Baldwin cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”
She pursed her lips with frustration. “Yes, Baldwin. I will miss her, and I would like to see her again soon. Especially since I would like to know whether you and she intend to meet again. Some might think you were enjoying keeping us in suspense.”
“Oh, I hardly think so,” Baldwin said, urging his horse on once more.
“Baldwin, tell me!”
“There is little to tell,” he said, but then he cast a glance at Simon before giving Margaret a quick grin. “But if you truly feel you will miss her, perhaps you should arrange to see her again – and soon. Oh, and it’s surely time you came to visit me at Furnshill – maybe you could bring her with you? Jeanne said she would like to see the place.”
They carried on past the last of the houses. The road began to climb, and near the top of the hill Margaret saw Baldwin frown and stiffen. Following his gaze she saw the dismal clearing where the gibbet stood. Here there was a steady breeze, and the leaves rustled on the trees as the little cavalcade approached.
To Margaret’s surprise, Baldwin stopped his horse and pointed at it. “When we first came to this town, I was almost jealous of that gallows. It is so much newer and more solid than the scaffold at Crediton, and I thought it was a symbol of the Abbot’s power and wealth. Now I don’t know.”
“It’s only a gibbet,” Margaret protested.
“Yes, and as such it is a potent reminder of justice. But if we had not understood the meaning of the clues at the last minute, if Hugo had not been here, or if we had simply been lazy, the wrong man might have been hanged. Then it would have ceased to be a mark of justice and would have become the representation of evil. I loathe the sight of it.”
Simon gazed at the simple wooden frame. “I don’t understand you. There must be thousands of identical ones all over the kingdom. Do you mean you hate this one because Lybbe was nearly hanged here by mistake?”
“Mistake? It would not have been a mistake but a simple travesty of justice. If Lybbe had died here, it would have been because Luke had perjured himself. Fearing retribution from neither God nor any man, Luke swore that Lybbe had been a trail-baston purely for his own revenge. Luke would have made a mockery of justice to see an old enemy hang, and that act would have polluted the whole town.”
“But God let you see the truth, Baldwin,” Margaret pointed out gently.
“God? Perhaps,” he muttered, his attention still fixed on the gibbet. After a few moments he spurred his horse and they passed by the wooden frame. As he rode, Margaret’s words rang in his ears. They carried a serene confidence, proof of her religious faith.
But Baldwin could recall the faces of friends who were dead, Knights Templar like himself, men who had died during torture, or been hanged or burned alive. They had been betrayed by politicians who coveted their wealth. The loyal knights had all been unjustly slaughtered, and God had not helped them, even though they were dedicated to His glory.
Suddenly he felt sick. All those good men were gone now, yet Lybbe had not been hanged: why should he live when the Templars had suffered so much? Baldwin did not have the comfort of belief. He could never again trust in God’s justice. As he passed the gallows, he made himself a vow: he would not rest if he thought that his own efforts could save an innocent man.
The gibbet squeaked in the wind. It almost sounded like laughter, and Baldwin shuddered. No matter what his intentions, the Abbot’s gibbet seemed to be reminding him that long after he was buried, it would still be there, ending other lives, whether justly or not. Its very permanence mocked him, and made his resolution futile.
But it did not change his decision.
