Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

Baldwin, he saw, felt a disgust similar to his own for the creature. His demeanor surprised the bailiff, for he knew of Baldwin’s past as a Knight Templar, and half-expected his friend to desire the same protection of Luke’s soul as the Abbot, yet he could see the knight loathed the sight of the servant, and with a flash of intuition he realized why: the Knights Templar had been destroyed, Baldwin had once told him, by lying spies who dressed as Templars in order to denounce them. In his own small and mean way, Luke had done the same. If his petty thefts had become widely known, he might have ruined the faith of the portmen in their monks, and that was something Baldwin would never be able to forgive.

Simon kept his face blank. He was not prepared to give the man any sympathy. Luke didn’t deserve it.

It was then that Luke moved. He must have planned it for some moments, for the action was so smooth and executed so flawlessly that it could only have been considered well in advance.

As Simon and Baldwin watched, and the Abbot leaned forward with sympathy in his eyes, Luke sprang forward, shoving Lybbe from his path. Baldwin and Simon were transfixed in astonishment as Luke spun to a halt beside the Abbot and whipped out a small knife from under his shirt. He held it to the Abbot’s neck.

“Keep back!” he snarled as Baldwin made to move forward.

Simon was rooted to the spot. The burst of energy had been so sudden, he had been incapable of action, and now it was over he was too shocked to move. The threat of the small blade was too obvious to risk.

Baldwin was speaking. “You will never leave this room alive if you so much as scratch his flesh.”

“I’ll kill him if you come closer.”

“You will die first!”

“You think so? Maybe I’m better able to defend myself against you than you against me, knight! If you draw your sword, Abbot Robert will die.”

“I don’t need a sword against you. A sword is an honorable weapon. You only merit a dagger.”

“You hear that, Abbot? I only merit a mean weapon, not a true and honorable sword,” Luke hissed in the Abbot’s ear. “I feel so sad. Perhaps with my little knife at your neck you feel the same, eh?”

Behind him was the door to the chapel, still open from Edgar and Lybbe’s entrance, and while Baldwin sidled forward, Luke made his way toward it, still gripping the Abbot by the neck. He reached the door and entered, his captive glancing down with his eyes three times in rapid succession as he passed through.

Simon was still gazing uncomprehendingly at the closed door when the knight made a stabbing gesture with his finger. “Edgar, wait here. If he comes out again, don’t let him pass.” The Keeper darted from the room as his servant drew his short sword with a slither of steel.

“Oh, God’s blood!” Simon realized the Abbot had been signalling with his eyes: there must be another door from the chapel. Beneath was an undercroft, and there must be a stair going down to it. He barged the dumbfounded Holcroft from his path and rushed after his friend.

The tiny, narrow spiralling staircase took them down to the gate beneath the Abbot’s private chamber, and Baldwin saw in a flash that the door to the stew-ponds and orchards was firmly closed and bolted. Without looking for Simon he ran out into the prayle. He paused a moment to stare all round. There was no sign of the man. The Abbey church rose solemn and proud on his left, the dorter and reredorter were before him, the infirmary a broad block on the right, beyond which lay the small garden where the infirmarer kept his herbs.

The door to the undercroft was partly open. He made a quick decision and stepped to it, kicking it wide, peering in to pierce the darkness. There was no sign of Luke, but with the barrels and bundles lying all round that was no surprise. He muttered an angry curse. Motioning to Simon to run and check the infirmarer’s herbary, he entered the undercroft.

A thin light lanced in through the narrow, high windows, and in it he could see the dust whirling and dancing. It lighted the stores, reflecting dully from the metal hoops and rivets on the barrels, glowing gently as it touched the yellow-gray sacks of meal and grain. He heard a skittering in a corner, and spun toward it, but the small shape that scuttled away so quickly was only a rat.

Breathing noiselessly, his mouth open, ears alert to catch the faintest sound, he cautiously stepped round the wall, keeping the light over his head so that he remained in the gloom beneath. The dust would protect him, shining in the light while he passed behind, but soon he realized that while it protected him, it also helped his prey remain hidden. It was impossible to penetrate the column of sunlight as he walked behind it; it was too bright, the rest of the chamber too somber.

He heard a cautious footstep crunch on a loose pebble. Holding his breath, his scalp tingling with anticipation, Baldwin drew his dagger and edged silently into the room.

Simon pelted along past the infirmary, glancing at the door. If Luke had dashed in there, the bailiff reasoned, they must have heard the door slam as they came out of the lodging. Ignoring it, he rushed on to the herbary. Here he found an elderly monk raking a patch of neatly tended soil. The old man looked up, startled to see a breathless man rush past, and as Simon skidded to a halt, staring round the dog-leg toward the well, he leaned on his rake and watched silently.

“Has someone passed by here? He might have had your Abbot with him.”

The old monk shook his head, still mute, and Simon paused only to mutter an imprecation against the servant, whirled, and ran back the way he had come. Looking down, the monk sighed, shrugged, and began raking again to cover up the bailiff’s footprints.

Baldwin took step after tentative step until he was at the entrance to an aisle between immense vats which stood one on top of the other, rising high over his head. He was aware of a tension, as if he was a machine moving forward, impelled by a great spring that took every ounce of his energy to simply move his legs on. It exhibited itself as a hollowness in his throat, and a certain lightheadedness. He was less aware of his arms, his legs, and how to use them. They were useless appendages now. His every fiber was focused on his eyes and ears. All his faculties were concentrated to ensure that in this infernal darkness he might see and hear the servant.

As he entered among the false pillars of wood, he was tempted to withdraw and seek Simon. It was less a reflection of his fear than of a natural anxiety to prevent the escape of the man he sought. While he bumbled around in the dark, for all he knew Luke might have sidled round to the doorway, and be preparing to escape.

The thought made the knight want to turn and watch the doorway, but he must not, he knew. His only protection from the servant’s little knife was to keep his eyes constantly fixed forward. Only that way could he anticipate an attack. If he was to spin round, the man could be on him in an instant if he was nearby, and somehow Baldwin was sure he was close.

Taking another silent step, he thought he heard a noise, and he stopped, one foot half off the ground. It sounded like a quiet hiss, and he reflected that the noise seemed familiar. Then he heard it again, and leaped forward: it was the choking sigh of a man being throttled.

The huge barrels ended in an alley along the wall, and Baldwin ran into the stonework at full tilt. Momentarily winded, he turned this way and that seeking the source, then rushed off to his left. The sound came from there.

He heard it again, and skidded a little on the flags. Ahead, a short way down another narrow pathway he could see the two men. The Abbot appeared to be on his knees, his captor behind him, the two locked together in a hideous embrace. Baldwin shouted, gripped his dagger tighter in his fist, and charged. He saw the servant look up, the Abbot, released, tumbled forward to lie choking on all fours, and the knight felt a sudden loathing for the little man. He drew back his hand threateningly, but as he did so, his boot caught a lifted slab stone, and he lost his balance. With a horrified gasp, he threw himself sideways to avoid the servant’s upward-thrusting blade, and struck his shoulder on a barrel. It winded him, and he bounced forward, landing on his chest and striking his head on the stone of the floor. His dagger caught in a barrel as he dropped, and the blade snapped, leaving only the hilt in his hand.