Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

“There’s so much to be done through the year, sir. Things like this are always forgotten till the last minute,” the messenger said encouragingly.

“It should have been done by Andrew last year,” David muttered, but he knew the work should have been done by him. He was the port-reeve.

Many looked on the job as a sinecure. It only lasted twelve months, being an annual appointment by the Abbot’s steward, the port-reeve being selected from two or three names put forward by the town’s jury, and as well as the allowance of a couple of shillings, there was freedom from the year’s taxes. But after almost twelve months, David was worn out by his duties.

The port-reeve was the man who arranged the conduct of the fairs and markets. He had to tie together all the little details and make sure they went smoothly, to the Abbey’s profit. The port-reeve must witness any large trades, ensure that the watchmen behaved, tally up any sums owed, tell the beadle of any amercements that must be collected… in short, he was responsible for any problem, no matter when it might occur.

There was no blaming Andrew, last year’s incumbent, for not rebuilding the booth. It had been leaning when David was elected at Michaelmas last year, and now it was almost St. Rumon’s Day. From the end of September until now, the end of August, he had never found time to see to its refurbishment.

In fact, it had slipped his mind completely until the Abbot reminded him the night before. He’d been with the Abbey’s steward finalizing plans for the layout of the livestock pens when the Abbot had entered. “David, there was just one thing I wanted to ask,” he’d said, walking in quietly as David was about to leave, and the port-reeve had felt his heart fall to his boots.

“Er, yes, my lord?”

It wasn’t that the Abbot was a harsh master – he wasn’t – but he had a way of making a man feel as if he hadn’t quite matched up to the high standard expected of him. Abbot Robert Champeaux was a difficult person to deal with: he was truly honorable and fair. His eyes twinkled at the tone of his port-reeve’s voice. “Have more wine, my friend. It is only a little matter, concerning the toll-booth on the Brentor road. It looks a bit derelict.”

“Oh, er… Yes, I suppose it does.”

“It is quite ramshackle. The roof has rotted, and the walls are sodden. I fear it could collapse.”

The last of the panels fell with a slap like a wet cloth thrown against a rock, and David shook his head good-humoredly. The Abbot had been right as usual: the wood was so wet as to be useless. Still, everything was worth money during the three-day fair. The shingles would be taken by someone needing cheap replacements for a shed or outbuilding – Roger Torre had already expressed interest – and enough solid timber could be rescued from the panels to make a trestle or box. Poor farming folk would be willing to pay for odds and ends.

The workmen had fresh panels stacked near the booth, and now they nailed the boards in place while others scampered back to the roof and began hanging new chestnut slats.

Turning from the little building, the port-reeve was faintly surprised to note that the messenger had left. He stared toward the fairground. The ditch had been cleared, and now formed the boundary. The grassed area was filled with stalls. Seeing the men running round making good any faults in the stalls and trestles, David felt himself relax. It would all be worth it once the fair got going: the annual event would be a success again.

He glanced upward and squinted. It was past noon; soon he must see to the other thousand and one things that still had to be organized. He waited until the men had almost finished the second side wall and one half of the roof before making his way along the lane to the busy town.

On a normal day, the center would be filled with butchers, fishmongers and grocers plying their trade, but not now. In preparation for the fair, many had been moved from their usual premises. Cooks, poulterers and smiths were excluded from the town and must carry on their trade outside the fair’s ditch. It was too dangerous to permit fires to be lighted with so many visitors, especially with the number who were bound to get drunk. All livestock was kept out as well, in an attempt to keep the streets moderately clean, but it was not only animals which blocked lanes, and as he went David noted who had allowed garbage to collect. Each would receive a fine if they did not clear it; another duty of the port-reeve was to ensure that those who allowed obstructions to accumulate were punished.

At one corner, near the bottom of the Brentor road as it approached the Abbey, he stopped dead and shook his head.

In a narrow little alley that led between a butcher and cookshop, there was a pile of rubbish. Tattered remains of cloth, ancient and part-rotted sacks, broken staves, and other scraps and debris littered the ground. Shards of broken pottery and poultry bones crunched underfoot, and he accidentally kicked a pot which smashed against the wall. A scrawny dog scavenged, crouching in the dark of the alley, anticipating a kick or hurled stone. Holcroft ignored it. Marching to the cookshop door, he hammered on it.

“Elias? Elias, I know you’re in there! Open this door.” He beat upon the timbers again and shouted, and when there was no response, he took a step back, staring upward thoughtfully. The little unglazed window above was unshuttered. David picked up a broken spar of wood, hefting it in his hand, gauging the weight, and then hurled it through the opening.

Almost immediately there was a high-pitched shriek, closely followed by a curse. David quickly moved a little farther from the building before his missile could return, as the cook appeared at the window gripping the wood like a cudgel. “Who the…?”

“You know well enough. Me!”

“Why, port-reeve! I’m sorry, David, did you knock? I didn’t hear, I’ve been busy, getting ready for the fair, you know. Anyway, what do you think you’re doing, throwing blocks of wood through people’s windows? It could have been dangerous, you might have hurt someone…”

“Shut up, Elias! The fair opens tomorrow, and you’ve left all your garbage out here in the street. I told you yesterday to clear it, but you’ve done nothing. If it’s still there tomorrow, I’ll personally take great pleasure in amercing you. With all this lot, it’s got to be worth a good six pennies.”

“Six pennies?” The cook gaped in dismay. “I can’t afford a fine like that, David. Look, couldn’t I just move it back in the alley? No one’ll see it if I shove it round the corner a bit.”

“No, Elias. Get it all out to the midden.”

“What if I…”

The door of the butcher’s shop opened, and David winked at its owner, Will Ruby. He was a plump man, and seeing the port-reeve, he leaned against his doorpost and cast an eye up at his neighbor. “I told you you’d have to clear it, you daft bugger, didn’t I? It does my business no good to have my customers walking past your rubbish every morning. I doubt it does much for you, either.”

“Shut up, Will. Why don’t you get on and sort out your stall? I’m talking to the port-reeve here.”

“Yes, well, if you’d listened to me in the first place, you’d not have to talk to the port-reeve, would you?”

“Six pennies, Elias,” David repeated. “That’s what it’ll be tomorrow, and seeing I’m on my way to the Abbot now, I’ll tell him to expect your money.”

The cook let his head droop disconsolately. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, David heard a muttered word. The cook glanced quickly behind him, and the port-reeve peered up with interest. Will edged closer and jabbed an elbow into his side, speaking from the corner of his mouth. “It’s that girl, Lizzie. He got her up to his room after drinking with her in the tavern,” he chortled, and strolled toward the fair.