13
Hugo walked through the crowds peering about him as he sought the man again. Since Elias had been taken, he had wandered among the throng looking for the bearded man, but he had disappeared.
The friar was uncertain if he had done the right thing. Perhaps he should have trusted the tall knight and told him all he knew, but what if he was wrong? It was dangerous to trust to memory, especially after twenty-odd years, but how much more dangerous not to report it? Then there was the bearded Jordan: telling Baldwin must surely result in Lybbe’s death. Yet Hugo would have to inform Jordan that Elias had been arrested, in case he had not yet heard.
He pensively carried on down toward the square as he thought through his difficulties, and there he forgot his troubles in fascination at the plays and acrobatics displayed.
One of the hardest duties of a friar was finding new material for preaching. He, like the other members of the friars minor, believed that preaching dogmatically was pointless when the audience was largely uneducated. He was always on the lookout for material which would bring home moral points simply. It was with this in mind that his attention wandered over the people watching the miracle plays.
It was almost night when Marion Pole set her needlework aside and threw her husband an anxious glance. “Where could she have got to?”
Arthur put his pot down and shook his head. “She must have chosen to watch some of the entertainments. Perhaps she has gone to a tavern.”
“You don’t seem very concerned about your daughter. She’s only young.”
“But clever enough to escape danger.”
“You may think so, but I’m not convinced of it.”
“Marion, she will be fine. She doesn’t often get the chance to see a fair.”
“Husband, have you forgotten about her and that foreigner? What if she is holding a secret tryst with him even now?” Her face hardened. “You don’t think she intended that, do you – that she went out hoping to see that Venetian again?”
“Marion, Avice is in the company of Susan. That maid would tell you anything that happened if it was remotely indecorous.”
“But what if your daughter was to commit an indiscretion?” Marion asked, her face blank with horror.
“Woman, are you suggesting that Susan would allow her charge to have a tumble in a common alehouse? Or do you think Avice could couple in the street without her maid noticing? Don’t be so ridiculous.”
“But Arthur, what if she’s been attacked? You hear such dreadful things about fairs, especially large ones like this. What if…?”
“What if the sky should fall in or the sun forget to rise in the morning,” he snapped. “Don’t be stupid, woman – she told you she would be gone for some time. It’s not compline yet. If something was to happen to her, Susan would stop Avice being harmed, and if she failed, I have Henry watching them both.”
“Henry?”
“Yes. And if our groom saw anyone trying to threaten our daughter, he would die rather than see her come to any harm. You know him as well as I do. So,” his voice rose, “by God’s own blood, will you stop worrying and leave me in peace for a while? I have enough to think about with all the business I am conducting at this fair without your inane chatter!”
In his room, Antonio da Cammino paced angrily as the light faded outside and the monks entered to light the place. It was difficult to keep a calm exterior while these innocent fools went about their business, but he kept a tight rein on his tongue as the men slowly walked round with their candles and tapers, setting the waxen tubes down and lighting them. He even managed a smile of gratitude as they finished and left him alone.
Only then did he allow himself to consider his son again. The cretin had been behaving like a love-lorn squire from a courtly tale. Antonio walked to the window and stared out. He had meant what he’d said: he would not wait while his son indulged his whim for a girl. There were plenty of pretty maids at home; there was no need to seek one here in this godforsaken backwater.
From his room in the southern perimeter wall of the Abbey, near the Abbey bridge, he could look out over the river to the pastureland beyond. Cattle stood idly. A hog grunted at the edge of the trees, and he could hear doors slamming and people calling out as the town settled for the night. Whistling and shouting showed that not all were ready for their rest, however. Some of the youngest were looking for entertainment, and were determined to find it: there was a pattering of feet under his window as somebody rushed down the riverside path.
After his years in Gascony, Antonio was astonished that so small a borough could accommodate so many people. Obviously all the traders stayed with their goods, as there were not many who could afford to rent a room and hire staff to guard stock every night, and there was a large tented encampment east of the fairground where many of the excess people slept, but there was still a huge number who found houses in the town itself.
Of course, Tavistock was not in the same category as Orleans or Paris in France, or the English King’s fairs at La Rochelle, Bordeaux, Winchester and London, but it still had a huge attraction for many people. They flocked here, yet Antonio could not understand why.
It was not that the town was easy to get to. For the most part the roads were poor, although Antonio thought they all were in this benighted kingdom. It could hardly be the climate, for though it had been warm and pleasant enough today he knew that here, near what had been the King’s forest of Dartmoor, the weather was apt to change in minutes from sunny and bright to gloomy, wet and miserable.
Antonio turned from the view and walked back to the table, resignedly pouring himself a large mug of ale. He disliked the weak and chilling, belly-filling flavored water the English peasants lived on. The Abbot, he knew, kept a good cellar of wine, but that was for his own use, and though the Abbey had a duty to provide hospitality to travellers, the Abbot had no compunction charging his guests for the wine they drank. It was a sign of parsimoniousness that rankled with the Venetian. His money was tight enough as it was. He preferred to force himself to consume this unwelcome brew while dreaming of the strong red wines of Guyenne.
Abbot Champeaux was an odd fellow, he thought. Seemingly genial, he had a hard streak when it came to business. Antonio had hoped that his offer would have been taken up faster than this, and that he might have been away from here within a day or two. Instead it appeared that the other man needed time to consider his proposals. All it entailed was a monopoly on wool for three years, which was hardly a great period, and his offer of cheap loans should have made the Abbot snap up the offer.
Antonio hoped that the deal would go through. He needed the money that the wool would bring, especially after the fiasco in Bayonne where they had been chased out by a horde of angry townspeople. The resulting chase had almost cost them their lives. Luckily Luke had thought to cut the reins of the pack-horse, and without the slow beast to hold them back they had evaded capture. Not that Antonio had thanked his servant. It had been his duty to save the goods. Still, there was no getting away from the fact that when a knight, three squires, and two men-at- arms were thundering after you, it was better to cut the traces and one’s losses to stay alive.
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.
“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.”
