The Abbot's Gibbet

22

At last there was a ripple of music from the harriers.

“Listen to that!” the berner called excitedly. “We have them now. They can’t escape.”

Baldwin nodded agreement. He had rarely heard hunting hounds give voice so strongly, and when they did, it was a sure sign that their quarry was near at hand.

He looked about him as they raced on. They had taken the northwestern route after Brentor, and now they were passing on the old road under Lydford, toward the moors. The weather here was gloomy, with thick clouds gray and dull overhead. It was hard to believe that in Tavistock the weather was calm and bright with few clouds in a deep blue sky, looking up here and feeling the damp chill in the air.

Baldwin could recognize most of the countryside from his trips to see Simon, and this part was familiar. They were riding at an easy canter to save their horses, and he had time to study the land. Ahead, a little to the right, there was a low hill with small cairns on its summit which Baldwin recognized as White Hill. Just left was Doe Tor, with the great mound of Great Links Tor rising behind. The posse was chasing along a narrow valley with a stream trickling quietly at its base, with Sharp Tor rising before them. Even as he looked, he saw the faint smoke of hoofbeats in the dry dust ahead of them.

There were tiny figures on the beasts. It was hard to see while pounding along so steadily, but he was sure that there were three mounts – so Avice was with them, he noted. The sight gave him added enthusiasm for the chase. He glanced to left and right, and saw that the others too had seen their prey.

“Once they’re in among the rocks it’ll take ages to fetch them out,” Simon called, and Baldwin nodded grimly. If Antonio and his son were of a mood to fight, it would be the devil’s own job to dislodge them. Their only hope was that the three riders were more tired than the posse. But although the horses they pursued showed signs of exhaustion, it was clear that the Venetians would gain the security of the rocks before they could be headed off, and Baldwin swore under his breath.

But he had reckoned without the Abbot’s harriers. The berner called to them, whistling and singing to them in a curious, high-pitched voice, and the pack suddenly streaked away. The men had to whip their horses to try to keep up, but it was in vain. There was no way to catch the racing hounds. Baldwin saw the Venetians glaring over their shoulders, their faces showing both rage and fear as they assessed the distance between them and their pursuers, while beside them the girl lurched along on a mare. “No,” Baldwin said between gritted teeth, “it’s not like Bayonne, where you escaped because you had gone with time to rest your mounts before your pursuit could catch up with you. This time your horses are as tired as our own, and ours are the better bred. This time you won’t get away.”

They did have one last, desperate throw to make. Just as in Bayonne they had distracted the posse by releasing a packhorse, now, as Baldwin watched, he saw the girl’s horse sheer away and turn off to the north. The knight refused to be tempted to hare off after her, and bellowed over his shoulder to the two nearest men to follow her and bring her back. The others carried on.

The Venetians reached the rocks, and now found another obstacle to their escape. All around the tor was a clitter of small stones, on any one of which their horses might break a leg and fall. They could not keep up their mad, break-neck pace.

But the harriers could. With thickly padded paws they feared no stones or rocks, and they scrambled up and over the boulders with the eager enthusiasm of hounds who see their prey at last.

“Come on!” Simon roared, and the posse set itself at the hill.

Baldwin heard the tone of the baying change. While running with their quarry in sight, each dog had given urgent yelps calling the attention of the humans to the scent. Now they gave loud voice continually, and Baldwin, as a hunter, knew what that meant: the quarry was held at bay. He slowed his speed and gave his Arab time to pick her way. If the harriers had the men, there was no point in risking her life.

The bank of the hill was quite steep, and all the horses were forced to tread carefully. Still in front the berner egged his mount on, his face filled with anxiety for his hounds, and Baldwin knew what his thoughts would be. Would the men, now they were held by the pack, try to kill his hounds? It had happened before while trying to capture felons, when they had access to pikes or lances. It was easy enough to goad dogs into attacking, and spit them on a sword or long dagger like meat to be cooked over a fire. Like any good berner and master of harriers, the Abbot’s man was fearful only for his precious hounds. They were more to him than his own life, and Baldwin thought, Woe betide you if you have hurt this berner’s creatures!

At the top of the hill was a kind of rounded plain, and it was here they found the men in a small dead-end of rock. With high walls at each side and in front of them, the two had dismounted, and stood before their horses while the hounds circled, panting, eyeing the men with cautious expectancy.

Simon paused, resting his elbow on his mount’s withers, panting as if he had run the whole way himself. He cocked an eyebrow at Baldwin. “Looks like they’ll come along easy enough, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I think so,” Baldwin agreed as the other members of the posse joined them.

The knight wasn’t sure the two Venetians had noticed they had company. Their eyes were firmly fixed on the hounds which barked and growled and howled all round. Antonio’s horse was bucking while he cursed angrily, gripping its reins and flailing about him with his whip. Pietro’s looked close to death with its head hanging almost to the ground. As Baldwin watched, he patted its head. That simple act of solace made the knight feel some compassion. Any man who could honor his horse, even when it had failed in its race, must have some principles, although he had to admit that any thief or outlaw was likely to regard his mount as more important to him than a wife, companion, or man-at-arms – the horse would always be the method of escape and safety, and deserved the best food and water even when that meant the rider going thirsty or hungry.

The berner dropped from his horse, calling to his hounds and throwing them scraps from his satchel. Gradually the milling beasts withdrew, and Simon could study the two Venetians.

Antonio stood, panting with exertion, his whip still in his hand as he glowered at the men. Recognizing Baldwin and Simon, his features displayed shock. “Sir Baldwin, you as well?”

His son let himself fall to sit at his horse’s head. He patted its neck and refused to meet Simon’s eye.

The bailiff sprang down from his horse and motioned to the men to rest. “Who did you expect? The Abbot himself?”

“I won’t surrender!” Antonio declared, and drew his sword.

“Antonio,” Baldwin said resignedly, “what good will that do? It won’t help your son’s case.”

“What case?” Antonio asked reservedly, eyes narrowed.

“He’s under arrest. He’s been accused of murdering Torre and the monk Peter.”

“What? I thought you were with the rabble roused by that damned friar!”

“Me? Who accuses me of this!” Pietro demanded.

Baldwin and Simon exchanged a glance. His surprise seemed unfeigned. The bailiff said, “You accused yourself when you decided to depart from the town in such haste.”

Antonio shook his head. “That was because of the mob. Didn’t you hear? They were incited to attack me by the friar. We didn’t want to remain where our lives might be in danger.”

“It had nothing to do with fear of being discovered to be the murderer?” Simon asked sarcastically.

“I know nothing of any murder,” Pietro stated. “I wanted to get away so that I could be with Avice, that’s all.”

“And I joined him willingly!”

Baldwin turned to see the girl being led on her mare by a sweating, grumbling watchman muttering, “She took us halfway to bloody Oakhampton.”

Kicking her feet free of the stirrups, Avice sprang down and ran to Pietro. “I love him, and I won’t marry the man my father has chosen. This is the man I will wed.”

Baldwin scratched his cheek and threw a glance at his friend. Simon was watching the couple doubtfully.

There was no denying the fact that the lad didn’t look like a crazed murderer, the sort to kill a monk because he thought him a rival. And then another thought struck the knight. “Avice, when did you agree to elope with this lad?”

And he knew her answer before she spoke.

Jordan and Elias Lybbe sat for the most part silently. The sun was creeping toward the horizon, and the stifling heat of midday in the cell was giving way to a damp chill. During the day the temperature had built steadily. The stone walls should have kept the little jail cool, but the wide, barred window allowed the hot air to smother the interior, and in the absence of any wind the two men sweltered, sweating profusely. The little water they had been given when they entered was long since finished, and both felt its lack.

“You should never have come back.”

Jordan’s tongue felt as if it was covered in rabbit fur, and swallowing was difficult. “It seemed right to come back and see you. I’d been away for so long, I just wanted to see the town where I was born one more time.” He knew his brother couldn’t understand the homesick aching in his bones. It had been unwise to return, as Elias said, but it was an urge which couldn’t be refused.

“There was no point,” Elias persisted miserably.

“It seems not.”

“I wonder what will happen to me?”

“You should be all right. They’ll soon catch the Venetians, and then you’ll be safe enough. Not like me: I’ll go to the gibbet.”

Elias brought his legs up and rested his head on his knees. He knew his brother was right. There could be no defense for a man once he was declared outlaw. “You shouldn’t have come back,” he repeated dully.

“At least I’ve seen my town again,” Jordan said softly. “I’ve lived too long abroad. The land is good, rich and fertile, and the people live well, but it’s not my home. I couldn’t die happy there. Here I can die content.”

“Did you never marry?”

“Yes. She caught a fever and died. We had no children.”

“That boy – he’s not your own?”

“No.” Jordan chewed his lip. He hoped Hankin was unharmed. “I took him on when he was newly orphaned. He was a comfort to me, and I was able to keep him alive, so we were well suited.”

Elias grew too hot, huddled as he was, and stretched his legs out before him, groaning with the aching in his joints. He needed water, but it wasn’t that which gave his voice its sharpness. “Was that to atone for what you did?”

“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, Elias, believe me,” Jordan said tiredly. It was hard to talk about the matter, it was so long ago. The bloody axe sprang once more to his mind, the woman’s mouth wide as if screaming as she lay by the side of her husband’s body, the girl sheltered behind her skirts. The memory made him close his eyes with a shudder. Although he hadn’t known it at the time, that event marked the end of his old life. And now it had returned to haunt him and end his whole existence.

“The gang killed them all, didn’t they?” Elias asked remorselessly.

“What could I have done against so many?” Jordan rested his head against the wall. He had always known his brother didn’t believe his protestations of innocence.

Elias looked away. A member of the gang had approved, confessed in exchange for his life, swearing he told the truth. There was no reason for him to accuse Jordan if he had nothing to do with it. “The bastards left an orphan, though, just like the one you picked up.”

“I remember.” Jordan gazed at the clear sky through the window. It was not something he could forget. The girl had been struck down, and with all the blood in the room, the men had assumed she was dead. It had been a huge relief to him when later he had seen her breast move, and he had taken her up and carried her away from that charnelhouse. It never occurred to him that he might be accused after saving her, but he had been, and he had to run for his life before he could be arrested. “I’m only glad that I was able to make sure she lived.”

Elias sighed and shifted. Stones on the ground dug into his thin buttocks. “Yes, but what about the lad?”

“Which lad?”

“The one you rescued – the one at your stall.”

“Hankin? He’ll have to make his own way, I suppose.” Jordan stared up at the sky once more, and had to blink away the tears, not only of self-pity but also futility. There was nothing more he could do to help the lad, he told himself. Hankin might be able to fend for himself… if the Abbot didn’t take everything that Jordan owned as an amercement he could give it to the boy.

“With nothing, there’s not much chance of him surviving.”

Jordan faced his brother. “If you do get out of this, Elias, promise me you’ll look after him.”

“Me!”

“Someone has to, and the poor lad has no one. He hardly even speaks English now, he’s been away so long. Swear to me, Elias – it’s the last thing I’ll ever ask you to do for me.”

“And it’s no small thing you want me to do – only to spend the rest of my life protecting a beardless boy!” Elias grumbled, but before long Jordan had the promise he needed, and he could relax and slump back against the wall once more.

It was little enough for him to leave behind, but at least he had the satisfaction that Hankin would be provided for. Elias was scruffy and lazy, and he had a capacity for whining which disgusted his older brother, but he was sound enough, and Jordan was sure he would be secretly delighted to have the company of the boy. Hankin had been a good friend. It would have been an intolerable weight on Jordan’s mind, going to the gallows knowing Hankin was deserted.

He looked out at the fresh, free world again, wondering what had happened to that other orphan, the little girl – whether she had survived the pain and terror of losing her parents so needlessly. It would ease his death if she had not suffered too much torment.

At the sound of harnesses and shouting, the Abbot left the refectory and hurried down to the Great Court. The men were all climbing from their horses with the steady and deliberate movements of the enormously tired.

“Sir Baldwin, you are all well? No one was hurt?”

“No, no one was harmed. And you need not fear for your harriers or berner. They are fine.”

“Sir Baldwin, they were far from my mind,” the Abbot chided him, but the knight saw his gaze moving past him to the wagging tails of the pack. “The girl?”

“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.