Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

“She is well, tired but fine – and her father will be delighted to know that she is not harmed in any way at all.”

“That will be a relief to him,” the Abbot agreed. “Now, do you want to question the men immediately?”

Baldwin eyed the bedraggled figures on their horses. The shadows were lengthening, and dark was not far off. “No, my lord Abbot. I am exhausted, and so are they – we have ridden almost to Lydford and back. It would be better to wait until the morning. Let my bones rest a little before I confront them, so I can think more clearly about what I am saying.”

“I will have them chained up in the cellar.”

“I wouldn’t bother. And I am not so sure you need fear their escaping. Just leave a man at their door.” He nodded to the girl. “Avice should be escorted back to her father’s house.”

“I don’t want to go! Let me stay here with Pietro!”

“You are your father’s responsibility, not the Abbot’s,” Baldwin said exasperatedly. “And it would hardly be fitting that you should be kept in a room with two men – especially a dungeon. Come – let us take you home; I shall accompany you.”

“I’ll join you,” Simon volunteered. His legs were stiff after their long ride, and he was keen to stretch them. Baldwin, he saw, seemed preoccupied, and while they proceeded up the road, the knight kept silent, his brow furrowed.

It took little time to get to the merchant’s house. Arthur was waiting, and Simon explained for Avice how she had been brought back to the Abbey. “She is perfectly well, sir. Have no fears for her, er…” He trailed off, with no idea how to finish the sentence. He wanted to say, “She hasn’t been touched, there wasn’t time for them to spoil her,” but somehow the words were trite and irrelevant.

Avice stood beside him, her eyes downcast, and Arthur was caught between anger and sheer delight: anger that she had run away with the boy and not considered her parents; and fierce joy that she was back. As Simon watched, his expression softened, and he put his arms out. Avice seemed to be pulled forward as if by an invisible magnet until she was within the circle of his arms. There was a cry from within, and Simon recognized the strident voice of Avice’s mother; the man and his daughter didn’t appear to notice, but simply stood quietly in their firm embrace. After a moment, Arthur caught Simon’s eye, and there was suddenly a tear falling down the merchant’s cheek.

The bailiff nodded, smiling, and turned to go, but before he could leave, Arthur grasped his arm. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Then he had gone, and the door closed quietly behind father and daughter.

Simon gave a long, slow sigh. It was hard to imagine how he would have reacted had it been his daughter who had disappeared and then been recovered. It was nothing to do with Pietro: Simon was sure that whoever the boy might be, the fears and anxiety would be the same. Their potency could not be diminished by legal status or class. If his daughter was to go away, leaving her parents without a word, Simon knew he would be distraught. Arthur’s gentle acceptance of her return made the bailiff hope he would continue to be as calm and understanding, swallowing his anger with his gratitude at seeing her safe home once more.

The memory of that silent grip at his arm made him fully aware of the merchant’s pleasure. He had not been able to express his feelings in words, but that solid grasp had said as much as any sermon, and the bailiff joined his friend to walk back to the Abbey with a sense of pride at a job well-performed.

Baldwin had other thoughts on his mind. He had hardly noticed that they had given the girl back to her family. His attention was focused firmly on the murders, and he had no interest in Avice any more: she was an irrelevance now that she was found and her attempted ravisher – whether she might have been a willing or unwilling victim – was under lock and key.

The murders of Peter and of Torre remained unsolved. Baldwin did not like loose ends, yet there appeared to be many. “Simon, do you think we are any nearer an answer to these killings?”

Simon shook his head. “The more I think about it, the more confusing I find it. Elias had all the evidence pointing to him, but when we found his brother, everything which had indicated Elias pointed to him instead – especially since he admitted taking Torre’s head. And his background as an outlaw shows he’s capable of murder. But the Venetians are themselves felons – they were prepared to steal from an Abbot, for Christ’s sake! If they could steal from a man of God, they must be capable of anything. And Pietro was seen in a monk’s habit, which could mean he was the thief as well.”

“Jordan Lybbe is most likely – as you say, he was an outlaw.”

“Yes. But why should he kill Torre?”

“Similarly, what was Pietro’s or Antonio’s motive?”

“You don’t like Lybbe’s explanation: whichever of them killed Torre thought he was preventing his own discovery?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something is wrong about all this, Simon. My whole soul is shouting to me that I have missed something. There is only one thing I am sure of, and that is that Pietro didn’t kill Peter.”

“Why?”

“Because Peter was killed after Pietro saw Avice. Avice had promised herself to him when they met last night, so his motive disappears. There was no point in his killing the monk.”

“I see no reason for Antonio to have killed the monk.”

“Neither do I.”

“So we are back to Lybbe.”

“Yes,” said Baldwin, but when Simon glanced at him, his friend looked no better pleased than before.

The next morning Baldwin rose from his bed feeling unrefreshed after a sleepless night. He had hoped that some inspiration might strike him while he slept, but as he stared out over the court he felt no nearer a solution.

Seeing a figure hurrying across the court his mood lightened as he recognized Jeanne. She at least was fresh and wholesome. Her face would be a welcome sight after his dislocated sleep. Even as he was aware of the thought, she made her way across the court and through the door that led toward the Abbot’s lodging.

Baldwin dressed and walked down to the court, sitting at a bench, Edgar at his side.

His servant had seen him in similar moods before. The knight sat with his chin resting in the palm of his hand, elbow on his knee, in an attitude of absolute concentration. His glowering eye was fixed on a monk sweeping the court, and he didn’t glance at the servant by his shoulder. This was Edgar’s accustomed place, a point from which he could protect his master. It was the station he had accepted when Baldwin had saved his life in the hell-hole of Acre, when they were both much younger and before they had joined the Knights Templar together. Edgar and he had been among the last to leave the city as the Saracens took the place, and it was due to the heroic bravery of the Templars that the two of them had managed to escape, so when they had recovered, both felt the same urge to join the Order which had saved their lives.

Later, when the Order they both revered had been destroyed to fuel the greed of a King and a Pope, Baldwin had been prone to darkly introspective moods, and today Edgar was at first anxious that his master had succumbed again. But then he caught sight of the knight’s eye and saw the gleam. This was no black despair. Baldwin was simply focusing his entire being on the problem of the murders.

“Master?” he enquired quietly.

“What is it?” Baldwin snapped.

“Do you want breakfast?”

“I cannot be troubled with food now!”

“Master, you should eat something.”

“There’s some detail we’ve missed, something crucial. But what?”