Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

It made him consider his position. When he had joined the Templars he had taken the vow of chastity. Yet since his Order had been destroyed by the Pope’s avarice, he considered his oaths annulled. The Pope had demanded obedience, and had then betrayed his knights, so how could the oaths of poverty and chastity be valid?

Baldwin was proud not to have succumbed to lust as so many of his peers did so regularly, but he could admit to himself that now he was adrift in the secular world, without the great purpose of the Templars to order his life, he felt the same urges as his fellows. He wanted a wife for a companion. And he wanted a son to continue his name.

His attention was drawn back as the Venetian spoke. “My lord Abbot, I hear that a man has been found dead. Is that right?”

“I fear so, Antonio. He appears to have been killed out near the tavern on the Brentor road.”

“A great shame, the poor man,” Cammino said, shaking his head.

“Yes. I am fortunate indeed to have Sir Baldwin and Simon here. They are experienced in finding killers. I am sure they will soon discover the murderer.”

“Yes. Of course.” Cammino was thoughtful for a moment, then he glanced at the door. “My lord Abbot, ladies, Sir Baldwin, Simon – I fear I should find my son and ensure that he is not making a fool of himself somewhere else.” He took his leave of them, his servant following him through the door.

When Baldwin caught a glimpse of the Abbot’s expression, he saw that it betrayed relief. Champeaux made no effort to hide his feelings. “It is well said that a man’s worst enemy is his son – the son always knows how to hurt. So, Sir Baldwin, is there anything else you will need to conduct your enquiry?”

“Hmm? Oh, no.” The knight’s gaze was firmly locked on the door through which the two Venetians had left. “No, I think I have everything I need, thank you.”

“Good. In that case, let us dine. I know I am hungry!”

Holcroft walked slowly and deliberately on his way to the brewers’ stalls. More than before, he felt he needed a drink, and not a weak ale.

A monk had robbed Will Ruby! The idea was mad, yet Ruby had been convincing. He had seen the Benedictine, had bowed to him, acknowledging the man, and as soon as he passed, had been struck on the head. While he was on the ground, stunned, his purse was grabbed, there was a flash of steel, and he had lost his money. At the time he was glad that the blade had cut only the thongs of his purse and hadn’t stabbed his heart, but as he said to the port-reeve, if this was to get out, there would be danger for any monk in the town.

That was the rub, and Holcroft knew it. It was inconceivable that a real monk could be guilty, it had to be someone masquerading. But if this got out, people would at best look askance at a monk in the street. If he didn’t let it be known that someone was dressing in monk’s garb to steal, the man could continue unimpeded, but if Holcroft did, it would be impossible for a monk to walk abroad – at the fair almost everyone was a foreigner, and few would know one of the real monks.

He sipped at his beer. The story would be bound to get about if there was another theft; he was lucky that the first man to be attacked was a townsman wary of causing offense to the Abbot. The next merchant to be robbed was likely to be someone from out of town, and then the news would become common knowledge, and when it did, there was the risk that a mob could form. Tavistock had ever been a quiet, safe town, with few of the riots so common to great cities like Bristol and London, but Holcroft knew perfectly well that there was resentment among some of the population at the wealth of the Abbey. Like dried tinder, mutiny required but a tiny spark to ignite an all-consuming flame, and news that a monk was robbing people could be that spark.

He had no choice: he must tell the Abbot. Finishing his ale, he set the empty pot back on the table and stared at it. When he glowered around him there was no sign of a Benedictine habit, which was a relief, but that only meant that the thief was somewhere else, waiting to strike the first passer-by with a filled purse.

Holcroft set off toward the Abbey with a heart that had sunk so far it felt as if it was dragging on the ground behind him.

In the fairground the excitement of the morning had died a little. Now the visitors walked more speculatively, with less urgency, as they realized that there was plenty more for all to buy and no need to rush to get stock from the first stall to display something suitable.

People strolled along the thronged streets and alleys, measuring the wares, assessing their worth and comparing the goods from one stall with those of the next.

Elias could see how the customers wandered from one place to another, and was glad that he sold meats and pies. With his business, people wanted what he had or they didn’t. There was none of that seeing something on one trestle, then rushing back to another merchant and telling him that the same cloth, or gloves, or shirt, could be purchased for at least a penny less five stalls up. For Elias, it was a simple case of “What’s in that pie? Oh, good, I’ll take one.”

He sat on his barrel and rested his back against the pole of the awning. A jug of ale in his lap, he gradually allowed the warmth of the sun to ease his eyelids shut. It was so good to sit and soak up the heat.

Elias had married, but his wife had died in childbirth with their second child. His first had succumbed to a strange disease which made him short of breath and sneeze in the spring, and though Elias had thought that he should be safe enough when he got to ten years old, the cook had returned home one afternoon to find his boy lying blue-lipped and pale in the hall, gasping sporadically for breath. Panicking, Elias had rushed to the Abbey, and begged the doorman to fetch a monk to help, but by the time the man had found one, his boy was dead.

The cook sniffed and took another long draft of ale. It had been hard, but after burying his wife and child, he had settled into a routine. Working hard to keep his business going took up most of his day, and then there was always the tavern and Lizzie or another girl. All in all he was reasonably content.

The barrel rocked and he came to with a sudden alarm. Standing over him were two of the men from Denbury. His startled gaze went from one to the other.

“Elias, we think you need your stall looked after carefully,” said Long Jack.

The second man smiled. In a way, that was more terrifying than anything else. His teeth were black stumps, and his breath was as foul as the devil’s own. “Long Jack’s right,” he leered. “Otherwise you might find all your pies and things trampled on the ground. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

It was gloomy here. The sun was beyond its zenith, and buildings shadowed the packed dirt of the roadway. Laughing men and women trailed idly, most drifting back toward the town, the excitement of the first morning of the fair beginning to pall in the middle of the afternoon. They had already sated themselves in viewing the range of goods available; now was the time to return to inn, tavern or rented rooms to prepare for the evening’s entertainments.

In the gloom of a doorway, Pietro da Cammino waited nervously, leaning against a wall and glancing up and down the street with anxiety creasing his brow as the people trickled past, one or two casting an uninterested glance in his direction.

His father couldn’t understand. He was too old. Pietro had listened to Antonio telling him time after time how he had wooed Isabella, his mother, all those years before, and how proud he had been to win so handsome a woman, yet Antonio could not understand that Pietro had found the woman he needed at last. Even her name, Avice, sounded unique to the young Venetian. The name matched the girl; both were rare and exotic.