Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

Hugo had drunk several pints of good ale, more than he was used to, and was filled with good humor. He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Abbots and bishops don’t deserve your money, nor anyone else’s. Many don’t even deserve respect. Take the Bishop of Durham – he can’t read. He fumbled over his own consecration: couldn’t pronounce the word metropolitanus, and muttered, ‘Let’s take that as read!’ And when he presided over an ordination, he swore when he came to aenigmate, that is, ‘through a glass darkly,’ saying, ‘By St. Louis, whoever wrote this word was no courteous man!’ When we have prelates such as he, how can anyone respect the holy calling?”

“So you think I shouldn’t pay, friar?”

“I think… I think I have drunk enough!” Hugo stood unsteadily and climbed over the bench. “I need the privy.”

“Where did you pick him up?” asked Elias, watching the gray-clad cleric stumble round the room to the door, one hand touching the wall all the way for support.

But Torre was distracted before he could answer. As Agatha hurried over and thumped a mug before Elias, Torre motioned to the doorway. “Beware of them, mistress.”

The alewife tutted. “The watchmen from Denbury? They don’t trouble me.”

Torre affably lifted his ale to the one called “Long Jack,” and chuckled when his welcome was ignored. “I’ll go and make sure my friar hasn’t got lost,” he said, rising to his feet.

He had only been gone a few moments when Elias saw Holcroft at the threshold. The cook shielded his face, but he was too slow, and the port-reeve sauntered over to him. “I see your rubbish isn’t gone yet.”

“I’ll have it finished tomorrow, I promise.”

Holcroft took Torre’s seat and waved to the alewife. “See you do.” As usual at fairtime, many of the faces were unfamiliar to him. He recognized the watchmen, though. They were drinking heavily, standing in a huddle near the fire, and he hoped they wouldn’t be drunk all the time. In fairness, he knew they had walked all the way from Denbury, so they must be thirsty.

Every year there were complaints about them. They felt that since they were in Tavistock to protect people, they should be able to demand fees from stall-holders. Sometimes a merchant would complain, but then he might find that his stocks became damaged, or his stall could unaccountably fall over, or perhaps the merchant would wake up the next morning in the gutter with a broken arm. David had heard it all from Andrew the year before, and had tried to get new men from Denbury this time, but as usual no one else was willing. Looking at the heavy-set figures, he thought their faces could have been carved from moorstone slabs. He knew why others didn’t put their names forward. Men like these knew how to deter volunteers.

Another group appeared, two rich men and their servant led by a young monk. Holcroft had heard of the anticipated arrival of the Venetians when he met the Abbot’s steward earlier, and he assumed these must be the Camminos. If their expensive foreign clothing didn’t give them away, the fact that a novice monk had led them to the tavern was proof enough. The Abbot only asked his monks to direct visitors when they were important.

Agatha passed him a mug and nodded to Elias. “Someone wants to speak to you.”

Nothing loath, Elias left Holcroft and followed after her. In a dark corner of the hall was a powerfully built figure, thickly bearded, dressed in red leather jerkin over his doublet and shirt, who watched Elias approach with glittering eyes.

“Hello, Elias.”

The cook stopped and stared, almost dropping his mug. “Christ’s blood! Jordan!”

The Camminos’ servant Luke pulled a bench over for his master, and waved to the monk. “Go on, sit, brother.”

“No, I – er – I should get back.” Peter was new to the town of Tavistock, and although his Abbot had asked him to direct the visitors to the tavern when they explained that they had to meet their fellow-travellers, he felt ill-at-ease in a drinking hall. There was too much ribald humor and singing, and the sight of the serving girls made him uncomfortable. “It’s late, I have duties…”

“Oh, sit, brother,” Antonio rumbled. “We may need help to find our way back to the Abbey later. Have a pot of wine.”

Luke rested on the bench gratefully and took a pot from the alewife. It felt good to relax, stretch his legs and drink good English ale. He had spent too many years with his master in Castile and Gascony, and these last few weeks in England had been like a holiday. It was nice to be back in his own country again.

He had been born north of London, near Huntingdon, the son of a cobbler. But he had seen more of the world than his father ever had, especially since he had worked for Cammino. The Venetian had saved his life; when Antonio had found him, Luke had been near the end of his money, and there was little chance that he would have been able to earn any more. The guilds in Gascony, where he had been living, were very strong, and finding work had been all but impossible as a foreigner. Cammino had taken him on and fed and clothed him, and Luke knew he owed his master a massive debt.

Luke’s muttered curse made Antonio turn sharply to the door. There, swaying slightly, a benevolent smile fixed to his face, was the friar again. “Oh, God’s blood!”

Hugo was feeling kindly to the world. “My friend, may I speak with you a moment?”

“No, I have business to attend to. I don’t need another lecture.”

“But I want to…”

“Enough, friar! Leave us in peace.”

The friar opened his mouth to continue, and this decided Antonio. He stood. “Come, Pietro, Luke.”

“Father!” his son protested. “What about Arthur and his daughter…”

It was too late, his father was already striding for the door. Luke took Pietro by the arm. “Come, master Pietro, there will be another time to see her.” The youth shrugged his hand away irritably, but followed his father.

There was a farcical scene in the doorway. Torre was returning, and just as they reached the doorway, he was in their path. Antonio barged past, and Torre turned, arms outstretched as if to demand the reason for such rudeness. An instant later, Pietro also tried to thrust him aside.

But a tin miner was not so easy to push. Torre rotated slowly to study the younger man. Reading the menace in his features, Pietro stepped back and dropped his hand to his dagger, fumbling to unsheath it. It would be demeaning to back down before such a peasant. Torre looked at the knife contemptuously, then brushed past and strode back to his table, sitting by Holcroft.

They had left behind them the dismayed novice standing with the equally confused friar.

Torre took a swallow of his ale. “What’s put the wind in their sails, eh?” Then he saw the monk and muttered, “Oh, by the cross, it’s one of them! You – come here!”

The monk was startled, and Holcroft saw him jerk in surprise at the hostility in Torre’s voice. “Me?”

“Yes, of course you! Who else?” Torre sneered as the youth unwillingly approached. “What’s your name?”

“Peter.”

“Well, Peter. What are you doing here? Are you sent here to spy on ordinary workers for that bloodsucking leech of an Abbot of yours?”

“My Abbot…?”

“Is as dark a thief as ever stole a man’s livelihood!”

Holcroft stared from his companion to the flushed features of the monk. “Roger, what in Christ’s name are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you heard? Abbot Champeaux has decided to steal from me, now he’s got the power. He’s demanding money for the right to stay where I am, and if I don’t agree to pay, he’ll take my land from me.”