The Abbot's Gibbet (28 page)

Pietro was lounging on the opposite side of the road from the house, staring at the window of Arthur’s upper rooms. His attitude was that of a man who has made a purchase and is waiting confidently for his servant to bring his bauble to him. Arthur’s sense of wellbeing evaporated as if driven off by the breeze that gently shivered the flags in the street. The alcohol which had filled him with happy contentment now fuelled his anger. The arrogant puppy! What nerve, to blockade his house like this. It might be the way to steal a man’s daughter in his own barbarian land, but Arthur would be hanged rather than let him win over Avice by such overt means.

“What are you waiting for, sir?”

Pietro spun around, shocked out of his pleasant reverie. He had been trying to compose a poem to Avice—he couldn’t run to a tune—and had forgotten that here he would be on plain view to all. At first he could only gaze in astonishment at the furious merchant. Arthur was bristling like an angry terrier, and 252

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Pietro half expected to see his hackles rise and hear him growl.

“Well?” Arthur hissed. “Do you expect me to call Avice and have her tossed to you like scraps to a wolf?

That’s what you look like, an evil predator who would rend my daughter from her family. You have disordered the peace of my house, upset my daughter, possibly harmed the match between her and the son of a knight, and dismayed my wife. And now you have the bald nerve to stand at my door as if you have the right to expect that she should come to you.”

“Sir, I only hope for a glimpse of Avice, that is all,”

Pietro protested. “I love her—”

“Love! You’ve no idea what the word means. If you
loved
her, you would let her marry the man to whom she is betrothed, and stop worrying her! She will marry a squire. Are you a squire? John belongs to an ancient family, he’s related to an earl—are you?”

“Sir, my father is prosperous, and he can—”

“Prosperous? What is
money
to me? I have money and to spare, I have no need of
money.
”

Pietro could feel his face reddening under the onslaught. It was not that the abuse was unjust; on the contrary, the man’s concern was all too well-justified, especially with his own father’s lack of money.

“And where is the proof of your affluence, eh? How can I trust your word?”

He could not. That was the rub. Pietro and his father had been forced to scrape along for quite some time now.

“Avice will marry a man who can provide for her, a man who will have a decent horse and the money to keep it, a house and servants, with land enough to ensure she will always have food,” Arthur thundered, The Abbot’s Gibbet

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“not some jackanapes in fancy clothing with a brokendown pony!”

Pietro winced and stepped back. His retreat fired a cruel pleasure in Arthur’s breast. With inebriated enthusiasm he followed the dumbstruck lad like a fighting knight who sees his opponent falter.

“I do not believe that you and your father are genuine. I think you are shams—fakes—and I shall warn the Abbot that you are trying to defraud him.”

Arthur saw with anger that the lad didn’t even try to defend himself. Anyone accused of such crimes should instantly deny them, but this fool was taking every word as if they were all true . . .
all true.
Arthur gaped. Until now his words had run away with him; he had intended only to persuade Pietro that he was not welcome around his daughter, but this lack of defense must mean that his suspicions were closer to the mark than he had thought. If this was so, the Camminos were worse than even Marion had assumed. He needed say no more. Pietro threw him a look in which loathing and fear were commingled, then turned on his heel and stalked off toward the Abbey. One thought was uppermost in Pietro’s mind. Avice had promised she would go with him, but if she heard Arthur’s accusations, would she change her mind? At the least she would doubt him. Pietro gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t—he
couldn’t
—let her hear what her father believed. She would never look at him again.

Yet he couldn’t just run away to elope with her. His father would never agree. No, he must stay. He had come to this decision when he rounded the last bend in the road, and saw the mob at the gates to the Abbey.

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*

*

*

Abbot Champeaux had spent much of the morning in the Abbey Church with the people who wanted to make offerings at the shrines to St. Rumon and the founders of the Abbey; he still had many other duties to attend to. There were the alms to be given, and not only food, because five and twenty years before, he had assigned money to buy shoes and clothing for the poor. The almoner had purchased a quantity of cloth for those who could not afford it, and money and bread must be given to the lepers in the maudlin, the only benefit to them of the fair since they were outlawed for the duration. It was all a heavy drain on the Abbey’s resources, especially the eight bushels of wheaten flour which would be cooked into loaves for the poor and the wine which would be drunk by all the monks. Abbot Champeaux sometimes felt that the most important thing in his life was money. It guided his thoughts almost every hour of the day. When he first heard the shouting, he thought it was just the noise from the fair borne on the wind. It was only when it grew loud and he heard anxious cries from inside the court and the ponderous creak and slam of the great gate that he hurried out. Lay brothers stood wringing their hands as he approached. “What is the meaning of all this noise and disturbance?” he demanded.

“Father Abbot, there is a riot!”

The Abbot closed his eyes for a second. Other abbeys and priories had suffered mutiny, but he had never expected to have one here. Tavistock had always been treated leniently by him—his taxes were fair, his demands few. There was no reason for the townspeople to revolt. “Do we know why?”

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“No, Abbot. The mob just appeared at the gates, demanding the Venetians.”

Champeaux gazed at him blankly. It seemed incomprehensible that the town should have taken against the Camminos. Walking to the Court gate, he went to the wicket and pulled the bolt back. When a monk ran to prevent him, he gave a curt order to leave him alone. Hiding was no way to stop a rabble. Throwing open the door, he walked out.

It was only a small gathering, he saw, maybe forty all told. Some held clubs and sticks aloft, but more gripped jars of ale or wine. They had been shouting and making threats, but as he appeared, the noise faded. Those at the front were slowed and went quiet at the sight of the most powerful man in the town. When he glanced round at the faces, most of them red with ale and heat, none of them would meet his eye. They gazed at the ground and shuffled. Gradually the atmosphere changed as those at the back of the mob realized something was happening. The rowdy chanting became a sequence of shouts, and then a general mumbling. Soon that ceased, and the road was engulfed by stillness.

“My friends, what are you all doing here?” he asked quietly, and in the silence his voice carried clearly and echoed back from the houses opposite. “This is the Feast Day of St. Rumon—the Abbey’s saint, and yours—and you come here drunk, yelling and cursing as if you wish to pull down his own sacred shrine. Do you think your saint would love you and protect you as he always has done if you were to desecrate his Abbey?”

“We wouldn’t do anything against St. Rumon,”

someone called, and the Abbot peered through the crowd, trying to see who it was.

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“No? But you come here, armed with cudgels to beat at his door.”

“Only because they locked the doors against us.”

“What else could they do? What would you do if an armed mob appeared at your door—invite them in?

Come, what is the point of all this disturbance?”

At once many voices were raised, and the Abbot could hear nothing. He held up a hand. “One at a time, please! Now—
you,
you tell me what this is all about.”

The man he pointed to, a miner, met his gaze resolutely. “Abbot, we know you’ve got Venetians with you. They’re known to be criminals, felons. We came here to demand that you throw them out.”

“You demand that I throw out guests, when my duty of hospitality requires me to look after them?”

“Your duty doesn’t demand that you protect usurers and thieves, Abbot.”

There was an angry murmuring, and Abbot Robert held up his hand again. “Who among you accuses these men?”

“We were told,” the miner stated, but behind him Champeaux saw men shamefacedly letting their weapons drop, and others surreptitiously hiding them from sight.

“My friends, these men
are
here, but they are harmless. I assure you that they are innocent of any crime against me, against the Abbey, or against the town.”

“Isn’t it true they’re trying to make you sell them your wool?”

“No one can force me to sell my fleece. If it will make you comfortable, I swear I shall sell them nothing. There! You can have no quarrel with these men, and neither do I. Now disperse, before the watch comes to beat you away. I will have no fighting at my The Abbot’s Gibbet

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door, especially on St. Rumon’s Day. My monks have enough to do without mending your bones!”

It was a bold demand, but the crowd had lost its collective will to violence. The Abbot had seen such groups before. They gathered where there was too much ale, and a single man could rouse them to rage in a moment, but all too often another strong-willed man could cow them, and the faces here were more embarrassed than brutal. The Abbot took advantage of the sudden lull to make the Sign of the Cross, and that was enough to end it. As if it was an accepted signal, the crush thinned as men sought entertainment and more ale. Heaving a sigh of relief, the Abbot watched as they faded away. It was a good-sized group, he thought to himself. If they had truly wanted to cause havoc, it would have been difficult even for the watch to dispose of them. He was doubly glad that he had been able to disperse them before they committed any acts of violence upon the Abbey or his monks. As the men wandered away up the hill, Champeaux leaned through the wicket-gate and called to the gatekeeper, “Open the gates and let them stay open.”

As the great oaken doors rasped wide on their iron hinges, he glanced back. There were only a few pots and sticks to show where the crowd had been. He should have told the rioters to take away their own rubbish, but he reflected that it was all for the best that he had not. One such demand could have been enough to swing their mood back to violence again. He was about to return to his study when he saw two figures hesitantly approaching—Pietro and his servant. The Abbot waited, outwardly calm and patient, but inwardly seething, sure that they were somehow responsible for the eruption. 258

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“Are you all right?”

Pietro entered first, pale and wary. “Yes, my lord Abbot, I’m unhurt.”

“What caused this madness? Did you see what led to it?”

“No,” Pietro said, and there was a baffled look to him which brooked no debate. “I was returning when I saw the men here, and I hid from them.”

“I did,” said Luke, and he cast about him fearfully.

“There was a friar in the market-place giving a sermon about usury, and he quoted my master’s name as a usurer. It was him who incited the crowd to fury, my lord Abbot.”

“Who gave my name? What’s the matter?” called Antonio genially. He had been taking a nap when he heard the row from the main gate, and had missed most of Luke’s words. “What have you been up to now, Luke?”

“A friar?” Champeaux repeated thoughtfully. Friars had often caused problems before through overzealous preaching, but this was the first time it had happened in Tavistock. “Antonio, there is nothing for you to fear. A few hotheads, that is all.”

“Fear?” Antonio gazed at him blankly. “Why should I fear?”

“Master,” Luke burst out excitedly, “it was that same friar—the one we saw on the way here, and again at the tavern. He was talking about usury and rousing the people against the sin, as he called it.”

“It seems as if it’s impossible to escape the prejudice of the uneducated,” Antonio said loftily.

“This has happened to you before?” Champeaux asked.

“Yes, in Bayonne,” Antonio said.

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“But master, he was talking about
you
—he gave your name, he described you. The mob was after your blood!” Luke cried. “I thought we were going to be lynched.”

Pietro stared at Luke. He quickly turned to the Abbot. “My lord Abbot, I think it is dangerous for us to stay here now, and not good for the Abbey if we are likely to create disturbances by remaining. Perhaps it would be better for all if we were to leave.”

“We can’t, Pietro,” said Antonio. “Not yet.”

The Abbot shot him a look. It was clear enough what was on the Venetian’s mind: the deal for the fleeces. “I am sure you would be safe enough here, my friend, but if all that holds you back is our negotiation, I am afraid that I must refuse your offer.”

Antonio started. “But, Abbot, you . . . Is my offer not high enough? If I were to increase the amount . . . ?”

“No, Antonio. I had to give my word to the mob to stop them from their mad rampage.”

“But, Abbot, surely . . . surely your word was given under duress. There’s no need for you to be bound by it . . . and think of the profit it would give you!”

“My word is my word, Cammino,” the Abbot said, and though his voice was calm, it held a steel edge. Antonio lifted his hands and let them fall in a gesture of defeat. He was stunned at the sudden reversal of his fortunes. This was the second blow in a year. He turned from the Abbot to glower balefully at the gates, now open. Apart from the debris, there was nothing to show that a few minutes before the rabble had congregated to bring about his ruin.

“In that case,” Pietro said, with a glance at his father,

“I think we should leave immediately. If we remain we will only cause more trouble.”