Jordan Lybbe leaned against the pole of the awning and yawned. The day had been busy, and he could nod with inner satisfaction as he saw how his stock had been depleted. Now the throng before his stall was reducing, and he had time to rest a little.
The pair of men came along the little alley where his bolts of cloth were set out, talking to all the other traders. Lybbe’s boy, Hankin, watched them approach with eyes like saucers. They strode with cudgels in hand, and Hankin saw them taking money from all the stallholders.
“Good day, gentlemen. How can I serve you?” he began, but he was thrust aside. The watchmen wanted his master.
Lybbe sat on a box and waited while the two surveyed the produce in his stall. He radiated comfortable enthusiasm, as if hoping for a sale.
“You have good cloth. Is this the first time you have been to Tavistock Fair?” one of them asked.
Lybbe nodded, beaming. “Bonjour.”
The two looked at each other. “You understand English, don’t you?”
“Pardon?” After so long his Gascon accent was perfect.
Long Jack frowned. He hadn’t met a stallholder who couldn’t speak English before. He spoke no Gascon or French, and the breakdown in language wasn’t something he’d anticipated. Gesturing with his cudgel, he indicated all the merchandise. “This! It’s all good cloth. You’ve got to pay us for looking after it. You understand?”
Lybbe nodded and ducked his head, smiling. “Oui, c’est bon, n’est-ce pas?”
“This is a waste of time,” Little Jack said to his companion.
“Just take one of the bolts, then. We haven’t got all day.”
Little Jack moved toward a rack of cloth and selected one. Lybbe nodded happily, and Little Jack turned to leave the stall. Instantly a thin cord whipped round his neck, and he was jerked backward, off balance, held by the throat with all his body’s weight drawing on the thong. He gurgled and gave a hoarse cry, the muscles on his neck standing out as he fought for air.
“Now then,” he heard an amiable voice say beside his ear. “You weren’t trying to take a present from an honest trader, were you?”
The watchman scrabbled with his hands to tug the ligature free, dropping cloth and club together.
Lybbe continued cheerfully, “I like giving presents, but only when I’m ready. I don’t like people trying to force me into giving them things; I don’t like that at all. So when I let you go, you’ll just walk out into the street quietly and we’ll say nothing more. And if anything happens to my stock in all the time I’m here, I’ll be visiting you. You understand? I’ll come to ask you why such a big strong watchman like you couldn’t stop someone stealing my stock, or burning it, or just tipping it into the mud. And I’ll ask you all about when you were near my stall, so I can find out when the people did the damage. And I might just get angry then and lash out at someone. Anyone who’s close at the time. Know what I mean?”
He shoved, releasing his cord at the same time, and the man staggered forward until he came to a halt against a trestle. Choking, he stood rubbing his throat, hatred glittering in his eyes. Lybbe twirled the leather thong round his finger. “Like I said, anything strange happens round here, and I’ll be along to see you. Got that?” He picked up the cudgel and weighed it in his hand meditatively. Then he tossed it to Little Jack. The watchman managed to catch it before it struck him in the belly, but all the time his eyes were fixed narrowly on the short figure before him, as if trying to fix the man’s features permanently in his memory.
10
Margaret had invited Jeanne to accompany her on a visit to the fair, leaving Baldwin and Simon to join Holcroft, who awaited them with the watchman Daniel. The port-reeve was frustrated at having to assist the knight from Furnshill, for he had many other duties to see to, but the Abbot had been quite definite even after hearing about the attack on Will Ruby. “This is a murder,” he pointed out, “and you must help Baldwin and the bailiff if you can. The attack on Ruby is secondary; it can wait.”
With Hugh, Simon’s servant, in tow, Margaret led her new friend up the hill, past the alley where the garbage was still heaped, past the cookshop and the tavern, and on up toward the fairground.
Margaret often went with her husband to Lydford Fair, but Tavistock Fair was on a different scale. The number of stalls was daunting, and many carried goods from far afield. She stared around her as they passed, but it was only as they came to the food-stalls that she began to study the goods in earnest. She had almost run out of spices, and needed to replenish their stocks.
Hugh stood resignedly as his mistress haggled with stallholders. In a short space of time he was laden with baskets. Oranges and almonds, loaves of sugar, packets of ginger and cinnamon, mace, cardamom and cloves, were all piled into his baskets until he complained at the weight.
Margaret turned her nose up at goods she could buy at Lydford. Mustard, salt and saffron were all ignored, as was pepper, but to Hugh’s dismay she slowed at the barrels of fish, and he was delighted when he heard Jeanne attract her attention to the cloth-sellers.
“Didn’t you say you needed new material?”
Soon Margaret was casting a speculative eye over the bolts on display. “It has to be the right color for him.”
“For your husband?”
“No,” she said, feeling a purple silk with a sad covetousness. It would have to go to a woman more prosperous than she: Simon would never agree to such an expense. “For Baldwin. He has no decent tunics.”
“You have taken it upon yourself to buy him new clothes?”
Margaret smiled at the note of surprise. “There is no one else to do it for him.”
“He has no woman?”
“He’s never married, and he rarely meets women of his own rank to woo. And he’s far too honorable to take a peasant.”
“Oh.” The simple expression carried an undertone of interest.
“I would be grateful,” Margaret said innocently, “if you could help me-what colors do you think would suit him?”
Jeanne threw her a curious glance. “You know him much better than I"
“Yes, but sometimes another opinion can help greatly.”
“Really?”
Jordan watched the three approach and moved forward to the trestle. “My ladies, you must surely want to see the best in the fair. For two such beautiful ladies, only the finest wares will do. Come and see the bolts here.”
Margaret inclined her head at the compliment, and she and Jeanne followed him to the makeshift shed he had constructed behind the table between two wagons. Here they found racks set out with the choicest materials. Cloth of gold, gauze, and fine woollens from the Flemish towns were displayed, and Margaret gasped when she saw the fine colors.
“There are cloths here that will make you both look like queens,” Jordan said confidently. “Look at this.” He pulled out a deep blue material. “Could any lady want a finer wool for a tunic?”
“It’s not for us that we’re looking,” Jeanne managed when Jordan drew breath. “It is for a man.”
“Excellent, my lady. And your husband must be a strong and noble gentleman, I am sure-and a man with a wonderful eye for beauty. This would be the perfect thing.”
She eyed the crimson cloth in his hands, then looked at Margaret. “What do you think my husband would need?” she asked, and giggled. Margaret grinned, then both were rocking with gales of laughter while the stallholder and Hugh exchanged uncomprehending stares.
Elias’ door was unlocked. Inside it was as black as a cellar; the shop’s entrance faced east, and the meager light from the waning sun missed the interior completely. Baldwin waited while the port-reeve cursed and muttered, trying to light tinder from flint and his knife. As soon as the flames spluttered fitfully into life, he lit a candle, and the room was filled with a yellow glow as he handed it to Baldwin.