The Abbot's Gibbet (21 page)

He looked up at the sound of a door opening and shutting. After a few moments, he heard the light step of his son, the heavier tread of Luke. The Abbot’s Gibbet

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“You deigned to return, then? How kind of you. Perhaps you would like me to kill the fatted calf?”

His sarcasm had no effect on the good humor of his son. “Father, you may be irritated, but I have had a pleasant evening and I will not allow you to spoil it. Come and pour ale, Luke. My father needs something for his digestion.”

“No, we’re due with the Abbot, and we’re already late. You can drink when we are with him. At least there we’ll get good wine, instead of this muck.”

He scowlingly pulled on an over tunic and coat, giving his son’s attire a swift appraisal. Pietro had dressed well for his girl. He wore tight hose under his shirt and short tunic, and his best fur-lined cloak: he would do for their host. “Come along, then. I don’t want to see the Abbot upset because of your lateness.”

They crossed the Great Court, past the stables and storerooms, past the sties and kennels, and entered the Kitchen Court. Walking through it, they came to the prayle—the yard before the Abbot’s lodging, where he kept a small orchard and garden, secluded from the busyness of the Great Court, in which he could sit in peaceful contemplation.

The Abbot’s hall was in a building that formed a part of the Abbey’s main perimeter wall. They entered and ascended the stairs to his rooms, following behind an elderly servant.

“My apologies, Father,” Antonio said as the door swung open. “My son forgot the time, and has only now returned. I trust we have not delayed your meal?”

“Not at all, not at all. Please, come in and take some wine with us.”

While the wine was poured, Antonio surreptitiously kept an eye on the others. The bailiff, he knew, was 182

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married to the blonde woman, but the knight appeared to be paying great attention to the widow. Antonio stored the information for future use. It was always best, as an international trader and merchant, to log any points that could be of interest. If he was questioned, as he often was, about who knew whom and whether they were friendly toward each other, tiny snippets as to who was wooing which lady could be useful. Dealing with officers of kings he always found distasteful, but sometimes giving away gossipy items about people as a spy was the only way to avoid the more penal rates of tax. And sometimes information like this was useful locally; after all, any lord in the area could have an interest in someone as important as the Keeper of the King’s Peace.

The servants were seated at a second table nearer the door. He saw Pietro frown as a monk entered with the knight’s servant, Edgar, who stood surveying the room before walking to his own place between Peter and Hugh.

At his own table, the Abbot sat to one side, giving pride of place to Baldwin, his most important ranking guest. Antonio and his son took their seats near Baldwin, next to Simon and Margaret, while Jeanne was placed beside Baldwin at Abbot Robert’s insistence. Jeanne gave a bright smile of apparent pleasure as the Abbot helped her to her seat, but in her heart she would have been happier to curse him. Champeaux’s motives were transparent, and she didn’t want a new husband yet.

It was not that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was unattractive. While he was chuckling at a quip from Margaret, she took the opportunity to study his profile. He was quite comely, she thought—a strange mix of Nor-The Abbot’s Gibbet 183

man and Celtic, with his swarthy skin and dark hair. The scar on his cheek gave him a reckless, devil-maycare air, though she was sure it didn’t reflect his nature. He appeared too solid and considerate. From the short conversations she had held with him, it was obvious that he was concerned for those poorer than himself, although his reticence about the Church was curious to her. She didn’t know he had been a Templar, and since the destruction of his Order had held the Pope and his cardinals in low regard.

It was a pity, she felt, that she had not met Sir Baldwin before and got to know him. Now, under the gaze of so many others, especially the bailiff’s wife, she felt as if she was being forced into a courtship for which she wasn’t ready.

The bowl arrived, and she dipped her hands in it, taking the towel and drying them. Afterward she caught Baldwin’s eye, and saw that he was nervous, too. Jeanne was offended. What reason did
he
have to be nervous? The man should have found her perfectly desirable; she wasn’t too old for him, surely? That Baldwin might be experiencing similar qualms as herself made Jeanne quite annoyed—and then she saw him give a quizzical look, and almost laughed out loud as she recognized the irony.

Their predicament was largely due to the matchmaking zeal of Margaret and the Abbot. Their attempts at subtlety were a farce, Jeanne thought without rancor. They were trying, no doubt to help their friends find happiness, though how curious it was that they should think they knew the key to other people’s contentment.

As if by agreement, both chose not to speak to the other. It was not a conscious decision on either side, 184

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more a reaction to the air of anticipation in which they were watched.

Margaret noticed the apparent coldness between the two. During the course of the meal she had seen that Baldwin and his elegant neighbor spoke little if at all, and she felt a growing frustration that her hopes might be thwarted, for she was keen to see him marry someone who could provide him with company and children, and this was the first woman in whom he had displayed any interest. That they should suddenly have developed a frostiness was worrying. She cast a quick look at her husband to see whether he had also noticed, but he was talking to Antonio. She heard the Venetian say:

“You mean to say that the dead man was not the stranger, as everyone thought?”

“No, sir. The man who was killed was a local farmer by the name of Roger Torre. He was in the tavern as well that night.”

“But I thought . . . I assumed he must have been identified. How could you have been so mistaken?”

“Yes, why could you not tell at once?” Pietro frowned. “Did no one bother to view the body?”

“Of course,” Simon explained patiently. “But the killer had cut off the corpse’s head and hidden it. It’s hard to recognize a body when there is no face.”

Pietro and Antonio exchanged a baffled look. It was the father who stammered, “His head? Why . . . I mean, why should a man do that to his victim, bailiff?”

Jeanne pursed her lips in distaste. “It seems a particularly cruel thing to do to a victim: take the life and then desecrate the corpse.”

“That’s what worried us as well. It makes no sense.”

Simon broke off a piece of his bread and chewed it The Abbot’s Gibbet

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meditatively. “We have arrested the man in whose yard the head was buried.”

Baldwin was glad that Simon carefully avoided suggesting he thought Elias was the murderer. Enough people would be bound to assume his guilt without their help. He waved a hand, vaguely encompassing the borough outside the Abbey. “There is no need to worry all the traders. I daresay it was a dispute of some sort which quickly led to blows, and for some reason the killer decided to take the head.”

“A curious trophy,” Antonio mused.

“I expect you saw the dead man yourself, sir,”

Simon continued, thinking of Elias’ words. “He was in the tavern at the same time as you.”

Antonio shrugged. “The tavern? Which tavern?”

“The one on the way to the fair. You were there, weren’t you? Torre was the man you barged into as you left,” Baldwin said, and was surprised when the old Venetian stared at him with suspicion.

“Do you suggest that
I
was involved in this dreadful act, Sir Baldwin?”

The Abbot interrupted soothingly. “The knight suggested nothing, Antonio. He was merely commenting that you might yourself have seen the man.”

“Has the man confessed yet?”

“No,” said Baldwin, returning to his food. Looking up, he noticed a strange expression on the Abbot’s face as he watched Antonio: suspicion mixed with a certain hardness. As Champeaux caught his eye, his face relaxed once more into genial hospitality. “More wine, Sir Baldwin?”

“Thank you.” Baldwin waved the bottler on to Jeanne, whose goblet was almost empty. He was intrigued by the look on the Abbot’s face. It evidently 186

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betrayed some inner concern, but what that concern could be, he had no idea. Then he recalled that Roger Torre had made allegations against the Abbot just before he died. It was hardly conceivable that Robert Champeaux himself could have been involved in the murder, but he could have come to hear about it—there was always the confessional. That made him think of the monk. Baldwin found himself surreptitiously watching Champeaux and the novice Peter. Antonio was eager for any information about the murder, but that was no surprise. In Baldwin’s experience any murder attracted great public interest, and when it was as bizarre as this, with a decapitated corpse and a head found hidden in a vegetable garden, any man would be keen to know all the details. When he glanced over at Jeanne, however, he saw that the talk was offending her.

She sat stiffly as the discussion ranged over the mystery, rarely looking his way. It made Baldwin a little sad. He had thought she was interested in him when they had first met, but now she concentrated on her food and rarely even glanced in his direction. The knight saw her eyes flit quickly toward Margaret, and then he understood. He had been aware for over a year of the solicitous marriage planning on his behalf which the bailiff’s wife had undertaken. It was as plain as a battle-axe in a church that she had decided the knight had found his mate; intuitively, he guessed that for her part, Jeanne de Liddinstone was fearful of being paired again so soon after losing her husband. But she was very attractive, the ideal vision of a knightly lady. And the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, the coy manner she had of peeping at someone from the corner of her eye, her intenseness The Abbot’s Gibbet

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when she listened, head set to one side as if he was the only person in the room, all made her desirable. That she was young and healthy merely added to her allure. Looking up, she saw his expression, and he was about to glance away, embarrassed to be discovered studying her, when she smiled, and suddenly he did not mind Margaret preening herself at the other side of the table.

He was startled from his thoughts by the Abbot leaning toward him. “Sir Baldwin, would you like to arrange to come hunting with me?”

“Yes, indeed—but do you not have other duties with the fair? It would be kind of you, but surely you have enough to do without seeing to the comfort of a wandering guest?”

Champeaux shrugged. “My life is one of constant toil with God’s work:
Opus Dei.
Yet if tomorrow I have to celebrate our founding saint, I can take time the day after to relax. There’s little enough for me to do, in any case. The fair runs itself, with the port-reeve taking most of the burden, so all I am expected to do is wait here in case I’m needed, and usually on the third day of the fair I’m not. It’s too quiet. Will you join me?”

“I would be delighted, Abbot.”

“Then that’s settled.”

The meal ended soon afterward. Compline was not for another hour, but the Abbot had many duties to attend to. As his guests prepared to leave, Baldwin found himself alone with Jeanne. Simon and Margaret pointedly waited at the door, looking at him. He could not simply walk away as if she did not exist. “My lady, I . . . er . . .”

Once he began, he had no idea how to continue. Aware of the interested expression on Edgar’s face, he 188

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found himself coloring, and felt a rush of irritation. He was a knight trained in warfare. All over the known world he had travelled without fear, purely because of his prowess with lance and sword; yet now he was flustered, embarrassed and nervous simply because of a woman. It was insufferable.

But of all the knightly skills, the one he needed most now was the one in which he had never been instructed. Squires were taught courtly manners and how to behave with women, but he had learned his knightly skills as a warrior monk. There had been no place for the soft art of courtship when he had taken his vows. Jeanne saw his pain. “Sir Baldwin?”

“Lady, I wanted to . . . er . . .” He wanted to apologize if she had felt pressured, to make her know that he held her in high regard. Yet to say so would imply that she had felt such pressure, and what if she had not?

Suddenly he was hemmed in with doubts. “Lady, I . . .”

Then inspiration struck. “Would you like to walk for a little? The evening is clear and warm, and I would be honored to accompany you, if you wouldn’t feel my company to be boring.”

She glanced at the door. Antonio and Pietro stood talking, openly watching her. Near them were Simon and Margaret. The bailiff’s wife wore a look of approval, and Jeanne saw her give a quick nod as if in encouragement. It decided her. “I fear I would feel the cold.”

Instantly she saw the sadness, and loneliness in his eyes as he nodded gravely. “I understand. I will not trouble you again.”

“But if I could send someone to fetch my cloak, I should be all right, shouldn’t I?” she said quickly, and was surprised at her own pleasure at the thought. The Abbot’s Gibbet

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Baldwin could not prevent himself standing a little more erect with pride as he walked with her to the door. Then he became aware of his servant at his shoulder. “Um, Edgar? I think you may leave me. I shall not need you.”

Edgar looked at him blankly. He disliked leaving Baldwin unprotected. But as his master stepped out of the room and Edgar heard his steps echoing along the passage and out of the building, he shrugged. There could be little enough danger from the pretty widow, and what danger there was, Baldwin would be certain to enjoy.

- 14 up the last of his goods and tossed them A t the fairground, Jordan Lybbe bundled into his makeshift shed. Hankin leaned against the pole supporting the roof with his arms crossed. His work done for the day, he was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open, and Lybbe gave him a friendly clout over the shoulders. “Don’t worry, boy! You can soon shut your eyes and get some sleep. Stay in there tonight. When you wake up I’ll have your breakfast ready.”