The Abbot's Gibbet

2

Of all the roads he’d travelled since the murders, this one, with the unwanted memories insinuating themselves into his mind, felt the most ominous.

The trees met overhead, their branches intermingling to shut out the light and creating a cavern of twilight beneath. Here in the gloom lay the road. In the oppressive, muggy heat of late August, the horses’ hooves and harnesses sounded dull. Soft grass underfoot deadened the tramping feet. The rumble of the wagon wheels, the squeaking of the axles and chains, the hollow rattle of pans knocking together, all sounded dead to him, as if he was riding on in a dream in which the pictures were distinct but all noise had been killed. Many years ago this environment had given him peace. Now it represented only danger.

As the track began to rise, he could remember that last journey as distinctly as if it had been last week, not years ago. It felt as if the road was taking him back to his past, and it was with a mixture of fear and hope that he jolted along. Both struggled to overcome him, but he kept his face expressionless. His fellow travellers could not guess at his emotions.

It was nearly twenty years ago, he recalled. Yet after so long, the smells and sounds were still familiar. This was the place of his birth. These were the smells of his childhood: herbs, peat fires, the tang of cattle in their yards, the musky stench of humans. Even the reek from the midden was oddly poignant.

Now, over the creaking and thundering of the wagons, he could hear other noises. There was hammering and shouting, the rasp of saws through wood, and echoing thuds as axes sliced into boughs. They were the noises of his youth, the cacophony of business as could be heard in any thriving borough, but in these surroundings they gave him a feeling of release, as if he was at last being freed from his isolation.

He came into the sun and stared down along the valley. The view was one he had held fixed in his mind over all the hundreds of miles since he had managed to escape. His nose caught a faint peatiness in the air, and he snuffed the breeze with a quick pleasure, like a spaniel scenting game, before the other memories flashed back into his mind and his face took on its customary blank hardness.

The wind was welcome. It was almost the feast of St. Rumon, at the end of a hot summer, and the soft gusts were pleasant, cooling the sweat on the traveller’s body as he glanced at his companions. Few among them could know how vicious and deadly those same winds would be in the dead of winter. He did; he had seen how the chill winter blast could kill men out on the moors.

But his thoughts were not bent toward the weather. With every foot and yard he covered, he could feel the memories rushing back to engulf him: her face, screaming; the bloody axe; the taunting cries and jeers as he ran from them – and later the disbelief that he should be the one accused, the one arrested for the inevitable trial, the one to be hanged.

He could see the gibbet in his mind’s eye: a stark shape among the softly moving trees at either side. It had been dusk when he first saw it, and as he had passed it with his father, it had squeaked in protest to the wind, and made him shiver. It sounded eerie and evil. In later years he had rarely glanced at it – there were so many up and down the country – yet once riding back from Oakhampton, he heard it creaking and moaning in the gusts, and when he looked, the trees were waving their branches in a sinuous dance as if beckoning him. He had been fixed with a sudden horror, as if the gallows were calling to him alone.

At the time he must have been Hankin’s age. He glanced at the boy. Hankin sat on the cart, reins slack in his hands, nodding somnolently under the effects of the warm sun and the quart of good ale he had drunk for his lunch. Hankin was the orphan of an English merchant in Bayonne, and when no one else would look after the lad, he had taken him on as apprentice. Hankin in some way filled the gap left by his wife, who had died from a hemorrhage while pregnant with their first-born, and he liked to think his own son would have been much the same, quick to learn and self-confident.

They were coming out of the woods now, and he slowed, to the loud disgust of the men and women behind, as he stared down at the town.

In the late afternoon of a summer’s day, it was a scene of perfect tranquility. From this direction, the valley looked like a wide saucer of land. The river was a glittering band cutting through the countryside like a curving steel ribbon. Smoke rose from the houses and hamlets dotted around the small plain, and the gray moorstone blocks of the church and Abbey stood somehow indistinct in the haze. The towers rose spectacularly, gaunt and bold in their great simplicity. Little could compare with their stark squareness; their very regularity was a testament to their holy design. Nearby buildings were dwarfed.

Trees bordered the pasture, and rose up the slopes of the little hillocks. It looked as if the meadows and strip fields were isolated and surrounded by encroaching woods, whereas in reality the trees were being forced ever backward as the Abbey’s lands expanded. Every year the monks, farmers and burgesses had more of the massive trunks cut down for firewood or furniture, leaving space for sheep and cattle to colonize. The process was more or less complete, with the fringe of trees pushed so far back that only their topmost branches could be discerned over the rolling hills. His horse moved skittishly beneath him as the heavily laden wagons passed by, and he dismounted and walked a short way from the track, sitting and staring down the valley.

It felt odd to be able to see once again the place where he had lived. It was his home, and the view brought a constriction to his throat, as if a ball of food had stuck. He swallowed but it wouldn’t go away: he had an urge to hurry forward, as though the intervening years would dissipate and he would be renewed to youth when he arrived at the town. To eyes used to strange foreign cities, it was a curiously unexceptional scene, a commonplace outlook he knew well; yet it was also charged with danger, and he was aware of the latent menace represented by the huddles of cottages.

Staring at it, the muscles of his face set once more into their familiar mask. The loathing stirred again in his breast for the people who had forced him from his land and destroyed his life.

With a decisiveness he did not feel, he climbed back onto his horse and cantered to Hankin’s wagon. There was a relief at rejoining the travellers. Among them he felt screened, obscured by their numbers – just one more merchant on his way to a fair. There was no point in delaying; he had waited too long already. Now all he wanted was to hurry to get there, to see the man he had come so far, and at such risk, to see. With that thought he smiled and continued down the plain toward the Abbey.

Jordan Lybbe had returned.

The roof was ripped apart piece by piece while David Holcroft stood and watched, distaste twisting his features as the squares of rotten wood were tossed, spinning, to join the pile before him. Each time he heard one crack, he winced. The little shed was essential for the fair. It was here that the merchants would pay their tolls for the privilege of selling their goods. Tavistock Fair would attract people from as far away as Castile, and it was his responsibility, as port-reeve, to make sure it was ready.

There was no need to have so many men, he knew, but if he let one go, the others would plead their own cases, and soon he’d have nobody. They scrambled all over, getting in each other’s way and snapping shingles not already ruined. Each was fitted with a pair of dowels which hooked onto the lathes running along the rafters, and as the men worked along the pitch, he could see the wood splintering where the pegs fitted. They’d be lucky to rescue any, the way these cretins were working.

“Sir? The Abbot wondered…”

David Holcroft turned suspiciously. A youth stood by him, grinning. The Abbot’s official kept his voice low and calm, but it was evident enough to the lad that Holcroft was controlling his frustration with an effort. “Yes, yes. The Abbot wants to know when we’ll have this job finished so he can be sure to earn as much as possible, and he’s told you to come and see that I’m getting everything sorted out. Well, you can tell him from me that I’m standing here making sure these idle whelps get on with things, and the more interruptions there are, the slower the job will be!”

“I’m sorry, sir, I was only asked to…”

“To come over here and make my life a misery. Look, it’s hard enough keeping the lazy buggers from the alehouse without having Abbot Robert sending his messengers across every few moments. What does he think I’m doing, eh? Sitting in a tavern and supping ale? He asked me to ensure that the booth was ready, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. But when you report back, you can tell him that there are other things for me to see to, like making sure the shambles are laid out, and seeing to the weights and measures. Even the tron hasn’t been checked yet.”

He shot a glance at the men, keen to be away. The tron was the huge beam used to weigh goods. It had to be tested to make sure it was accurate, and that was just one more chore he must do when this nonsense was completed. With relief he saw that the shingles were all piled on the ground, and that most of the men had come down from the roof. Only two remained sitting on the walls, beating the panelling away from the frames with their hammers. “Why didn’t I get this done before?” he asked himself aloud now.

“There’s so much to be done through the year, sir. Things like this are always forgotten till the last minute,” the messenger said encouragingly.

“It should have been done by Andrew last year,” David muttered, but he knew the work should have been done by him. He was the port-reeve.

Many looked on the job as a sinecure. It only lasted twelve months, being an annual appointment by the Abbot’s steward, the port-reeve being selected from two or three names put forward by the town’s jury, and as well as the allowance of a couple of shillings, there was freedom from the year’s taxes. But after almost twelve months, David was worn out by his duties.

The port-reeve was the man who arranged the conduct of the fairs and markets. He had to tie together all the little details and make sure they went smoothly, to the Abbey’s profit. The port-reeve must witness any large trades, ensure that the watchmen behaved, tally up any sums owed, tell the beadle of any amercements that must be collected… in short, he was responsible for any problem, no matter when it might occur.

There was no blaming Andrew, last year’s incumbent, for not rebuilding the booth. It had been leaning when David was elected at Michaelmas last year, and now it was almost St. Rumon’s Day. From the end of September until now, the end of August, he had never found time to see to its refurbishment.

In fact, it had slipped his mind completely until the Abbot reminded him the night before. He’d been with the Abbey’s steward finalizing plans for the layout of the livestock pens when the Abbot had entered. “David, there was just one thing I wanted to ask,” he’d said, walking in quietly as David was about to leave, and the port-reeve had felt his heart fall to his boots.

“Er, yes, my lord?”

It wasn’t that the Abbot was a harsh master – he wasn’t – but he had a way of making a man feel as if he hadn’t quite matched up to the high standard expected of him. Abbot Robert Champeaux was a difficult person to deal with: he was truly honorable and fair. His eyes twinkled at the tone of his port-reeve’s voice. “Have more wine, my friend. It is only a little matter, concerning the toll-booth on the Brentor road. It looks a bit derelict.”

“Oh, er… Yes, I suppose it does.”

“It is quite ramshackle. The roof has rotted, and the walls are sodden. I fear it could collapse.”

The last of the panels fell with a slap like a wet cloth thrown against a rock, and David shook his head good-humoredly. The Abbot had been right as usual: the wood was so wet as to be useless. Still, everything was worth money during the three-day fair. The shingles would be taken by someone needing cheap replacements for a shed or outbuilding – Roger Torre had already expressed interest – and enough solid timber could be rescued from the panels to make a trestle or box. Poor farming folk would be willing to pay for odds and ends.

The workmen had fresh panels stacked near the booth, and now they nailed the boards in place while others scampered back to the roof and began hanging new chestnut slats.

Turning from the little building, the port-reeve was faintly surprised to note that the messenger had left. He stared toward the fairground. The ditch had been cleared, and now formed the boundary. The grassed area was filled with stalls. Seeing the men running round making good any faults in the stalls and trestles, David felt himself relax. It would all be worth it once the fair got going: the annual event would be a success again.

He glanced upward and squinted. It was past noon; soon he must see to the other thousand and one things that still had to be organized. He waited until the men had almost finished the second side wall and one half of the roof before making his way along the lane to the busy town.

On a normal day, the center would be filled with butchers, fishmongers and grocers plying their trade, but not now. In preparation for the fair, many had been moved from their usual premises. Cooks, poulterers and smiths were excluded from the town and must carry on their trade outside the fair’s ditch. It was too dangerous to permit fires to be lighted with so many visitors, especially with the number who were bound to get drunk. All livestock was kept out as well, in an attempt to keep the streets moderately clean, but it was not only animals which blocked lanes, and as he went David noted who had allowed garbage to collect. Each would receive a fine if they did not clear it; another duty of the port-reeve was to ensure that those who allowed obstructions to accumulate were punished.

At one corner, near the bottom of the Brentor road as it approached the Abbey, he stopped dead and shook his head.

In a narrow little alley that led between a butcher and cookshop, there was a pile of rubbish. Tattered remains of cloth, ancient and part-rotted sacks, broken staves, and other scraps and debris littered the ground. Shards of broken pottery and poultry bones crunched underfoot, and he accidentally kicked a pot which smashed against the wall. A scrawny dog scavenged, crouching in the dark of the alley, anticipating a kick or hurled stone. Holcroft ignored it. Marching to the cookshop door, he hammered on it.

“Elias? Elias, I know you’re in there! Open this door.” He beat upon the timbers again and shouted, and when there was no response, he took a step back, staring upward thoughtfully. The little unglazed window above was unshuttered. David picked up a broken spar of wood, hefting it in his hand, gauging the weight, and then hurled it through the opening.

Almost immediately there was a high-pitched shriek, closely followed by a curse. David quickly moved a little farther from the building before his missile could return, as the cook appeared at the window gripping the wood like a cudgel. “Who the…?”

“You know well enough. Me!”

“Why, port-reeve! I’m sorry, David, did you knock? I didn’t hear, I’ve been busy, getting ready for the fair, you know. Anyway, what do you think you’re doing, throwing blocks of wood through people’s windows? It could have been dangerous, you might have hurt someone…”

“Shut up, Elias! The fair opens tomorrow, and you’ve left all your garbage out here in the street. I told you yesterday to clear it, but you’ve done nothing. If it’s still there tomorrow, I’ll personally take great pleasure in amercing you. With all this lot, it’s got to be worth a good six pennies.”

“Six pennies?” The cook gaped in dismay. “I can’t afford a fine like that, David. Look, couldn’t I just move it back in the alley? No one’ll see it if I shove it round the corner a bit.”

“No, Elias. Get it all out to the midden.”

“What if I…”

The door of the butcher’s shop opened, and David winked at its owner, Will Ruby. He was a plump man, and seeing the port-reeve, he leaned against his doorpost and cast an eye up at his neighbor. “I told you you’d have to clear it, you daft bugger, didn’t I? It does my business no good to have my customers walking past your rubbish every morning. I doubt it does much for you, either.”

“Shut up, Will. Why don’t you get on and sort out your stall? I’m talking to the port-reeve here.”

“Yes, well, if you’d listened to me in the first place, you’d not have to talk to the port-reeve, would you?”

“Six pennies, Elias,” David repeated. “That’s what it’ll be tomorrow, and seeing I’m on my way to the Abbot now, I’ll tell him to expect your money.”

The cook let his head droop disconsolately. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, David heard a muttered word. The cook glanced quickly behind him, and the port-reeve peered up with interest. Will edged closer and jabbed an elbow into his side, speaking from the corner of his mouth. “It’s that girl, Lizzie. He got her up to his room after drinking with her in the tavern,” he chortled, and strolled toward the fair.

“Elias, you do know all the rules of the fair, don’t you? You’ve got all your things set up in the fairground, have you?” The face above nodded quickly. “Good.” Then David added suavely, “Remember, too, that prostitutes are outlawed during the fair, won’t you?” Like all fairs, to prevent lewd or bawdy behavior, and disease, prostitutes and lepers were outlawed. Lepers must stay behind their doors, and prostitutes mustn’t ply their trade.

The cook shiftily avoided his eyes. The man was searching for something innocuous to say, and David had an overpowering urge to laugh while the cook squirmed, but before Elias could think of a safe comment, his eyes suddenly widened. He was yanked backward and disappeared, to be replaced by a young woman with loose brown hair that curled round her shoulders.

“Well, David, do you want me thrown from this house? Where could I go? Would you give me a room to sleep in?”

The port-reeve tried to maintain his dignified mien, but when the girl fluttered her eyelashes in mock supplication and held her thumb and forefinger a short distance apart, shaking her head in apparent disgust, he had to relent, relaxing his stern features. “No, Lizzie, much though I’d like to, I think my wife’d be upset. But remind Elias that Nick Turgys was amerced twelve pennies last year for having whores in his house during the fair. If Elias can’t afford six pennies for his rubbish, I doubt he could afford another twelve – not as well as your fee.”

As he moved on toward the Abbey, he was in a contemplative mood. When almost there, he paused a while to watch the latest traders arrive. A long line of merchants was riding up from the western gate, and he could see that they had their wagons and carts filled. One face he recognized: Roger Torre, striding beside a friar. Roger scraped by panning for tin on the moors. He eked out a living by catching rabbits, and rented land from the Abbot to grow vegetables and herbs. He didn’t prosper, but he was not so poor as some of the men who inhabited the little stone sheds on the moors. Only the bigger miners seemed to make good money.

David waved to him and carried on. Torre was always keen to drink and exchange stories, and the port-reeve was determined to finish his work and join the moorman in the tavern. He had need of a companion who would not talk to him of garbage, fairs or whores.

Another man was watching Torre and the friar. He stood a little to one side of the port-reeve, partly obscured by drapery hung to celebrate the fair.

It was so many years ago, he had thought he would be safe here, but now his worst imagining was realized as he watched the cleric and his friend making their way to the fair. If he should be seen and recognized, he would be in danger of his life – but what could he do? He had tried to escape before, and that had ended in disaster.

Perhaps even that failure might show him how to avoid justice again. If he dared be bold once more, he might yet be able to get away. He preferred to remain hidden, but if he had no choice, he would act, he decided, and he slipped away down an alley.