Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

In an instant Luke was on him, the knife under his ear, and he heard the man whispering viciously, “Silence, or you’ll die.”

Baldwin was still. With the man resting a knee on his back, he had no option but to remain there with Luke’s breath rasping in his ear. He heard footsteps, slow, quiet and stealthy pacing, that approached along the next lane among the stores, then silence.

“Baldwin? Are you here?”

The sound of his friend’s voice gave a renewed vigor to his strained nerves and muscles, but the knight hoarded his energy, willing his wounded body to remain still. There was no honor in winning a coffin, and he wanted Luke captured. While the servant crouched over him, he lay as one dead.

Hearing the steps retreat, Luke eased his grip on his prisoner’s throat and risked a careful glance all round. He could not escape through the windows, they were too high. This man, this strong, self-sufficient knight would make an admirable captive to guarantee his safety. They would surely not threaten Sir Baldwin’s life by trying to catch Luke while be could hold his hostage under the threat of instant death.

The feet hurried toward the door, and passed outside. Baldwin was suddenly aware of the weight on his back disappearing, and then he was hauled up by a hand on the neck of his tunic. All the time the point of the blade remained unwavering at his jugular.

“You will not make a sound, or your vein will be opened. You understand me? One move, and you die.”

He felt a fumbling hand tugging at his buckle, and there was a lightening at his waist as his sword fell to the floor with a dull clatter. Outside, running feet passing by the door, then Simon’s voice came from a distance, calling his name. Suddenly he felt a kind of appalled despair. The shame of being snared in this way and held hostage by such a mean-spirited man was galling, but as he was pushed along, a hand clutching his tunic, the other at his throat, he knew he could do nothing. He, a strong and honorable knight, was entirely at the mercy of a mere servant. The thought made him give a bitter little smile.

As he came toward the end of the alley, he formed his resolution. He would not step into the daylight as a prisoner. It would be better to fight, even if he was doomed to failure. He would try to strike the knife from his neck at the end of the lane and attempt to turn the tables on Luke.

Even as he formed this resolve, as he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, he heard a quick gasp. For a moment the knife was less painfully sharp against his skin, and he took his chance. He stopped and thrust back with his shoulder, whirling, and grabbing at the knife-hand. Luke was off-balance, and his hand was knocked away easily as Baldwin tried to grab at a barrel. It moved, and he fell back, and instantly the blade was back at his neck. Luke ducked as a dark shape loomed overhead.

There was a creaking, and a familiar voice called, “God’s teeth!” and then Baldwin saw the whole wall beside him moving. From the corner of his eye he saw the barrels slowly, but with a horrid inevitability, start to topple. Luke recognized the danger, and Baldwin felt the knife at his throat release its pressure a little. The knight grabbed Luke’s knife-hand and shoved it away, and as he did so a figure dropped to the ground beside him, catching Luke’s arm and hauling him back from Baldwin. The servant gave a short shriek, and even over the rumble of falling barrels Baldwin heard the sharp snap of breaking bone. Then his shoulder was taken in a firm hold and he was pulled to a safe distance from the collapsing wall.

The Abbot was carried gently upstairs to his chamber, and the infirmarer was called to examine his master. Simon stood by his side as the monk inspected the man’s throat, and finally declared him to be all right, providing he rested for a couple of days. The Abbot gave him a look of gratitude. “I never expected to hear you speak again, brother. Your words are exceedingly welcome.”

Hugh and Holcroft had bundled Lybbe and the Venetians back to their cells, and the room seemed oddly quiet after the sudden violence. When Baldwin entered, Simon led him to a chair. The knight was pale, but collected, and he cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “I’m fine, but no thanks to you!”

His bantering tone took the sting out of his words. Simon shook his head in mock disgust. “You think I failed?”

“I heard you shouting and yelling for me in the yard.”

“That,” Edgar said, “was what we agreed.”

Baldwin looked from him to the bailiff. “You agreed?”

“I knew you were in there,” said Simon. “I heard something falling to the ground.”

“It was my sword – he took it from me.”

“We thought either you had your victim or he had already captured you. You didn’t call for help, so I pretended to be looking for you outside while Edgar slipped in.”

“I thought it would be best to climb higher to see where Luke was hiding,” Edgar explained. “When I saw you, you were in the next alley, so I jumped over. Luke heard me, and glanced up, just as you turned to free yourself, and that was why he stopped dead like that. But my weight loosened the barrels, I could feel them going, so I hopped down and pulled you away.”

Baldwin nodded, his eyes fixed on his servant. It was all said in a matter-of-fact voice, but Baldwin knew what risks Edgar had taken. He gripped Edgar’s arm. “Thank you.”

“You saved my life once. It was nothing.”

The Abbot cleared his throat. “Where is Luke?”

Simon answered, “He’s having his shoulder bound in the cellar. Edgar broke his upper arm in several places, and it’s a mess. Right now Luke’s learning the meaning of the word pain, though it hardly seems worthwhile taking such care over him and getting his arm set when he’s going to end up on your gibbet.”

“I almost regret he didn’t get crushed by a falling barrel and die in the storeroom, after all he’s done. But perhaps it’s best that he should stand trial for his crimes so that the townspeople can all see that Jordan Lybbe is innocent. Otherwise some might look at him askance for the rest of his life. This way Luke’s guilt can be demonstrated in my court.” Champeaux closed his eyes, resting his head on the pillow. He desperately wanted a sip of wine, for his throat was on fire, and his skull felt as if a sharp dagger was slowly being inserted into each temple. The infirmarer had said it was the effect of being strangled, but all the Abbot knew was that it hurt. “I must thank you both. You have saved the reputation of the Abbey and our fair.”

Baldwin reflected that it was typical of the man that he should thank them for saving the Abbey and its income from the fair as if they were more important than his life. But the Abbot knew the Abbey was more important, he corrected himself. The Abbey was there to save humanity: the Abbot was only a short-term tenant. For hundreds of years after Abbot Robert’s death, his Abbey would stand and flourish.

The Abbot was speaking again, quieter, and with a contemplative sadness in his voice. “So many deaths, and all because this man Luke was trying to conceal past crimes. Yet even if he had been denounced as the robber and killer of Bayonne, it would hardly have endangered his life here. Gascony and England have their own laws. It was sheer folly to cover up his crimes there by killing a man here.”

Baldwin gave a faint smile as he took a seat near the Abbot. “Not, perhaps, so foolish.”

“But a crime committed in the King’s territories abroad wouldn’t be punished here.”

“No, Abbot, but a man’s crime committed here would be.”

“Ah, but I meant there was no need for him to try to kill Lybbe here just to hide what he had done in Bayonne,” the Abbot explained.