Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

“You see? Even you can’t treat me seriously,” he grumbled, but there was a vein of sadness in his expression which gave rise to a feeling of tenderness in her breast.

She tried to quash it as soon as she was aware of it, reminding herself that she did not need this man, and if he was still alone after so long, he must be dull indeed, but his loneliness touched her. “I am surprised you weren’t married when you were younger. Have you given up all hope of finding a wife?”

“It was not possible. At first there was the distraction of war, then the long process of recovery and at last the poverty of being a lordless outcast.”

Jeanne looked up at him. The starlight was kind to him, smoothing out the lines of pain and making him look younger. His hair gleamed in the gray light, giving him an air of quiet dignity, but there was suffering in his voice when he talked about his past. She couldn’t understand what made him so bitter, but she’d seen impoverished knights, as had everyone in Europe. All over Christendom there were knights who had lost their lords, whether from arguments, or because their masters had died, or for some other reason. Once they were without a home, they became wanderers, without income or patron, and with no source of food or even a bed. They were sad men, often proud and haughty beneath their dishevelled exterior, who had been struck down by a quirk of fate. Many resorted to villainy, robbing to live.

Jeanne had never considered them before, but now found herself wondering how these knights survived. How would her own dead husband have reacted if he had not been able to inherit his lands and money but had been forced to seek a new master, only to find that his new lord was bested in battle, or killed, or died of a fever, and the son was not keen on keeping his father’s old retainers? She had little doubt that her husband would have taken to the woods, become a renegade and outlaw, and died young, hanging ignominiously from a tree. The thought made her shudder.

At once Baldwin was solicitous. “Are you cold? Would you like to return?”

“No, Sir Baldwin, I am fine, really. Please, tell me about your home – about Furnshill.”

His voice softened. “It is an old house, long and narrow, on the side of a hill. There are woods behind and to either side, and a stream which starts from the ground near the house. I have good farmland, with several vills and bartons, and the villeins keep the house filled with food even when they have taken enough for themselves. On a clear day, I can sit before my threshold and look out over the hills for miles, and see almost nothing except trees and my fields.”

“I should like to see it.”

He glanced across, surprised. “Would you? You would be very welcome. I shall ask Simon to bring you the next time he comes, if you wish.”

“That would be very pleasant,” she said.

“And what of yourself? A woman like you could find another husband with ease.”

His boldness made her stammer. “Me? I… It is good of you to say so, but there are many widows, and more young women. Why should a man look to a woman of nine-and-twenty when he has his pick of younger ones? Anyway, I am content.”

Baldwin was about to answer when he noticed another couple. To his surprise he recognized the young monk and a girl; a maidservant stood nearby, clucking with disapproval. “I think we might have happened on a sad event,” he murmured as they approached.

Avice was staggered at the effrontery. “You would like to marry me? You? And where would you have me live – in the gatehouse with the other guests?”

“No, my lady, I will find us a house. It needn’t be too large for only we two.”

“Oh yes? And how will you, sworn to poverty, buy food for us to live on? If your Abbot allows you to live outside the Abbey… Can he do that?”

“But it is arranged! I haven’t taken the vows yet. My Abbot has agreed that I may leave the Abbey,” Peter said desperately, confused by her rejection. He could not have mistaken her feelings, not when her smile at him had been so kind and sweet earlier that morning. She must be displaying anger because her maid was there, he reasoned. “All I have to do is tell the Abbot when I am to leave.”

“You may leave the Abbey when you like if you are so incontinent you may not swear to chastity, but don’t expect me to accept poverty for no reason. The thought of it! Quitting my home to live in a hovel like a peasant!”

“Leave us a moment,” Peter said to the maid.

Avice stamped her foot. “Let her alone! She’s my servant, and if I wish her to go away, I will order her, not some impecunious monk!”

Avice was aggrieved that this scrawny little clerk should dare to embarrass her in front of Susan. Although she had proudly boasted to Pietro earlier that she had won the heart of the monk, she’d not realized her victory had been so complete. When she’d said that he would give up his service to God, she had been trying to make the Venetian jealous, nothing more. To be confronted with the adoration of the pasty-faced cleric was alarming; no, more than that – it was fearful. What would happen to her soul if she were to tempt a monk from his vocation, she wondered distractedly. The thought lent venom to her voice. “Leave me alone, I don’t want to see you again.”

“But lady, I…”

“I wouldn’t think of having you for my husband if you were the only man in Christendom, not if you were wealthy beyond equal, not if you were a king. To shame me in the street like this! No, go! Leave me alone, and never speak to me again.”

She swept on; the monk stared after her, his mouth open with utter dismay, but she didn’t look back. Uppermost in her mind was the long prayer she would have to say before retiring to bed, and the apology and confession she must offer to the priest at her next Mass. She was shocked, horrified, that the silly boy could think she would be prepared to give up her life and become his wife. “Who does he think he is?”

“He thought he was the man you loved,” said Susan curtly.

“Don’t answer me back! Keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll see to it that you leave my father’s house.”

“It was your flirting that ensnared the boy, not my words. If you want to snap at someone, bite she who caused your troubles – you!”

“Be quiet!”

Susan shrugged, but without concern. She knew her mistress was making an empty threat; she would not give up her maid, not that she had much choice. No matter how much her father wanted to please her, he knew Susan had been picked by his wife, and Arthur would not risk offending Marion just to satisfy his daughter’s caprice.

As the boy hurried past, Baldwin called to him. “Peter? Are you well?”

Peter’s visage was a picture of devastation. He stared without recognition at the knight, backing away, his mouth moving but no words coming. Suddenly he spun round and fled off, straight up the hill away from the town.

Baldwin made as if to run after him, but Jeanne laid a hand on his arm. “Leave him. I think he has a degree of pain and suffering that no words can heal.”

“But what could have caused it?” Baldwin asked.

Jeanne motioned toward Avice’s speedily disappearing back. “I think you need ask her that. It was she who talked to him just now, and surely she must know what has cut his heart in two.”

Baldwin stood a moment undecided. “What could a young girl have said to have wounded a monk so grievously?”

“I can think of a few.”

“That is hardly likely, surely.”

She made an exasperated gesture with her hand. “A young man is a young man, whether he wears the clerical garb or not. Just because he has a black habit doesn’t mean he can’t feel the same lusts as a normal boy.”