Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

“But a monk!” Baldwin fell silent, deep in thought. He could remember a time when he was younger, recuperating in Cyprus. There had been a girl to tempt him then, and the anguish he had endured after giving her up was painful to recall. “I suppose he is a novice still and has not taken his vows.”

“Perhaps. But I think it would be more pleasant to go home the way we came rather than following after either of them, don’t you?”

Baldwin stared up the street as if seeking the monk, and nodded.

Hugo left the last of the revellers and walked back to the little house where he had lodging. It had not been a fruitful evening. Whenever he had seen a possible new theme for a sermon, the killing intruded on his mind, and the face in the tavern. It was frustrating – and worrying – and he prayed for guidance as he walked up the hill.

A short way from the fairground, he saw two women approach. He did not recognize Avice, although her face seemed familiar to him, but when he saw the cowled figure that hurried from the shadows toward her, he was surprised. It was a young monk, who addressed the women with apparent familiarity. Avice clapped her hands with delight and allowed him to join her.

Hugo watched, stunned, as the three passed by him. No monk should be so familiar with a woman. There were no lights here, not with the strictures for safety imposed by the watch, but the three passed close enough for the friar to recognize Pietro’s face, and Hugo felt the chill of horror.

A lad who could steal a Benedictine habit and wear it in public, laughing as he polluted it by wooing a girl, was capable of anything.

Elias sat in his cell and wrapped himself in the rough blanket the watchman had sold him. The cell was a mere ten feet square, and Elias had been in it once before. That was twelve years ago now, when he had been found selling pies containing meat that had gone off, and he had spent a morning in the clink before being hauled off to the pillory, where the “putrid, stinking and abominable meat” pies were burned beneath his nose. It was a salutary lesson for a young cook, and had ruined his business for some months.

It was not a serious crime. He had known as soon as he was caught exactly what would happen. It was a common enough sight to see a baker, cook or brewer being locked in the pillory for a day after adulterating their produce with cheap ingredients, or some which had gone bad. He’d known the risk and accepted it, because the pigeons had been too expensive to simply throw away, and he hadn’t expected anyone to realize there was anything wrong with them – he’d used his spices more liberally than usual to disguise the rotten meat. It had been typical of his luck that a couple of youngsters and a woman had been ill after eating them.

But he couldn’t fool himself that he would get away with a day in the pillory or stocks with this. Why Lybbe had decided to hide the head in his garden he couldn’t understand. It was madness! Yet he realized Lybbe might not have known where else to hide it. He’d not been to Tavistock for many years, and wouldn’t have wished to wander round the town hunting for a suitable cache.

Outside he occasionally heard the steady tramp of boots as the guard walked past, and the man’s shadow crept along the inner wall of his prison thrown by a blazing torch on the building opposite. It was one of only a few kept lighted to make escape difficult. Elias could see the market-place outside in his mind’s eye. It was a large area, roughly triangular, where the tinners regularly came to coign their metal and buy provisions. He’d always viewed it as a pleasant part of town, even after his previous confinement; it always seemed so busy and bustling.

His head drooped. He had done nothing wrong, but he was to stand trial for murder. He had no doubt of that after seeing the grim expression on Baldwin’s face. It was unjust, unfair, but he knew life was often both. Shivering, he pulled the blanket tighter round his shoulders and pessimistically considered his future.

One thing he was determined on: he would not betray Jordan. In all likelihood it would do no good. It would only mean that both would hang. There was no point in dragging Jordan in and seeing him die too. Elias was a realist, and knew that Lybbe had no chance of escape if he should be called before a judge or coroner. That was the irony of the whole affair, his only protector was the one man he could not call, the only one who was in mortal danger should he be discovered. In any case, his word would be disbelieved, so his alibi for Elias could not help.

At the sound of scratching, he tutted and huddled deeper into his blanket. It was just his luck to have to share his cell with a rat. The scratching came again, and he jerked awake. At the barred window was an indistinct, crouching shape. Elias could just make out the head of a man. “What?” he asked irritably. “You want to gloat at a man’s misery, do you? Bugger off! Leave me al…”

There was a low chuckle, and he felt the skin on his neck stand vertical. “What are you doing here? God’s teeth, Jordan! What if someone sees you?”

“Hush! Nobody’ll see me. What are you doing here? I thought you’d been waylaid when you didn’t turn up. I’ve only just heard you were taken by the watchmen.”

“They found the head.”

Lybbe felt the breath freezing in his chest. “They found it? Christ’s blood!”

“Yes, but don’t worry. I’ll…”

“You’ll what? You mustn’t die on my account, Elias. Oh, Good God, how can You let this happen?”

Elias gave a wry smile at the bitter tone of voice. “He didn’t; you did. If you want someone to blame, blame yourself for putting the damned thing in my garden.”

“I must surrender myself. Admit to what I did and explain why.”

“You think that’ll help us? This is England, Jordan, not some wonderful place like the preachers talk about, where there’s justice and fairness for all and no one can be hanged and quartered on a whim.”

“I can’t let you die without trying to save you, Elias.”

“You can’t do anything, ” the cook pointed out wearily. “If you confess to what you did, they’ll hold you too, and when we go before the judge, we’ll both be hanged. What good would that do? Leave me to my fate. At least if I say nothing, they’ll have to prove me to be a liar. Find me a lawyer and get him to stand and defend me. That’s the best thing you can do.”

“I can’t leave you there alone to hang in my place!”

“If you give yourself up, we’ll both hang anyway. At least this way it’s only one of us. Think of your mother, Jordan. What would she have preferred?”

“She was your mother too, Elias!”

“I know. Would she want both her sons to die, or just one so that the other can live? I’m not sacrificing myself, Jordan, I’m doing the only thing which makes sense.”

“They’ll rot in Hell for this, I swear.” Lybbe fingered the hard wooden grip of the dagger at his belt.

“Do nothing, Jordan. Don’t put yourself in danger again, not for me. What would be the point? Just find me a lawyer so that I can defend myself.”

“I will, but I – someone’s coming!”

“Go, go now! And don’t come back. Nobody knows who you are yet, so you’re safe. If you come back you could be seen, and then where would we be? Go, in God’s name, and leave me alone!”

Lybbe slipped silently into the shadows as the feet approached, and retreated around the wall. As soon as he was out of sight, he darted over the road and hid in a gloomy alley.

Peering cautiously round the corner, he saw a monk striding purposefully up the road. The man had his hood over his head, and Jordan was surprised. Most went with their heads bare in the warmth of late summer. There was something else that looked incongruous, but before he could put his finger on it, the figure had hurried away.