“Yes, but it wouldn’t suit the cut or color of your habit to fight, would it? Come now, let’s forget it. It was only the ale talking; everyone knows the Abbot is good and honorable.” Muttering, the youth backed away, then spun around and stamped from the room.
Holcroft gave a sigh of relief. “What’s the point of picking on a beardless youth?”
Torre gave him a cynical leer. “So you want to protect your position as port-reeve, do you? Does the office matter so much you’ll forget your friends for a few more days in power?”
“Roger, if the truth be known, I am heartily sick of the job, and whoever is elected to it is welcome.”
“Yes, you’ll give up the money, and the free rent, and the right to arrest and hold people who upset you, with pleasure.”
“All I can do is what I am told,” he said frankly. “And it’s little enough, heaven knows. But I’d prefer to see you free to go to the fair tomorrow and not being held in the clink for libelling the Abbot.”
“You’d take his side against your old friends.”
“No. But I’ll be glad to give up all this responsibility and be able to get home at a decent hour like I used to.” And maybe then Hilary would be more friendly, he thought. His wife had been cold and unresponsive for so long now, it was hard to remember when she had last been a true wife to him.
“Oh, yes! You’ll be happy to lose all the profits of your work, no doubt.”
Holcroft shook his head. What Torre could not understand was the pressure of the interminable record-keeping, the late hours checking tolls with the prior and others, the planning and administration.
“I can’t sit here with you. For all I know you’re recording everything I say to report to the Abbot himself!” Torre declared, rising.
“Roger!” Holcroft pleaded, and gestured. “Come on, sit down. I wanted to see you to relax.”
“Relax with someone else. I’m going to.” Torre stumped away.
“Come, now, Master port-reeve. You’ll try some ale? That was good work, keeping Torre and the monk apart. There would have been too much grief from that.”
“Mistress Agatha, I don’t know why I bothered,” he said, gratefully taking a fresh ale. He noticed Elias sitting with an unknown companion. Putting the cook from his mind, Holcroft assumed that Elias’ friend was someone who had arrived for the fair.
Agatha looked down at him sympathetically. She knew that David had been working madly for the last few weeks, and was about to offer him some words of comfort when she saw new arrivals.
Arthur peered inside, searching for the Camminos.
“Well? Are they there?” his wife demanded.
“Not yet, my dear, but I’m sure they will be,” Arthur assured her. He led the way to the bench recently vacated by the Venetians. It had been a mistake to bring his wife with him. She had wanted to remain at their rented house and supervise its decoration, but Arthur wished her to recover from their long ride, and hoped a pot or two of wine would ease her temper.
At home, he was used to surrendering to her will. Marion was the daughter of a knight, and if it hadn’t been for her father’s need for ready money, and Arthur’s willingness to extend a loan, they might never have wed. In matters of business he could insist on her aid, though, and he was sure that Cammino could be useful. Any contacts with wealthy foreigners were to be fostered, and the mention of a fleet, together with evidence of the acquaintance of an Abbot, meant that Cammino wielded some power. Marion’s presence might be useful. “Come, dear. Would you like some wine?”
Avice sat decorously at the end of the bench, accepting a pot of wine. The Venetian man had looked so dashing in his foreign clothes, she thought, like a squire from a royal court. As her parents spoke, her eyes kept flitting to the doorway.
After serving them, Agatha stood back and surveyed her domain. When she saw Torre talking to Lizzie, saw his hand on her arm, and the way she giggled and nodded, the alewife’s eyes shot to Holcroft. Agatha could see his pain when he saw Lizzie leaving with Torre. It wasn’t the first time a man had fallen for Lizzie, and it wouldn’t be the last, but Agatha had a soft spot for the port-reeve, and his dismay saddened her.
There was a soft belch at her side, and she turned to see the friar gazing thoughtfully into the distance. At first she thought he was simply drunk, but when he noticed her, he said apologetically, “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking – thought I recognized someone.”
Lizzie straightened her skirts and smoothed them before sitting at the edge of her palliasse to tighten her braids and rearrange them. “Come on, Roger. I have to get back to the hall or Agatha will throw me out.”
“A moment more,” he groaned, and reached for her.
She stood, chuckling, neatly avoiding his hand. “No! I have to work. Especially now, with the fair about to begin. I shouldn’t really have done this tonight. What if the Abbot should hear?”
“Let him! Why should I care?”
“You may not have to worry, but I do. He could have me evicted. It’s happened before.”
He looked up, an angry gleam in his eye. “You think the port-reeve would report you for this?”
Lizzie shook her head. “No, he fancies me. David would never report me, but someone else might.”
“He fancies you?” Torre rolled on to an elbow, and his face was serious. “I had no idea. He must have seen us leave the room together.”
“So what?” She patted her hair and tucked a stray wisp away. “He doesn’t own me any more than you do. I live as I want and no man can keep me. In any case, he’s never so much as touched me. I don’t think he knows how to.”
Torre frowned up at her, then at the door. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t hurt his feelings.”
“You were happy enough to in there,” she said tartly.
“That was different: just an argument. But I know David. He’s a decent man. I wouldn’t want to offend him.”
Lizzie froze for a moment as the bell from the Abbey tolled for compline. “Listen to that, it’s getting late,” she said, hurriedly completing her toilet. “Look, if you don’t want to upset him, don’t go back into the hall but go straight to your rooms. If he doesn’t see you with me, he’ll believe me when I tell him you left some time ago. All right?”
“Good idea.” He climbed up and donned his loose-fitting hose, tying them neatly, pulling on his shirt and doublet, then his red jacket.
She watched him contentedly. He had a good figure, she thought, and he’d been kind and gentle. Hopefully he’d return later on, and if he did, she’d not mind showing him her favors again. She waited till he’d dressed and walked quickly out, then finished her own toilet. A shoe had been kicked away, and she had to seek it, finding it partly hidden beneath the blanket tossed from the bed, before she could follow him. Closing the door, she turned and stopped. Leaning against the door-jamb of the tavern was Holcroft. He stared at her for what seemed a long time, then turned without a word and walked away.
She heaved a sigh, hoping he wouldn’t go straight to the Abbot to accuse her, then made her way back into the hall and began pouring ale. When she passed Agatha, she slipped the coin into the alewife’s hand. The alewife always had her fifth for room and rental.
He curled his lip at the smell from the pile of rubbish. It stank of putrefaction and decay, a revolting concoction. Leaning against the wall, he waited while his heartbeat slowed and calmed.
It had been easy to waylay him; easier than he’d dreamed. The burly figure was instantly recognizable, even in the dark with no lanterns or sconces – they weren’t allowed during the fair because of the hazard – and although he’d seen the man waiting patiently, he’d done nothing more than duck his head and make a vague sign of the cross.
The killer nudged tentatively at the corpse with his foot. It was almost an anticlimax now he was dead. The action of stabbing him was so quick, and his gasp and collapse so sudden, that he could hardly believe he’d succeeded. There had been no cry, no shriek for help, just a brief, pained gasp, and then he’d dropped like a felled tree. It gave his murderer a feeling of immense power, knowing he could kill so swiftly and easily with impunity.