Hugo was a few yards from him, his bowl loose at his side, peering after the Italians with a doubtful set to his features. Lybbe watched him with increasing interest. He had noticed the friar ahead of him all the way since he had left Elias’ stall, but hadn’t realized that the cleric was stalking the same prey. Discovering someone else curious about his quarry made him feel relief bordering on euphoria. If the friar held doubts about them too, Lybbe couldn’t have been completely wrong.
If it had been a priest, Lybbe wouldn’t have considered telling the man anything, but this was a gray friar, a Franciscan. He knew well enough that the Order had its black sheep, but this wandering friar looked honest with his grubby habit and battered collecting bowl. He had the appearance of a man who took his duties seriously. Lybbe wondered whether he could confess to this one, and tell his story. The Franciscans were notorious for giving light penances on the basis that a light penance which would be performed was better than a strict one which could be ignored at the peril of the soul concerned.
Hugo raised his hands in indecision, and let them fall with apparent despondency. Lybbe, watching him closely, saw his irresolution. Slowly the cleric trudged back up the hill, away from the Poles and Camminos. As he neared Lybbe, the merchant started as he realized who it was; that decided him.
“Brother friar, would you like something for your bowl?”
Hugo glanced up at the quiet voice. “Thank you, but I have everything I need.” Then his eyes widened. “You!”
“Brother, would you hear my confession?”
Holcroft nodded as the details were read out, and took the official stamp from his purse. He thumped it into the molten wax almost before the clerk had finished dripping enough on the parchment and snapped, “Is that all?” before stalking out.
He had intended to find a tavern to quench his thirst – he had no wish to see the bailiff or knight again immediately, but he had to pass by the horse-market. Here he idly whiled away some time watching the creatures being paraded round the ring before being put through their paces. It was always exciting to see the farm boys racing their mounts up and down the fields to demonstrate their speed and stamina.
Turning to fetch himself a cool quart of ale, he found a small knot of watchmen standing behind him. He almost walked straight into them. Giving a gesture of annoyance, he motioned to them to get out of his way, but they stood their ground, and with a sense of distaste, he saw that it was the men from Denbury. “Well?”
“Sir.” It was Long Jack. His dark eyes were filled with a reserved concern. “There’s been a robbery.”
“Well? Get the details and find the felon. God’s blood, do I have to do everything around here?” Then he froze as he noticed the man’s face. “What is it?”
“You’d better come with us, port-reeve.”
He followed behind. If it was bad enough to make Long Jack fearful, it must indeed be a dreadful act. He found himself holding back as the men forged a way through the crowd, unwilling to encounter whatever evidence they might force upon him. First a murder, now a robbery, and both had to happen in the year when he was in charge.
To his surprise he found he was being taken toward the butchers. The bull-baiting pen was empty now – the wounded cattle were being slaughtered and new ones had not yet arrived. The men took him up the alley to Will Ruby’s stall. Here they stood back respectfully, leaving space for the port-reeve to enter, and after throwing them a suspicious glance, he sidled behind the trestle table and went to the sheltered space behind.
Ruby lay on a low palliasse, pale-faced, while his wife silently held a damp cloth to his temple. When they heard Holcroft approach, she leaped back, and her husband snatched up a club studded with nails from beside his makeshift bed. Seeing the port-reeve, he let it fall shamefacedly.
“What in God’s name is all this about?” Holcroft demanded, astonished. He had never seen the butcher behave like this before. It was out of character, even if he had been robbed.
“Sorry, David. It’s this attack, it’s made me a bit twitchy.”
“Who was it, did you recognize him?”
Ruby gave him an odd look. “No, I never saw him before.”
“What did he look like?”
“Didn’t the watch tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Port-reeve, it was a monk! A damned monk robbed me!”
8
Abbot Champeaux waved the men to seats. Peter nervously hovered at the door, unsure whether to enter the Abbot’s private chamber, and was delighted, though secretly fearful of committing a faux pas in such company, when the Abbot beckoned him in and motioned him to a seat.
Simon walked in after his friend and was surprised to see him halt only a few steps inside. Then he saw why. The Abbot was sitting at his great chair at the head of his table while the servants busied themselves preparing bowls, towels and water for washing. At the Abbot’s side was Simon’s wife, and next to her was another woman.
The bailiff had always thought his wife to be the most lovely woman he had ever seen: Margaret’s body was slender but strong, her face still free of wrinkles and unmarked by the grief that so often made features prematurely haggard, and her thick golden hair gleamed like a flame in the summer sunshine. But the woman next to her was beautiful in another way.
As the Abbot introduced him to the lady, Baldwin stood fixed to the spot. He could see red-gold tresses protruding from her coif, which contrasted with her bright blue eyes. Her face was regular, if a little round; her nose was short and too small; her mouth looked overwide and the top lip was very full, giving her a stubborn appearance; her forehead was broad and high: but the knight considered the sum of her imperfections to be utter perfection.
“Jeanne? Surely that is not a local name?” he asked.
She smiled, and he was secretly delighted to see how her cheeks dimpled. “No, sir. I was named in Bordeaux.”
“Are you staying in the Abbey?”
“The Abbot has given me a guestroom near the court gate. It is where I used to stay with my husband when we came to the fair.”
The Abbot interrupted. “You may know, Sir Baldwin, that as Abbot of Tavistock, I hold a baron’s rank. I have to maintain some knights to supply the host in time of war. Sir Ralph was one of these. It was nothing to arrange for a room to be available for his widow.”
“Widow?”
“Sir Ralph de Liddinstone sadly caught a fever earlier in the summer.”
Fever, Jeanne thought, hardly described the raging agony of his last days. She had never thought that so hardy a man could collapse with such speed. But she was grateful that he had.
Her husband had been a brute. She could admit it now. Ralph at first had met her ideals of a truly courteous knight, being kind and thoughtful, loving and gentle – but that had changed when she had been unable to bear his children. He blamed her for it, as if she was deliberately witholding his heir from him. Each time a friend of his had announced another child, Ralph had looked on her more blackly, until at last he had hit her.
That first time her shock had been so great she hadn’t really felt any pain, but from then on he had taken to drinking ever more heavily, sulking in his hall, and afterward, as if as a diversion from bedding her, he would punch or kick her, once taking a riding crop to her bare back.
No, Jeanne was grateful that God had taken him from her.
Baldwin saw the fleeting sadness in her eyes. “My lady, I apologize if I unthinkingly reminded you of…”
“It is nothing,” she said lightly, giving him a look that made his heart swell. “It is all over. And the Abbot here has been very kind.”
