Trees bordered the pasture, and rose up the slopes of the little hillocks. It looked as if the meadows and strip fields were isolated and surrounded by encroaching woods, whereas in reality the trees were being forced ever backward as the Abbey’s lands expanded. Every year the monks, farmers and burgesses had more of the massive trunks cut down for firewood or furniture, leaving space for sheep and cattle to colonize. The process was more or less complete, with the fringe of trees pushed so far back that only their topmost branches could be discerned over the rolling hills. His horse moved skittishly beneath him as the heavily laden wagons passed by, and he dismounted and walked a short way from the track, sitting and staring down the valley.
It felt odd to be able to see once again the place where he had lived. It was his home, and the view brought a constriction to his throat, as if a ball of food had stuck. He swallowed but it wouldn’t go away: he had an urge to hurry forward, as though the intervening years would dissipate and he would be renewed to youth when he arrived at the town. To eyes used to strange foreign cities, it was a curiously unexceptional scene, a commonplace outlook he knew well; yet it was also charged with danger, and he was aware of the latent menace represented by the huddles of cottages.
Staring at it, the muscles of his face set once more into their familiar mask. The loathing stirred again in his breast for the people who had forced him from his land and destroyed his life.
With a decisiveness he did not feel, he climbed back onto his horse and cantered to Hankin’s wagon. There was a relief at rejoining the travellers. Among them he felt screened, obscured by their numbers—just one more merchant on his way to a fair. There was no point in delaying; he had waited too long already. Now all he wanted was to hurry to get there, to see the man he had come so far, and at such risk, to see. With that thought he smiled and continued down the plain toward the Abbey.
Jordan Lybbe had returned.
The roof was ripped apart piece by piece while David Holcroft stood and watched, distaste twisting his features as the squares of rotten wood were tossed, spinning, to join the pile before him. Each time he heard one crack, he winced. The little shed was essential for the fair. It was here that the merchants would pay their tolls for the privilege of selling their goods. Tavistock Fair would attract people from as far away as Castile, and it was his responsibility, as port-reeve, to make sure it was ready.
There was no need to have so many men, he knew, but if he let one go, the others would plead their own cases, and soon he’d have nobody. They scrambled all over, getting in each other’s way and snapping shingles not already ruined. Each was fitted with a pair of dowels which hooked onto the lathes running along the rafters, and as the men worked along the pitch, he could see the wood splintering where the pegs fitted. They’d be lucky to rescue any, the way these cretins were working.
“Sir? The Abbot wondered…”
David Holcroft turned suspiciously. A youth stood by him, grinning. The Abbot’s official kept his voice low and calm, but it was evident enough to the lad that Holcroft was controlling his frustration with an effort. “Yes, yes. The Abbot wants to know when we’ll have this job finished so he can be sure to earn as much as possible, and he’s told you to come and see that I’m getting everything sorted out. Well, you can tell him from me that I’m standing here making sure these idle whelps get on with things, and the more interruptions there are, the slower the job will be!”
“I’m sorry, sir, I was only asked to—”
“To come over here and make my life a misery. Look, it’s hard enough keeping the lazy buggers from the alehouse without having Abbot Robert sending his messengers across every few moments. What does he think I’m doing, eh? Sitting in a tavern and supping ale? He asked me to ensure that the booth was ready, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. But when you report back, you can tell him that there are other things for me to see to, like making sure the shambles are laid out, and seeing to the weights and measures. Even the tron hasn’t been checked yet.”
He shot a glance at the men, keen to be away. The tron was the huge beam used to weigh goods. It had to be tested to make sure it was accurate, and that was just one more chore he must do when this nonsense was completed. With relief he saw that the shingles were all piled on the ground, and that most of the men had come down from the roof. Only two remained sitting on the walls, beating the panelling away from the frames with their hammers. “Why didn’t I get this done before?” he asked himself aloud now.
“There’s so much to be done through the year, sir. Things like this are always forgotten till the last minute,” the messenger said encouragingly.
“It should have been done by Andrew last year,” David muttered, but he knew the work should have been done by him. He was the port-reeve.
Many looked on the job as a sinecure. It only lasted twelve months, being an annual appointment by the Abbot’s steward, the port-reeve being selected from two or three names put forward by the town’s jury, and as well as the allowance of a couple of shillings, there was freedom from the year’s taxes. But after almost twelve months, David was worn out by his duties.
The port-reeve was the man who arranged the conduct of the fairs and markets. He had to tie together all the little details and make sure they went smoothly, to the Abbey’s profit. The port-reeve must witness any large trades, ensure that the watchmen behaved, tally up any sums owed, tell the beadle of any amercements that must be collected…in short, he was responsible for any problem, no matter when it might occur.
There was no blaming Andrew, last year’s incumbent, for not rebuilding the booth. It had been leaning when David was elected at Michaelmas last year, and now it was almost St. Rumon’s Day. From the end of September until now, the end of August, he had never found time to see to its refurbishment.
In fact, it had slipped his mind completely until the Abbot reminded him the night before. He’d been with the Abbey’s steward finalizing plans for the layout of the livestock pens when the Abbot had entered. “David, there was just one thing I wanted to ask,” he’d said, walking in quietly as David was about to leave, and the port-reeve had felt his heart fall to his boots.
“Er, yes, my lord?”
It wasn’t that the Abbot was a harsh master—he wasn’t—but he had a way of making a man feel as if he hadn’t quite matched up to the high standard expected of him. Abbot Robert Champeaux was a difficult person to deal with: he was truly honorable and fair. His eyes twinkled at the tone of his port-reeve’s voice. “Have more wine, my friend. It is only a little matter, concerning the toll-booth on the Brentor road. It looks a bit derelict.”
“Oh, er…Yes, I suppose it does.”
“It is quite ramshackle. The roof has rotted, and the walls are sodden. I fear it could collapse.”
The last of the panels fell with a slap like a wet cloth thrown against a rock, and David shook his head good-humoredly. The Abbot had been right as usual: the wood was so wet as to be useless. Still, everything was worth money during the three-day fair. The shingles would be taken by someone needing cheap replacements for a shed or outbuilding—Roger Torre had already expressed interest—and enough solid timber could be rescued from the panels to make a trestle or box. Poor farming folk would be willing to pay for odds and ends.
The workmen had fresh panels stacked near the booth, and now they nailed the boards in place while others scampered back to the roof and began hanging new chestnut slats.
Turning from the little building, the port-reeve was faintly surprised to note that the messenger had left. He stared toward the fairground. The ditch had been cleared, and now formed the boundary. The grassed area was filled with stalls. Seeing the men running round making good any faults in the stalls and trestles, David felt himself relax. It would all be worth it once the fair got going: the annual event would be a success again.
He glanced upward and squinted. It was past noon; soon he must see to the other thousand and one things that still had to be organize
d. He waited until the men had almost finished the second side wall and one half of the roof before making his way along the lane to the busy town.
On a normal day, the center would be filled with butchers, fishmongers and grocers plying their trade, but not now. In preparation for the fair, many had been moved from their usual premises. Cooks, poulterers and smiths were excluded from the town and must carry on their trade outside the fair’s ditch. It was too dangerous to permit fires to be lighted with so many visitors, especially with the number who were bound to get drunk. All livestock was kept out as well, in an attempt to keep the streets moderately clean, but it was not only animals which blocked lanes, and as he went David noted who had allowed garbage to collect. Each would receive a fine if they did not clear it; another duty of the port-reeve was to ensure that those who allowed obstructions to accumulate were punished.
At one corner, near the bottom of the Brentor road as it approached the Abbey, he stopped dead and shook his head.
In a narrow little alley that led between a butcher and cookshop, there was a pile of rubbish. Tattered remains of cloth, ancient and part-rotted sacks, broken staves, and other scraps and debris littered the ground. Shards of broken pottery and poultry bones crunched underfoot, and he accidentally kicked a pot which smashed against the wall. A scrawny dog scavenged, crouching in the dark of the alley, anticipating a kick or hurled stone. Holcroft ignored it. Marching to the cookshop door, he hammered on it.
“Elias? Elias, I know you’re in there! Open this door.” He beat upon the timbers again and shouted, and when there was no response, he took a step back, staring upward thoughtfully. The little unglazed window above was unshuttered. David picked up a broken spar of wood, hefting it in his hand, gauging the weight, and then hurled it through the opening.
Almost immediately there was a high-pitched shriek, closely followed by a curse. David quickly moved a little farther from the building before his missile could return, as the cook appeared at the window gripping the wood like a cudgel. “Who the…?”
“You know well enough. Me!”
“Why, port-reeve! I’m sorry, David, did you knock? I didn’t hear, I’ve been busy, getting ready for the fair, you know. Anyway, what do you think you’re doing, throwing blocks of wood through people’s windows? It could have been dangerous, you might have hurt someone…”
“Shut up, Elias! The fair opens tomorrow, and you’ve left all your garbage out here in the street. I told you yesterday to clear it, but you’ve done nothing. If it’s still there tomorrow, I’ll personally take great pleasure in amercing you. With all this lot, it’s got to be worth a good six pennies.”
“Six pennies?” The cook gaped in dismay. “I can’t afford a fine like that, David. Look, couldn’t I just move it back in the alley? No one’ll see it if I shove it round the corner a bit.”
“No, Elias. Get it all out to the midden.”
“What if I…”
The door of the butcher’s shop opened, and David winked at its owner, Will Ruby. He was a plump man, and seeing the port-reeve, he leaned against his doorpost and cast an eye up at his neighbor. “I told you you’d have to clear it, you daft bugger, didn’t I? It does my business no good to have my customers walking past your rubbish every morning. I doubt it does much for you, either.”
“Shut up, Will. Why don’t you get on and sort out your stall? I’m talking to the port-reeve here.”
“Yes, well, if you’d listened to me in the first place, you’d not have to talk to the port-reeve, would you?”
“Six pennies, Elias,” David repeated. “That’s what it’ll be tomorrow, and seeing I’m on my way to the Abbot now, I’ll tell him to expect your money.”
The cook let his head droop disconsolately. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, David heard a muttered word. The cook glanced quickly behind him, and the port-reeve peered up with interest. Will edged closer and jabbed an elbow into his side, speaking from the corner of his mouth. “It’s that girl, Lizzie. He got her up to his room after drinking with her in the tavern,” he chortled, and strolled toward the fair.
“Elias, you do know all the rules of the fair, don’t you? You’ve got all your things set up in the fairground, have you?” The face above nodded quickly. “Good.” Then David added suavely, “Remember, too, that prostitutes are outlawed during the fair, won’t you?” Like all fairs, to prevent lewd or bawdy behavior, and disease, prostitutes and lepers were outlawed. Lepers must stay behind their doors, and prostitutes mustn’t ply their trade.
The cook shiftily avoided his eyes. The man was searching for something innocuous to say, and David had an overpowering urge to laugh while the cook squirmed, but before Elias could think of a safe comment, his eyes suddenly widened. He was yanked backward and disappeared, to be replaced by a young woman with loose brown hair that curled round her shoulders.
“Well, David, do you want me thrown from this house? Where could I go? Would you give me a room to sleep in?”
The port-reeve tried to maintain his dignified mien, but when the girl fluttered her eyelashes in mock supplication and held her thumb and forefinger a short distance apart, shaking her head in apparent disgust, he had to relent, relaxing his stern features. “No, Lizzie, much though I’d like to, I think my wife’d be upset. But remind Elias that Nick Turgys was amerced twelve pennies last year for having whores in his house during the fair. If Elias can’t afford six pennies for his rubbish, I doubt he could afford another twelve—not as well as your fee.”
As he moved on toward the Abbey, he was in a contemplative mood. When almost there, he paused a while to watch the latest traders arrive. A long line of merchants was riding up from the western gate, and he could see that they had their wagons and carts filled. One face he recognized: Roger Torre, striding beside a friar. Roger scraped by panning for tin on the moors. He eked out a living by catching rabbits, and rented land from the Abbot to grow vegetables and herbs. He didn’t prosper, but he was not so poor as some of the men who inhabited the little stone sheds on the moors. Only the bigger miners seemed to make good money.
David waved to him and carried on. Torre was always keen to drink and exchange stories, and the port-reeve was determined to finish his work and join the moorman in the tavern. He had need of a companion who would not talk to him of garbage, fairs or whores.
Another man was watching Torre and the friar. He stood a little to one side of the port-reeve, partly obscured by drapery hung to celebrate the fair.
It was so many years ago, he had thought he would be safe here, but now his worst imagining was realized as he watched the cleric and his friend making their way to the fair. If he should be seen and recognized, he would be in danger of his life—but what could he do? He had tried to escape before, and that had ended in disaster.
Perhaps even that failure might show him how to avoid justice again. If he dared be bold once more, he might yet be able to get away. He preferred to remain hidden, but if he had no choice, he would act, he decided, and he slipped away down an alley.
3
Elias pulled on his hose and left the girl Lizzie in his chamber. Out in the street, he stood and surveyed his pile of garbage with exasperation. It was mad to expect people to clear away everything just because there was going to be a fair. Sourly pursing his lips, he stood for a while assessing how many barrow-loads it would take. He was sure there were more than ten, and the midden lay out at the western edge of the borough. That meant he had at least two hours’ hard work.
“God’s blood! I’d like to drop it all off on that damned port-reeve’s house.”
The idea was tempting, but he discarded it from reasons of practicality. David would be sure to know where it had come from, and too many other people had remarked upon all the muck over the last week or two; if he was to shift it from his alley to another’s house, it would take little time for him to be found out. Morosely he fetched his tools and began forking rubbish from the top into his barrow. When it was filled,
he set his fork against the wall and started out for the midden.
It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun’s heat was concentrated by the white limewash of the buildings on either side. The walls gleamed so strongly he had to squint. Slouching along reluctantly, he could feel the sweat bursting from his skin. It formed a stream under his shirt, trickling down his spine and soaking into the seat of his hose. At the parish church dedicated the previous year by Bishop Stapledon to St. Eustace, he rested a moment, spitting on his hands and rubbing them. He was used to picking up sacks of flour or carcasses, but walking along pushing his wooden barrow was tiring in the heat. Reaching the midden, he emptied his load into the stinking pool. Then, resignedly pulling his shoulders back, he made his way homeward.
He was on his fourth load when he heard the Abbey bells, and he groaned when he saw the lengthening shadows. Vespers already, and he wasn’t halfway through the mound. His irritation made him careless. The wheel caught in a rut, and he froze, eyes wide, mouth pursed into a thin white line as he gripped the solid timber handles, desperately struggling to keep it upright. Then the wheel slipped treacherously on a stone and the whole reeking load slid from the overturned barrow.
Elias fumed. Fists clenched, he kicked the wheel in futile rage. Hearing a man chuckling, he was about to swear when he saw it was a monk. Elias carefully watched till the figure had disappeared through the Abbey’s great gate before letting out a hissed oath. He didn’t want another fine.
The Abbot's Gibbet Page 3
