The Abbot's Gibbet Read online

  She heaved a sigh, hoping he wouldn’t go straight to the Abbot to accuse her, then made her way back into the hall and began pouring ale. When she passed Agatha, she slipped the coin into the alewife’s hand. The alewife always had her fifth for room and rental.

  He curled his lip at the smell from the pile of rubbish. It stank of putrefaction and decay, a revolting concoction. Leaning against the wall, he waited while his heartbeat slowed and calmed.

  It had been easy to waylay him; easier than he’d dreamed. The burly figure was instantly recognizable, even in the dark with no lanterns or sconces—they weren’t allowed during the fair because of the hazard—and although he’d seen the man waiting patiently, he’d done nothing more than duck his head and make a vague sign of the cross.

  The killer nudged tentatively at the corpse with his foot. It was almost an anticlimax now he was dead. The action of stabbing him was so quick, and his gasp and collapse so sudden, that he could hardly believe he’d succeeded. There had been no cry, no shriek for help, just a brief, pained gasp, and then he’d dropped like a felled tree. It gave his murderer a feeling of immense power, knowing he could kill so swiftly and easily with impunity.

  But he couldn’t leave the body here, in plain view for any reveller to discover. He gripped the feet and dragged the figure backward into the alley. The midden pile would be an ideal hiding place—nobody would want to approach that in the dark in case of stepping in some of its components. He could hear a short scrabbling as he hauled the body and glanced about him with distaste. Rats!

  Dropping the feet, he stood a moment staring down at the corpse before kicking waste from the pile over the body in an attempt to conceal it. Satisfied with his efforts, he hurried down the alley, the habit flapping at his heels as he went. At the road he slowed, stuffed his hands in his sleeves over his chest in an attitude of contemplation, and walked out and down the road. When he saw Arthur Pole and his wife and daughter, he was secretly delighted to see that all bowed their heads respectfully and offered him a good evening.

  4

  It was the morning of the fair, and David Holcroft made his way to the Abbey with relief. The previous night had been as bad as he had expected: after all his work, he’d have liked his wife to show some interest in the fair and sympathy for his exertions. Instead she was withdrawn and uncommunicative. They had hardly spoken ten words, and she had soon gone to bed pleading a sickness in her stomach.

  At the bottom of the fair’s field, he turned and gazed back: everything was settled and organized, and he was sure the Abbot could have no cause for complaint. In the early-morning light, the colors stood out with startling clarity. There was a thin mistiness in the air which gave all a silvery sheen as if bathed in an intense moonlight. Flags hung dispiritedly from their poles in the still air, and there was a feeling of unreality about the whole place, as though it was a ghostly mirage. That would soon be dispelled when the customers arrived and the fair was declared open. Instantly it would be transformed into a rowdy beargarden as voices rose to argue and haggle over the choice arrays of goods. He could already see people making their way up from the town, keen to be the first to see the latest items from all over the kingdom and farther afield.

  As the first hammer strokes sounded he nodded to himself. The furnaces of the smiths were lighted, and he could see the pale streamers of smoke rising like conical wraiths, only to dissipate as they climbed higher. This was the true beginning of the fair, he always felt, when the tradesmen and craftsmen began their morning rituals.

  And like the determined call of a church’s bells, he saw that the ringing and clattering from the anvils worked its own magic on the fair’s congregation. The trickle of people heading up to the ground grew into a stream even as he watched, and soon there was a steady river of buyers, hawkers, merchants and entertainers all making their way up from the town itself. It always astonished him how many foreigners the place could hold at fair-time.

  He walked with the calm satisfaction that the fair would be a success, but his mood gradually altered as he came close to the Abbey gate. Here he had to wait a moment before being led inside to the large square room beside the gate itself.

  Ten constables and twenty-nine watchmen were due to meet him, the complement from the surrounding vills, each man earning two pennies. He had already checked the mounted men the previous afternoon. These, eight all told, were stationed up and down the roads wherever the woods were thickest, to protect any travellers who came to attend the fair from outlaws. Felons often tried robbing merchants: they were easy pickings while tired after a long journey.

  The mounted men were always the best, he knew. They were the ones who could afford horses, which necessarily placed them above the average vill watchmen; that was why they earned six pennies a day. It wasn’t only the extra expense of looking after a horse that justified the money, it was the fact that they were simply better men.

  Nodding at the clerk who kept records of the payments made to the men, and any amercements, he stood as the men filed in. At the sight of the constables, he closed his eyes in silent despair, offering up a quick prayer before opening them again with resignation.

  The first that came into view was Daniel, the farmer’s son from Werrington. Daniel radiated kindness and goodwill, with the open smile of the pathologically truthful man. He gave the impression of bovine clumsiness and dull-wittedness, and the port-reeve meditated grimly on the devious market-traders. They would all try to pull the wool over this one’s eyes.

  Next to him were the four watchmen from Denbury, led by Long Jack. David gave them a sour stare.

  “Let’s see them, then.” The port-reeve eyed the weapons held out for him to inspect. “What is that?”

  Daniel was hurt. “It’s my father’s sword.”

  “Father’s? Are you sure it’s not your great-grandfather’s? I can’t see any metal for the rust!” said David in disbelief. He took it and gazed at it. It was so old that the leather grip had worn away, and the wooden handle beneath was rough on his hand. The metal of the tang was sharp, and the pommel had fallen off. In a fight the grip could turn and catch the skin. He tested the blade with his thumb, his expression reflecting his disgust. “A penny.”

  “A penny fine? But…”

  “If you aren’t happy, I can raise it to a day’s money. For now, get that thing to the blacksmith and see whether he can put an edge of some sort on it, and a new grip. This isn’t just to make the fair look good, it’s to protect people—and so you can protect yourself. How can you keep the King’s peace with an ancient block of rust like that? What have you been doing with it—hedging?”

  The watchman shifted uneasily, and mumbled an apology. David shook his head. Any tool was there to be used, in the minds of the peasants of the area, and an old weapon was no more than a good, edged farm implement. It had more cutting power than a bill-hook, and was easier and lighter to carry to a hedge than a heavy axe. While the watchman reddened, David moved on to the next man. This one had a cudgel and a welsh knife, one with a good long blade of over a foot. David gave it a grudging nod and continued along the line, making sure that all the blades were strong and sharp, the sticks solid and not cracked. Almost all were fine, especially those of the men from Denbury, who appeared to have good new blades and oaken clubs.

  He watched them go with a lackluster eye. “I don’t know how people feel about outlaws and thieves,” he said to the clerk as the last one tramped out, “but personally that lot scares me more than all the felons in the clink.”

  Will Ruby sliced through the skin quickly in a long cut round the vent, and thrust two fingers into the capon, drawing the innards out and dropping them into the midden basket by his feet. Feeling around inside, he located the kidneys where they lay on the back of the ribcage, and tugged them free. He cut through the flesh of the neck and exposed the bones beneath before removing the head. That too went into the basket.

  The carcass was tossed onto the growing pile as he reac
hed for the next. Beside him, his wife and son sat on stools, surrounded by a gently billowing cloud as they plucked furiously, stuffing the feathers into sacks. His apprentice was fetching the other carcasses from the wagon stationed by the fairground, setting them out on their hooks or laying them on the boards where the customers would be able to inspect them. Will was pleased to see that the boy had learned how to conceal the worse parts of any joint and laid out the cuts to best advantage. There was no point in giving a customer an opportunity to argue for a lower price. He nodded approvingly. The boy had gone again while he inspected his wares, and when Will glanced over, he saw that there were no more chickens ready to be drawn yet. His wife and son were still plucking.

  The midden-basket was almost full, and he was beginning to feel warm as the sun rose higher. At this rate he would need more than the one basket. A draft of ale would help cool him, too. “I’ll just empty this,” he said to his wife. She hardly looked up, just nodded, as he wiped his hands on his bloody apron and moved off along the stalls carrying the basket.

  There was another good reason for taking a walk: to look at how the other stalls had presented their stock to the world. Being butchers, there was the benefit of having no outside competition, because the Abbot promised them their monopoly, but Will knew that all would have bought in extra stock, and he wanted to see how good it looked.

  From a distance he stopped and gazed back. His own stall was bright and colorful with its red and yellow awning. He’d picked the colors because they stood out among the greens and blues of the other stalls. The trestle was almost filled to overflowing, and he had enough meat hidden behind in barrels and boxes to supply a lord and his retinue. Feeling satisfied, he carried on, casting an eye to right and left as he went, assessing how others were doing.

  The midden lay at the far side of the fairground, and he passed by the new toll-booth on the way. A long queue of merchants from outside the borough stood there, waiting. All had goods to sell, and they grumbled together about the costs. “A halfpenny for a cart of wheat? It’s theft, that’s what it is.” A red-faced farmer was insisting that he should have free access because he came from an ancient tenement on the moors and shouldn’t have to pay, while his geese extended their necks and waddled nearby, a skinny and mangy dog herding them whenever they strolled too far.

  Will barged past the arguing men. It was much like any other year. Prices were higher, but they had been rising since the disastrous famines of four or five years before; at least people could expect to make a profit. There were good reasons for a goose-farmer to want to avoid paying, because from every fourteen birds brought in, one must be given in toll, and that was a heavy price.

  Whistling tunelessly, the butcher arrived at the midden. So early in the morning, it was not as violent on the nose as it would become, but there was enough of a rotten stench to make him hurry. In future, he decided, someone else would discard the garbage.

  He upended the basket and set off back to his shop. Another basket or two would be needed, and he might as well fetch them now—especially since the journey would take him past the tavern.

  It took little time to enter through the town gate and make his way to his shop, where he at once went in and fetched the spare baskets from under his bench. He was still whistling as he slammed the door behind him and moved toward the tavern, but at the entrance to the alleyway he paused.

  Shaking his head, he surveyed the pile. It had been reduced, he saw, but that would not satisfy the port-reeve. David Holcroft was easy-going about many things, but the Abbot was his master; and Abbot Robert was known to abhor the messy habits of some of the townspeople. He would be sure to demand that Elias was amerced. Will tutted to himself, and was about to go and beat on Elias’ door when he stopped, lips pursed in readiness for a whistle. He could just make out the shape of an old and worn boot, and the sight was strangely out of place. Elias was not the sort to throw out an old boot: he’d be more likely to take it to be mended. Will blinked, peering down into the gloom, then rushed forward, his baskets bouncing and spinning in the road behind him. Under the mound of rubbish he could see the shape of a leg.

  Grabbing the boot and hurriedly scraping round it, he stopped with the horrified realization that there was a body concealed beneath the mound. Seizing the ankle, he hauled, grimly noting that the flesh was as cold as any of the carcasses he handled in his shop. Whoever this was, he was not living. The mound shifted, rags and bits of pastry and bones falling as he dragged the body free. A knee appeared, and a thigh. The hose were sodden and rucked up as he pulled. More garbage slid aside with a revolting sucking noise, and now he could see the other leg. Gingerly, he gripped it and leaned back. A muscle snapped in his shoulder, but still he tugged, and at last the body came 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 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.

  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 receive 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.”