had never been instructed. Squires were taught courtly manners and how to behave with women, but he had learned his knightly skills as a warrior monk. There had been no place for the soft art of courtship when he had taken his vows.

  Jeanne saw his pain. “Sir Baldwin?”

  “Lady, I wanted to… er…” He wanted to apologize if she had felt pressured, to make her know that he held her in high regard. Yet to say so would imply that she had felt such pressure, and what if she had not? Suddenly he was hemmed in with doubts. “Lady, I…” Then inspiration struck. “Would you like to walk for a little? The evening is clear and warm, and I would be honored to accompany you, if you wouldn’t feel my company to be boring.”

  She glanced at the door. Antonio and Pietro stood talking, openly watching her. Near them were Simon and Margaret. The bailiff’s wife wore a look of approval, and Jeanne saw her give a quick nod as if in encouragement. It decided her. “I fear I would feel the cold.”

  Instantly she saw the sadness, and loneliness in his eyes as he nodded gravely. “I understand. I will not trouble you again.”

  “But if I could send someone to fetch my cloak, I should be all right, shouldn’t I?” she said quickly, and was surprised at her own pleasure at the thought.

  Baldwin could not prevent himself standing a little more erect with pride as he walked with her to the door. Then he became aware of his servant at his shoulder. “Um, Edgar? I think you may leave me. I shall not need you.”

  Edgar looked at him blankly. He disliked leaving Baldwin unprotected. But as his master stepped out of the room and Edgar heard his steps echoing along the passage and out of the building, he shrugged. There could be little enough danger from the pretty widow, and what danger there was, Baldwin would be certain to enjoy.

  14

  At the fairground, Jordan Lybbe bundled up the last of his goods and tossed them into his makeshift shed. Hankin leaned against the pole supporting the roof with his arms crossed. His work done for the day, he was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open, and Lybbe gave him a friendly clout over the shoulders. “Don’t worry, boy! You can soon shut your eyes and get some sleep. Stay in there tonight. When you wake up I’ll have your breakfast ready.”

  He watched the lad affectionately. Hankin was only ten years old. Lybbe had saved him when his parents had died of a fever, over in Gascony. The town had been unwilling to take on an orphan, and it had been difficult for the English boy in a strange land with no friends. He had become like a son to the lonely Lybbe.

  As Hankin went inside with the cloths and made himself a bed of rugs on the grass, Lybbe stood and breathed in the clear evening air.

  A breeze flapped the pennants and flags, whipping away the thin gray coils of smoke from the fires out behind the ground where the tents and wagons stood. Fires might be illegal within the fairground itself, but men still needed to keep warm. The wind brought the tang of burning faggots with it, and hints of cooking, making Lybbe’s empty stomach rumble. Although it was chilly, it was a relief after the heat of the day. The coldness reminded the merchant of his youth here in the town.

  He stood in the alleyway between the stalls and stared up at the heavens. The sky was a deep blue, with a thick sprinkling of stars shimmering and dancing high above. Lybb
e was not given to contemplation, but when he saw those glittering specks, the thousands upon thousands of pin-pricks of light high overhead, he felt an awe and reverence for God.

  Slowly he began to make his way toward the town. The fair was quiet now, but just beyond its ditch were small groups sitting at fires, warming their hands and chatting easily about the day’s business. At this time of evening, all the customers had gone and the only people remaining within the perimeter were the stallholders or their guards. After standing all day and shouting their wares, most were exhausted, and needed to rest their feet and throats. They drank from pots of ale or cider, talking in muted voices as they stared wearily at the flames, preparing for the night. Lybbe knew a few, and called out to them as he passed, feeling again the gratitude that among so many visitors he would be unlikely to be recognized, especially with his beard. He looked nothing like the youth who had been forced to leave after the murders.

  At the entrance to the fairground he paused. Lybbe had expected to find Elias waiting, but the cook was nowhere to be seen. There was no hurry. Lybbe found a log to sit on in the darkness under a low eave and folded his arms contentedly.

  Elias had been shocked to find Lybbe back in Tavistock. The last time they had met, Lybbe had been a fugitive, an outlaw, and Elias had given him food and a bed while they planned how to effect his escape – the only alternative was the rope. That had been almost twenty years ago now, and Lybbe had been surprised by the force of the emotion he had felt when he had once more entered his town, the place he had known as home.

  Once he had got over his initial disbelief, Elias had been effusive in his welcome, insisting on purchasing ever more ale, but Lybbe had an aversion to drinking too much. He was nervous of talking too loudly or unwarily, and knew how ale could loosen tongues.

  It had alarmed him when the watchmen had attacked him. He had assumed they were seeking him out for his crimes; it was only as they pounced that he realized they wanted to scare him after his refusal to submit to their extortion. In any case, Jordan Lybbe had a loathing for men who tried to coerce others into giving up their goods for no reason. He had put up with enough of that before, and wouldn’t accept it any more.

  He found it worrying that Elias was late. After a separation of twenty years, he would have expected punctuality. There was so much still to talk about. Probably it was the horror of the previous night catching up with him, he thought.

  Elias had been terrified. That was why Jordan had sent the cook away before he had swapped clothes with the man – and before he had hewn off the head. Elias wouldn’t have been able to cope with that. It couldn’t hurt the dead man, but it could protect him, Lybbe.

  Hearing steps, he glanced quickly down the street, but it was a couple. Peering, he recognized one of the women who had witnessed the attack on him.

  Baldwin did not know Lybbe, and had all his attention fixed on the woman at his side. Jeanne was giggling at a quip from him, and Lybbe smiled at their self-absorption. It was good to see two people so happy in each other’s company.

  To the knight, the fair was not as impressive as one of the huge ones in London or Winchester, but it was not so daunting either. The fairs at Smithfield and St. Giles were massive, attracting so many people they were quite fearful to the country knight. He sought a quiet and restful life, and Tavistock was better suited to his tastes.

  There were a few people still wandering among the little lanes and alleys, and Baldwin kept his sword-hand free. It had been drummed into him continually while undergoing his training that he should always be ready to defend himself and others who might need his aid, and with so many strangers in the town he felt a vague unease without his servant near to hand.

  “You have never been married?” she asked.

  “No. I spent my youth in Outremer, in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and then in Cyprus and Paris. I only returned to England four or five years ago when my brother died and left the estates to me. Before that I was without a lord or master of any sort – marriage was out of the question.”

  “You could have married when you returned.”

  “There has never been the time. As soon as I came back, I was asked to become the Keeper of the King’s Peace, and since then I have had little time to seek out a wife.”

  She threw a quick look at him from the corner of her eye. The idea that this knight should have been so continually occupied that he had no time left to find a woman was preposterous. He was a knight; he could make time to do anything he wanted.

  “It wasn’t only that, though,” he confessed, seeing her shrewd glance. “I am not a youthful knight, am I? Women expect young, chivalrous admirers, not hardened old warriors with few graces like me.”

  She gave him a look of mock disgust. “Oh, Sir Knight, you’re right! You are so ancient and grizzled, how could any maid look upon you except with pity?”

  “You see? Even you can’t treat me seriously,” he grumbled, but there was a vein of sadness in his expression which gave rise to a feeling of tenderness in her breast.

  She tried to quash it as soon as she was aware of it, reminding herself that she did not need this man, and if he was still alone after so long, he must be dull indeed, but his loneliness touched her. “I am surprised you weren’t married when you were younger. Have you given up all hope of finding a wife?”

  “It was not possible. At first there was the distraction of war, then the long process of recovery and at last the poverty of being a lordless outcast.”

  Jeanne looked up at him. The starlight was kind to him, smoothing out the lines of pain and making him look younger. His hair gleamed in the gray light, giving him an air of quiet dignity, but there was suffering in his voice when he talked about his past. She couldn’t understand what made him so bitter, but she’d seen impoverished knights, as had everyone in Europe. All over Christendom there were knights who had lost their lords, whether from arguments, or because their masters had died, or for some other reason. Once they were without a home, they became wanderers, without income or patron, and with no source of food or even a bed. They were sad men, often proud and haughty beneath their dishevelled exterior, who had been struck down by a quirk of fate. Many resorted to villainy, robbing to live.

  Jeanne had never considered them before, but now found herself wondering how these knights survived. How would her own dead husband have reacted if he had not been able to inherit his lands and money but had been forced to seek a new master, only to find that his new lord was bested in battle, or killed, or died of a fever, and the son was not keen on keeping his father’s old retainers? She had little doubt that her husband would have taken to the woods, become a renegade and outlaw, and died young, hanging ignominiously from a tree. The thought made her shudder.

  At once Baldwin was solicitous. “Are you cold? Would you like to return?”

  “No, Sir Baldwin, I am fine, really. Please, tell me about your home – about Furnshill.”

  His voice softened. “It is an old house, long and narrow, on the side of a hill. There are woods behind and to either side, and a stream which starts from the ground near the house. I have good farmland, with several vills and bartons, and the villeins keep the house filled with food even when they have taken enough for themselves. On a clear day, I can sit before my threshold and look out over the hills for miles, and see almost nothing except trees and my fields.”

  “I should like to see it.”

  He glanced across, surprised. “Would you? You would be very welcome. I shall ask Simon to bring you the next time he comes, if you wish.”

  “That would be very pleasant,” she said.

  “And what of yourself? A woman like you could find another husband with ease.”

  His boldness made her stammer. “Me? I… It is good of you to say so, but there are many widows, and more young women. Why should a man look to a woman of nine-and-twenty when he has his pick of younger ones? Anyway, I am content.”

  Baldwin was about to answer when he not
iced another couple. To his surprise he recognized the young monk and a girl; a maidservant stood nearby, clucking with disapproval. “I think we might have happened on a sad event,” he murmured as they approached.

  Avice was staggered at the effrontery. “You would like to marry me? You? And where would you have me live – in the gatehouse with the other guests?”

  “No, my lady, I will find us a house. It needn’t be too large for only we two.”

  “Oh yes? And how will you, sworn to poverty, buy food for us to live on? If your Abbot allows you to live outside the Abbey… Can he do that?”

  “But it is arranged! I haven’t taken the vows yet. My Abbot has agreed that I may leave the Abbey,” Peter said desperately, confused by her rejection. He could not have mistaken her feelings, not when her smile at him had been so kind and sweet earlier that morning. She must be displaying anger because her maid was there, he reasoned. “All I have to do is tell the Abbot when I am to leave.”

  “You may leave the Abbey when you like if you are so incontinent you may not swear to chastity, but don’t expect me to accept poverty for no reason. The thought of it! Quitting my home to live in a hovel like a peasant!”

  “Leave us a moment,” Peter said to the maid.

  Avice stamped her foot. “Let her alone! She’s my servant, and if I wish her to go away, I will order her, not some impecunious monk!”

  Avice was aggrieved that this scrawny little clerk should dare to embarrass her in front of Susan. Although she had proudly boasted to Pietro earlier that she had won the heart of the monk, she’d not realized her victory had been so complete. When she’d said that he would give up his service to God, she had been trying to make the Venetian jealous, nothing more. To be confronted with the adoration of the pasty-faced cleric was alarming; no, more than that – it was fearful. What would happen to her soul if she were to tempt a monk from his vocation, she wondered distractedly. The thought lent venom to her voice. “Leave me alone, I don’t want to see you again.”