The Abbot's Gibbet

11

Arthur Pole swirled the wine in his goblet and stared into it thoughtfully. His wife sat serenely in her favorite position by the fire, stitching at a tapestry. Outwardly she was calm and spoke with what might have sounded to an outsider to be indifference, but Arthur knew otherwise. This was her tone of sweet reasonability. It was the one she used when she wanted one of the servants to understand very clearly what she expected. Arthur knew she used it on him as well when she thought he had failed her in a spectacular manner.

It was unfair. He had done nothing today to merit this treatment. As far as he was concerned, he’d tried to keep that blasted Venetian from his daughter. Cammino had not appeared on his doorstep at Arthur’s invitation: it was all down to Avice. She had contrived it, not him.

Arthur was used to being treated as a delinquent by his wife when she considered he had fallen below the high standard of so important a merchant and Guild member, and he had grown inured to a daughter who thought of him only as a personal bank with unlimited resources and no interest charges, but it rankled that his wife should lecture him on the type of man he should be thinking of for his only child.

“John would be a very good match for her,” Marion was saying as she imperturbably finished a stitch and selected a fresh thread. “True, he has no money himself, but his father, Sir Reginald, owns a good portion of land and four villages. Avice will be well provided for. And Sir Reginald has connections to the de Courtenay family as well, so John will make the perfect father to her children.”

Her husband looked up to see his servant waiting by the door. He drained his cup and motioned for a refill.

Marion noticed the movement. “Haven’t you had enough, dear? You drank a lot with that man earlier.”

“‘That man,’ as you call him, is the leading cloth merchant in Winchester. He could be worth a small fortune to me.”

“I should hope so, the amount you spent on wine for him.”

“How do you expect me to make friends and fresh contacts in business if I don’t sometimes buy them presents? Have you learned nothing about business in the time we have been married?”

“Oh, yes. I have learned much since you married me,” she retorted tartly. “I had to, I wasn’t used to such things before.”

Arthur took the goblet from his man and jerked his head to send him from the room. He recognized the acid preamble to the usual complaint, and did not want it witnessed.

“After all, husband, when I wed you I was the daughter of a knight.”

“Yes, dear.”

“He came from an old family. I was lucky he agreed to let me marry you.”

“Because I was only the son of a cobbler.”

“You were of… lesser nobility,” Marion nodded, adding complacently, “but I could see you were an honorable man.”

Arthur felt stung into retaliation. “I was already wealthy, and your father needed money.”

“That had nothing to do with it.”

“Marion, your father couldn’t afford to feed you.”

“That is untrue!” Her eyes blazed with indignation.

Arthur put his goblet down. “My only saving grace was the money I had amassed over the years. If it wasn’t for that, your father would have refused me. He needed my money.”

She looked at him with cold fury. Marion was not a hard woman. She had married Arthur when he was still relatively unknown, and had learned to accept some of the curious attitudes and beliefs he had held, but gradually over the years she had managed to educate him to a level of gentility. He could never aspire to being a real gentleman, since he didn’t possess nobility of birth, but for all that she was quite sure she could improve her family’s standing in their town, and one method of achieving that was to make sure that her daughter married well. It was important, not only for Marion, but for Avice herself. How much better it would be for her if she could marry a man with status. Her father could provide the money.

She swallowed her pride – Holy Mother, how often she had needed to do that over the years! – and forced herself to nod understandingly. “Arthur, you are a good man, and your business skills have made you successful, but can you not see that what I want for Avice is what is best for her and for her children?”

“She has no children.”

“The children she will have. She must be in a position to look after our grandchildren. That means she must find a husband of suitable rank, and the only one we know of is John.” It was true, she knew, that John was ignorant and more than a little stupid, but what could one expect from a rural squire? He was really little more than a farmer.

But he was related to the de Courtenays, and that counted for a lot.

Marion stitched on in silence for a moment while she considered. It would be a significant achievement to once again have nobility in the family. And Avice could not wish for a better mate. None of the greater families would countenance having the daughter of a trader attach herself to them, and she was lucky that John had accepted her. Marion watched her husband affectionately. He was staring sulkily at the fire and refusing to meet her gaze.

“Husband, you know that it is best for her that she marries into a good family.”

“I would prefer her to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

The softness of her tone made him look up, searching her face for a trace of falsehood. “But she seems set on this Venetian, and from the way he’s mooning around, if he doesn’t love her, I don’t know what love is.”

“That is not love, just infatuation. They will both grow out of it,” she said confidently. “Arthur, we know all about John and nothing about this other boy. Which is the safer partner for our daughter?”

“Did you know that Pietro is the son of a banker? The father is negotiating with the Abbot even now.”

She paused while she absorbed this. “Perhaps so, but money is not the only issue.”

“Marion, some of these Italian bankers are extremely rich. With that kind of money Pietro could buy a knighthood, maybe even a Dukedom.”

“A new title isn’t the same as an ancient one,” she protested uncertainly.

“And how do you know the Venetian isn’t from a titled family? Many of these Italian bankers come from noble stock.”

“I hardly think…”

“If he is, we are losing a good man for our daughter, aren’t we?”

“What do you suggest we do, then?”

“Only this: that we find out what we can about the Camminos. I shall set the groom on to this. Henry’s always been nosey. He’d love checking up on them.”

Marion considered, then nodded agreement. “If you think it’s worthwhile, husband.”

Arthur watched his wife as she returned to her needlework. She appeared content, and when she glanced up and saw his look, she smiled again. He returned to his staring at the fire; he would never understand women. Still, he resolved to have enquiries made about the Venetians as quickly as possible. If he was to bow to his daughter’s wishes, he would first have to make sure that she would not later have cause to regret her choice.

Margaret took the cloth from the merchant and held it up against her body while Jeanne considered it. Then they both began giggling again. Jordan kept his pleasant expression, but it was becoming a little fixed. When he glanced at Hugh, all he could see was a morose scowl, and he had to wonder to which of the two women the miserable-looking sod belonged. If his wife had possessed a servant such as that, he swore, he would dismiss the creature immediately.

Hugh was weighed down with the mass of foodstuffs and his arms felt inches longer. The gaiety of the women was incomprehensible to him, and he didn’t trust the salesman, either. Jordan Lybbe seemed too pat, too smarmy in the way he sang the praises of the pair as they held bolts of material against themselves. It was bordering on the familiar, and Hugh was deeply suspicious. The man almost seemed to be flirting, and what made it worse was that the women gave every appearance of loving it.

Hugh glanced up and down the alleyway. The day was drawing in, and people were clearing from the pathways between the stalls, preparing to return to their rented houses, or rooms at inns and taverns, some to get back to their warm beds in the straw over the horses. Firstly, though, all would be looking forward to the entertainers who inevitably tagged along in the wake of the fair. In the alcoholic haze in many rooms tonight, people would be blearily watching fools performing acrobatics or singing, and few if any of them would remember a thing about it in the morning. Their only reminder would be the size of their hangover and lightness of their purses.

He could visualize it only too well, and he wanted to be a part of it. But there was precious little chance that he could enjoy any of the festivities while his master was the guest of the Abbot. It would be unseemly for a bailiff’s servant to cavort with jugglers or dancers while staying in a convent.

As another gale of mirth rang out, he carefully set the baskets on the ground, leaning against a pole. Here he could feel the last gleam of the sun, and he closed his eyes and enjoyed the faint warmth. It was rare enough that he had time to sit in the sun nowadays. That had all stopped once he left home to earn his own living. Before that he had been first a bird scarer, throwing stones at the pigeons and crows, and sometimes getting a lucky hit and food for supper, until he was eight and old enough to become a shepherd, and if the winter months were cold and cruel-working in the snow trying to find missing animals and protecting the young lambs from foxes, buzzards, crows, wolves and all the other animals which preyed on the long-legged and stupid creatures – the summer months more than compensated. Then he could sit in the pastures with his pouch of food and a skin full of ale, and doze in the sunlight while the young sheep continually circled their grazing: walking and cropping, walking and cropping.

In his mind’s eye he could see the pasturelands now, as if he was back on the hill near Drewsteignton, the forty-odd animals in front of him, their jaws moving rhythmically, taking a slow step at a time as they followed after their leader. The vision was so strong, he felt he could almost reach out and touch the nearest sheep.

Then he snapped back to wakefulness as he heard the voice.

“My friends say you’re from France. That right?”

Hugh looked first to the women: they were silent but unharmed. The merchant had been talking with such concentration he had not noticed the three men who had stealthily encircled him. Hugh moved quietly behind the pole, his hand falling on his old knife and testing it in the sheath.

“They reckoned you couldn’t understand English. Said you had problems with it before.”

They had timed their attack perfectly, Hugh saw. The clothseller and the women had been busy at the back of the stall, and it was hard to see the lane now, they were so far from the trestle at the front. If they were to call for help, it was likely they would be unconscious and their attackers far away before anyone dared to enter and find out what was happening. Not many people would care to risk their lives to protect another stallholder. Hugh stood still, and so far as he could see, none of the men had noticed him.

The leader of the three, the one who had spoken, hefted a large blackthorn club in his hand, and let it rise and fall two or three times. “Let’s see if this teaches you the King’s English, you foreign bastard. Get him, lads!”

The two men at either side of Lybbe reached out to grasp him, but the merchant was too quick for them. He sprang forward, knocking the leader’s cudgel aside and gripping the man’s wrist. Ducking under his shoulder, still holding his arm, Lybbe twisted, wrenching the man’s arm back. The leader was now bent over in agony; Lybbe took the club from his unresisting fingers and rested it on his attacker’s shoulder, pushing the man away from him and forcing a little gasp of pain from his lips.

“I understand English well enough, I reckon,” Jordan said coldly. “It seems your friend didn’t, though. I told him I’d get angry if anything happened to my things here, but he obviously didn’t get my meaning.” He twisted the arm and held it higher, and the leader’s legs crumpled as he tried to stop his shoulder being prized from its socket. “I wonder, do you understand me? If I have any more of this, I’ll have to keep lifting your arm up, and then you’ll need to see the monks to get it mended. It might take some time.”

Watching him, Jeanne was transfixed by shock. There was an acceptance of violence in his action, a precision in his slow torturing of the man, that sent a feather of horror tickling down her spine. She had never before witnessed such intentional cruelty toward another person. Her own suffering at the hands of her husband was a different matter, for she had known that she could cope with it – and a part of her even accepted it as her due for not being able to give her man the children he craved – but this deliberate infliction of pain on another made her soul cringe.

Long Jack walked forward stealthily, lifting each foot and setting it down silently. He had been left to guard the front of the stall in case the merchant’s cries of fear and groans of agony should attract other stallholders to his defense, and he had heard the first sarcastic jibes of his friends, but when all went silent, he had become anxious. Spying on them through the curtains of hanging cloth at the rear, he could see Lybbe gripping the man in a painful armlock.

“Do you want to find out how long it will take to mend a broken shoulder? It’s excruciating, so I’m told,” Lybbe continued conversationally, lifting the arm higher. Another cry of pain broke from his victim.

Long Jack pushed through the materials, using his cudgel to move the cloth aside as he came closer, ever closer. There was no sound but the rasping breath of Lybbe’s victim and the cold tones of the merchant. Long Jack got to the edge of the last hanging screen of material, and took a deep breath as he prepared to rush forward.

That was when Hugh hit him over his ear, and he fell like a pole-axed steer.

The sudden crack, rustle, and groaning sigh as the man fell made Lybbe look quickly over his shoulder. Hugh shrugged, and the merchant nodded. “Your last friend seems to be having a sleep now. What’s your decision, friend?”

“I give in, I surrender,” the man gasped.

Lybbe eyed him contemplatively, then kicked him hard in the base of the spine. The leader fell prostrate before the other two, who stared at their friend with angry consternation. “Get that garbage out of my stall, and don’t let it back here,” Lybbe rapped out. “You’re lucky. There are two of you, and two pieces of excrement to take away, so go!”

Hugh watched as the two men circled warily round the merchant and grabbed their friends. The unconscious man was dragged away, his head bumping gently over each tussock of grass, while the other had to be helped to his feet, cradling his sore arm, and led off.

When they had disappeared, Lybbe tossed his new cudgel up, spinning, and caught it again. “And now, ladies, after what you have gone through, and especially since your servant here has just saved me from a beating, you can have your choice of cloth for half-price.”

Simon and Baldwin stared as Lizzie hurled her cup at Holcroft’s head. He ducked and it hurtled past him, shattering against the far wall.

“Murderer! Killer! Coward! Why did you have to kill him? What had he done that many others hadn’t already – eh? Was it because you were so weak you had to kill him? You never dared speak to me much before, did you?”

Baldwin prepared to grab her in case she flew at Holcroft. “Lizzie, please, be quiet and explain yourself.”

“Quiet? Why should I be quiet? I accuse him, that man, our port-reeve, of killing Roger.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s always wanted me, ever since he first saw me in here. Because he spotted me going off to my room with Roger yesterday, and was waiting at the doorway when I came out. He didn’t come into the tavern afterward – he must’ve hurried after Roger and killed him.”

Baldwin glanced at Holcroft.

The port-reeve sat with his head lowered as if expecting another missile. He had never anticipated that Lizzie would accuse him of murder. Hearing her denounce him gave him a fleeting terror, as if her contempt had scalded his very soul. But somehow it made him feel easier, as if her outburst had destroyed his infatuation completely, leaving nothing, not even regret, in its wake.

The loathing in her voice had cured him of his love for her, whatever its cause. He lifted his head and met Baldwin’s gaze steadily.

“She’s right. I did want her, and I was devastated when I saw her leaving the room arm-in-arm with Roger. But I swear I had no part in his death.”

“You were there waiting when I left my room,” she blazed.

“Yes, I was. If I’d wanted to kill Roger, I would’ve been out in the road to ambush him.”

“Oh, rubbish. You had time to chase after him, to stab him and…”

Baldwin held up a hand. “Please, Lizzie, you have done enough guessing and accusing already. Calm yourself. Agatha – more ale! Now, Lizzie, tell us exactly what happened when you, er, finished with Torre.”

She glared at Holcroft as she spoke, her voice still trembling with anger. “I heard the bell for compline, and realized we’d been longer than I’d intended, so I got up and dressed while he was still in bed. When I told him that Holcroft here fancied me, he said he had had no idea. He was upset, thinking he might have made the port-reeve miserable by taking me from the tavern so obviously, especially since Master Holcroft had been arguing with him. That argument must have been very nasty, that’s all I can say!”

“Yes, and what then?”

Under his patient questioning, she organized her thoughts. “He dressed and went out. I was still braiding my hair and putting it right. I put on my coif, and had to retie my apron, and I’d missed one of my shoes, so I had to find that and then I went out. As I was shutting the door, I saw him, Holcroft, leaning against the doorway to the tavern.”

“So he was at the back door to the screens?”

“Yes,” she snapped, irritated by the interruption. “He stood there as I came out. When I walked toward him, he turned round and went away.”

Baldwin nodded. “Holcroft?”

“That’s all true enough. I had been waiting a while. I remember the sound of a door opening and slamming, and when I looked, I saw Torre. He saw me at the same time, and hung his head as if he was ashamed, and hurried past me. I waited some time longer, and was about to go back in when Lizzie came out. She looked right through me.” He sipped his drink. “I decided to go home.”

Simon cleared his throat. “Which way did you go, Holcroft?”

“Straight up the hill toward Brentor.”

“So the other way from Torre.”

“He must have run after Roger and killed him!” Lizzie proclaimed.

“Was Torre a fool?” Simon asked caustically. “Was he deaf? Are you telling us you think a man would walk down a road in the middle of a fair at night-time, and not turn at the sound of approaching feet? If he heard someone running after him, he would have readied himself in case he was to be attacked.”

“Not Roger. He knew his way around the town, he’d been here every year for ages. If he heard someone coming down the road after him, he’d just think it was someone in a hurry.”

“You’ve just told us that Roger was nervous at the thought of upsetting Holcroft here,” Simon pointed out. “If that’s so, he’d certainly have kept an ear out for any steps hurrying after him – unless he was a complete idiot! Who would turn his back on a man who thought his woman had been stolen?”

“I wasn’t his woman,” Lizzie said lamely.

“And what of Elias?” Baldwin asked. “You were sleeping with him earlier in the afternoon, weren’t you? Could he have become jealous of Torre for having you?”

“Jealous – what of? I’m no one’s wife; no one owns me, I live as I wish. Why should Elias get jealous of me?”

“Elias left the inn while you were out with Torre. He scurried back in later. It could be that he followed Torre and murdered him. He had to drink some ales quickly to calm himself, or so some have reported.”

Lizzie stared at the knight as though he was mad. “Elias – kill? If you believe that, you’ll believe me when I say the sky’s green. This man here was the jealous one, not Elias. The baker just got lonely sometimes, and he’d ask me for company. No, Elias wouldn’t kill. This man was the one who wanted me all to himself.” She rose, gazing scornfully at the port-reeve, who stared back with a hurt surprise. “Anyway, I have work to do. I can’t sit here dreaming all day, and as far as I am concerned, I don’t want to sit anywhere near you, David Holcroft, ever again.” Spinning quickly, she flounced from the table.

“Now, David,” Baldwin said kindly. “I suppose you realize we have to know all about this? I can promise you that if it has no bearing on the killing, it will go no further.”

Holcroft gave a bitter smile. “Now Lizzie’s made up her mind, it’ll be all over the town. The Abbot’s bound to hear – and my wife.” He sighed.

“Well, Sir Baldwin, it’s a brief enough story. I was married when I was very young, and my wife is five years older than me. It was my father’s wish that we should be wed, for her father owned a good portion of land out toward Werrington, and that together with my family’s holding would have made a sizeable farm, but shortly after we married, my father died, and what with the debts he had at the time, the holdings were ruined. They had to be split up, and afterward there was less than when we married. Still, I grew to love her, and I was content.

“But lately she’s become reserved. It’s hard for me to get a word out of her, and at night she’s always tired, or has a headache. This has been going on for a good two months. Maybe it’s my fault. They say a man should beat his wife, but I never have.” He continued tiredly, “I’ve always worked hard at my trade, but three months ago she started complaining because she never saw me. I couldn’t stop, not with the job of port-reeve as well.”

There was a moment’s pause while Holcroft collected himself.

“I already knew Lizzie, and as you can see for yourself, any man would want her. Every time I saw her she asked how I was, and always had time to listen. She seemed to care. I suppose you could say I got infatuated with her. At first I’d come here for a quick drink on my way home, but recently I’ve been coming here just to see her. She takes an interest. It made her really desirable.” He took a long swallow of ale and met their eyes defensively.

“What did you argue about with Torre? Was it her?” Baldwin prompted quietly.

“No, Roger didn’t know about my feelings for her – Lizzie herself has told you that. No, it was the monk.”

“Monk? What monk?”

Hesitantly, Holcroft told of Peter and the near-fight with Torre.

“What was Torre on about?” asked Simon with incomprehension. “The Abbot seems a kindly man, not the sort to upset anyone.”

Holcroft gave him a hard look. “Robert Champeaux became Abbot here when the place was falling apart. The monks had no money, and everything they tried to do drained more of their resources until they were near desperation. Then Champeaux took over. All at once he found old papers which gave the Abbey certain rights, and he quickly took these up. He borrowed money, loaned money, made profits which he plowed back into new schemes, ever increasing the Abbey’s reserves. I believe he is an honorable man, and all he wishes to do is make sure that the Abbey is strong and protected for the future, but there are many who take a different view. They think he’s like all the others – simply lining his own pockets at the expense of all the townspeople.”

“And Torre thought that?” Baldwin probed.

“Yes. He thought the Abbot was victimizing him. Roger simply couldn’t understand that the Abbot would have treated anyone else exactly the same.”

“How was Torre treated?”

“Fairly enough. Roger was one of the Abbey’s bondmen – a serf. The Abbot is gradually letting men take on the land with leases for several years, because that way he can charge them annual rent but he can also get them to pay him extra with the amount they make. He was trying to get Roger to take on a lease, same as everyone else; the trouble was, Roger didn’t see it like that. All he could see was that he was being forced into a deal that would cost him many shillings a year to grow the food he depends on. That was why he hated the Abbot, and that was why he insulted him in front of the monk.”

“This monk you say was young Peter?”

“Yes. The boy is still a novice. He was happy to defend his master, just as any young squire or man-at-arms should. I don’t know how the Abbot would feel, but he should be grateful that one of his own would want to uphold his name and honor. Anyway, I had to stand between them and suggested the monk should leave before he got into a tavern brawl.”

“And Torre relaxed then?”

“No, Roger thought I was on the Abbot’s side and didn’t want to stay with me afterward. That was why he left me and went off with Lizzie.”

“Fine. So later, you went to wait at the door.”

“Yes,” Holcroft agreed heavily. “I saw Roger leave, and he pushed past me, sort of embarrassed. I just stood there until Lizzie came out. Then I went off home.”

“On your own?”

“I doubt whether anyone saw me. If they did, I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t in a good mood.”

“Why? You knew she was a prostitute,” Simon pointed out.

“I don’t know. Look, as I’ve said, my wife won’t talk to me any more, and Lizzie was sympathetic. You may think it stupid, just a puerile infatuation, but it felt real enough to me. Seeing her go off with Torre brought it home to me. I wanted to make her feel guilty, waiting there by the door. But I swear I had nothing to do with his murder.”

Baldwin nodded. “Now Lizzie has accused you of murder, you can hardly help in the inquest. Whatever we found with your help would be disbelieved. It would prejudice any findings.”

“You will have to tell the Abbot.”

“I will tell him nothing. All he needs know is that a woman from a tavern became hysterical and shouted your guilt. That is no proof, and I do not expect it to affect you. But it does put us in a difficult position. If we were to find the real culprit with your help, some might be willing to assume you had sought a scapegoat to protect yourself, and if people are prepared to believe that the Abbot is devious,” he held up a hand to stop the port-reeve’s protestations, “they might also spread rumors that an innocent was hanged to protect the Abbot’s man – if, that is, we ever do find someone to accuse.”

Holcroft nodded slowly. “In that case, I shall return home now. You can always contact me there.”

Simon watched as he stood and made his way out through the door. “Poor devil!”

“He’ll recover. Holcroft will soon pass on his responsibilities to another, and then he’ll have time to resolve things with his wife. All he can do now is go home, and that’s the one place he can never find any sort of peace. What it must be, to be caught in a loveless marriage.”

“It happens often enough,” said Simon, with the insensitivity of a man who loved, and was loved by, his wife.

“Yes,” Baldwin agreed, thinking of Jeanne’s bright smile. Somehow he was sure she could never be as cruel as Holcroft described his wife. He pushed the picture from his mind. “I think we should see to Elias now, don’t you?”