word. “Where’s that? Is it near York?” he asked innocently.
“No, it’s foreign. Somewhere south of Gascony,” the monk said knowingly. “Outlandish, though. You should see the way they dress.” He shook his head and drank again.
“What are they here for? I’d have thought they’d go somewhere else if they wanted to buy things.”
“Oh, no. They’re here to negotiate with the Abbot. They want to arrange to buy all his wool over the next three years at a fixed price. That way the Abbot knows how much he’ll get in advance, and it’ll make his work a little easier.”
“I see. They’ll be here for some time, then.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I reckon as soon as they have their contract they’ll be gone. They seem to have other business to deal with, according to my friend who works with the guest-master, and want to leave quickly when the Abbot has agreed their contract.”
“They must be rich to negotiate with the Abbot.”
“They say they are.”
Henry’s ears pricked. “You think they aren’t?” he asked, feigning disinterest.
“Something’s not right about them. They say they are merchants and bankers, and such men are very well- off. But these fellows, they have very fine clothes and their saddles and harnesses are good quality, but their horses are cheap creatures.”
Henry could understand the distinction. His master often played the host to affluent men, and as a groom he knew that those who sported good clothing owned the best horseflesh as well, and spent fortunes on finery for their animals. There was no point in a first-quality mount if it was made to look like a broken-winded nag by cheap saddle and harness. The wealthy flaunted their money. He recalled the Camminos’ arrival in town. “Why should that be?”
“They said they were robbed, but if they were, why wasn’t their money and plate taken? And if someone took their horses, wouldn’t they have taken the saddles and equipment as well? I think these men aren’t as well-heeled as they would have the Abbot believe. Still, it’s none of my concern.”
Henry stayed until they had finished the pitcher between them, but there was little more to learn, and he left the monk, now with every appearance of contentment, to make his way back to his master’s house. En route he saw a familiar figure, and dawdled to study him.
It was the young Venetian, Pietro, and his servant. The pair waited a little to the north of the tavern, standing in an alleyway in the shadow of a large house. Henry was not sure, but he had a feeling that they were waiting for someone, and as he watched, he saw the figures of Avice and her maid approach. When he noted how the young girl’s face lit with joy at the sight of her lover, Henry looked on grimly. His master would have a problem in persuading her to leave the Venetian alone.
He realized that the four were continuing down the hill toward him, and he turned to hurry away before he could be seen, when he tripped. Another hurrying fair-goer had stumbled into him, and Henry stifled a quick curse at the man as he recognized the young monk Peter. The groom scrambled to his feet and hurried to a wall, glancing up the road. He was amazed to see the monk standing before his master’s daughter. Also watching was the old friar, from the other side of the street.
“My lady, I must demand that you…”
Henry saw Pietro take a casual step forward. “If you are prepared to renounce your vocation, your habit is no protection. Leave my lady in peace!” he said, and suddenly his hand whipped out and slapped Peter on the cheek, almost spinning the boy completely around before he fell to the ground.
Peter lay sobbing with fury and jealousy, while Avice and Pietro stepped past. He could not even muster the energy to call out; he was exhausted – and ashamed of his action. The day before, life had seemed full of promise; his future was mapped out for him, and he knew his vocation – and yet now all was ruined. He was in love with a woman who spurned him, his life’s ambition was destroyed, and his hope for happiness had been crushed beneath her dainty heel.
He felt a hand grasp his elbow and he was hauled to his feet. “My son, my son, what is all this?”
Peter wiped his eyes, smearing dirt over his face. “Friar? It’s nothing. Nothing.” His eyes followed Avice as she made her way down the hill with her squire. “How could she prefer him?”
Hugo patted his shoulder. “It is better that she should choose a man such as he rather than persuade you from your calling.”
“But he…”
“What, my son?” asked Hugo patiently.
Peter set his jaw. “He might be a murderer!”
“What?” Hugo took an involuntary step back.
“Yes! I was there – you were, too! In the tavern on the night that man was killed, you must have seen it. When the man was in the way, that Venetian puppy almost drew his knife.”
“That means nothing. He didn’t actually draw it and…”
“But what if he waylaid the man later? What if he stabbed him? That would mean Avice was going to wed a murderer!”
Henry heard the words. He saw Hugo shake his head and advise the novice to be careful to whom he made such wild accusations, but the boy was not of a mind to be placated. “She is not for you, my son. You have a calling. You have to forget the passions of the flesh if you are to become a good monk.”
“I won’t be a monk. I have already told the Abbot.”
Hugo rested a hand on his shoulder with compassion. “Before you make a decision like that, you must reflect long and very hard. God has sent you this temptation to test your resolve. Can you really fail Him so easily?”
Peter shook the friar’s hand from his shoulder. “I love her.”
The friar shook his head in sympathy as the boy, head bowed, walked down toward the Abbey. Hugo had been lucky – he had never suffered from lust, and found it hard to understand the torment of others. For him, adoration of Christ’s Mother was enough.
Henry took his chance and walked to him. “Friar? Is the monk all right?”
Hugo glanced at him. “He is not harmed,” he equivocated.
“Those foreigners should be less arrogant.”
The friar put the young monk from his mind. He still wanted a theme for preaching, and he spoke absently. “It is not only them. Arrogance is not the preserve of Venetians.”
“It is typical of foreign bankers.”
“Bankers? Are they bankers? I thought they were only merchants.” Hugo suddenly stopped dead in the street and gave a little gasp of pleasure. It might be a well-worn theme, but at last he had an idea for a sermon.
16
Baldwin and Jeanne walked a few steps behind Simon and his wife, partly out of self-defense. While behind them, the knight felt that he was not quite so much under constant observation.
It was always the way, he knew, that a wooing couple would be subject to continual scrutiny, and the slightest failure of manners or courtly behavior would render the squire open to the most vicious of verbal leg- pulling, or worse. It was not all on one side, for any girl offering what might be considered by parents and friends to be overly indecorous or flirtatious comments would be severely reprimanded. He had hoped that if he was to find a woman to court he would at least be able to do so without the embarrassment of a friend listening nearby, and no doubt storing up each foolish word or misused phrase with a view to reminding the knight later when he was in a defenseless position.
He was painfully aware that his servant and Simon’s were both behind him, and that was almost more appalling than Simon and Margaret being within earshot in front. Baldwin had recently been given enough proof that Edgar had enjoyed the companionship of several of the younger women of Crediton. His martial appearance and easy flattery seemed to win them over, although Baldwin could not understand why. Only the week before he had heard his man paying court to a hawker in the street, and Edgar’s expressions of amazement at the girl’s beauty
