The Abbot's Gibbet Page 6

  “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…”

  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.

  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.”

  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!”

  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?”

  “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.

  The men all looked bitter. When a corpse was found, the nearest neighbors must be attached, held on promise of a surety, before they could be formally released. It was the only way to guarantee that they would definitely pay their amercement for allowing a murderer to break the King’s Peace.

  Looking at the shops either side of the alley, Baldwin asked, “You are the butcher?”

  Will nodded glumly. “Yes, sir. That’s my shop there.”

  The first finder interested Baldwin. Will Ruby was a short and strong-looking man, with massive biceps and a belly to match. A thick rug of short, curling hair of a reddish brown covered his large, rounded skull. From the look of his woollen overcoat the knight saw that the butcher enjoyed a profitable business.

  “How did you come to find him?”

  Will explained about his journey to fetch his midden-baskets. “I saw his foot sticking from the pile there and pulled it.”

  Baldwin listened closely while he looked carefully at the body. “Do you have any idea who this was?”

  Holcroft answered for Will. “Not with those clothes. He doesn’t seem to be from within the port—these things are very foreign.” He frowned, staring at the body. “I’ve seen someone wearing clothes like these before, though I can’t think where.”

  “You think it was someone visiting the fair?”

  “It seems likely.”

  Simon scratched his chin. “So where’s his head?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Holcroft said.

  “What?” Baldwin asked. “It is not here?”

  “Not in the heap or anywhere nearby. We’ve hunted up the alley and everywhere, but there’s no sign of it.”

  “Strange.” Baldwin wandered closer to the pile and stared at it a moment before returning to the body. “Did you find a knife?”

  “Knife?”

  “His sheath is empty.”

  Holcroft shook his head.

  “It is strange that his head should have been cut off,” Baldwin murmured. “Why should someone do that, I wonder? And why take his knife afterward?”

  “Simon, do you think we could go on ahead if Baldwin is going to…”

  “Margaret, I am so sorry,” the knight said and leaped to his feet. “This is nothing to do with me. I am here for the holiday. We are here to see the fair. My apologies. It was inexcusable to make you wait here with a corpse. Come, we shall go on immediately.”

  Simon climbed on his horse and waited until Baldwin had mounted his own before setting off to the Abbey. The bailiff knew that his friend was always intrigued by crimes, and was surprised at the speed with which Baldwin gave up his questioning. Then Simon saw Baldwin’s eyes return to the body and stay fixed there. The knight caught sight of Simon’s expression and gave a rueful shrug.

  “No, we are here for St. Rumon’s Day.”

  5

  The Abbot of Tavistock stood in his hall and held his arms wide in welcome. A cheery, red-faced cleric of middle height, his tonsure needed no shaving, for his head wore only a scanty band of gray hair that reached as far as his temples on either side. All his pate from his forehead to the back of his head was bare. “Bailiff, welcome! And your lady, too. Please be seated. You must be Sir Baldwin Furnshill. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Come, please be seated.”

  Abbot Champeaux’s enthusiasm was infectious. He led them to a sideboard littered with expensive plate, upon which stood a flagon of wine and a number of goblets, all carefully crafted in pewter. Baldwin took one from the bottler and studied it. There was a hunting scene carved round it. The Abbot, he decided, was not averse to displaying his prosperity.

  While Simon chatted to his new master, his bag slung over his shoulder, Baldwin sat and took in his surroundings. The room was comfortably furnished, with tapestries on the walls, and padded cushions on the chair seats. A solid moorstone fireplace took up a large part of the eastern wall. From where he sat, with his back to the hearth, he could gaze out through the glazed windows over the fishponds and gardens. The grounds took up a large area, stretching to the strip fields. He could see the lazy sweep of the river as it meandered away from the town.

  When he saw a flash of reddish brown, he stiffened. It was near the water’s edge, and he sat up to peer.

  The Abbot noticed his concentration, and turned to see what had attracted his guest’s interest. “Ah, Sir Baldwin, you have a good eye,” he chuckled.

  “It looks a good beast.”

  “Yes. We are fortunate in having over forty deer in our park, though we do sometimes have difficulties.”

  “What sort of difficulties?” Margaret asked.

  The abbot smiled genially, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “Sometimes they manage to escape from the park when we’re trying to catch them. I’ve been told off for chasing my venison on to the moors before now. We do try to make sure that our hounds catch the beasts before they can get out of the park, but every now and again one of them will succeed, and what then are we to do? It’s hard to keep the ditches and hedges maintained.”

  Baldwin could not restrain a grin. That an abbot should dare to roam over the chase of Dartmoor to poach, and then happily confess it, was unique in his experience. “I should like to see your pack of hounds,” he said, and the Abbot nodded delightedly.

  “It would be my pleasure. Perhaps I could tempt you to join me for a hunt as well?”

  “I would have to accept so kind an offer.”

  Simon patted his bag. “Would you like to go through the business of the stannary now?”

  “Oh no, Simon. You’ve had a tiring journey to get here. Please, rest! We can talk about business later. I’ve been Abbot here for four and thirty years, and while Our Lord may decide not to let me carry on for another four and thirty, I hope that I’ve a few more years left in me! There’s time for us to discuss our work later.”

  Baldwin leaned back in his seat. The Abbot was a good host, chatting with Simon and his wife and putting both at their ease. Baldwin had known many priestly men, but this one, Robert Champeaux, seemed to wear his power and authority lightly.

  And he did have authority. Baldwin had spent some time enquiring about his host with Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton Church, and had found the time instructive. As Champeaux said, he had been Abbot for over thirty years. When he had taken on the post, the Abbey had been in debt, but now, after his careful administration, it was rumored to be one of the soundest institutions in the shire.

  Abbot Robert had attracted money by improving the fairs and markets, taking business from Chagford and Lydford, and reinvesting the money to buy lucrative offices. He had been appointed controller of all the silver mines in Devon in 1318, and Baldwin understood he had recently extended his management of the mines in exchange for a sizeable loan to help with the war against Scotland. This year, 1319, he had become the warden of the Devon stannaries, and keeper of the port of Dartmouth, both highly profitable positions, yet he was content to sit and discuss the quality of cloths in the market with the wife of one of his bailiffs. That displayed a humility and generosity of spirit many other priests would do well to emulate.


  There was a knock at the door and a young monk entered, bowing low. “My lord, the port-reeve would like to speak to you.”

  “Please show him in. Ah, Holcroft, you have sent for the coroner, I hear?”

  “Yes, sir. And I have attached the four neighbors and Will Ruby, the first finder.”

  “The hue was raised, of course, so there is little more to be done. Where is the body?”

  “I couldn’t leave it there, sir.” Normally a body would be left where it had been found until the coroner could view it. “It would be impossible with so many people around. “I’ve had it moved to the inn. There’s an outhouse there where the coroner can view it.”

  “Good.”

  Baldwin leaned forward. “What of the man’s relatives?”

  “Until we find his head, there’s nothing we can do. We don’t know who he is, after all.”

  Simon waved his goblet questioningly. “No one’s reported a missing man? A wife would recognize her husband’s body, after all. You’re sure he must be a foreigner?”

  “Yes, sir, he must be from outside Tavistock. Nobody’s reported a man who’s disappeared.”

  “That means nothing,” Baldwin said. “While the fair is on, people will be spending their time in the alehouses and taverns. How many women would be surprised if their husbands turned up late or not at all every night of the fair? This man might well be a resident of the town whose woman thinks he’s sleeping off a hangover in a tavern.”

  “It’s not only that, Sir Baldwin,” said Holcroft. “The clothes look familiar to me, but I don’t remember where from. They’re not local; there’s no one I know in Tavistock who wears stuff like this.”

  “This isn’t good,” the Abbot said. He stared wistfully out through the window toward his deer park. Simon guessed that the talk of bodies was distasteful to him—he would rather be discussing his hounds or hawks. “It will be my court that has to resolve all this, and I don’t want a whole group of men from the town penalized when they have done nothing.”