“But lady, I…”
“I wouldn’t think of having you for my husband if you were the only man in Christendom, not if you were wealthy beyond equal, not if you were a king. To shame me in the street like this! No, go! Leave me alone, and never speak to me again.”
She swept on; the monk stared after her, his mouth open with utter dismay, but she didn’t look back. Uppermost in her mind was the long prayer she would have to say before retiring to bed, and the apology and confession she must offer to the priest at her next Mass. She was shocked, horrified, that the silly boy could think she would be prepared to give up her life and become his wife. “Who does he think he is?”
“He thought he was the man you loved,” said Susan curtly.
“Don’t answer me back! Keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll see to it that you leave my father’s house.”
“It was your flirting that ensnared the boy, not my words. If you want to snap at someone, bite she who caused your troubles – you!”
“Be quiet!”
Susan shrugged, but without concern. She knew her mistress was making an empty threat; she would not give up her maid, not that she had much choice. No matter how much her father wanted to please her, he knew Susan had been picked by his wife, and Arthur would not risk offending Marion just to satisfy his daughter’s caprice.
As the boy hurried past, Baldwin called to him. “Peter? Are you well?”
Peter’s visage was a picture of devastation. He stared without recognition at the knight, backing away, his mouth moving but no words coming. Suddenly he spun round and fled off, straight up the hill away from the town.
Baldwin made as if to run after him, but Jeanne laid a hand on his arm. “Leave him. I think he has a degree of pain and suffering that no words can heal.”
“But what could have caused it?” Baldwin asked.
Jeanne motioned toward Avice’s speedily disappearing back. “I think you need ask her that. It was she who talked to him just now, and surely she must know what has cut his heart in two.”
Baldwin stood a moment undecided. “What could a young girl have said to have wounded a monk so grievously?”
“I can think of a few.”
“That is hardly likely, surely.”
She made an exasperated gesture with her hand. “A young man is a young man, whether he wears the clerical garb or not. Just because he has a black habit doesn’t mean he can’t feel the same lusts as a normal boy.”
“But a monk!” Baldwin fell silent, deep in thought. He could remember a time when he was younger, recuperating in Cyprus. There had been a girl to tempt him then, and the anguish he had endured after giving her up was painful to recall. “I suppose he is a novice still and has not taken his vows.”
“Perhaps. But I think it would be more pleasant to go home the way we came rather than following after either of them, don’t you?”
Baldwin stared up the street as if seeking the monk, and nodded.
Hugo left the last of the revellers and walked back to the little house where he had lodging. It had not been a fruitful evening. Whenever he had seen a possible new theme for a sermon, the killing intruded on his mind, and the face in the tavern. It was frustrating – and worrying – and he prayed for guidance as he walked up the hill.
A short way from the fairground, he saw two women approach. He did not recognize Avice, although her face seemed familiar to him, but when he saw the cowled figure that hurried from the shadows toward her, he was surprised. It was a young monk, who addressed the women with apparent familiarity. Avice clapped her hands with delight and allowed him to join her.
Hugo watched, stunned, as the three passed by him. No monk should be so familiar with a woman. There were no lights here, not with the strictures for safety imposed by the watch, but the three passed close enough for the friar to recognize Pietro’s face, and Hugo felt the chill of horror.
A lad who could steal a Benedictine habit and wear it in public, laughing as he polluted it by wooing a girl, was capable of anything.
Elias sat in his cell and wrapped himself in the rough blanket the watchman had sold him. The cell was a mere ten feet square, and Elias had been in it once before. That was twelve years ago now, when he had been found selling pies containing meat that had gone off, and he had spent a morning in the clink before being hauled off to the pillory, where the “putrid, stinking and abominable meat” pies were burned beneath his nose. It was a salutary lesson for a young cook, and had ruined his business for some months.
It was not a serious crime. He had known as soon as he was caught exactly what would happen. It was a common enough sight to see a baker, cook or brewer being locked in the pillory for a day after adulterating their produce with cheap ingredients, or some which had gone bad. He’d known the risk and accepted it, because the pigeons had been too expensive to simply throw away, and he hadn’t expected anyone to realize there was anything wrong with them – he’d used his spices more liberally than usual to disguise the rotten meat. It had been typical of his luck that a couple of youngsters and a woman had been ill after eating them.
But he couldn’t fool himself that he would get away with a day in the pillory or stocks with this. Why Lybbe had decided to hide the head in his garden he couldn’t understand. It was madness! Yet he realized Lybbe might not have known where else to hide it. He’d not been to Tavistock for many years, and wouldn’t have wished to wander round the town hunting for a suitable cache.
Outside he occasionally heard the steady tramp of boots as the guard walked past, and the man’s shadow crept along the inner wall of his prison thrown by a blazing torch on the building opposite. It was one of only a few kept lighted to make escape difficult. Elias could see the market-place outside in his mind’s eye. It was a large area, roughly triangular, where the tinners regularly came to coign their metal and buy provisions. He’d always viewed it as a pleasant part of town, even after his previous confinement; it always seemed so busy and bustling.
His head drooped. He had done nothing wrong, but he was to stand trial for murder. He had no doubt of that after seeing the grim expression on Baldwin’s face. It was unjust, unfair, but he knew life was often both. Shivering, he pulled the blanket tighter round his shoulders and pessimistically considered his future.
One thing he was determined on: he would not betray Jordan. In all likelihood it would do no good. It would only mean that both would hang. There was no point in dragging Jordan in and seeing him die too. Elias was a realist, and knew that Lybbe had no chance of escape if he should be called before a judge or coroner. That was the irony of the whole affair, his only protector was the one man he could not call, the only one who was in mortal danger should he be discovered. In any case, his word would be disbelieved, so his alibi for Elias could not help.
At the sound of scratching, he tutted and huddled deeper into his blanket. It was just his luck to have to share his cell with a rat. The scratching came again, and he jerked awake. At the barred window was an indistinct, crouching shape. Elias could just make out the head of a man. “What?” he asked irritably. “You want to gloat at a man’s misery, do you? Bugger off! Leave me al…”
There was a low chuckle, and he felt the skin on his neck stand vertical. “What are you doing here? God’s teeth, Jordan! What if someone sees you?”
“Hush! Nobody’ll see me. What are you doing here? I thought you’d been waylaid when you didn’t turn up. I’ve only just heard you were taken by the watchmen.”
“They found the head.”
Lybbe felt the breath freezing in his chest. “They found it? Christ’s blood!”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I’ll…”
“You’ll what? You mustn’t die on my account, Elias. Oh, Good God, how can You let this happen?”
Elias gave a wry smile at the bitter tone of voice. “He didn’t; you did. If you want someone to blame, blame yourself for putting the damned thing in my garden.”
“I must surrender
myself. Admit to what I did and explain why.”
“You think that’ll help us? This is England, Jordan, not some wonderful place like the preachers talk about, where there’s justice and fairness for all and no one can be hanged and quartered on a whim.”
“I can’t let you die without trying to save you, Elias.”
“You can’t do anything, ” the cook pointed out wearily. “If you confess to what you did, they’ll hold you too, and when we go before the judge, we’ll both be hanged. What good would that do? Leave me to my fate. At least if I say nothing, they’ll have to prove me to be a liar. Find me a lawyer and get him to stand and defend me. That’s the best thing you can do.”
“I can’t leave you there alone to hang in my place!”
“If you give yourself up, we’ll both hang anyway. At least this way it’s only one of us. Think of your mother, Jordan. What would she have preferred?”
“She was your mother too, Elias!”
“I know. Would she want both her sons to die, or just one so that the other can live? I’m not sacrificing myself, Jordan, I’m doing the only thing which makes sense.”
“They’ll rot in Hell for this, I swear.” Lybbe fingered the hard wooden grip of the dagger at his belt.
“Do nothing, Jordan. Don’t put yourself in danger again, not for me. What would be the point? Just find me a lawyer so that I can defend myself.”
“I will, but I – someone’s coming!”
“Go, go now! And don’t come back. Nobody knows who you are yet, so you’re safe. If you come back you could be seen, and then where would we be? Go, in God’s name, and leave me alone!”
Lybbe slipped silently into the shadows as the feet approached, and retreated around the wall. As soon as he was out of sight, he darted over the road and hid in a gloomy alley.
Peering cautiously round the corner, he saw a monk striding purposefully up the road. The man had his hood over his head, and Jordan was surprised. Most went with their heads bare in the warmth of late summer. There was something else that looked incongruous, but before he could put his finger on it, the figure had hurried away.
He was about to go back to see his brother when he heard more steps approaching. This time he saw the heavy-set figure of a watchman. He heard the man snort, hawk and spit. “You awake in there? If I have to stand up all night to guard you, I don’t see why you should sleep comfortably, Elias Lybbe. Wake up, you bastard!”
“All right, Jack. I’m awake.”
“Good. Make sure you stay that way, or I’ll have to prod you with this.” There was a quick movement, and Jordan saw the figure thrust something between the oak bars of the window. There was a short cry. “Yes, well, if you sleep, that’s what you’ll get, so stay awake. I’ll be back to make sure you are.”
Jordan’s anger rose as he heard the blow struck, and he sprang forward, reaching for his knife, but the man had disappeared round the opposite corner of the building before he could even draw his blade. He stepped forward quickly, but as he came level with the cell window, he stopped at the sound of his brother’s voice.
“Jordan, don’t be a fool!” Elias hissed. “Do you want to hang? Go now, and don’t come back. The only thing that makes this bearable is knowing that at least you’re safe. Don’t make me feel I’ve died in vain. Go!”
And for once the older man obeyed his brother, but as he took his leave, all thoughts of Elias temporarily fell from his mind. He could not forget the sight of the monk hurrying up the road. Then he realized what had looked so incongruous: the monk had been carrying a cudgel. Almost unconsciously he followed after the cowled figure.
15
Arthur yawned and poured more wine, and was pleased to hear the door slam. “And where have you been?”
“Father?” Avice walked in, her maid remaining at the door, and threw herself at Arthur, sitting on his lap and hugging him. “You should have seen the jugglers and musicians! They were wonderful. There was a woman there, she had the sweetest voice, and she sang all about Judas and how he was lent thirty pieces of silver by Jesus to buy food but got robbed, and betrayed Jesus to the lord of Jerusalem to get back the money – oh, it was so sad!”
She sat up, and he could see a tear running down her cheek. “There, there, child. It was only a song. Maybe they shouldn’t let musicians play in the town if they are going to upset the women.”
“Oh, but it was so beautiful, Father. And the others all sang about kings and queens, about Arthur and Guinevere, and one had songs all about the King, our King’s father.”
“Yes,” Arthur said heavily. “No one has any songs about the new King yet, do they?”
“Father, don’t be so nasty. I’m sure everything you hear about him is untrue.” She got up, looking down at him affectionately. “I’ll go to my bed now. You should go up soon too. You look tired.”
“I am,” he admitted. “But I have a little more to do.”
“Oh yes?” she said, glancing pointedly at the goblet and jug.
He slapped her rump. “Yes, little shrew! Don’t look at my wine like your mother. You are getting more like her every day as it is.”
“I am not!” she declared hotly, but kissed him and left the room. Her maid stood aside, curtseyed, and followed her charge.
It was a few minutes later that Henry walked in. Arthur waved him to a seat where a flagon of ale stood warming by the fire. While the man took a long draft, Arthur drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. “Well?”
Henry was a wiry, short man with his face pitted and scarred from a disease in his childhood. He gave an expressive shrug. “She met him early on, but not for very long. Afterward she just walked round the town, watched the dancers and acrobats, then went out to the fairground.”
“She met no man there?”
“A couple of monks. The first had some words with her, but she sent him off with a flea in his ear.”
“Why? Could you hear what they said?”
Henry gave him a long, cold look. “If I was close enough to hear what was said, I’d have been close enough to be seen, and Avice knows my face. What would you want, that I could hear what was said and be told to leave her alone, or that I kept back and could stay with her to protect her from footpads and thieves?”
“You are right, of course. Continue.”
“The monk ran off to the north, and your daughter carried on round the edge of the fairground. Further on, she met another monk, who had his face covered with his cowl against the cold, for the wind was chill. Your daughter told Susan to leave her for a while, and he walked with her for some time, talking. She left him when she decided to come home.”
“It must have been getting late by then.” Arthur frowned. “And it was another monk?”
“It was late. I heard the compline bell ringing as we went back down the road to town. He must have been known to her, for she was civil enough to him. Not like the first one.”
Arthur stared at the flames. “Another monk,” he repeated. “Henry, you may think me paranoid or just an old fool, but what was a monk doing out of the Abbey at compline? The monks are all supposed to be in their church.”
“Perhaps the Abbot had given him a special mission, sir.”
“If he was performing a duty for the Abbot, what was he doing chatting to my daughter? Henry, this second monk: was he tall, short, fat, thin, broad, narrow? No! Before you answer, think. Specifically: was he like Pietro?”
“The Venetian?” Henry asked sneeringly, but then his brow furrowed. There was a faraway look in his eyes for a minute or two, and he took a drink from the flagon gazing into the middle distance. “It couldn’t be, surely. In body I suppose he was very like the boy, but would he dare to emulate a priest?”
“I think the bastard would impersonate the Pope to get his hands on my blasted daughter!” Arthur snapped, and sat back, glowering. “In the name of God, don’t tell my wife about this. If Marion was to hear of it, I shudder to think what she’d do.”
Arthur slumped limply in his chair. “Yes, do that. And in the meantime, I shall have to do some other work.” Other work about summed it up, he added to himself. If his daughter was so set on the lad, he would have to speed up his enquiries about the Venetians staying with the Abbot, and see whether they were as prosperous as they appeared. “Henry, tomorrow, as soon as it is light, go to the Abbey and see if you can find a monk to talk to. Learn all you can about this boy and his father. I must know what sort of men they are.”
He’d done this often enough in the last two years, and he knew his business. It was late, but that should help. His victims would be the more insensible from tiredness and drinking. The first places to check were the taverns and alehouses which lay dotted all over the town. Here would be the drunks, the men who could be quickly subdued, struck once on the head and then relieved of all their spare money and any valuables.
It was urgent that he should get as much as he could as quickly as possible. He could kick himself for his error, but it was hardly a surprise he’d killed the wrong man. It was so dark without sconces or torches. When he’d seen the burly frame, he had instantly assumed it was Lybbe; it was not his fault that Torre looked so similar in the dark. When he had struck, the man’s back was to him, and he hadn’t bothered to check his face. There hadn’t seemed to be the need.
But he felt stupid about the mistake; and his own danger was doubled as a result. Not only was he still at risk in case Lybbe might recognize him, now he must keep one step ahead of the knight from Furnshill over Torre’s death.
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