Then he could bear it no longer. The pain in his head, the agony on the boy’s face, the sense that the port was being overrun with injustice in the form of watchmen who used violence for no reason, that the town was degenerating into a cesspit of murder and felony… made his blood suddenly boil.
He growled – he actually growled! The sound made him feel a sudden animal delight in battle, and he leapt over the trestle. Grasping the belt from the watchman, he kicked the man’s legs away, and he fell. Ruby was already on the others. For a moment, they stared as he screamed abuse, as dumbfounded as a farmer who sees his mildest pig become a mad boar, but when he laid about him with the belt, they moved. The guard with the club caught the full weight of the buckle over his forehead, and collapsed like a pole-axed steer, but by then the other two were already out of range. They let the lad fall, weeping, and withdrew to a safe distance, one laying his hand on his knife.
Ruby dropped the belt and knelt by Hankin, murmuring to him softly, and the two men glanced at each other. They were about to rush at the butcher when a voice made them stop.
“Bugger this! Let’s get the bastards!”
The watchman drew his knife. “Who dares attack us? You?” he asked, pointing with his dagger at a grim- faced cobbler.
“Yes, me.” And before the other could respond, the cobbler had thrown himself forward. The watchman stepped back, but his sneer of contempt changed to a look of concern as he realized that the cobbler was not alone. The crowd, which had averted its eyes as the boy was thrashed, had seen the hated watchmen forced to retreat by the brave actions of one man. Now, even as the cobbler jumped into the fray, his neighbors followed, and instead of one headstrong opponent, the watchman found himself faced with thirty moving forward inexorably. He waved his dagger uncertainly to hold them at bay while he fell back, his friend at his side.
But before they could move far, the cobbler had gripped the man’s arm, immobilizing his knife-hand, and the mob moved in, grabbing both men and dragging them to the awning poles. The two were lashed to it, and Long Jack and the guard were hauled and bound to another. Then, while all four howled with impotent fury, they were thrashed with belts, and when the traders got tired of that, they fetched rotten fruit and pelted the bullies with it.
Ruby was oblivious to all this. Cradling Hankin’s frail body, he carried him past the screaming watchmen and was about to return to his own stall when he was stayed by a hand on his arm.
“Is the child all right?”
“Yes, brother.” Ruby had not spoken to Hugo before, but recognized the friar. “Beaten, but not too badly.”
“Why did they do it?” Hugo asked, shaking his head.
“They knew his master was locked up.”
“Who? The man who owns this stall?”
“Yes, friar. Hadn’t you heard? It was Jordan Lybbe, the outlaw. He’s been arrested – everyone thinks he must have murdered poor Torre.”
“Jordan Lybbe an outlaw?” Hugo repeated with horror. “But he can’t be!”
Simon studied the club speculatively. A man dressed as a monk had robbed men in the town and attacked Ruby. It was possible that Peter had been the thief. If so, maybe it was for the best that he had taken this way out of a disgraced life.
Catching sight of the Abbot’s face, Simon was sure that he had already reached a similar conclusion without seeing the club. His face was pained, but set into a firm blankness, and the bailiff wondered what he had heard in confession when Peter had demanded his talk the previous evening. Baldwin had been interested in the lad even then, Simon knew, and the bailiff wondered at the acute suspicion his friend had shown.
Simon didn’t want to add to the Abbot’s sorrow, but he was the warden’s own bailiff. He could not allow this evidence to be hidden. “Sir?”
Abbot Champeaux turned to him enquiringly, and when he saw the club his eyes widened, and he cast an involuntary glance at the body which told Simon he had guessed the same.
“What is it?” Baldwin asked, grunting as he got to his feet. “Ah – a cudgel, and a solid one at that. Where was it?”
As Simon explained, the knight listened carefully. “It was there?”
The bailiff nodded. “He must have been sickened by what he had done, and tossed it away from him. Or maybe he dropped it there as he came into this alley, filled with his determination to end himself.”
“Perhaps,” Baldwin said, but without conviction. “Why here?” he wondered, squatting by the wall. “Let’s suppose it was his.” He walked to the entrance to the alley, swinging the club, and let it fall. It struck the damp soil of the alley and fell over. “It couldn’t have fallen from his hand, then.”
Simon saw what he meant. The cudgel had lain at the wall opposite the body, and the boy would hardly have let it fall there and then crossed the alley to kill himself. Yet it could not have bounced there as he slumped down.
The knight walked to the body and tossed the stick toward where it had been found. “He could have thrown it away.”
“Perhaps he was revolted by what his club had done and hurled it from him?” the Abbot supposed.
“It’s possible, but if that were so, wouldn’t he have thrown it harder and further? And why come here to die? Suicides hang themselves or cut their wrists at home. What could bring him here?”
“He had the mind of a monk,” said the Abbot. “He didn’t want to pollute the Abbey precinct with his blood.”
“If he had such a mind, why kill himself and endanger his soul by such an affront to God?” Baldwin asked curtly.
He squatted, staring at the wall and the fallen cudgel, then down at the body, before giving a short exclamation. Slowly, reverently, he uncurled the fingers of Peter’s hand. He studied the hand with intense concentration, and as the Abbot made to leave, he looked up. “Abbot, could you come here, please?”
“What is it, Sir Baldwin?” the older man said, his voice betraying a degree of asperity.
“This,” Baldwin said quietly.
Simon saw a series of deep slashes that cut the palm and fingers. He winced at the sight: he could imagine the pain of the blade cutting so deep into the flesh.
“Well, Sir Knight? Am I supposed to be interested in the last madness of the boy? He is dead, and these marks and mutilations are of no concern to me now,” the Abbot said brusquely.
“They should be. I have only ever seen this kind of mark on men who had tried to defend themselves against an attacker. Why should a suicide slash at his hands? But a man who is set upon by another with a knife will often grab at it to keep the blade away, and as the attacker pulls the knife back…”
“He was attacked?”
“Yes, Abbot. This lad is no suicide. These marks show he tried to protect himself against his killer. My lord Abbot, Peter was murdered!”
“Who could do such a thing?” Abbot Robert whispered, horrified.
Baldwin shrugged. “That I don’t know. Perhaps the man who has been robbing, and perhaps it was the same man who killed Torre. That could explain why the cudgel is here: because Peter saw the thief in the alley, and maybe the robber dropped the club to hide his guilt, and then couldn’t find it again, or ran away as soon as he had killed the boy. Perhaps he wanted to implicate the boy in his own crimes. It is no matter – what does matter is that Peter was murdered, and didn’t commit suicide.”
“Sir Baldwin, you give me a crumb of hope in the midst of all my despair.”
“We still have to seek his murderer.”
“Who could it be? Who would dare such a crime?”
“We have arrested the man who had the knife from the sheath on Torre’s body. It is possible that he could have killed Peter, but…”
“What, Sir Baldwin?”
“He was with Jeanne and Margaret for some time before I had him arrested,” Baldwin said slowly. “I would be surprised if the novice could have been here for long without being discovered: this alley is well used. Yet our man has been in prison for over an hour already. We must go and see whether he can shed some light on this.
