“Another man? What about me?”
“Do you deny your crimes with the trail-bastons?” Simon asked, and Lybbe looked at him coldly.
“I was never with that band.”
“Then why did you flee the country?”
“What would you do if you were accused like that? I heard that an approver had accused me – what else could I do but run? Who would take my word when a man had sworn on his oath that I was guilty?”
Baldwin’s eyes narrowed. “Do you swear that you are innocent?”
“Of course I do. Do I look like a murderer?”
The knight eyed him dubiously. Anyone, he knew, was capable of murder, given the motive. If he had to pick a suspicious-looking man, someone like Lybbe, with his strong build, thick beard and intense features, would rate highly.
Lybbe gave a bitter grin. “So even you doubt me. I have no hope of a fair trial or justice – why should I help you?”
“For information I would gladly perform any service you asked of me.”
“Make sure my brother is freed and that my boy is protected by him, and I’ll think about helping you.”
“You have my word on it as a knight. I will speak to the Abbot and demand the freedom of Elias from the jail today, and I swear that I will personally take Elias to your boy and see the lad is safe.”
Lybbe raised an eyebrow at the conviction in Baldwin’s voice. There was a degree of integrity there that surprised the merchant. He considered a moment. “Very well: ask.”
“You told us when we questioned you that you left the inn after some time. Can you recall anything that would tell us precisely when?”
Simon glanced at his friend, and was about to open his mouth to speak, but he was silenced by the Keeper’s raised hand.
“It was a little after the bell for compline was rung.”
“I thought that was what you had said. You also mentioned robberies in Bayonne. Do you remember much about them?”
Lybbe shrugged. “There were several. Men were knocked out and had their purses stolen. The last man to be robbed died; he was stabbed when he tried to defend himself, or at least, that’s what everyone thought.”
“Did you not hear any hints as to who might have been responsible?”
“Well, after the Venetians rode off, it was plain enough.”
“Yes, but do you recall hearing anything before that? Was there no suspicion about who might have been committing these crimes before the Camminos disappeared?”
“There was one man… he swore he’d been struck by a monk. But no one believed him. I mean, it was rubbish – and anyway, when the Venetians disappeared, that showed he was wrong.”
Baldwin shot a glance at Simon. “See?”
“No,” Simon admitted frankly. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Simon, we’ve already heard that a man was hit on the head and robbed by a monk. The same happened in Bayonne, and the Venetians were there as well.”
“So we’re right back where we started, then. It was Antonio and his son who robbed, both there and here.”
“A monk,” Lybbe said, staring at Baldwin. “I saw a monk as we left the tavern, walking down to the Abbey.”
“Away from the alley?” Baldwin pressed urgently.
“Yes. And I saw him again when you had arrested Elias. I saw him pass the jail, going up toward the fair.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No, he was going away from me both times I saw him.”
“You’re sure about that? It was the same man?”
“Yes. It was dark both times, but he was quite distinctive. And he carried a cudgel.”
When Lybbe had been returned to the cell, Baldwin turned to Simon and punched his fist into his palm with a chuckle of glee. “Oh, Simon, Simon. This is wonderful, really wonderful. We have here a known and convicted outlaw, a killer, and at the Abbey, awaiting their trial, are two more men, both of whom are assumed guilty. And one thing links them all: the fact that they ran away. If it wasn’t for that, they might be given a fair trial, and then their innocence might be established, but no! They tried to escape justice as the people know it, so they must be guilty.”
“So who is guilty?” Simon asked as they began to walk toward the Abbey. “Did Lybbe kill Torre, and Pietro by coincidence decide to rob some fair-goers?”
“Simon, I dislike coincidences.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that I believe one man was responsible for the robberies and for the murders. Perhaps all these incidents are interconnected.”
“I don’t see how they could be. Pietro has been seen in the monk’s garb, so he must be the robber, surely. Do you mean he was the murderer as well?”
“Simon, we know nothing of the kind! All we really know is that a man dressed as a monk has attacked people, and that Pietro himself at one point used the same disguise to woo his girl.”
“And that someone did the same in Bayonne.”
“Yes, it would point to the Camminos being responsible,” Baldwin said, but there was suppressed excitement in his voice.
“Baldwin, what are you up to?”
“Nothing, but I think you and I will have to make use of a little subterfuge to complete this case.”
“Sir Baldwin. May I speak to you?”
“Of course, friar. How may I serve you?”
Hugo was silent a moment. His doubts had disappeared since talking to Lybbe again. Now he knew only a consuming anger that a man could so blatantly forswear himself. Hugo felt betrayed. He had saved a life, and yet his example had been ignored – worse, his example had been immediately perverted by a lie.
“There is something I must tell you about Jordan Lybbe.”
The Abbot was alone in his study when they arrived. “Sir Baldwin, Simon, you are welcome. May I offer you a little wine?”
“Thank you, Abbot. Do you mind if we interview the two men now?” Baldwin asked. “And could we have young Peter’s notes with us here as well?” The Abbot nodded and rang a small bell. While they waited, Baldwin murmured something to Edgar. The servant nodded and left the room. In a few minutes Antonio and Pietro were with them. A monk brought Baldwin the novice’s file of papers.
Hugh waited by the door with Holcroft to prevent escape. The Camminos stood, their hands manacled, while the Abbot studied them. He had not spoken to them or seen them since their return the day before.
Pietro looked as if he had hardly slept. His pale face contrasted strongly with his black hair to make him appear almost feverish. His father looked thoroughly broken, a dirt-streaked tatterdemalion. The suave merchant had been replaced by a man who might have been a peasant.
The Abbot sat on his great chair, Simon on his left, and Baldwin sat squinting at Peter’s notes on his right. Champeaux surveyed the two regretfully. “So, gentlemen, you have been accused of astonishing crimes while making use of my hospitality. What do you have to say in defense?”
“Trying to help my son marry the woman he chose is hardly an astonishing crime,” Antonio protested.
“Taking a maiden without her parents’ consent is a serious crime,” Simon said. “Trying to make her your son’s wife through deceit hardly improves matters.”
“What deceit, bailiff? This was a matter of love, not…”
“You and your son have tried to make out you are a prosperous merchant. You used that status to gain the Abbot’s trust, and your son to win over the heart of a merchant’s daughter – but where is this fabulous wealth? Where are your ships? Where is the money and the estates you said you owned in Venice? It was all a sham.”
“I am from an ancient family in Venice and…”
“And you have nothing to show for it now. You could be no more than wandering thieves as far as we know – no better than common outlaws. Your claims to fortune, to mobility, to power – where is the proof of them?”
Antonio stared. “Why do you say this? Abbot, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I am
innocent! Who dares to suggest I am a liar?”
“We have been told of your escapade in Bayonne,” said Simon, running a hand through hair still awry and needing combing. “How you left so suddenly, how you took to your heels when the townspeople tried to arrest you. In fact,” he turned to the Abbot, and he and Baldwin exchanged a glance, “could we send Holcroft to go through their belongings and make sure that there are no stolen goods in their bags?”
Champeaux nodded. “Holcroft, go and check.”
“Get their servant to help you, port-reeve,” Baldwin added. “He will know what should be there, and what shouldn’t.”
Simon carried on sternly as the door thumped shut. “You’ve been using the Abbot’s hospitality to weasel your way into his trust, and I daresay you’ve used your position with him to gain credit with traders in the fair as well.”
“That is a mad suggestion! To think that I and my son could be so slandered, especially after being hunted with hounds like a deer for no reason! I am staggered!”
“We accuse your son of nothing – yet,” Baldwin observed.
Antonio seemed to notice him for the first time and now gave him a pleading look. “What is all this about? What is our crime? Is it wrong to run away from a mob baying for your blood? We have stolen nothing, harmed no one, done…”
“Do you deny inventing money and lands in order to con the Abbot out of his fleece?” Simon shot back, and the Venetian blinked.
“Of course I do! It’s rubbish!”
Baldwin looked up from the papers, interested by the tone of outrage. “Then why do you travel on broken-down nags? Where are your palfreys, if you are so rich? No banker or merchant would ride on such demeaning stock.”
“Perhaps not by choice, Sir Baldwin, but we don’t always have much choice. When one is waylaid and robbed, one has to buy the best horse-flesh one can. Is it a crime to be a victim?”
“And what of your friendship with Bishop Stapledon of Exeter?” asked Champeaux.
“What of it?”
“I wrote to him, and I have heard that he hardly knows you.”
“The Bishop denies knowing us?”
Antonio’s eyes grew round, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. The expression was so convincing that the Abbot had to glance at Baldwin to gauge his feelings.
The knight was nodding as if it were no surprise.
“Abbot,” Antonio pleaded. “Tell me what I am supposed to have done. Of what am I accused? Of trying to arrange a business deal with you? Of running from a mob determined to lynch me? What am I guilty of?”
Simon scratched his cheek. “There were many robberies while you were in Bayonne. You were in the tavern on the night Torre was murdered. Some have said you saw Lybbe and recognized him from Bayonne. They say you knew that if he spoke of what you had been up to there…”
“I wasn’t up to anything!”
“… you could be uncovered as a fraud and a thief, dressed up in expensive clothes. So you left before he could see you, and waited in an alley until he passed, then stabbed him. Thinking it was a job well done, you hurried back to be with the Abbot.”
“Me! I never killed Torre – why should I?”
“He looked the same as Lybbe, didn’t he, from behind? Especially in the dark. Their figures were very similar.”
“Why should I kill him? And why cut off his head?” he demanded disbelievingly.
“Oh, we know all about that,” Simon said dismissively. “Lybbe saw the body and realized you had done it thinking it was him. He took the head. But he only damaged a dead body; it was you who actually killed the man.”
“No! I had nothing to do with it – nothing! We saw him in the tavern, yes, but that was all. I’m no murderer.”
“And all so that you could rob the Abbey,” Simon continued.
“No, I swear…”
Baldwin turned from his ashen face to that of the son. “What of you, boy? Did you know about all this?”
“Me? All I know is that I wanted to marry Avice. I still do, I love her.”
“You were seen the night before Peter died, wearing a monk’s habit.”
The young man took a deep breath. “It is true, and I apologize, Abbot. I will undertake any penance, but I never…”
“What? Carried out robberies as you had done in Bayonne?” Baldwin said sharply.
“No. I have never robbed or stolen.”
“Then why the monkish garb?” asked Simon.
“How was I to meet Avice? Her father sent servants with her to prevent me from seeing her. I only used a habit as a disguise so that I could meet her. I returned it when I got back.”
“It was a serious crime, nonetheless,” said the Abbot sternly.
“You have my apology, my lord Abbot, but I did no harm.”
“Have you heard about the robberies?” Baldwin probed.
“What robberies?”
“When you were in Bayonne, there were rumors of a man in monk’s habit who was attacking people. His last victim died. We know a man in monk’s habit has been knocking men down here as well and stealing their purses.”
“It wasn’t me! That evening when I went to see Avice was the first time I ever wore a habit.”
Baldwin saw the door open, and Holcroft’s face as he hurried in, Luke behind him. The port-reeve held a bundle in his hands. “My lord, this was found in Pietro’s bags.”
Champeaux stared as he shook out the Benedictine habit. The black cloth rippled as the Abbot met Luke’s eyes. “Where was it?”
“In the boy’s saddlebags.”
Pietro’s mouth fell open. “No! It’s a lie! It isn’t mine!” He moved forward convulsively, the chains of his manacles rattling as he reached toward the Abbot. “Believe me, I know nothing about this.”
“Silence, Pietro!” Simon said quietly.
Baldwin’s gaze was fixed on the servant. Luke was obviously terrified. It must be a novel experience to bear witness against his master, the knight thought. But not as novel as some of his other experiences. “Edgar?”
Champeaux heard the door to his chapel open, and turned to see Baldwin’s servant walk in with Jordan Lybbe. Baldwin glanced at the outlaw. “Well?”
“It’s him,” Lybbe confirmed, and pointed to Luke.
The servant was transfixed. “What is this? Who is this?”
Baldwin relaxed in his chair. “Abbot, you told us that on the night Torre was murdered, Antonio and Pietro were here with you as the bell for compline rang.” He passed over the novice’s papers. “Peter’s notes confirm Lizzie’s words: she recalled the bell tolling as Torre left her. He was alive at compline, but then Antonio and Pietro were already here.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“But their servant wasn’t with you.”
“No, we had our food in my study. The servants were in the hall.”
“This man went out of the Abbey and clothed himself in his habit. No wonder Torre didn’t try to protect himself. If he saw his attacker, he would never have associated a monk with danger.”
“No, sir, it was Pietro,” Luke said, his face white. “Why would I have killed the man? Pietro knew that he and his father were in danger if Lybbe recognized them. You would hear that your business with them was false, that they were trying to steal from you.”
“They were with me when he was killed,” Champeaux said steadily.
“You don’t know that! How can you know exactly when he died? And why should I kill the boy, the novice? Pietro killed him because they were rivals for the girl.”
“That was what made me realize he could have had nothing to do with the murders. He knew he had no rival in love,” Baldwin said. “Pietro already knew she had refused the novice. She told him when he saw her up at the fair – when he had borrowed your robe.” That was a guess, but when he shot a look at Pietro, he saw the lad nod with slow, appalled understanding.
“Why should I kill the novice?” Luke cried beseechingly, holding his hands out to the Abbot lik
e a supplicant. “I had no reason to, lord Abbot.”
Simon clapped a hand to his brow. “He saw you, didn’t he? He saw you in the street.”
“That’s it, Simon,” said Baldwin encouragingly.
Champeaux looked from one to the other. “So what if he did? Surely there were hundreds who would have seen this man if he was impersonating a monk?”
“Hundreds or maybe thousands,” Baldwin agreed. “But none of them would have seen more than a habit. A portman would look at the cloth and see a monk. Another monk wouldn’t. A monk would see a man, and a man he should recognize. You have what – fifty men in the convent who wear the habit? Peter saw a man he assumed must be a friend, but when he saw the face he realized it was an imposter.”
“Abbot, it’s untrue!”
“Torre was killed because you thought it was Lybbe, and he could have guessed what you’d been doing, couldn’t he?” Baldwin mused. “And you had to murder poor Peter because he saw you in your robes.”
“No, this is all nonsense,” Luke declared, holding out his hands.
“You thought Lybbe might recognize you,” Simon said dispassionately. “You weren’t with Antonio when he came back here to dine with the Abbot. You saw your chance. Instead of going to eat with the other servants, you hurried to your room, took up your habit, and left the Abbey.”
“It was easy enough, for visitors are not to be kept imprisoned,” said Baldwin to the Abbot. “He went off to the tavern, found a suitable alley, and lay in wait. When he saw his man, or someone who looked like his man, he struck. In the dark he did not realize it was the wrong man. Later, he was merely surprised when he heard about the mutilation of the corpse. It was a horrible thing to have happened to a corpse, but what would Luke care? As far as he knew, it was still the correct man who had died, so what did someone removing the head matter? The threat to his life was gone, that was all that counted.”
“Abbot, please! This is all rubbish, complete gibberish. I’ve not harmed anyone; it’s a lie to say I killed these men.”
Baldwin ignored his cry. “But it was truly foolish to try to pull the same method of escape as he had used in Bayonne.”
“What do you mean?” Champeaux asked.
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