It was urgent that he should get as much as he could as quickly as possible. He could kick himself for his error, but it was hardly a surprise he’d killed the wrong man. It was so dark without sconces or torches. When he’d seen the burly frame, he had instantly assumed it was Lybbe; it was not his fault that Torre looked so similar in the dark. When he had struck, the man’s back was to him, and he hadn’t bothered to check his face. There hadn’t seemed to be the need.
But he felt stupid about the mistake; and his own danger was doubled as a result. Not only was he still at risk in case Lybbe might recognize him, now he must keep one step ahead of the knight from Furnshill over Torre’s death.
There was an increased anticipation as he waited. His desperate need to escape from the town fuelled his tension.
He’d decided not to go to the tavern where he had attacked Will Ruby. There might be a watchman posted to catch him. No, tonight he went further up the hill, past the cell and on toward the fair. Here there were several alehouses which even now, late in the evening, were filled with merchants and tradesmen spending their earnings on wine, ale, and women.
The first one he came to had a handy, quiet alley alongside it, from which he could see the whole of the front of the place and most of the street in both directions. He installed himself in the darkness at the entrance and leaned against a wall, idly swinging his club. There was plenty of time. He had all night, and his patience was up to the task.
At breakfast the next day, Baldwin was pleased to note that Jeanne appeared happy to see him. Simon watched his old friend walk to the table and take his seat beside her. When Margaret nudged him delightedly, he grumbled cantankerously, “I know, I have eyes in my head!” But she could tell he was relieved as well.
The knight glanced at Jeanne. “No Abbot this morning?”
“You haven’t been to the fair before, have you, Sir Baldwin? No, well, today is the Feast of St. Rumon, and the Abbot will be with his monks. They will hold an extended service to the honor of the Saint, and a Mass for the founders of the Abbey.”
Baldwin nodded. In the Abbey Church there were shrines to its chief benefactors. Not only St. Rumon, but also Ordulf and his wife Ælfwynn, the two founders, Abbot Lyfing, who rebuilt it after it was razed by Vikings, and Eadwig, who gave his manor of Plymstock to the monks. All were remembered with reverence and gratitude.
“The Abbot has a great number of duties to attend to,” Jeanne continued, “in honor of the patron saint of the Abbey. Merchants and craftsmen bring offerings to St. Rumon’s shrine, and some always wish to speak to the Abbot to make sure that what they have given will earn them their due reward.”
“I am sure the Abbot discharges his duties honorably and to the satisfaction of all who go to the church,” Baldwin said lightly.
“Yes. Abbot Champeaux is a good and kindly man.”
“I am sure he is,” Baldwin agreed. “I am glad you live on his land. He must be a good lord to his bondmen.”
At that she laughed. “I am lucky, yes, but you wouldn’t hear many of the other people living on his land say as much. Did you hear about Torre?”
“Only that he had argued with a monk the night he died.”
“Abbot Champeaux is a generous soul, but he is determined to make sure that his lands pay. He’s converted some of his serfs into tenants: rather than having to provide him with service in his fields and paying him a small rent, he has given them leases so that they are better able to farm for profit.”
“Why should he want that?”
“It brings in more money to the Abbey. Look at Torre. The Abbot was going to make him take a lease, and that would have meant that instead of a few pennies each year, he would have to pay twelve shillings to the Abbot. That was being generous, for now Torre has died, he will get that from the new tenant, but the Abbey’s almoner thinks he will earn more, probably a pound each of pepper and cumin as well as the money.”
“So that was what Torre was complaining about. He was to win more freedom, but would have to pay for the privilege.”
“Yes.”
Baldwin chewed thoughtfully. “And the monk, Peter, was defending his lord, and that was why he came close to fighting the miner.”
“Do you still doubt that Elias was the killer?”
“I cannot believe it was him. If he had a motive for killing Torre, why should he wait until now to do it?”
“Surely he might have bottled up any slight until the fair so that there would be a confusing number of people around?”
“It is possible. He doesn’t strike me as a fool, and that would involve a certain cunning. But I still believe that if Elias did have a part in this murder, it was as an accomplice. It is the other man I want to meet, the man he is shielding.” And unless he tells us who that was, Baldwin admitted to himself, there is little chance of clearing up this mess.
The Abbey’s wall had several gates. There was the small one beneath the Abbot’s lodging, the water-gate which gave onto the Abbey’s bridge, and the court-gate – a great block with rooms above that took the bulk of the traffic to and from the Abbey. It was here that monks with little to do would pass their time talking to travellers.
Arthur had asked him to get information, and the groom knew where to go. Henry walked toward the open wicket-gate in the massive oak doors. There were already a couple of hawkers standing there, chatting to a monk, who rested on a shovel and eyed the passing crowd. Even this early people choked the street on their way to the fair.
In his hand, Henry carried a large pitcher of good Bordeaux wine. He leaned against the wall until the hawkers had moved on, and then greeted the monk. “Brother, my master told me to thank you and the Abbey for allowing him to come to the fair. He sends you this. ” He flourished the wine.
“For us?” the monk said dubiously, taking the pitcher and sniffing at the open mouth. His mood quickly improved as he smelled Arthur’s good wine.
“Try some,” Henry urged. “It is my master’s best.”
The monk eyed it, then Henry, then the pitcher again. At last he made up his mind, set the shovel against the wall, and took a quick sip. “It’s good,” he breathed.
Henry glanced behind him. There were many visitors in the Great Court, and no one was paying any attention to the pair at the gate. “I’ve never tried my master’s wine,” he said sadly. “He always tells me it’s too good for a groom.”
“That’s typical.” The monk shook his head. From his accent Henry was pleased to hear the soft burr of Devon. Henry was sure he must be a lay brother, a local peasant offered free food and lodging in the Abbey’s precinct in exchange for taking on much of the laborious work so that better-born brothers could spend their time in study and contemplation without the need for excessive manual work. “The poor never get to taste the better things in life, do they?” He looked over his shoulder, then suddenly thrust the pitcher at Henry. “Here, you try some.”
Henry took a long pull at the wine and passed it back, smacking his lips. “It’s fine, isn’t it? I can see why my master keeps it for himself.”
The monk weighed it speculatively in his hand. “Your master said it should go to the monastery, or to the Abbot?” he asked seriously.
“He said it was for the Abbey, to thank the monks.”
“In that case, since I am a monk…” his new friend said gravely, and upended the pitcher again. “But it would be greedy to have it all,” he added, and winked as Henry took it back again.
“Is it very busy in there? You have a lot of guests.”
“More than usual,” the monk agreed, wiping a dribble of wine from his chin. “People from all over. The bailiff and his wife, a man from Crediton, a…”
Henry waited while the monk told him of all the visitors. When he mentioned Venice the groom jumped on the
