“I know. Would she want both her sons to die, or just one so that the other can live? I’m not sacrificing myself, Jordan, I’m doing the only thing which makes sense.”
“They’ll rot in Hell for this, I swear.” Lybbe fingered the hard wooden grip of the dagger at his belt.
“Do nothing, Jordan. Don’t put yourself in danger again, not for me. What would be the point? Just find me a lawyer so that I can defend myself.”
“I will, but I – someone’s coming!”
“Go, go now! And don’t come back. Nobody knows who you are yet, so you’re safe. If you come back you could be seen, and then where would we be? Go, in God’s name, and leave me alone!”
Lybbe slipped silently into the shadows as the feet approached, and retreated around the wall. As soon as he was out of sight, he darted over the road and hid in a gloomy alley.
Peering cautiously round the corner, he saw a monk striding purposefully up the road. The man had his hood over his head, and Jordan was surprised. Most went with their heads bare in the warmth of late summer. There was something else that looked incongruous, but before he could put his finger on it, the figure had hurried away.
He was about to go back to see his brother when he heard more steps approaching. This time he saw the heavy-set figure of a watchman. He heard the man snort, hawk and spit. “You awake in there? If I have to stand up all night to guard you, I don’t see why you should sleep comfortably, Elias Lybbe. Wake up, you bastard!”
“All right, Jack. I’m awake.”
“Good. Make sure you stay that way, or I’ll have to prod you with this.” There was a quick movement, and Jordan saw the figure thrust something between the oak bars of the window. There was a short cry. “Yes, well, if you sleep, that’s what you’ll get, so stay awake. I’ll be back to make sure you are.”
Jordan’s anger rose as he heard the blow struck, and he sprang forward, reaching for his knife, but the man had disappeared round the opposite corner of the building before he could even draw his blade. He stepped forward quickly, but as he came level with the cell window, he stopped at the sound of his brother’s voice.
“Jordan, don’t be a fool!” Elias hissed. “Do you want to hang? Go now, and don’t come back. The only thing that makes this bearable is knowing that at least you’re safe. Don’t make me feel I’ve died in vain. Go!”
And for once the older man obeyed his brother, but as he took his leave, all thoughts of Elias temporarily fell from his mind. He could not forget the sight of the monk hurrying up the road. Then he realized what had looked so incongruous: the monk had been carrying a cudgel. Almost unconsciously he followed after the cowled figure.
15
Arthur yawned and poured more wine, and was pleased to hear the door slam. “And where have you been?”
“Father?” Avice walked in, her maid remaining at the door, and threw herself at Arthur, sitting on his lap and hugging him. “You should have seen the jugglers and musicians! They were wonderful. There was a woman there, she had the sweetest voice, and she sang all about Judas and how he was lent thirty pieces of silver by Jesus to buy food but got robbed, and betrayed Jesus to the lord of Jerusalem to get back the money – oh, it was so sad!”
She sat up, and he could see a tear running down her cheek. “There, there, child. It was only a song. Maybe they shouldn’t let musicians play in the town if they are going to upset the women.”
“Oh, but it was so beautiful, Father. And the others all sang about kings and queens, about Arthur and Guinevere, and one had songs all about the King, our King’s father.”
“Yes,” Arthur said heavily. “No one has any songs about the new King yet, do they?”
“Father, don’t be so nasty. I’m sure everything you hear about him is untrue.” She got up, looking down at him affectionately. “I’ll go to my bed now. You should go up soon too. You look tired.”
“I am,” he admitted. “But I have a little more to do.”
“Oh yes?” she said, glancing pointedly at the goblet and jug.
He slapped her rump. “Yes, little shrew! Don’t look at my wine like your mother. You are getting more like her every day as it is.”
“I am not!” she declared hotly, but kissed him and left the room. Her maid stood aside, curtseyed, and followed her charge.
It was a few minutes later that Henry walked in. Arthur waved him to a seat where a flagon of ale stood warming by the fire. While the man took a long draft, Arthur drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. “Well?”
Henry was a wiry, short man with his face pitted and scarred from a disease in his childhood. He gave an expressive shrug. “She met him early on, but not for very long. Afterward she just walked round the town, watched the dancers and acrobats, then went out to the fairground.”
“She met no man there?”
“A couple of monks. The first had some words with her, but she sent him off with a flea in his ear.”
“Why? Could you hear what they said?”
Henry gave him a long, cold look. “If I was close enough to hear what was said, I’d have been close enough to be seen, and Avice knows my face. What would you want, that I could hear what was said and be told to leave her alone, or that I kept back and could stay with her to protect her from footpads and thieves?”
“You are right, of course. Continue.”
“The monk ran off to the north, and your daughter carried on round the edge of the fairground. Further on, she met another monk, who had his face covered with his cowl against the cold, for the wind was chill. Your daughter told Susan to leave her for a while, and he walked with her for some time, talking. She left him when she decided to come home.”
“It must have been getting late by then.” Arthur frowned. “And it was another monk?”
“It was late. I heard the compline bell ringing as we went back down the road to town. He must have been known to her, for she was civil enough to him. Not like the first one.”
Arthur stared at the flames. “Another monk,” he repeated. “Henry, you may think me paranoid or just an old fool, but what was a monk doing out of the Abbey at compline? The monks are all supposed to be in their church.”
“Perhaps the Abbot had given him a special mission, sir.”
“If he was performing a duty for the Abbot, what was he doing chatting to my daughter? Henry, this second monk: was he tall, short, fat, thin, broad, narrow? No! Before you answer, think. Specifically: was he like Pietro?”
“The Venetian?” Henry asked sneeringly, but then his brow furrowed. There was a faraway look in his eyes for a minute or two, and he took a drink from the flagon gazing into the middle distance. “It couldn’t be, surely. In body I suppose he was very like the boy, but would he dare to emulate a priest?”
“I think the bastard would impersonate the Pope to get his hands on my blasted daughter!” Arthur snapped, and sat back, glowering. “In the name of God, don’t tell my wife about this. If Marion was to hear of it, I shudder to think what she’d do.”
“Do you want me to stay with Mistress Avice when she goes out in future?”
Arthur slumped limply in his chair. “Yes, do that. And in the meantime, I shall have to do some other work.” Other work about summed it up, he added to himself. If his daughter was so set on the lad, he would have to speed up his enquiries about the Venetians staying with the Abbot, and see whether they were as prosperous as they appeared. “Henry, tomorrow, as soon as it is light, go to the Abbey and see if you can find a monk to talk to. Learn all you can about this boy and his father. I must know what sort of men they are.”
He’d done this often enough in the last two years, and he knew his business. It was late, but that should help. His victims would be the more insensible from tiredness and drinking. The first places to check were the taverns and alehouses which lay dotted all over the town. Here would be the drunks, the men who could be quickly subdued, struck once on the head and then relieved of all their spare money and any valuables.
