The Abbot's Gibbet Page 4

  It was almost dark by the time he had completed the eighth trip, and when he got back to the alleyway he groaned. The pile looked as large in the diminishing light as when he had started. He wiped a hand over his brow. “Tomorrow. I’ll finish it tomorrow,” he muttered, too tired to carry on. He was hungry, but his belly craved beer. His attention was drawn up along the road, to where he could see the bush hanging out over the street to advertise the tavern. The alewife had brewed four times her usual quantity of ale in preparation for the fair, and Elias knew she would be happy to let him taste some for a reasonable amount.

  He hefted the barrow’s handles and shoved it up the alley, round to the yard behind his shop. Then he made his way to the tavern, thrusting the door open with his shoulder and striding through the curtained screens into the room.

  This tavern had been a farmhouse once, but over many decades it had been altered. Where a farmer would have sheltered his flocks and oxen, now customers sat at trestle tables on rough benches, while the alewife’s girls circled, halting momentarily at tables to dispense ale, then moving on to the next, like butterflies sipping at flowers. A fire glowed in the middle of the packed earth floor, ready to be kicked into life as the temperature fell.

  When he walked in, the place was already crowded. Men and women stood talking, one or two children were asleep, wrapped in cloaks by the walls, and a pair of hounds scavenged for scraps among the rushes. He could see Lizzie in the far corner, and thought that after that afternoon she might serve him, but when he tried to catch her eye, the girl didn’t notice. There were few seats left, and Elias hesitated in the doorway before seeing someone he recognized: Roger Torre.

  “Move on, Roger.”

  “Elias? Take a seat. This is a friend of mine, friar. He owns a cookshop.”

  “Peace be with you,” Hugo hiccupped happily, sliding up the bench to make space.

  “And you, brother,” Elias answered automatically, waving to Agatha, the alewife.

  “So, friar,” Torre said, continuing his conversation. “If the Abbot wants to demand money from me, is that right?”

  Hugo had drunk several pints of good ale, more than he was used to, and was filled with good humor. He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Abbots and bishops don’t deserve your money, nor anyone else’s. Many don’t even deserve respect. Take the Bishop of Durham—he can’t read. He fumbled over his own consecration: couldn’t pronounce the word metropolitanus, and muttered, ‘Let’s take that as read!’ And when he presided over an ordination, he swore when he came to aenigmate, that is, ‘through a glass darkly,’ saying, ‘By St. Louis, whoever wrote this word was no courteous man!’ When we have prelates such as he, how can anyone respect the holy calling?”

  “So you think I shouldn’t pay, friar?”

  “I think…I think I have drunk enough!” Hugo stood unsteadily and climbed over the bench. “I need the privy.”

  “Where did you pick him up?” asked Elias, watching the gray-clad cleric stumble round the room to the door, one hand touching the wall all the way for support.

  But Torre was distracted before he could answer. As Agatha hurried over and thumped a mug before Elias, Torre motioned to the doorway. “Beware of them, mistress.”

  The alewife tutted. “The watchmen from Denbury? They don’t trouble me.”

  Torre affably lifted his ale to the one called “Long Jack,” and chuckled when his welcome was ignored. “I’ll go and make sure my friar hasn’t got lost,” he said, rising to his feet.

  He had only been gone a few moments when Elias saw Holcroft at the threshold. The cook shielded his face, but he was too slow, and the port-reeve sauntered over to him. “I see your rubbish isn’t gone yet.”

  “I’ll have it finished tomorrow, I promise.”

  Holcroft took Torre’s seat and waved to the alewife. “See you do.” As usual at fairtime, many of the faces were unfamiliar to him. He recognized the watchmen, though. They were drinking heavily, standing in a huddle near the fire, and he hoped they wouldn’t be drunk all the time. In fairness, he knew they had walked all the way from Denbury, so they must be thirsty.

  Every year there were complaints about them. They felt that since they were in Tavistock to protect people, they should be able to demand fees from stall-holders. Sometimes a merchant would complain, but then he might find that his stocks became damaged, or his stall could unaccountably fall over, or perhaps the merchant would wake up the next morning in the gutter with a broken arm. David had heard it all from Andrew the year before, and had tried to get new men from Denbury this time, but as usual no one else was willing. Looking at the heavy-set figures, he thought their faces could have been carved from moorstone slabs. He knew why others didn’t put their names forward. Men like these knew how to deter volunteers.

  Another group appeared, two rich men and their servant led by a young monk. Holcroft had heard of the anticipated arrival of the Venetians when he met the Abbot’s steward earlier, and he assumed these must be the Camminos. If their expensive foreign clothing didn’t give them away, the fact that a novice monk had led them to the tavern was proof enough. The Abbot only asked his monks to direct visitors when they were important.

  Agatha passed him a mug and nodded to Elias. “Someone wants to speak to you.”

  Nothing loath, Elias left Holcroft and followed after her. In a dark corner of the hall was a powerfully built figure, thickly bearded, dressed in red leather jerkin over his doublet and shirt, who watched Elias approach with glittering eyes.

  “Hello, Elias.”

  The cook stopped and stared, almost dropping his mug. “Christ’s blood! Jordan!”

  The Camminos’ servant Luke pulled a bench over for his master, and waved to the monk. “Go on, sit, brother.”

  “No, I—er—I should get back.” Peter was new to the town of Tavistock, and although his Abbot had asked him to direct the visitors to the tavern when they explained that they had to meet their fellow-travellers, he felt ill-at-ease in a drinking hall. There was too much ribald humor and singing, and the sight of the serving girls made him uncomfortable. “It’s late, I have duties…”

  “Oh, sit, brother,” Antonio rumbled. “We may need help to find our way back to the Abbey later. Have a pot of wine.”

  Luke rested on the bench gratefully and took a pot from the alewife. It felt good to relax, stretch his legs and drink good English ale. He had spent too many years with his master in Castile and Gascony, and these last few weeks in England had been like a holiday. It was nice to be back in his own country again.

  He had been born north of London, near Huntingdon, the son of a cobbler. But he had seen more of the world than his father ever had, especially since he had worked for Cammino. The Venetian had saved his life; when Antonio had found him, Luke had been near the end of his money, and there was little chance that he would have been able to earn any more. The guilds in Gascony, where he had been living, were very strong, and finding work had been all but impossible as a foreigner. Cammino had taken him on and fed and clothed him, and Luke knew he owed his master a massive debt.

  Luke’s muttered curse made Antonio turn sharply to the door. There, swaying slightly, a benevolent smile fixed to his face, was the friar again. “Oh, God’s blood!”

  Hugo was feeling kindly to the world. “My friend, may I speak with you a moment?”

  “No, I have business to attend to. I don’t need another lecture.”

  “But I want to…”

  “Enough, friar! Leave us in peace.”

  The friar opened his mouth to continue, and this decided Antonio. He stood. “Come, Pietro, Luke.”

  “Father!” his son protested. “What about Arthur and his daughter…”

  It was too late, his father was already striding for the door. Luke took Pietro by the arm. “Come, master Pietro, there will be another time to see her.” The youth shrugged his hand away irritably, but followed his father.

  There was a farcical scene in th
e doorway. Torre was returning, and just as they reached the doorway, he was in their path. Antonio barged past, and Torre turned, arms outstretched as if to demand the reason for such rudeness. An instant later, Pietro also tried to thrust him aside.

  But a tin miner was not so easy to push. Torre rotated slowly to study the younger man. Reading the menace in his features, Pietro stepped back and dropped his hand to his dagger, fumbling to unsheath it. It would be demeaning to back down before such a peasant. Torre looked at the knife contemptuously, then brushed past and strode back to his table, sitting by Holcroft.

  They had left behind them the dismayed novice standing with the equally confused friar.

  Torre took a swallow of his ale. “What’s put the wind in their sails, eh?” Then he saw the monk and muttered, “Oh, by the cross, it’s one of them! You—come here!”

  The monk was startled, and Holcroft saw him jerk in surprise at the hostility in Torre’s voice. “Me?”

  “Yes, of course you! Who else?” Torre sneered as the youth unwillingly approached. “What’s your name?”

  “Peter.”

  “Well, Peter. What are you doing here? Are you sent here to spy on ordinary workers for that bloodsucking leech of an Abbot of yours?”

  “My Abbot…?”

  “Is as dark a thief as ever stole a man’s livelihood!”

  Holcroft stared from his companion to the flushed features of the monk. “Roger, what in Christ’s name are you talking about?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Abbot Champeaux has decided to steal from me, now he’s got the power. He’s demanding money for the right to stay where I am, and if I don’t agree to pay, he’ll take my land from me.”

  “Surely he wouldn’t do that?”

  “I only farm it as a bondman. Now the Abbot wants to change things so the land is a tenement held from him by lease. He wants twelve shillings a year from me just to stay on my own land.”

  “Can you?”

  “Pay twelve shillings? No, of course I can’t. My tinning only brings in a little, and I have to pay tax when it’s coigned. The land I farm from the Abbot is poor. It produces barely enough to keep me alive.”

  “You could complain.”

  “Who to—the Warden of the Stannaries? That’s the Abbot now, or hadn’t you heard, port-reeve? He’s going to steal from us and force us from his land by charging too much. It’s just theft, plain and simple. He’s devious, like all politicians.”

  “No, he’s not,” the monk called Peter declared hotly. “Abbot Champeaux is a fair man. If you speak to him and explain—”

  “Speak to him? He’s a politician—a liar and a thief. If I were to go and see him, I’d be thrown in his clink.”

  “The Abbot is reasonable, sir,” the monk protested again. “He’s always upheld the rights of tinners.”

  “You would say that—you’re not suffering because of his greed.”

  Holcroft saw the monk’s face whiten with anger, and the lad took a step forward. “Uh oh,” he muttered, and quickly stood between them. “Brother, I think this is something we can’t resolve peacefully, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be hauled in front of the good Abbot for brawling in a tavern. Please leave, and I shall keep this man quiet.”

  “He’s insulted the Abbot with no reason. It’s villainous! He’s lied,” the monk hissed.

  “Yes, but it wouldn’t suit the cut or color of your habit to fight, would it? Come now, let’s forget it. It was only the ale talking; everyone knows the Abbot is good and honorable.” Muttering, the youth backed away, then spun around and stamped from the room.

  Holcroft gave a sigh of relief. “What’s the point of picking on a beardless youth?”

  Torre gave him a cynical leer. “So you want to protect your position as port-reeve, do you? Does the office matter so much you’ll forget your friends for a few more days in power?”

  “Roger, if the truth be known, I am heartily sick of the job, and whoever is elected to it is welcome.”

  “Yes, you’ll give up the money, and the free rent, and the right to arrest and hold people who upset you, with pleasure.”

  “All I can do is what I am told,” he said frankly. “And it’s little enough, heaven knows. But I’d prefer to see you free to go to the fair tomorrow and not being held in the clink for libelling the Abbot.”

  “You’d take his side against your old friends.”

  “No. But I’ll be glad to give up all this responsibility and be able to get home at a decent hour like I used to.” And maybe then Hilary would be more friendly, he thought. His wife had been cold and unresponsive for so long now, it was hard to remember when she had last been a true wife to him.

  “Oh, yes! You’ll be happy to lose all the profits of your work, no doubt.”

  Holcroft shook his head. What Torre could not understand was the pressure of the interminable record-keeping, the late hours checking tolls with the prior and others, the planning and administration.

  “I can’t sit here with you. For all I know you’re recording everything I say to report to the Abbot himself!” Torre declared, rising.

  “Roger!” Holcroft pleaded, and gestured. “Come on, sit down. I wanted to see you to relax.”

  “Relax with someone else. I’m going to.” Torre stumped away.

  “Come, now, Master port-reeve. You’ll try some ale? That was good work, keeping Torre and the monk apart. There would have been too much grief from that.”

  “Mistress Agatha, I don’t know why I bothered,” he said, gratefully taking a fresh ale. He noticed Elias sitting with an unknown companion. Putting the cook from his mind, Holcroft assumed that Elias’ friend was someone who had arrived for the fair.

  Agatha looked down at him sympathetically. She knew that David had been working madly for the last few weeks, and was about to offer him some words of comfort when she saw new arrivals.

  Arthur peered inside, searching for the Camminos.

  “Well? Are they there?” his wife demanded.

  “Not yet, my dear, but I’m sure they will be,” Arthur assured her. He led the way to the bench recently vacated by the Venetians. It had been a mistake to bring his wife with him. She had wanted to remain at their rented house and supervise its decoration, but Arthur wished her to recover from their long ride, and hoped a pot or two of wine would ease her temper.

  At home, he was used to surrendering to her will. Marion was the daughter of a knight, and if it hadn’t been for her father’s need for ready money, and Arthur’s willingness to extend a loan, they might never have wed. In matters of business he could insist on her aid, though, and he was sure that Cammino could be useful. Any contacts with wealthy foreigners were to be fostered, and the mention of a fleet, together with evidence of the acquaintance of an Abbot, meant that Cammino wielded some power. Marion’s presence might be useful. “Come, dear. Would you like some wine?”

  Avice sat decorously at the end of the bench, accepting a pot of wine. The Venetian man had looked so dashing in his foreign clothes, she thought, like a squire from a royal court. As her parents spoke, her eyes kept flitting to the doorway.

  After serving them, Agatha stood back and surveyed her domain. When she saw Torre talking to Lizzie, saw his hand on her arm, and the way she giggled and nodded, the alewife’s eyes shot to Holcroft. Agatha could see his pain when he saw Lizzie leaving with Torre. It wasn’t the first time a man had fallen for Lizzie, and it wouldn’t be the last, but Agatha had a soft spot for the port-reeve, and his dismay saddened her.

  There was a soft belch at her side, and she turned to see the friar gazing thoughtfully into the distance. At first she thought he was simply drunk, but when he noticed her, he said apologetically, “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking—thought I recognized someone.”

  Lizzie straightened her skirts and smoothed them before sitting at the edge of her palliasse to tighten her braids and rearrange them. “Come on, Roger. I have to get back to the hall or Agatha will throw me out.”

&
nbsp; “A moment more,” he groaned, and reached for her.

  She stood, chuckling, neatly avoiding his hand. “No! I have to work. Especially now, with the fair about to begin. I shouldn’t really have done this tonight. What if the Abbot should hear?”

  “Let him! Why should I care?”

  “You may not have to worry, but I do. He could have me evicted. It’s happened before.”

  He looked up, an angry gleam in his eye. “You think the port-reeve would report you for this?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “No, he fancies me. David would never report me, but someone else might.”

  “He fancies you?” Torre rolled on to an elbow, and his face was serious. “I had no idea. He must have seen us leave the room together.”

  “So what?” She patted her hair and tucked a stray wisp away. “He doesn’t own me any more than you do. I live as I want and no man can keep me. In any case, he’s never so much as touched me. I don’t think he knows how to.”

  Torre frowned up at her, then at the door. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t hurt his feelings.”

  “You were happy enough to in there,” she said tartly.

  “That was different: just an argument. But I know David. He’s a decent man. I wouldn’t want to offend him.”

  Lizzie froze for a moment as the bell from the Abbey tolled for compline. “Listen to that, it’s getting late,” she said, hurriedly completing her toilet. “Look, if you don’t want to upset him, don’t go back into the hall but go straight to your rooms. If he doesn’t see you with me, he’ll believe me when I tell him you left some time ago. All right?”

  “Good idea.” He climbed up and donned his loose-fitting hose, tying them neatly, pulling on his shirt and doublet, then his red jacket.

  She watched him contentedly. He had a good figure, she thought, and he’d been kind and gentle. Hopefully he’d return later on, and if he did, she’d not mind showing him her favors again. She waited till he’d dressed and walked quickly out, then finished her own toilet. A shoe had been kicked away, and she had to seek it, finding it partly hidden beneath the blanket tossed from the bed, before she could follow him. Closing the door, she turned and stopped. Leaning against the door-jamb of the tavern was Holcroft. He stared at her for what seemed a long time, then turned without a word and walked away.