Michael JECKS: The Abbot's Gibbet

“Yes. I have to buy wine. And you?”

“My son Pietro and I are to visit the Abbot of Tavistock.”

It was said with a calm hauteur, and Arthur accepted his subservient position. If the Italian could call on an Abbot, a man who ranked with a lord, he must be important. Once Avice was married to John, a little of that great family’s importance would reflect on him, but until then Arthur knew he was only a merchant, someone who might be rich, but who was insignificant compared with a man of God or even the poorest member of the nobility. Caste was important, and Arthur knew his place in society. He might well be one of the most affluent men in southern Devon, yet to a knight or baron he was simply a commoner, and as such unimportant.

Arthur passed a measuring eye over the man. There was no doubt in his mind that the stranger was very prosperous. His tunic was expensive, of softly woven wool, and his shoes were of supple red leather. At his belt was a sword, and Arthur wondered a moment whether he might be a knight, but although he carried the trappings, something struck a wrong note. Neither he nor his son displayed a shield; neither had heraldic arms woven into their clothing. Their servant, who led two packhorses laden with goods and a large box, was dressed only poorly in a coarse tunic with a linen shirt beneath and ordinary hose whereas a knight’s man-at-arms would have demonstrated how well-heeled his master was by wearing a costly uniform to display his rank and position. This servant was no better clad than Arthur’s groom.

The quality of their horseflesh jarred too. Though the animals were caparisoned in the latest style, with bells hanging from the harnesses and expensive tooling on the saddles and bridles, the beasts themselves were of low standard, not good palfreys but broken-looking ponies. It made Arthur blink in surprise as he glanced from one to another.

The son, Pietro, was well-formed-tall, with raven-black hair and the flashing dark eyes of the Mediterranean. He was dressed extravagantly: his hose were tight-fitting, and he wore a parti-colored tunic of red and green velvet. Arthur shot his daughter a glance. To his pleasure, he saw that Avice was maintaining a dignified lack of interest, staring ahead in her eagerness to catch sight of the town.

Arthur engaged the older man in desultory conversation as they rode, and found that his name was Antonio da Cammino; he was a merchant from Venice. From his speech, Cammino was wealthier than Arthur would have guessed. He spoke of a fleet of galleys trading between the cities of Italy, going as far as Palestine and Byzantium.

“You speak English very well,” Arthur complimented him respectfully.

“I have been dealing here for many years – I have an interest in some banking ventures. And now I am here to talk to the Abbot.”

“For business?”

The Venetian nodded. “While there is enmity between your King and the King of France, there are opportunities to make money.”

Arthur nodded. King Edward II was involved in a lengthy dispute with the French once more. The French King insisted on his right to hear appeals from the English King’s vassals in Gascony, but for the English to accept this, they must accept that the French crown was suzerain, and that was impossible while the Gascon territories yielded greater revenue than England. Edward II could not afford to see his lands diminished, they were crucial to him; he wanted to establish that he held Gascony as an alod, in full sovereignty, but the French wanted him to submit to the treaty of 1259 that conferred upon the French Crown rights of vassalage over the English King.

If the King was strong, there might be a way of negotiating a respectable settlement, but Arthur knew as well as any that Edward II was weak. He had no interest in politics. It was rumored that he was more interested in certain male court favorites than in matters of state, and his reputation as a warlord had been crushed with his soldiers at the disaster of Bannockburn. It was hardly likely that he would consider war against France. How could tiny England ever hope to win a war against so massive and powerful an enemy?

But Cammino was right: there was always a way to make money, even in a war. A merchant like him, with his own fleet, could import wines from Gascony, or help provision an army, or simply lend cash to a baron or king in need. And while hostilities remained verbal, a skillful man could build up his stores against the time when they would be needed, and earn a good profit.

Cammino’s son Pietro listened idly to the two men talking about their business, but he found his attention wandering to Arthur’s daughter.

Avice Pole was elegant for her fifteen years. Her skin was pale, her features finely molded, with soft doe-eyes and a slightly tip-tilted nose. Her brow was high, giving her a mature and intelligent look, and her hair, from what he could see under her fashionable little wimple, was chestnut. She looked serene and confident in her green tunic with the embroidery at hem and throat.

He was desperate to engage her in conversation, but Pietro had little experience of talking to women. His life had been one of constant travel, with few opportunities for dalliance, and he had no idea what topic would attract her. It was essential that he should see her again, intolerable that once they arrived in Tavistock he might not – ever. As their little company began to descend a hill he racked his brains to devise a scheme to meet her, but the solution was offered by Arthur himself.

“It has been pleasant to pass the journey in your company, sir. Would you be kind enough to accept a pot of wine with me? It will take time for my cart to be unloaded tonight, but there is a tavern at Tavistock. Perhaps I could entertain you there at compline?”

“I would be glad to, and you must bring your delightful wife and daughter,” he said, bowing graciously, and Pietro relaxed, shooting a quick glance at Avice. To his surprise, she was giving him a covert look from the corner of her wimple, and when he grinned, he was sure she returned it.

It was at the edge of a wood bordering the town’s plain that they first heard the friar.

“Do you know what you’re doing, eh? Do you realize your mortal danger? Everything you do is against Christ’s teachings!”

To Luke, Cammino’s servant, he looked like any wandering mendicant: thin, bowed as if from a great burden, with glittering, almost fanatical blue eyes. His hair, what was left below his tonsure, was gray with age, and his skin as brown as a peasant’s, as if he lived all his life in the open air. He wasn’t shouting or haranguing, but speaking sadly, as though convinced his message was essential if only people would listen.

At his side was a small gathering, most making merry at the cleric’s expense, and children played behind. One man appeared to be listening with interest, however – a rough-looking, barrel-chested, middle-aged man with grizzled hair and the heavy build of a farmer.

“My friends, haven’t you heard the words of St. Augustine? He told us business itself is evil. Money is evil: it taints your immortal soul. Do not go to the fair to make profit; profit is evil! Do you go to buy new cloths and fabrics? They are the traps of the devil, leading to the sin of pride. Why do you want to flaunt expensive clothing and dress your women in gold and jewels? If you buy up things you don’t need, you are guilty of the sin of avarice. The land is plentiful, there is food enough for all…”

Friars often selected individuals to harangue in order to emphasize their points, and with relief Luke saw the man’s eyes fall on Antonio and not him. “Master, are you here to sell goods?”

Antonio glanced down at the friar with distaste. “No, I am here to see the good Abbot.”