The Abbot's Gibbet (7 page)

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free with a slight jerk, and he fell back on his rump.

“Ow! God’s blood!”

Standing, he rubbed his backside, then his shoulder, and walked forward to view the red-leather-clad corpse. Staring in horror, he cursed again, more softly now, and swallowed hard.

Sir Baldwin Furnshill winced as a gust of wind threw dust in his eyes, and blinked furiously. “This fair had better match your expectations, Margaret,” he said as his eyes streamed. “After travelling so far, first from Crediton to Lydford, and now on to Tavistock, all I wish to see is a comfortable seat and a good trencher of stew.”

“Baldwin, of course you’ll find it enjoyable,” she said lightly. Her fair hair was whipping free of her wimple and she had to keep pushing back the stray tresses.

“You do not care, madam, about my soreness or boredom. No! So long as you can feel the quality of the cloths on sale, so long as you can try on the newest gloves, the best shoes, and buy the choicest spices from around the world, you will be content.”

“No,” her husband grunted. “She won’t be made happy by feeling bolts of cloth and trying on shoes; she won’t be happy until she’s bought the lot.”

Baldwin wiped his face. “
I
will not be happy until we have arrived and I have finally managed to get some rest.”

“In any case, husband, I seem to remember that you first suggested we should come to the fair, so that you could buy some new plates.”

“That’s very different. We need plates for when we have to entertain lords,” said Simon. He had not realized how many feasts he would be expected to give as 50

Michael Jecks

bailiff of Lydford Castle. To be fair, he accepted that a good display of plates could only serve to enhance his reputation as well.

“And we need new curtains and clothing for when we entertain,” Margaret added sweetly. Baldwin guffawed. Margaret, a slim and tall woman with the fresh complexion of one who had lived all her life on the moors, had gradually started to gain weight. The lines of sadness on her forehead and the bruises under her eyes had faded, and she had regained her sense of humor. After the death of her son, followed by her recent ordeal in Crediton,1 she had lost weight alarmingly quickly. Baldwin had been concerned that she might be wasting away. He had seen other women who had simply lost the desire to live when their sons had died. Luckily, he reflected, Margaret not only had Simon, but also Edith, her daughter. The girl had forced her mother to concentrate on life, for Edith still needed her. They reached the crest of a hill, and to their left stood a gallows. It looked quite new to Baldwin. He was never happier than when he was at home at his small estate near Cadbury, but in his capacity as Keeper of the King’s Peace, he often had to witness the deaths of felons. This gallows was constructed from solid baulks of timber, much better than the ancient device in Crediton, which he was always concerned about lest it might collapse on guards and hangmen. It was most worrying when the executioners leaped up to clasp the bodies, clinging to them until the victim had died. Then the Keeper’s eyes always went to the horizontal bar, fearing that it might snap. 1 “See
The Cr

by Michael Jecks, also published by

editon Killings

Avon Books.

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51

A burgess had once suggested that he should stop the executioners performing that final act, and he had been so angry he had almost hit the man. The hangmen were speeding the death: it was no more than Christian kindness to halt the suffering. But the burgess was heavily involved in the gambling that revolved around hangings, with bets being laid on how long each man would live. He preferred to see them last longer so more bets could be taken.

Baldwin still found some aspects of civil life difficult to accept, for he had not always been a secular knight. He had been a “Poor Fellow-Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon”—a Knight Templar—

and had lived by their Rule, swearing to obedience, poverty and chastity. After seeing his friends die needlessly in the fires when the Order had been betrayed by a malicious and covetous King, he had a loathing for unnecessary pain. He had no sympathy for gamblers who wanted to prolong another’s agony purely for profit.

He looked away and down toward the town. At this time of day, in the middle of the morning, many towns would be quiet while people had their lunch, but today Tavistock was beginning her fair, and her streets were thronged with visitors. “I am glad the Abbot invited us to lodge with him,” he remarked. “It looks as if bed space will be in short supply.”

Simon drew his horse alongside Baldwin’s and followed his gaze. “From here you can see how big the fair is, can’t you,” he said, awestruck.

“Yes. It makes Crediton’s look quite small,” Baldwin observed. Simon waved a hand, encompassing the scene before them. “This is getting to be a problem. I always re-52

Michael Jecks

ceive complaints after Tavistock Fair because Lydford’s declines while this one grows. All the tinners tend to come here. It’s an easier journey than going up to Lydford, and the Abbot always sees to it that there’s more in the way of foodstuffs and supplies.”

“So you’re already worried about this fair?” Baldwin teased.

“Worried? No, I intend to spy, to see what they do here that attracts merchants from Lydford,” Simon said firmly. He didn’t mention his real concern: he was to meet his new master.

As bailiff of Lydford, Simon was responsible for law and order in the stannaries. He had to make sure that no one smuggled tin; all the tin must be coigned, or weighed, marked and taxed, at the stannary towns of Tavistock, Lydford, Chagford and Ashburton. He also had to calm the incessant wrangles between tinners and landowners, maintain the stannary prison at Lydford Castle, and ensure that nobody broke the King’s peace. His master was the warden of the stannaries, and the Abbot had just been granted the post. Simon hadn’t met his new master before, and the prospect was daunting.

Baldwin saw his pensive expression, but misread the thought behind it. “You’re already worrying that Tavistock will be a huge success, even before you arrive!

Your husband, Margaret, is never happy unless he has something to worry him.”

She smiled at his joke. “Only the other day he was anxious that his little daughter didn’t have enough young friends in Lydford, and then he was troubled she was growing too quickly, and would soon have a husband.”

“That’s not fair,” Simon protested. “I was just saying that . . .”

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Margaret listened to their banter with half an ear. She was content that Simon was recovered from his black depression. It was in large part due to Baldwin, she knew. Baldwin’s cure for a man with so heavy a weight of misery was to make him laugh, and it had worked better than any medicine. Her husband had aged since his son’s death: before he had looked five years younger than his age of thirty-three, but now he seemed older. The lines were etched deeper into his forehead and at either side of his mouth. Though his hair was still almost black, it had begun to recede, giving him a distinguished appearance. Looking at Baldwin, she could not help but notice the thickening at his waist. Weight was Baldwin’s main enemy now. When she had first met him, he had spent many years as a penniless, wandering knight with no lord. In those days, he and his man-at-arms, Edgar, had been forced to live on whatever they could collect for themselves, eked out with a few pulses or a loaf from a farm. Since inheriting the Furnshill estate from his dead brother, he was able to eat well, and his belly was growing.

For the rest, he was an attractive figure, she thought. He was tall, and though his brown hair was shot through with silver, the black beard that followed the line of his jaw was unmarked with gray. But he was not the perfect image of a modern knight. Most men were cleanshaven, like her husband. The old King, the present King’s father, had had an aversion to beards and in his day few even wore a moustache. Though times had changed since his death, facial decoration was still rare. It was one concession Baldwin made to his past as a Templar; the knights had always been bearded.

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But Baldwin’s dress did not impress. He sported an old tunic, stained, worn and unfashionable. His boots had hardly any toe and did not follow the courtly trend for elongated points. That he was capable of fighting was proven by the scar on his cheek, stretching from temple to jaw; but that was the sole remaining evidence of a lively past. Margaret eyed him affectionately. He was a good friend, honest, loyal and chivalrous. It was only sad that he was still a bachelor. She was sure he wanted to find a wife, but so far he had been unsuccessful. When she tried to interest him in women she knew, her attempts met with failure. None tempted him, not even Mary, Edith’s young nurse, who had flirted outrageously when she met him. That brought her mind back to her little girl. Edith was getting to be a handful now, and it was a relief to have found a nurse who seemed to understand her, and who was willing to indulge her passion for riding over the moors. Mary had been quiet when she had first come to live with them, but now the fourteen-year-old had become Edith’s best friend—after Hugh, Simon’s servant. He still held a special place in Edith’s capricious heart.

“What is it, Margaret?” Baldwin asked.

“I was thinking I should buy you some cloth. That tunic is too old.”

He stared a moment, eyebrows raised, and there was alarm in his voice. “Old? But this is fine.”

“It’s old and faded, Baldwin; it’s also too tight round your belly.”

“Um . . . but it is comfortable.”

“Comfortable it may be. I’m surprised Edgar hasn’t persuaded you to get a new one.”

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Baldwin threw a dark look over his shoulder. Edgar had been his man-at-arms since they had joined the Templars together. All knights operated as a team with their men, training with them and depending on them for protection, just as a modern knight would with his squire. Edgar had proved to be an efficient steward as well as soldier, but he had the servant’s love of ostentation. If the master displayed grandeur, some was reflected on the servant. And Edgar wanted magnificent display now. Baldwin had been aware for some little while that his servant had won the hearts of several women in Crediton, although now he evinced passion for one only, a serving girl at the inn. Edgar looked back serenely, and Baldwin faced Margaret. “Has
he
put you up to this, Margaret? Has he asked you to persuade me to buy new things? If he has, he might have to find a new post.”

“Do you suggest that I am unable to form my own opinions of a tired and threadbare tunic?” she asked tartly.

“No, no, of course not. It’s just that Edgar has been worse than a nagging wife recently, telling me . . .”

“Well,
I
think it’s time you bought a new tunic. You can afford it.”

“Simon, give me some support!”

“No,” said Simon with delight. “My wife knows her own mind, and I’ll be buggered if I’m going to get in her way over this: if she takes you to the stalls to find a new tunic, that means she’ll have less time to spend
my
money. Meg, you carry on. Make sure he gets new hose, hats, gloves, shirts, cloaks, belts, boots, and anything else that will take time to buy and keep you from your own favorite stalls!”

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Michael Jecks

They had descended to the outskirts of the town, and continued down the street toward the Abbey, passing by the market.

“What’s going on there?” Baldwin wondered, seeing a huddle of people.

“Some kind of excitement,” Simon said disinterestedly. “Probably only a thief or something. Cut-purses always come to the fairs. They know they can steal with impunity in the crowd.”

“Perhaps.” Baldwin noted the heavily armed watchmen, and the burly figure of a man stooping. A group of people muttered nearby. Then he saw the body on the ground. “Hello? Is someone hurt?”

The bent man straightened slowly. “You could say that.”

Baldwin studied him. For all the weariness in his voice he had an air of authority, which was emphasized by his somewhat portly figure. That he was prosperous was obvious from the quality of his cloak and hat, and Baldwin assumed he must hold some kind of office.

“Can I help?” he offered. “I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. Do you need some assistance here?”

“
He
certainly doesn’t,” said one of the guards and sniggered.

“Shut up, Long Jack,” the man snapped. Looking down, Baldwin saw what the watchman meant. The body was that of a short but strong man, dressed poorly in faded blue hose and a holed and patched doublet. That the man was dead was in no doubt. Baldwin heard Margaret gasp. The body was headless.

Dropping from his horse, Baldwin glanced round the men in the crowd. “Has anyone told the Abbot?”

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“I have. I am the port-reeve, David Holcroft.”

Baldwin nodded and looked down at the body. “I am Sir Baldwin Furnshill, here to visit Abbot Champeaux. Has the coroner been called?”

“A man has been sent to fetch him, but it will take at least three days to get him here,” Holcroft said.

“Why so long?”

“There’s been a shipwreck. He’s been called to the coast.”

“I see. These people—who are they?”

“The neighbors. As soon as the hue was called, I had them all brought.”

“All here?”

“Almost. Only the cook Elias isn’t present. He’s probably seeing to his wares in the fair.” Holcroft pointed to another. “He’s the first finder: Will Ruby, the butcher. He discovered the body and raised the hue.”

Simon sprang from his horse and passed his rein to Hugh, who remained on his mount staring down distastefully at the corpse. The bailiff walked to Baldwin’s side. The neighbors all stood nervously while Baldwin studied them. Simon knew what he was thinking: if the coroner took three days to return, the murderer could be far away by then. If the killer was one of the foreigners and not a portman of Tavistock, he might never be found. Yet Baldwin had no legal right to investigate; that was the preserve of the local coroner.