The Abbot's Gibbet (27 page)

“Oh? Is it English?”

“No, I bought it in a fair in Rennes from a Spaniard. I think it was made by a Moor.”

Baldwin picked it up. It had a good weight and feel to it, solid and balanced, and had a long blade, wide at the base and narrowing to a point.

It was hard to imagine it slicing through Torre’s neck, but Baldwin recognized the crest on the handle; it was the same as that on the sheath they had found with the body. “Edgar? Come here a moment,” he called, hefting the knife in his hand, holding Jordan’s gaze. “I have wanted to speak to you for some time,”

he said quietly.

Peter shuffled through the long grass, head down as he contemplated the ground before him. After the last few days he couldn’t stay: he’d have to go. There was no choice involved: it was simply the inevitable conse-242

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quence of his actions and the turn that events had taken. Although Avice had rejected him, he was too unsettled—and ashamed of his carnal weakness—to remain.

Out here, in the orchards beyond the perimeter wall of the Abbey, the sun dappled the ground through the apple, pear and cob trees. The grass would soon be cropped when the sheep were released back inside, but for now they had been removed so that the fruits could all be collected, the ones on the ground as well as those on the trees. The Abbey depended on the orchard to stock the undercrofts for the winter and fill the barrels with cider.

All round him was the crackling sussuration of the tiny, black and yellow pods of the vetch bursting. A cricket gave an experimental rasp, quickly accompanied by another, but both died as he came near. This was one of the last days of summer, and Peter was reminded how gorgeous the world could be in the midst of his desolation. It felt as if God Himself was mocking him, sneering at his misery. The fault, Peter knew, was his own, and he cringed at the fact that his God was aware. He would have to leave the Abbey and the protection of the Abbot and find a way of earning a living somewhere else.

It was not easy to see how he could. Peter had been a student at the Abbey school for many years before he had taken the tonsure. Many boys from the town attended the school, although most went on eventually to become merchants or knights. Some even entered Parliament to help advise the King. For Peter, after seeing how the monks lived and served God, the decision to remain had seemed natural. Like the brothers, he wanted to dedicate his life to praying for the dead and The Abbot’s Gibbet

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ensuring that their souls were saved. That was the duty of the Abbey, to intercede for all Christians who had died; they were spiritual warriors, the saviors of the human race.

And now Peter had to accept that he wasn’t worthy. How often he had heard those words said of others, and felt the smugness that his own relative success gave him. Perhaps, he wondered, this was all God’s punishment for his sinful pride. He should never have considered himself better than the unfortunates who failed by discovering their own weaknesses. He was no better than them; he’d simply managed to cling to his belief in his own vocation . . . out of arrogance. Kicking at a stone, he watched it bounce and spin away. It reminded him of himself: insignificant, meaningless. He was of no more note than a pebble in the eyes of the world.

As he approached the river, a loud metallic clattering made him stop and look up. A dragonfly, vivid blue in the body, darted hither and thither, patrolling its territory near the pond which lay in a bend. It was perfect in design and beauty, and Peter was overwhelmed with the magnificence of a God Who could create so wonderful a creature. The novice had always wanted to understand more about the world around him, and it was a source of shame to him that he could not continue his studies within the Abbey.

Slumping at the river bank, he hugged his legs, morosely gazing out over the pasture opposite, contemplating his future. It was bleak. He had no craft or trade. There were few enough apprenticeships in the town, and he was too old already for most of them. For a man of nearly nineteen, the only career he was capable of taking on was probably that of soldier. At least 244

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with that he would have a guaranteed portion of food and ale, and a bed at night.

He stood and continued his aimless wandering. The idea of soldiering was not one that attracted him, and not only because his sedentary lifestyle unsuited him for the rigors of fighting. He had an aversion to the principle of making an oath to obey the orders of an earthly baron now that he had enjoyed serving an Abbot.

Another sudden noise drew his attention. There was shouting and banging coming from near the market. His feet had brought him back to the road that led westward from the town, and he gazed one way and then the other, undecided. There was a temptation to leave Tavistock behind, to simply disappear and seek his fortune, whatever it might be.

But he couldn’t. He had nothing—no money, no job, no enthusiasm; he had truly lost everything. There was nothing for him to do, nowhere to go. He felt utterly alone. Whereas he would gladly have given up his vocation to wed Avice and would have been content to live with her in poverty, her rejection of him was so total and uncompromising he felt that there was little reason for him to carry on living.

His head dropped to his chest and he walked miserably toward the town and back to the Abbey. As he approached it, he saw a little crush of townspeople, some waving sticks and broken pieces of wood. From this distance, it could have been a group of merry-makers, but even as he looked, he saw youths picking up stones from the roadside and hurling them at the Abbey’s gates.

Quickly he turned his steps away, back up the hill toward the fairground.

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Behind him he heard a shout, and when he looked, he saw some figures hurrying after him. He took to his heels, his heart pounding. All too often the townspeople enjoyed ridiculing the young novices when they had a chance, but this was no party in the mood for fun. This was a mob in search of victims.

Before him he saw another black habit, and he sped toward it. Glancing behind, he saw that his pursuers were gaining on him. Panting in the heat, he picked up the hem of his habit and pelted after the other brother.

- 18 W hen her daughter walked in, Marion laid aside her work and studied her. To her chagrin, she was aware of a sense of

pride in the way that Avice held herself. Her carriage was as haughty as Marion’s own, and her regal entry, ignoring her parents and walking straight to a bench and sitting, was a masterpiece of contempt. Arthur for his part was sad to see her so openly mutinous. His daughter, whom he adored with all his soul, for whom he would gladly lose an arm if it would make her happy, was treating him with as much respect as he would give a beggar in the street. And all because of that
Venetian.
He sighed, and threw a glance at Henry, who stood by the wall. The groom was indifferent; he had performed his duty as he saw it, and was waiting to provide the necessary evidence when called. There was no gloating in Marion’s voice, only calm sympathy. “Avice, we wanted you here because we have been finding out what we can about this swain of yours. This Pietro da Cammino.”

Avice looked up and met her mother’s gaze. “And what have you discovered?”

Her father glanced at Henry once more. “Avice, his The Abbot’s Gibbet

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father is negotiating with the Abbot, but there are other things you should know.”

“I assume this is your spy—let him speak!” Avice said, staring at Henry.

The groom winced. He’d expected this duty to be painful, and his young mistress was not of a mood to ease his task. “Miss Avice, I did go and try to find out what I could, not because I want to upset you, but because I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”

“Hurry up, man! She wants to know what you’ve found,” Marion snapped.

“The father and son are staying with the Abbot while they conduct business with him. They say they are wealthy, but others think they aren’t. It could be that they are trying to con the Abbot out of his money.”

“Rubbish!”

“Their horses are of poor quality—how many wealthy men would tolerate ponies like theirs?”

“Maybe their own horses went lame.”

“Perhaps. But some say the boy is dangerous. He drew a knife against the man who died near the tavern. Some people think he was the murderer.”

“Some ‘people’? Which people?”

“Among them, monks.”

Avice’s mouth fell open with dismay. “But, how?”

she said, then rallied. “If a monk thought that, he would tell his Abbot, and the Abbot could hardly let a man suspected of murder stay as his guest. I don’t believe you!”

“Avice,” her mother protested, “Henry wouldn’t lie to you.”

“He would if he thought you wished him to. He would if he thought you were determined to see me unhappy for the rest of my days and married to John.”

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“Mistress, I have not invented this. It’s what I heard a monk say.”

Suddenly her voice sharpened. “A monk—or was it a novice? Was it the boy who asked me to run away with him? It was, wasn’t it? It was that fool Peter!”

“Who it was doesn’t matter, girl,” Arthur rumbled, but she ignored him.

“That’s all the evidence you can collect, the jealous, unfair and biased view of a boy who wants me himself so much he’d perjure himself to his God! Yet you can’t prove Pietro isn’t rich! That he and his father are guests of the Abbot must mean that Abbot Champeaux himself thinks them honorable, and yet you are prepared to spread malicious lies just to convince me I’m wrong—well, I won’t listen to this. I know what kind of a man Pietro is, and I will marry him.”

“You can’t, Avice. You will wed John,” her mother reminded her.

“I will not. I have been a dutiful and obedient daughter, but I will not agree to this. It’s my life, and I would prefer to go to the cloister than harness myself to John until my death.”

She swept to her feet and flounced from the room. Arthur shook his head. “Not the result we desired.”

“She will come round,” Marion said, but with more confidence than she felt. “Henry, tell Avice’s maid to come and see me right away.” When he had left the room, she continued: “Arthur, until this nonsense is finished, Avice must be confined to the house. We cannot have her wandering where she will with this Venetian vagabond. Who knows where her folly might lead her?”

“Oh, very well,” he said and stood.

“Where are you going?”

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“Back to the tavern. I’ve had enough of all this.”

“You don’t mean you support her in this capricious flouting of our will?”

“
Your
will, not mine. All I want is to see her happy.”

“So do I, Arthur. I simply do not believe she will be happy with this boy.”

“Perhaps, but right now, I don’t know that she can ever be happy with John either. You call it capriciousness, but I wonder whether it is equally capricious to wish on her a marriage with a man whom your daughter finds contemptible.” And before she could answer him, he had left the room.

Outside the house, he reflected a moment. His words would have hurt his wife, but he could not regret them. She was waging a vendetta against the boy based on her own desire for Avice to marry into a knightly family. It was a natural enough wish, he acknowledged, but he would prefer his daughter to be happy rather than trying to force her to begin a dynasty. He hesitated, then made off down the hill toward the tavern. If he could not find peace in his own house, he would seek it elsewhere.

They were gaining on him. Peter was convinced he was about to be attacked, and his flesh cringed at the thought of what the youths would do to him when they caught him.

The monk heard the noise, too. Seeing the baying mob, he ducked sideways into an alley. Peter saw him disappear, and marked the spot. Panting, he ran close to the buildings at the side of the road. If he could just get to the alley, he might be able to follow the other monk without his pursuers seeing him.

He didn’t recognize the monk—he was too far off, 250

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but Peter wondered whether it was one of the lay brothers. There were so many who labored in the fields, or kept the smithy and mill working, Peter could not remember them all. The figure of this one looked familiar, but he could not place him.

Coming level with the alley, he risked a glance behind. The bend in the street hid the mob from view. He nipped in, only to meet a man stepping out. In one hand he held a black habit, bundled loosely. In the other was a heavy stick.

Peter stared. “What were you doing wearing that?”

he demanded, but he saw the man heft his stick, and the monk retreated, his eyes fixed on the cudgel with horror. Hearing a shout behind him, he spun, just in time to see the jeering pack running past. Suddenly he was less scared of them; suddenly they looked like his protectors, and he opened his mouth to shout, but before he could, he was yanked backward into the dark maw of the alley. The youths ran off up the hill, oblivious to Peter’s panicked defense. The fire smoked badly in the tavern, and Arthur coughed when the fumes got to him. It made a change for him to drink ale, and he enjoyed two quarts before deciding he should make his way home. He settled with the alewife and began the walk up the hill to his house, his cheerfulness fully restored. Surely it would all work out all right—they would soon leave Tavistock, and Avice would be away from the malign influence of the Venetian. Maybe she would even come to like John after all.

His wife was not so wrong, he thought with alcoholic optimism. It was right that she should want the best husband she could find for her girl, and although The Abbot’s Gibbet

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John was ugly and less prepossessing than an ape, he did have the attribute of breeding. It was merely a pity that Avice was too young to see that. She would come round—
probably,
he amended with a burst of realism. The street had cleared, and he could see a group of cheerful boys waving sticks and shouting. The sight made him a little nervous. Youths these days so often seemed prone to violence at the slightest provocation, and it was not unheard of for a man to be attacked merely for glancing at a lad. He kept his eyes steadfastly fixed to the ground, walking faster as he passed beyond them. Further on, his steps faltered at the sight of a familiar figure.