Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

Peter, when Baldwin caught a glimpse of the lad’s face, was enthralled, staring about him with wide-eyed fascination. The youth had never been to a fair. Never before had he seen such a variety of goods; it looked as if the produce of the whole world was here, and all in profusion. They walked past glove-makers, tailors, cordwainers and tanners. There were candles, soaps, herbs of all kinds, spices all set out in pots, and seeds from as far away as Constantinople. Each alley held new attractions and wonderful exhibits. It irked the young monk that Baldwin did not let them pause until they came to the cattle-market.

Here they watched for a few minutes as a huge red-brown beast was led round the ring. Its mad black eyes glared at the spectators while they watched, and the bargaining began. Peter stood open-mouthed while the calls were shouted out. A deal was soon agreed, and the bidders all moved forward to pay for their share; under the fair’s rules it was illegal to hoard any provisions within the town in case a trader should try to gain a monopoly and thereby cause a dearth. Anyone who put in a bid for the meat of an ox must be allowed a share to prevent any single dealer controlling all meat.

Peter was aware that the others were moving on again, and he trailed after them. He’d not realized how diverse the world was, and he murmured a quiet prayer to himself as he hurried on. A short way along the street, he stumbled and dropped the leather packet holding his quills and inks. He had to stoop to pick them up, and when he stood up again, he found he couldn’t see the others any more. He stared about him with sudden anxiety.

Peter had only been a monk for a short time, and was still serving his novitiate. He had been at the Abbey school for some years, but had spent little time outside the Abbey itself. Now for the first time he was alone in a fair, and the mass of humanity was fearsome. He gathered up his package, but then stopped.

In front of him a young couple had appeared. He knew Pietro da Cammino from taking him to the inn the night before, but he’d never clapped eyes on Avice Pole.

Peter was young and impressionable, brought up to revere and idolize the image of the Madonna, and to his eyes Avice Pole was an angel. She was as fine and beautiful as the Abbey church carvings of Christ’s mother. Her wide-set green eyes and a slightly tip-tilted nose gave her an air of amusement, as if she could see the best in everyone and everything in the world. She looked a kind and generous soul, he thought.

The novice watched as she passed. Pietro saw him but ignored him: he was only another monk, and there were enough of them at fair-time in Tavistock, especially with the mendicants, who spent their time alternately preaching and begging; but Avice beamed at Peter as she swept by, and that simple recognition melted his heart.

Then two irritable men brushed him aside. One was Antonio, but he didn’t know Arthur Pole. In their train came Luke, who cursed him, and then he was alone once more. He was suddenly aware that the others must have moved on, and was about to set off after them when two more men hurried by, one of them a friar.

Peter didn’t care. His mind was fixed on the graceful creature who had smiled at him.

Luke felt a quick discomfort when he realized he had shoved a monk from his path. It hadn’t been intentional; he had thought it was just another cheaply dressed peasant. He’d only caught a glimpse of the robe before he elbowed the lad out of his way. By the time he’d spotted the tonsure it was too late.

But there was no time for regrets. Antonio da Cammino, his master, was displaying his annoyance by staying close behind his son and the girl, and Luke was hard pushed to keep up. The crowd that filled the alleys was bunched around particular stalls, and at each knot Antonio was slowed. As soon as he could, he forged ahead, trying to close the gap between himself and his son, and each time there was another delay for Luke, who was forced to batter his own way through. It was tiring – and more than a little ridiculous.

Luke set his jaw as he pushed through yet another group. Now they were entering a new lane, and here at last the passage was almost clear. He could breathe a little easier, and lengthened his stride.

The girl’s father appeared a self-important little man to the servant – strong, but soft with easy living. Antonio and Arthur Pole hardly glanced in each other’s direction, and Luke wasn’t surprised. In his experience parents were rarely eager when their children found their own companions. Fathers were keen to arrange alliances in which wealth could be married to wealth, but neither Antonio nor the girl’s father knew anything about the other. Their children had met and agreed to walk together almost before their parents had realized what was happening. Now they strolled side-by-side, neither one speaking but both greedily absorbing their children’s words in case of an indiscretion.

Luke sighed. It was no surprise that his master should be worried. The very last thing he needed was for his son to start an amorous affair. Especially if it became serious.

He gave Pietro a shrewd look. Luke had never known him to get attached to girls before. That he should do so now, and with the daughter of a burgess was surprising: Pietro knew how little time they had in Tavistock. But the servant had seen growing signs of rebellion for the last few months.

It was always the way. Sons would seek their own amusements, and Pietro had apparently decided that this girl was interesting – or possibly something of a challenge, Luke amended. The lad certainly seemed taken with her – he could hardly take his eyes off her. The servant eyed the girl appraisingly. Pietro had chosen well. She looked vulnerable, ready for a serious, mature attack from a worldly squire like Pietro. His stories of foreign travel, with his fashionable and expensive dress, should make his charms irresistible.

Luke had some experience of young and impressionable women. At one point he had married one, though he had left her behind when the French approached.

That was some years ago, when he had been living in the eastern marches of Gascony. He had scraped a decent enough living there, and if it hadn’t been for the French attacks and their capture of swathes of the English King’s territory, he would be there still. But the French were known to dislike those who had allied themselves to the English, and as soon as the first heralds appeared near his town, he had saddled his horse and escaped. Under the urge of homesickness, he had made for Bordeaux, to a place where he would hear English voices again, but the citizens of the town weren’t charitable, and for months he had been close to starvation, begging and trying to find work, before he had met Antonio and his son.

He looked at his master again, seeing the bristling anger in Antonio’s rigid shoulders, and shook his head. The girl might be worth a tumble, but he wondered if Pietro had realized how his father felt.

Peter caught up with Baldwin and the others near the leather-goods stalls. The next section included the poulterers and butchers. Will Ruby was there, and Baldwin saw that he watched the group with eyes that betrayed his anxiety.

Baldwin stood at the entrance of the lane where the cooks plied their trade and looked down the narrow way. There was an open space here where children ran, playing chasing games, while parents looked on indulgently. Rich and poor mixed together, all drinking or chewing their food.

Simon felt his purse. The smell of cooking was making his mouth water. Onions and garlic, pepper and meats of all kinds were boiling or roasting all round as he moved in among the stalls, and he eyed the offerings with an appreciative eye. It had been a long time since his breakfast.