There was an increased anticipation as he waited. His desperate need to escape from the town fuelled his tension.
He’d decided not to go to the tavern where he had attacked Will Ruby. There might be a watchman posted to catch him. No, tonight he went further up the hill, past the cell and on toward the fair. Here there were several alehouses which even now, late in the evening, were filled with merchants and tradesmen spending their earnings on wine, ale, and women.
The first one he came to had a handy, quiet alley alongside it, from which he could see the whole of the front of the place and most of the street in both directions. He installed himself in the darkness at the entrance and leaned against a wall, idly swinging his club. There was plenty of time. He had all night, and his patience was up to the task.
At breakfast the next day, Baldwin was pleased to note that Jeanne appeared happy to see him. Simon watched his old friend walk to the table and take his seat beside her. When Margaret nudged him delightedly, he grumbled cantankerously, “I know, I have eyes in my head!” But she could tell he was relieved as well.
The knight glanced at Jeanne. “No Abbot this morning?”
“You haven’t been to the fair before, have you, Sir Baldwin? No, well, today is the Feast of St. Rumon, and the Abbot will be with his monks. They will hold an extended service to the honor of the Saint, and a Mass for the founders of the Abbey.”
Baldwin nodded. In the Abbey Church there were shrines to its chief benefactors. Not only St. Rumon, but also Ordulf and his wife Ælfwynn, the two founders, Abbot Lyfing, who rebuilt it after it was razed by Vikings, and Eadwig, who gave his manor of Plymstock to the monks. All were remembered with reverence and gratitude.
“The Abbot has a great number of duties to attend to,” Jeanne continued, “in honor of the patron saint of the Abbey. Merchants and craftsmen bring offerings to St. Rumon’s shrine, and some always wish to speak to the Abbot to make sure that what they have given will earn them their due reward.”
“I am sure the Abbot discharges his duties honorably and to the satisfaction of all who go to the church,” Baldwin said lightly.
“Yes. Abbot Champeaux is a good and kindly man.”
“I am sure he is,” Baldwin agreed. “I am glad you live on his land. He must be a good lord to his bondmen.”
At that she laughed. “I am lucky, yes, but you wouldn’t hear many of the other people living on his land say as much. Did you hear about Torre?”
“Only that he had argued with a monk the night he died.”
“Abbot Champeaux is a generous soul, but he is determined to make sure that his lands pay. He’s converted some of his serfs into tenants: rather than having to provide him with service in his fields and paying him a small rent, he has given them leases so that they are better able to farm for profit.”
“Why should he want that?”
“It brings in more money to the Abbey. Look at Torre. The Abbot was going to make him take a lease, and that would have meant that instead of a few pennies each year, he would have to pay twelve shillings to the Abbot. That was being generous, for now Torre has died, he will get that from the new tenant, but the Abbey’s almoner thinks he will earn more, probably a pound each of pepper and cumin as well as the money.”
“So that was what Torre was complaining about. He was to win more freedom, but would have to pay for the privilege.”
“Yes.”
Baldwin chewed thoughtfully. “And the monk, Peter, was defending his lord, and that was why he came close to fighting the miner.”
“Do you still doubt that Elias was the killer?”
“I cannot believe it was him. If he had a motive for killing Torre, why should he wait until now to do it?”
“Surely he might have bottled up any slight until the fair so that there would be a confusing number of people around?”
“It is possible. He doesn’t strike me as a fool, and that would involve a certain cunning. But I still believe that if Elias did have a part in this murder, it was as an accomplice. It is the other man I want to meet, the man he is shielding.” And unless he tells us who that was, Baldwin admitted to himself, there is little chance of clearing up this mess.
The Abbey’s wall had several gates. There was the small one beneath the Abbot’s lodging, the water-gate which gave onto the Abbey’s bridge, and the court-gate – a great block with rooms above that took the bulk of the traffic to and from the Abbey. It was here that monks with little to do would pass their time talking to travellers.
Arthur had asked him to get information, and the groom knew where to go. Henry walked toward the open wicket-gate in the massive oak doors. There were already a couple of hawkers standing there, chatting to a monk, who rested on a shovel and eyed the passing crowd. Even this early people choked the street on their way to the fair.
In his hand, Henry carried a large pitcher of good Bordeaux wine. He leaned against the wall until the hawkers had moved on, and then greeted the monk. “Brother, my master told me to thank you and the Abbey for allowing him to come to the fair. He sends you this. ” He flourished the wine.
“For us?” the monk said dubiously, taking the pitcher and sniffing at the open mouth. His mood quickly improved as he smelled Arthur’s good wine.
“Try some,” Henry urged. “It is my master’s best.”
The monk eyed it, then Henry, then the pitcher again. At last he made up his mind, set the shovel against the wall, and took a quick sip. “It’s good,” he breathed.
Henry glanced behind him. There were many visitors in the Great Court, and no one was paying any attention to the pair at the gate. “I’ve never tried my master’s wine,” he said sadly. “He always tells me it’s too good for a groom.”
“That’s typical.” The monk shook his head. From his accent Henry was pleased to hear the soft burr of Devon. Henry was sure he must be a lay brother, a local peasant offered free food and lodging in the Abbey’s precinct in exchange for taking on much of the laborious work so that better-born brothers could spend their time in study and contemplation without the need for excessive manual work. “The poor never get to taste the better things in life, do they?” He looked over his shoulder, then suddenly thrust the pitcher at Henry. “Here, you try some.”
Henry took a long pull at the wine and passed it back, smacking his lips. “It’s fine, isn’t it? I can see why my master keeps it for himself.”
The monk weighed it speculatively in his hand. “Your master said it should go to the monastery, or to the Abbot?” he asked seriously.
“He said it was for the Abbey, to thank the monks.”
“In that case, since I am a monk…” his new friend said gravely, and upended the pitcher again. “But it would be greedy to have it all,” he added, and winked as Henry took it back again.
“Is it very busy in there? You have a lot of guests.”
“More than usual,” the monk agreed, wiping a dribble of wine from his chin. “People from all over. The bailiff and his wife, a man from Crediton, a…”
Henry waited while the monk told him of all the visitors. When he mentioned Venice the groom jumped on the word. “Where’s that? Is it near York?” he asked innocently.
“No, it’s foreign. Somewhere south of Gascony,” the monk said knowingly. “Outlandish, though. You should see the way they dress.” He shook his head and drank again.
“What are they here for? I’d have thought they’d go somewhere else if they wanted to buy things.”
“Oh, no. They’re here to negotiate with the Abbot. They want to arrange to buy all his wool over the next three years at a fixed price. That way the Abbot knows how much he’ll get in advance, and it’ll make his work a little easier.”
“I see. They’ll be here for some time, then.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I reckon as soon as they have their contract they’ll be gone. They seem to have other business to deal with, according to my friend who works with the guest-master, and want to leave quickl
y when the Abbot has agreed their contract.”
“They must be rich to negotiate with the Abbot.”
“They say they are.”
Henry’s ears pricked. “You think they aren’t?” he asked, feigning disinterest.
“Something’s not right about them. They say they are merchants and bankers, and such men are very well-off. But these fellows, they have very fine clothes and their saddles and harnesses are good quality, but their horses are cheap creatures.”
Henry could understand the distinction. His master often played the host to affluent men, and as a groom he knew that those who sported good clothing owned the best horseflesh as well, and spent fortunes on finery for their animals. There was no point in a first-quality mount if it was made to look like a broken-winded nag by cheap saddle and harness. The wealthy flaunted their money. He recalled the Camminos’ arrival in town. “Why should that be?”
“They said they were robbed, but if they were, why wasn’t their money and plate taken? And if someone took their horses, wouldn’t they have taken the saddles and equipment as well? I think these men aren’t as well-heeled as they would have the Abbot believe. Still, it’s none of my concern.”
Henry stayed until they had finished the pitcher between them, but there was little more to learn, and he left the monk, now with every appearance of contentment, to make his way back to his master’s house. En route he saw a familiar figure, and dawdled to study him.
It was the young Venetian, Pietro, and his servant. The pair waited a little to the north of the tavern, standing in an alleyway in the shadow of a large house. Henry was not sure, but he had a feeling that they were waiting for someone, and as he watched, he saw the figures of Avice and her maid approach. When he noted how the young girl’s face lit with joy at the sight of her lover, Henry looked on grimly. His master would have a problem in persuading her to leave the Venetian alone.
He realized that the four were continuing down the hill toward him, and he turned to hurry away before he could be seen, when he tripped. Another hurrying fair-goer had stumbled into him, and Henry stifled a quick curse at the man as he recognized the young monk Peter. The groom scrambled to his feet and hurried to a wall, glancing up the road. He was amazed to see the monk standing before his master’s daughter. Also watching was the old friar, from the other side of the street.
“My lady, I must demand that you…”
Henry saw Pietro take a casual step forward. “If you are prepared to renounce your vocation, your habit is no protection. Leave my lady in peace!” he said, and suddenly his hand whipped out and slapped Peter on the cheek, almost spinning the boy completely around before he fell to the ground.
Peter lay sobbing with fury and jealousy, while Avice and Pietro stepped past. He could not even muster the energy to call out; he was exhausted – and ashamed of his action. The day before, life had seemed full of promise; his future was mapped out for him, and he knew his vocation – and yet now all was ruined. He was in love with a woman who spurned him, his life’s ambition was destroyed, and his hope for happiness had been crushed beneath her dainty heel.
He felt a hand grasp his elbow and he was hauled to his feet. “My son, my son, what is all this?”
Peter wiped his eyes, smearing dirt over his face. “Friar? It’s nothing. Nothing.” His eyes followed Avice as she made her way down the hill with her squire. “How could she prefer him?”
Hugo patted his shoulder. “It is better that she should choose a man such as he rather than persuade you from your calling.”
“But he…”
“What, my son?” asked Hugo patiently.
Peter set his jaw. “He might be a murderer!”
“What?” Hugo took an involuntary step back.
“Yes! I was there – you were, too! In the tavern on the night that man was killed, you must have seen it. When the man was in the way, that Venetian puppy almost drew his knife.”
“That means nothing. He didn’t actually draw it and…”
“But what if he waylaid the man later? What if he stabbed him? That would mean Avice was going to wed a murderer!”
Henry heard the words. He saw Hugo shake his head and advise the novice to be careful to whom he made such wild accusations, but the boy was not of a mind to be placated. “She is not for you, my son. You have a calling. You have to forget the passions of the flesh if you are to become a good monk.”
“I won’t be a monk. I have already told the Abbot.”
Hugo rested a hand on his shoulder with compassion. “Before you make a decision like that, you must reflect long and very hard. God has sent you this temptation to test your resolve. Can you really fail Him so easily?”
Peter shook the friar’s hand from his shoulder. “I love her.”
The friar shook his head in sympathy as the boy, head bowed, walked down toward the Abbey. Hugo had been lucky – he had never suffered from lust, and found it hard to understand the torment of others. For him, adoration of Christ’s Mother was enough.
Henry took his chance and walked to him. “Friar? Is the monk all right?”
Hugo glanced at him. “He is not harmed,” he equivocated.
“Those foreigners should be less arrogant.”
The friar put the young monk from his mind. He still wanted a theme for preaching, and he spoke absently. “It is not only them. Arrogance is not the preserve of Venetians.”
“It is typical of foreign bankers.”
“Bankers? Are they bankers? I thought they were only merchants.” Hugo suddenly stopped dead in the street and gave a little gasp of pleasure. It might be a well-worn theme, but at last he had an idea for a sermon.
16
Baldwin and Jeanne walked a few steps behind Simon and his wife, partly out of self-defense. While behind them, the knight felt that he was not quite so much under constant observation.
It was always the way, he knew, that a wooing couple would be subject to continual scrutiny, and the slightest failure of manners or courtly behavior would render the squire open to the most vicious of verbal leg-pulling, or worse. It was not all on one side, for any girl offering what might be considered by parents and friends to be overly indecorous or flirtatious comments would be severely reprimanded. He had hoped that if he was to find a woman to court he would at least be able to do so without the embarrassment of a friend listening nearby, and no doubt storing up each foolish word or misused phrase with a view to reminding the knight later when he was in a defenseless position.
He was painfully aware that his servant and Simon’s were both behind him, and that was almost more appalling than Simon and Margaret being within earshot in front. Baldwin had recently been given enough proof that Edgar had enjoyed the companionship of several of the younger women of Crediton. His martial appearance and easy flattery seemed to win them over, although Baldwin could not understand why. Only the week before he had heard his man paying court to a hawker in the street, and Edgar’s expressions of amazement at the girl’s beauty (although to Baldwin’s mind she was rather plain) won him a dazzling beam of happiness and every promise of more than a mere discount.
Flighty talk of that nature, which to Baldwin was little more than lies clothed in politeness, was irritating to him. It was meaningless. He would prefer to be able to make an unequivocal statement of affection to one woman he loved, and remain on terms of honorable politeness to all others than have to make even one gut-churningly embarrassing statement that was untrue. Baldwin was a knight, and the soft nature of a campaign to win a woman’s heart was a mystery to him. One thing he had already discovered was that wooing a lady was not so straightforward as setting his horse at an enemy and charging. A certain subtlety was required which was alien to his soul. With a feeling of defeat, he wondered whether he should take advice from his servant. Edgar knew how to fight this kind of battle.
Once inside the fair, the women naturally gravitated together, and Simon moved to his friend’s side. Baldwin ignored his leer a
nd wink, and the elbow jerked into his side, maintaining what he hoped was a dignified silence.
Simon grinned wickedly, enjoying his friend’s discomfort. “Have you had any more thoughts on Elias?”
“I am afraid not. Until he realizes his own danger, there’s little we can do to force him to reveal the other man’s identity.”
“Your mind has been on other things, I know,” Simon smirked, “but one thing did occur to me. Elias is weakly in build, while Torre was barrel-chested and powerful. The clothes put on Torre fitted him, but they wouldn’t have fitted Elias. The man with Elias must have been the same in shape as Torre.”
“Yes, but how many hundreds here have a similar build?” Baldwin eyed the latest counter at which the women had paused. It held expensive gloves, and he felt a glow of sadistic pleasure as Margaret excitedly discussed them with the stallholder. “Why has Elias remained silent? That is what puzzles me. Do you think the man with him was the murderer?”
“Perhaps. From the descriptions, he might have been similar in size to Torre, and the clothes bear that out, if indeed he swapped clothes with the corpse. Also, if it was he who killed and decapitated Torre, it would explain how Elias could have reappeared in the tavern without a mark of blood on him.”
“But what sort of hold could the man have over Elias that would persuade the cook to keep silent when his life is at risk?” Catching a glance from Jeanne, Baldwin felt a burst of irritation. He needed time to figure out the best manner to court this lady, yet he was forced to concentrate on catching a murderer. For a moment he felt an unreasonable loathing for Elias. It was the latter and his damned silence which was causing him this problem. If it weren’t for him, Baldwin would be able to join the women and perhaps buy a present for Jeanne. “And what possible motive could the man have?” Baldwin continued. “He was new to the area, only a traveller, or so the alewife implied. He was certainly no local man, for she did not recognize him.”
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