The Abbot's Gibbet (38 page)

Breathing noiselessly, his mouth open, ears alert to catch the faintest sound, he cautiously stepped round 344

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the wall, keeping the light over his head so that he remained in the gloom beneath. The dust would protect him, shining in the light while he passed behind, but soon he realized that while it protected him, it also helped his prey remain hidden. It was impossible to penetrate the column of sunlight as he walked behind it; it was too bright, the rest of the chamber too somber. He heard a cautious footstep crunch on a loose pebble. Holding his breath, his scalp tingling with anticipation, Baldwin drew his dagger and edged silently into the room.

- 24 S imon pelted along past the infirmary, glancing at the door. If Luke had dashed in there, the bailiff reasoned, they must have heard the door slam as they came

out of the lodging. Ignoring it, he rushed on to the herbary. Here he found an elderly monk raking a patch of neatly tended soil. The old man looked up, startled to see a breathless man rush past, and as Simon skidded to a halt, staring round the dog-leg toward the well, he leaned on his rake and watched silently.

“Has someone passed by here? He might have had your Abbot with him.”

The old monk shook his head, still mute, and Simon paused only to mutter an imprecation against the servant, whirled, and ran back the way he had come. Looking down, the monk sighed, shrugged, and began raking again to cover up the bailiff’s footprints. Baldwin took step after tentative step until he was at the entrance to an aisle between immense vats which stood one on top of the other, rising high over his head. He was aware of a tension, as if he was a machine moving forward, impelled by a great spring that took 346

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every ounce of his energy to simply move his legs on. It exhibited itself as a hollowness in his throat, and a certain lightheadedness. He was less aware of his arms, his legs, and how to use them. They were useless appendages now. His every fiber was focused on his eyes and ears. All his faculties were concentrated to ensure that in this infernal darkness he might see and hear the servant.

As he entered among the false pillars of wood, he was tempted to withdraw and seek Simon. It was less a reflection of his fear than of a natural anxiety to prevent the escape of the man he sought. While he bumbled around in the dark, for all he knew Luke might have sidled round to the doorway, and be preparing to escape.

The thought made the knight want to turn and watch the doorway, but he must not, he knew. His only protection from the servant’s little knife was to keep his eyes constantly fixed forward. Only that way could he anticipate an attack. If he was to spin round, the man could be on him in an instant if he was nearby, and somehow Baldwin was sure he was close. Taking another silent step, he thought he heard a noise, and he stopped, one foot half off the ground. It sounded like a quiet hiss, and he reflected that the noise seemed familiar. Then he heard it again, and leaped forward: it was the choking sigh of a man being throttled.

The huge barrels ended in an alley along the wall, and Baldwin ran into the stonework at full tilt. Momentarily winded, he turned this way and that seeking the source, then rushed off to his left. The sound came from there.

He heard it again, and skidded a little on the flags. The Abbot’s Gibbet

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Ahead, a short way down another narrow pathway he could see the two men. The Abbot appeared to be on his knees, his captor behind him, the two locked together in a hideous embrace. Baldwin shouted, gripped his dagger tighter in his fist, and charged. He saw the servant look up, the Abbot, released, tumbled forward to lie choking on all fours, and the knight felt a sudden loathing for the little man. He drew back his hand threateningly, but as he did so, his boot caught a lifted slab stone, and he lost his balance. With a horrified gasp, he threw himself sideways to avoid the servant’s upward-thrusting blade, and struck his shoulder on a barrel. It winded him, and he bounced forward, landing on his chest and striking his head on the stone of the floor. His dagger caught in a barrel as he dropped, and the blade snapped, leaving only the hilt in his hand.

In an instant Luke was on him, the knife under his ear, and he heard the man whispering viciously, “Silence, or you’ll die.”

Baldwin was still. With the man resting a knee on his back, he had no option but to remain there with Luke’s breath rasping in his ear. He heard footsteps, slow, quiet and stealthy pacing, that approached along the next lane among the stores, then silence.

“Baldwin? Are you here?”

The sound of his friend’s voice gave a renewed vigor to his strained nerves and muscles, but the knight hoarded his energy, willing his wounded body to remain still. There was no honor in winning a coffin, and he wanted Luke captured. While the servant crouched over him, he lay as one dead.

Hearing the steps retreat, Luke eased his grip on his prisoner’s throat and risked a careful glance all round. 348

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He could not escape through the windows, they were too high. This man, this strong, self-sufficient knight would make an admirable captive to guarantee his safety. They would surely not threaten Sir Baldwin’s life by trying to catch Luke while be could hold his hostage under the threat of instant death. The feet hurried toward the door, and passed outside. Baldwin was suddenly aware of the weight on his back disappearing, and then he was hauled up by a hand on the neck of his tunic. All the time the point of the blade remained unwavering at his jugular.

“You will not make a sound, or your vein will be opened. You understand me? One move, and you die.”

He felt a fumbling hand tugging at his buckle, and there was a lightening at his waist as his sword fell to the floor with a dull clatter. Outside, running feet passing by the door, then Simon’s voice came from a distance, calling his name. Suddenly he felt a kind of appalled despair. The shame of being snared in this way and held hostage by such a mean-spirited man was galling, but as he was pushed along, a hand clutching his tunic, the other at his throat, he knew he could do nothing. He, a strong and honorable knight, was entirely at the mercy of a mere servant. The thought made him give a bitter little smile.

As he came toward the end of the alley, he formed his resolution. He would not step into the daylight as a prisoner. It would be better to fight, even if he was doomed to failure. He would try to strike the knife from his neck at the end of the lane and attempt to turn the tables on Luke.

Even as he formed this resolve, as he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, he heard a quick gasp. For a moment the knife was less painfully sharp The Abbot’s Gibbet

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against his skin, and he took his chance. He stopped and thrust back with his shoulder, whirling, and grabbing at the knife-hand. Luke was off-balance, and his hand was knocked away easily as Baldwin tried to grab at a barrel. It moved, and he fell back, and instantly the blade was back at his neck. Luke ducked as a dark shape loomed overhead.

There was a creaking, and a familiar voice called,

“God’s teeth!” and then Baldwin saw the whole wall beside him moving. From the corner of his eye he saw the barrels slowly, but with a horrid inevitability, start to topple. Luke recognized the danger, and Baldwin felt the knife at his throat release its pressure a little. The knight grabbed Luke’s knife-hand and shoved it away, and as he did so a figure dropped to the ground beside him, catching Luke’s arm and hauling him back from Baldwin. The servant gave a short shriek, and even over the rumble of falling barrels Baldwin heard the sharp snap of breaking bone. Then his shoulder was taken in a firm hold and he was pulled to a safe distance from the collapsing wall.

The Abbot was carried gently upstairs to his chamber, and the infirmarer was called to examine his master. Simon stood by his side as the monk inspected the man’s throat, and finally declared him to be all right, providing he rested for a couple of days. The Abbot gave him a look of gratitude. “I never expected to hear you speak again, brother. Your words are exceedingly welcome.”

Hugh and Holcroft had bundled Lybbe and the Venetians back to their cells, and the room seemed oddly quiet after the sudden violence. When Baldwin entered, Simon led him to a chair. The knight was pale, 350

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but collected, and he cocked an eyebrow at his friend.

“I’m fine, but no thanks to you!”

His bantering tone took the sting out of his words. Simon shook his head in mock disgust. “You think I failed?”

“I heard you shouting and yelling for me in the yard.”

“That,” Edgar said, “was what we agreed.”

Baldwin looked from him to the bailiff. “You agreed?”

“I knew you were in there,” said Simon. “I heard something falling to the ground.”

“It was my sword—he took it from me.”

“We thought either you had your victim or he had already captured
you.
You didn’t call for help, so I pretended to be looking for you outside while Edgar slipped in.”

“I thought it would be best to climb higher to see where Luke was hiding,” Edgar explained. “When I saw you, you were in the next alley, so I jumped over. Luke heard me, and glanced up, just as you turned to free yourself, and that was why he stopped dead like that. But my weight loosened the barrels, I could feel them going, so I hopped down and pulled you away.”

Baldwin nodded, his eyes fixed on his servant. It was all said in a matter-of-fact voice, but Baldwin knew what risks Edgar had taken. He gripped Edgar’s arm. “Thank you.”

“You saved my life once. It was nothing.”

The Abbot cleared his throat. “Where is Luke?”

Simon answered, “He’s having his shoulder bound in the cellar. Edgar broke his upper arm in several places, and it’s a mess. Right now Luke’s learning the meaning of the word
pain,
though it hardly seems The Abbot’s Gibbet

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worthwhile taking such care over him and getting his arm set when he’s going to end up on your gibbet.”

“I almost regret he didn’t get crushed by a falling barrel and die in the storeroom, after all he’s done. But perhaps it’s best that he should stand trial for his crimes so that the townspeople can all see that Jordan Lybbe is innocent. Otherwise some might look at him askance for the rest of his life. This way Luke’s guilt can be demonstrated in my court.” Champeaux closed his eyes, resting his head on the pillow. He desperately wanted a sip of wine, for his throat was on fire, and his skull felt as if a sharp dagger was slowly being inserted into each temple. The infirmarer had said it was the effect of being strangled, but all the Abbot knew was that it hurt. “I must thank you both. You have saved the reputation of the Abbey and our fair.”

Baldwin reflected that it was typical of the man that he should thank them for saving the Abbey and its income from the fair as if they were more important than his life. But the Abbot knew the Abbey
was
more important, he corrected himself. The Abbey was there to save humanity: the Abbot was only a short-term tenant. For hundreds of years after Abbot Robert’s death, his Abbey would stand and flourish.

The Abbot was speaking again, quieter, and with a contemplative sadness in his voice. “So many deaths, and all because this man Luke was trying to conceal past crimes. Yet even if he had been denounced as the robber and killer of Bayonne, it would hardly have endangered his life here. Gascony and England have their own laws. It was sheer folly to cover up his crimes there by killing a man here.”

Baldwin gave a faint smile as he took a seat near the Abbot. “Not, perhaps, so foolish.”

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“But a crime committed in the King’s territories abroad wouldn’t be punished here.”

“No, Abbot, but a man’s crime committed here would be.”

“Ah, but I meant there was no need for him to try to kill Lybbe here just to hide what he had done in Bayonne,” the Abbot explained.

“I know, but Luke was guilty of crimes here already. Do you feel well enough to listen to what happened?

May I bring in witnesses? I would not ask while you are recovering, but a man lies in prison unjustly.”

“If it is a matter of justice, I have a duty to listen to whatever evidence you have.”

Baldwin nodded to his servant and Edgar left the room. A few minutes later he returned with the friar and Lybbe. Hugo walked to stand before the Abbot, but Lybbe stayed near the door, his eyes downcast, hands bound before him. Baldwin spoke to the friar.

“Brother, the Abbot is keen to hear your tale. Could you tell us about the trail-bastons of Tiverton?”

“My lord Abbot, I would have raised this before, had I known how important it was,” Hugo said apologetically.

“I kept silent because I thought the man had already paid for his crimes and to tell the watch or others about offenses so many years ago could help no one, and would only result in his death. That seemed too heavy a price for him to pay when he had already suffered so much. I wish I could reverse that decision, for then I might at least have saved Peter’s life, if not Torre’s as well.”

“I am sure you acted through the best of motives,”

the Abbot said soothingly.

“But the result was so devastating. Yet I must tell all I know now to prevent another unnecessary and unjust death.

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“My lord Abbot, when I was new to my calling, I lived in the Franciscan house at Bridgewater. From there I used to travel far afield, preaching and hearing the confessions of the poor people. They were good days, when all over the country you could see hamlets being established, the forests being cleared as new assarts were thrust in among the trees, and the roads filled with merchants and travellers. Now, since the famine, many of those same places have been deserted. The survivors fled after burying the last of their kin.

“But twenty years ago the land was fertile, the people prosperous—and the idea of a famine inconceivable. Still, some were unprepared to work and earn their living as a man should, and these became gangs of trail-bastons—outlaws. They were like wolves feeding on helpless lambs; they would ride up to outlying farmsteads and bartons and attack, ravishing the women, murdering the men, stealing what they could from peasants and landowners alike.