Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

His head dropped to his chest and he walked miserably toward the town and back to the Abbey. As he approached it, he saw a little crush of townspeople, some waving sticks and broken pieces of wood. From this distance, it could have been a group of merry-makers, but even as he looked, he saw youths picking up stones from the roadside and hurling them at the Abbey’s gates.

Quickly he turned his steps away, back up the hill toward the fairground.

Behind him he heard a shout, and when he looked, he saw some figures hurrying after him. He took to his heels, his heart pounding. All too often the townspeople enjoyed ridiculing the young novices when they had a chance, but this was no party in the mood for fun. This was a mob in search of victims.

Before him he saw another black habit, and he sped toward it. Glancing behind, he saw that his pursuers were gaining on him. Panting in the heat, he picked up the hem of his habit and pelted after the other brother.

When her daughter walked in, Marion laid aside her work and studied her. To her chagrin, she was aware of a sense of pride in the way that Avice held herself. Her carriage was as haughty as Marion’s own, and her regal entry, ignoring her parents and walking straight to a bench and sitting, was a masterpiece of contempt.

Arthur for his part was sad to see her so openly mutinous. His daughter, whom he adored with all his soul, for whom he would gladly lose an arm if it would make her happy, was treating him with as much respect as he would give a beggar in the street. And all because of that Venetian. He sighed, and threw a glance at Henry, who stood by the wall. The groom was indifferent; he had performed his duty as he saw it, and was waiting to provide the necessary evidence when called.

There was no gloating in Marion’s voice, only calm sympathy. “Avice, we wanted you here because we have been finding out what we can about this swain of yours. This Pietro da Cammino.”

Avice looked up and met her mother’s gaze. “And what have you discovered?”

Her father glanced at Henry once more. “Avice, his father is negotiating with the Abbot, but there are other things you should know.”

“I assume this is your spy – let him speak!” Avice said, staring at Henry.

The groom winced. He’d expected this duty to be painful, and his young mistress was not of a mood to ease his task. “Miss Avice, I did go and try to find out what I could, not because I want to upset you, but because I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”

“Hurry up, man! She wants to know what you’ve found,” Marion snapped.

“The father and son are staying with the Abbot while they conduct business with him. They say they are wealthy, but others think they aren’t. It could be that they are trying to con the Abbot out of his money.”

“Rubbish!”

“Their horses are of poor quality – how many wealthy men would tolerate ponies like theirs?”

“Maybe their own horses went lame.”

“Perhaps. But some say the boy is dangerous. He drew a knife against the man who died near the tavern. Some people think he was the murderer.”

“Some ‘people’? Which people?”

“Among them, monks.”

Avice’s mouth fell open with dismay. “But, how?” she said, then rallied. “If a monk thought that, he would tell his Abbot, and the Abbot could hardly let a man suspected of murder stay as his guest. I don’t believe you!”

“Avice,” her mother protested, “Henry wouldn’t lie to you.”

“He would if he thought you wished him to. He would if he thought you were determined to see me unhappy for the rest of my days and married to John.”

“Mistress, I have not invented this. It’s what I heard a monk say.”

Suddenly her voice sharpened. “A monk – or was it a novice? Was it the boy who asked me to run away with him? It was, wasn’t it? It was that fool Peter!”

“Who it was doesn’t matter, girl,” Arthur rumbled, but she ignored him.

“That’s all the evidence you can collect, the jealous, unfair and biased view of a boy who wants me himself so much he’d perjure himself to his God! Yet you can’t prove Pietro isn’t rich! That he and his father are guests of the Abbot must mean that Abbot Champeaux himself thinks them honorable, and yet you are prepared to spread malicious lies just to convince me I’m wrong – well, I won’t listen to this. I know what kind of a man Pietro is, and I will marry him.”

“You can’t, Avice. You will wed John,” her mother reminded her.

“I will not. I have been a dutiful and obedient daughter, but I will not agree to this. It’s my life, and I would prefer to go to the cloister than harness myself to John until my death.”

She swept to her feet and flounced from the room.

Arthur shook his head. “Not the result we desired.”

“She will come round,” Marion said, but with more confidence than she felt. “Henry, tell Avice’s maid to come and see me right away.” When he had left the room, she continued: “Arthur, until this nonsense is finished, Avice must be confined to the house. We cannot have her wandering where she will with this Venetian vagabond. Who knows where her folly might lead her?”

“Oh, very well,” he said and stood.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the tavern. I’ve had enough of all this.”

“You don’t mean you support her in this capricious flouting of our will?”

“Your will, not mine. All I want is to see her happy.”

“So do I, Arthur. I simply do not believe she will be happy with this boy.”

“Perhaps, but right now, I don’t know that she can ever be happy with John either. You call it capriciousness, but I wonder whether it is equally capricious to wish on her a marriage with a man whom your daughter finds contemptible.” And before she could answer him, he had left the room.

Outside the house, he reflected a moment. His words would have hurt his wife, but he could not regret them. She was waging a vendetta against the boy based on her own desire for Avice to marry into a knightly family. It was a natural enough wish, he acknowledged, but he would prefer his daughter to be happy rather than trying to force her to begin a dynasty. He hesitated, then made off down the hill toward the tavern. If he could not find peace in his own house, he would seek it elsewhere.

They were gaining on him. Peter was convinced he was about to be attacked, and his flesh cringed at the thought of what the youths would do to him when they caught him.

The monk heard the noise, too. Seeing the baying mob, he ducked sideways into an alley. Peter saw him disappear, and marked the spot. Panting, he ran close to the buildings at the side of the road. If he could just get to the alley, he might be able to follow the other monk without his pursuers seeing him.

He didn’t recognize the monk – he was too far off, but Peter wondered whether it was one of the lay brothers. There were so many who labored in the fields, or kept the smithy and mill working, Peter could not remember them all. The figure of this one looked familiar, but he could not place him.

Coming level with the alley, he risked a glance behind. The bend in the street hid the mob from view. He nipped in, only to meet a man stepping out. In one hand he held a black habit, bundled loosely. In the other was a heavy stick.

Peter stared. “What were you doing wearing that?” he demanded, but he saw the man heft his stick, and the monk retreated, his eyes fixed on the cudgel with horror. Hearing a shout behind him, he spun, just in time to see the jeering pack running past. Suddenly he was less scared of them; suddenly they looked like his protectors, and he opened his mouth to shout, but before he could, he was yanked backward into the dark maw of the alley. The youths ran off up the hill, oblivious to Peter’s panicked defense.