Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

The Abbot had a sense of unreality as he stood in the alley staring down at the slumped figure clothed in the black habit of his Order. People clustered at the entrance to the alley, craning over the crossed polearms of two watchmen to peer at the body. Beyond, men and women strolled past, uninterested, as they made their way up to the fair or returned from it to their lodgings for a meal.

Champeaux had seen many dead bodies in his life – monks who had expired from fevers, old age, or occasionally famine, but there was something unutterably sad about this death. Peter was so young. He should have had many years to live, for he was healthy enough, and he might have become a good monk if he had resolved his problem with the girl. All men who entered the cloister were forced to come to terms with their vow of chastity, and Champeaux was convinced that the youth would have been able to as well. It was one thing to be tempted, but if one had to be, it was better that it should happen before taking the vows so that the problem could be confronted and the firm decision taken beforehand.

He was only glad that Baldwin and Simon were on hand. The knight was already crouched by the figure, staring at it with a strangely sympathetic expression.

“How did he die, Sir Baldwin?”

Baldwin hardly looked up. “His wrists are cut.”

The bailiff watched as Baldwin gently rolled the body over, examining Peter’s back and maintaining a commentary on what he saw.

“He’s not been dead long: his body is still warm and the blood hardly clotted. There is no sign of a wound in his back or anything to suggest that he was murdered. Only the cuts on his wrists. It is…”

“I know, Sir Baldwin,” said the Abbot quietly. “It looks like suicide.”

The knight said nothing, rolling the body over onto its back once more and holding an arm up to study the scored flesh.

Simon said, “His hands are clenched as if he was preparing to fight.”

“All of us are bled for our health,” said the Abbot slowly. “He would know that clenching the fist makes the blood flow faster.”

The knight nodded. “It was merciful and swift. The boy would have lost consciousness speedily with both wrists opened.” He looked up at the grieving face of the Abbot, adding softly, “He would not have suffered, my lord.”

“Thank you for that, Sir Baldwin. I would not wish to think be had been in pain for long, the poor fellow. It is bad enough that he should have contemplated such an evil act, such a sin against his God, without having to suffer for it.”

That, they all knew, was the nub of the issue. Suicide was a crime against God: an act of violence condemned by all. It meant a suicide could not be buried in a church or churchyard.

“Why should he have done this?” Simon wondered.

The Abbot was silent a moment. He could not discuss the novice’s confession of lusting after the girl. “He was not in the Abbey last night,” he admitted at last. “I think his mind was disturbed.”

“What will you do with him?” asked one of the watchmen standing nearby. “Leave him out at the crossroads?”

There was a greedy delight to his voice that made the Abbot snap his head round sharply. The watchman was smiling, pleased to see that even a monk could fall to utter disgrace, and for once Abbot Robert permitted himself a burst of anger.

“You think that because he has suffered the torments of evil, a slow and dreadful torture you cannot imagine, that he should be deserted like a felon? You think his soul should be cast aside because of the pain he has been forced to endure? You yourself, aye and your family, your children, your parents, all of you, are protected by the monks of this Abbey giving themselves up to God, and you dare to crow when one of us finds the agony too great! This man was taken by God. He committed suicide after days of struggling with the devil within him, while his mind was unbalanced, and that was an act of God. God chose to take him to Himself. How dare you suggest he should be treated like an unshriven felon! Peter will be buried with honor in the monks’ graveyard, the same as if he had died in any other way, and you can tell your friends that!”

Simon was stunned to see the Abbot’s sudden emotion, and the watchman was equally shocked. He withdrew, muttering apologies, and the Abbot gave a great sigh, as if he had exhausted his final energy with his explosion. Champeaux glanced down at the body once more. “Oh, Peter, Peter. Why should you have come to this?”

The bailiff wanted to lead the Abbot away. The death of the monk had shaken the older man to the core of his soul, and his sadness was unbearable. Simon was about to propose that they quit this miserable place when he caught sight of the stick.

It was a plain oaken cudgel, with a large ball for a head, which rested at the foot of one of the walls only a few feet from the alley’s entrance. Someone could have tossed it in, he thought, a passer-by with no further use for a heavy piece of wood like this. Yet Simon knew that no one would discard such a useful weapon. A good defensive tool like this would be kept and cherished until it became old or rotten.

He held it to the light and studied it. There was no sign of cracking, no dents – it was in fine condition. The ground here was a matter of a yard or so from the corpse, and Simon gave it a measuring look. The cudgel could have been brought here by the monk, dropped while he prepared to destroy himself, and lain here forgotten while the lad watched his life-blood trickle and gush from his wounds. Simon had never seen the monk carry a cudgel, but many men would, and he had no doubt that a monk could get hold of one as easily as a serf. His gaze sharpened. If Peter had taken this with him, could it be possible that he was the monk responsible for the reported thefts? Might Peter have been the one who struck Will Ruby down? There had been other men too who had been attacked – could Peter have been the robber?

The watchmen converged on Jordan Lybbe’s stall and shoved past the boy at the front. Long Jack grabbed his arm and hauled him after them: Hankin had no time to call out, let alone scream. He wanted his master, but Lybbe wasn’t there, and Hankin knew he had no protector without him.

Other stallholders, who had all paid their protection money, had been expecting this. It was well-known that the watchmen had been trounced by Lybbe, so it was inevitable that while the merchant was away from his stall, it would be visited again. Those nearest turned their faces away and concentrated on their business. There was no point in being beaten to protect another’s goods – especially when the owner was an accused felon and outlaw. News travelled fast among the community of traders.

“All this is your master’s, isn’t it, boy?” Long Jack said, waving an arm round the goods on display. “It all belongs to Jordan Lybbe, this. Well, no longer. Now it’s ours, and we’re taking it.”

Hankin stared up at him, a young boy gripped by a man representing authority – a watchman. His master, the man he looked on as a father, had disappeared, and these men were going to steal all his goods. Hankin was scared, but Lybbe had saved him, had rescued him from starvation when his parents had died. The boy had no family, only Lybbe. He had no loyalty except to Lybbe. And these men intended robbing his master of everything he owned.

His right arm was gripped by Long Jack, but he could still reach his small sheath-knife with his left: he snatched it from its scabbard and jabbed it into Long Jack’s arm. The watchman shrieked, let go of the boy, and stared uncomprehendingly at the gash as his blood dripped. “You little bastard!”

Hankin scrambled back into the recesses of the hanging materials. He still feared the grim men, but thrusting his knife into Long Jack’s arm had given him a sense of satisfaction that even a thorough beating couldn’t erase. He could defend himself. Deep among the bolts of cloth, he crouched, his knife poised, waiting.