The Abbot's Gibbet Page 8

  Simon leaned forward. “Were they here for long?”

  “Long enough for four pints each.”

  “Who left first of the two?”

  “They went out together, just after the bell for compline.”

  “And it looked as if they were friendly?” Baldwin said.

  She considered. “Friendly enough,” she admitted at last. “Elias was never a great one for talking, but last night he seemed to get quite excited.”

  “Excited?” Holcroft leaped on the word. “Was he excited enough to have a fight with the man, do you think?”

  She threw him a bored, casual glance. “Come on, David, they didn’t pull daggers on each other in here, and that’s all I know. If they went out and had a fight, I never got to hear about it. I only just caught a glimpse of them going as it was. This is an alehouse; I was serving ale, remember? It’s not like I can pass the time of day with all my customers, especially when they’re already in a bad mood. He came back, though.”

  Baldwin suppressed a grin. The alewife was a shrewd woman to deal with, and wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. “You say Elias returned?”

  “Yes. He was out for a few minutes, then hurried back in and had a bit more to drink.”

  Simon stirred. “Did you serve him?” When she nodded, he continued, “Did you see any blood on him?”

  Baldwin watched her carefully. This was important. Killers were always blooded by their victims. The murderer of the corpse in the alley was bound to have been spattered—especially since he had hewn off the head.

  She considered, then shook her head slowly. “No, none at all.”

  Baldwin asked, “Did he bring a bag or anything with him when he came back?”

  “No.”

  “It means nothing,” Holcroft said. “He could have left the head in his house or somewhere.”

  “Possibly,” Baldwin agreed, but dubiously. “This Elias—who is he?”

  “He’s the man who lives next to Will Ruby’s shop,” said Holcroft quickly. “Runs a cookshop. The pile of rubbish was all his.”

  “I think we should go and have a word with him, then.”

  Baldwin and Simon walked from the room with Edgar. Peter hurriedly stowed away his pen and inks, and was about to chase after when he caught a curious expression on the alewife’s face. She was staring at the port-reeve with something like sympathy, while he looked at her with what Peter could only guess was mute appeal.

  Elias sat down on his barrel and wiped a hand over his brow before peering up at the sun and yawning. His neck still ached after sleeping on his market stall’s trestle, and he was only glad that it hadn’t rained.

  As another face appeared, he levered himself up and bobbed his head ingratiatingly. His customer reeled off a long order, and Elias blinked as he listened. As the string of instructions ended, he sprang into action and fetched the capon baked in pastry, ten roast finches and a rabbit. This being a fair, he quickly added the prices: eight pennies for the capon, one for the finches, and four for the rabbit, and then rounded up the amount to sixteen pennies. Grumbling, his client paid his money. He knew well enough that although the money was more than he would have to pay in the town normally, it was not so much as a London trader would have charged.

  When Antonio da Cammino asked for a mackerel, Elias set it to cook beside his fire. He recognized the Venetian from the tavern the night before, though he didn’t know Antonio’s name. Antonio’s face reminded him of the previous night, and Elias took a long swallow from his pot.

  He needed to. Seeing Jordan Lybbe again had been a shock, and then there was the horror in the alley. He wasn’t used to such sights. It had been all he could do to pour his drink when he had got back to the tavern afterward, and not tip the whole lot onto the floor, his hand was shaking so much.

  Of course he knew he would have to pay the amercement for not clearing up the rubbish heap, but he couldn’t go back to it. Not now.

  Two grimy children turned up, fresh from playing out in the meadows, demanding the price of all of the cooked meats on display, and trying to haggle. Elias was known among the town’s youngsters for being generous with his food. He took their money, but gave them a honey-coated roast starling each as well as the thrushes they had ordered. Then the fish was ready, and he served it to the patient Venetian.

  Taking the fish, Antonio paid, then stood by the trestle and broke up the steaming, yellow flesh. When he caught sight of Elias’ gaze, he motioned to his meal. “It is all right to eat here, yes?”

  “Oh yes, master,” said Elias, and was about to ask where he had come from, for he couldn’t recognize the accent, when Antonio waved to catch his son’s attention.

  Pietro strolled over, Luke behind him, and surveyed Elias’ offerings, tossing a coin negligently. He pointed at a cooked leg of lamb, and when Elias had cut off a large slice, the young man flicked the coin down, then stood talking with his father, both conversing in a language Elias couldn’t recognize.

  The crowd was growing now. Elias had to sit again, uncomfortably aware of the itching in his hands that heralded another fit of the shaking. The acid in his stomach was bubbling furiously like water boiling over a fire, and he took a good swallow of ale to calm it. Sitting under a hot sun, next to his brazier and fire, he felt as if he himself was cooking, and he longed for the hour when he could close his stall and fall on his blanket behind his trestle. During the three days of St. Rumon’s Fair, he had rented out his shop and rooms, so his stall would be his bed.

  He belched and winced, saw the two men glance in his direction. At the expression on the younger man’s face he froze. It was a look of contempt so powerful that Elias could feel himself coloring. He made a deprecating gesture, but before he could speak, they had both turned and left.

  As they made off, Elias found another figure darkening his stock. “Yes, sir? Oh…”

  Friar Hugo held out his bowl questioningly, and Elias dropped a couple of starlings into it. “Thank you, my son,” he said as he walked away in the same direction as the Venetians.

  “Christ Jesus!” Elias muttered, then stood as another figure appeared. “Sir, can I help you? Oh, it’s you.” At least he’s changed out of the dead man’s clothes, he thought to himself.

  Jordan Lybbe grunted, but Elias could see that his attention was elsewhere, and when he followed Lybbe’s gaze, he could see that it was on the friar and the others. Without speaking, Lybbe left the stall and walked after them.

  Edgar appeared to lose his lethargy as soon as they entered the bustling temporary streets of the fairground. All through the questioning and post mortem, he had been idle, looking bored with events, but now, as soon as they came upon the first series of shops, he became alert, casting about him with the intent concentration of a hound seeking a trail.

  His master gave him a long, hard look. Edgar must be keen on his woman, and that augured badly for Baldwin’s own future. There was a worrying implication: if Edgar was to marry, would he still want to serve his master? There was a trend now for free men to leave their masters and buy property in towns, to become tradesmen. Baldwin did not know how he would be able to manage his estates without Edgar by his side, chivvying the villeins and making sure the business of the estate proceeded smoothly. It was with a sense of impending doom that he watched his servant.

  They passed through the lines of gaily colored benches and trestles laden with cloths. Heavy, rough burels were rare now, though poorer villeins still had uses for the cheap and hairy material. Several of the local traders were selling gray and russet-colored material alongside “dossens”—the cheaper bolts of twelve yards length and one yard in width. Baldwin saw a monk discussing the quality of bolts with a dealer, and assumed that the thoughtful-looking cleric, who shook his head in disagreement only to put in a counterbid, must be the Abbey’s almoner.

  Peter, when Baldwin caught a glimpse of the lad’s face, was enthralled, staring about him with wide-eyed fascination. The youth had never been to a fair. N
ever before had he seen such a variety of goods; it looked as if the produce of the whole world was here, and all in profusion. They walked past glove-makers, tailors, cordwainers and tanners. There were candles, soaps, herbs of all kinds, spices all set out in pots, and seeds from as far away as Constantinople. Each alley held new attractions and wonderful exhibits. It irked the young monk that Baldwin did not let them pause until they came to the cattle-market.

  Here they watched for a few minutes as a huge red-brown beast was led round the ring. Its mad black eyes glared at the spectators while they watched, and the bargaining began. Peter stood open-mouthed while the calls were shouted out. A deal was soon agreed, and the bidders all moved forward to pay for their share; under the fair’s rules it was illegal to hoard any provisions within the town in case a trader should try to gain a monopoly and thereby cause a dearth. Anyone who put in a bid for the meat of an ox must be allowed a share to prevent any single dealer controlling all meat.

  Peter was aware that the others were moving on again, and he trailed after them. He’d not realized how diverse the world was, and he murmured a quiet prayer to himself as he hurried on. A short way along the street, he stumbled and dropped the leather packet holding his quills and inks. He had to stoop to pick them up, and when he stood up again, he found he couldn’t see the others any more. He stared about him with sudden anxiety.

  Peter had only been a monk for a short time, and was still serving his novitiate. He had been at the Abbey school for some years, but had spent little time outside the Abbey itself. Now for the first time he was alone in a fair, and the mass of humanity was fearsome. He gathered up his package, but then stopped.

  In front of him a young couple had appeared. He knew Pietro da Cammino from taking him to the inn the night before, but he’d never clapped eyes on Avice Pole.

  Peter was young and impressionable, brought up to revere and idolize the image of the Madonna, and to his eyes Avice Pole was an angel. She was as fine and beautiful as the Abbey church carvings of Christ’s mother. Her wide-set green eyes and a slightly tip-tilted nose gave her an air of amusement, as if she could see the best in everyone and everything in the world. She looked a kind and generous soul, he thought.

  The novice watched as she passed. Pietro saw him but ignored him: he was only another monk, and there were enough of them at fair-time in Tavistock, especially with the mendicants, who spent their time alternately preaching and begging; but Avice beamed at Peter as she swept by, and that simple recognition melted his heart.

  Then two irritable men brushed him aside. One was Antonio, but he didn’t know Arthur Pole. In their train came Luke, who cursed him, and then he was alone once more. He was suddenly aware that the others must have moved on, and was about to set off after them when two more men hurried by, one of them a friar.

  Peter didn’t care. His mind was fixed on the graceful creature who had smiled at him.

  Luke felt a quick discomfort when he realized he had shoved a monk from his path. It hadn’t been intentional; he had thought it was just another cheaply dressed peasant. He’d only caught a glimpse of the robe before he elbowed the lad out of his way. By the time he’d spotted the tonsure it was too late.

  But there was no time for regrets. Antonio da Cammino, his master, was displaying his annoyance by staying close behind his son and the girl, and Luke was hard pushed to keep up. The crowd that filled the alleys was bunched around particular stalls, and at each knot Antonio was slowed. As soon as he could, he forged ahead, trying to close the gap between himself and his son, and each time there was another delay for Luke, who was forced to batter his own way through. It was tiring—and more than a little ridiculous.

  Luke set his jaw as he pushed through yet another group. Now they were entering a new lane, and here at last the passage was almost clear. He could breathe a little easier, and lengthened his stride.

  The girl’s father appeared a self-important little man to the servant—strong, but soft with easy living. Antonio and Arthur Pole hardly glanced in each other’s direction, and Luke wasn’t surprised. In his experience parents were rarely eager when their children found their own companions. Fathers were keen to arrange alliances in which wealth could be married to wealth, but neither Antonio nor the girl’s father knew anything about the other. Their children had met and agreed to walk together almost before their parents had realized what was happening. Now they strolled side-by-side, neither one speaking but both greedily absorbing their children’s words in case of an indiscretion.

  Luke sighed. It was no surprise that his master should be worried. The very last thing he needed was for his son to start an amorous affair. Especially if it became serious.

  He gave Pietro a shrewd look. Luke had never known him to get attached to girls before. That he should do so now, and with the daughter of a burgess was surprising: Pietro knew how little time they had in Tavistock. But the servant had seen growing signs of rebellion for the last few months.

  It was always the way. Sons would seek their own amusements, and Pietro had apparently decided that this girl was interesting—or possibly something of a challenge, Luke amended. The lad certainly seemed taken with her—he could hardly take his eyes off her. The servant eyed the girl appraisingly. Pietro had chosen well. She looked vulnerable, ready for a serious, mature attack from a worldly squire like Pietro. His stories of foreign travel, with his fashionable and expensive dress, should make his charms irresistible.

  Luke had some experience of young and impressionable women. At one point he had married one, though he had left her behind when the French approached.

  That was some years ago, when he had been living in the eastern marches of Gascony. He had scraped a decent enough living there, and if it hadn’t been for the French attacks and their capture of swathes of the English King’s territory, he would be there still. But the French were known to dislike those who had allied themselves to the English, and as soon as the first heralds appeared near his town, he had saddled his horse and escaped. Under the urge of homesickness, he had made for Bordeaux, to a place where he would hear English voices again, but the citizens of the town weren’t charitable, and for months he had been close to starvation, begging and trying to find work, before he had met Antonio and his son.

  He looked at his master again, seeing the bristling anger in Antonio’s rigid shoulders, and shook his head. The girl might be worth a tumble, but he wondered if Pietro had realized how his father felt.

  7

  Peter caught up with Baldwin and the others near the leather-goods stalls. The next section included the poulterers and butchers. Will Ruby was there, and Baldwin saw that he watched the group with eyes that betrayed his anxiety.

  Baldwin stood at the entrance of the lane where the cooks plied their trade and looked down the narrow way. There was an open space here where children ran, playing chasing games, while parents looked on indulgently. Rich and poor mixed together, all drinking or chewing their food.

  Simon felt his purse. The smell of cooking was making his mouth water. Onions and garlic, pepper and meats of all kinds were boiling or roasting all round as he moved in among the stalls, and he eyed the offerings with an appreciative eye. It had been a long time since his breakfast.

  Holcroft led the way. He walked quickly, but Simon could see that he was observing the people and wares on offer as he went, and the bailiff was impressed by his dedication. The man obviously took his responsibilities seriously, and was always on the lookout for an infringement of the fair’s rules.

  Elias saw Holcroft appear and groaned to himself. He had been about to leave for a few minutes, to go and duck his head in the water trough in the cattle pens. His skull was a thick, dense boil of pain and he longed to lance it. With the blazing sun overhead being reflected from white tunics and bright awnings, he had to squint to try to lessen the agony.

  “Hello, David,” he said, trying to sound cheery. “How are you today?”

  “I’ll be better when I’ve
got your money.”

  “My money? But why’s that?”

  “You know why. I warned you about the garbage.”

  “Oh. Well, I tried to get it cleared, but you’ve got no idea how long it took. I wheeled ten loads over to the midden and then—”

  “Quiet, Elias,” Holcroft rasped. “I’ll get the beadle to collect the money next week. I don’t care what your excuses are. Especially since—”

  Baldwin smoothly interrupted him before he could give away any details of the dead body, pointing to a pie and asking, “What is in that one?”

  Holcroft subsided while the cook reached over and picked up the golden crust and eulogized its filling of goose and ham.

  “It sounds very good. I might take one. First, though—”

  This time it was Baldwin’s turn to be interrupted. A heavy-set watchman broke through the crowd and went to the port-reeve. “There’s a deal being arranged between the King’s official and a horse-dealer. You’re needed to witness it.”

  “Oh, God’s blood!” Holcroft muttered. As port-reeve, it was his duty to validate any large transactions. There were heavy fines for a trader who did not have him witness their business, for the Abbey’s portion depended on the port-reeve’s mark on the papers.

  He threw a harassed look at Baldwin, who said understandingly, “Leave it to us. We can let you know what is happening later.”

  The port-reeve nodded, his eyes going from Simon to Baldwin, while the watchman tapped his sword hilt irritably, then looked at Elias. “You tell these gentlemen the truth, Elias. They’re here on the Abbot’s authority. If I hear you’ve been talking rubbish, I’ll come and check all your stock for weights, understand? And for every pie that’s under you’ll get a day in the pillory.”