And for once the older man obeyed his brother, but as he took his leave, all thoughts of Elias temporarily fell from his mind. He could not forget the sight of the monk hurrying up the road. Then he realized what had looked so incongruous: the monk had been carrying a cudgel. Almost unconsciously he followed after the cowled figure.
15
A rthur yawned and poured more wine, and was pleased to hear the door slam. “And where have you been?”
“Father?” Avice walked in, her maid remaining at the door, and threw herself at Arthur, sitting on his lap and hugging him. “You should have seen the jugglers and musicians! They were wonderful. There was a woman there, she had the sweetest voice, and she sang all about Judas and how he was lent thirty pieces of silver by Jesus to buy food but got robbed, and betrayed Jesus to the lord of Jerusalem to get back the money-oh, it was so sad!”
She sat up, and he could see a tear running down her cheek. “There, there, child. It was only a song. Maybe they shouldn’t let musicians play in the town if they are going to upset the women.”
“Oh, but it was so beautiful, Father. And the others all sang about kings and queens, about Arthur and Guinevere, and one had songs all about the King, our King’s father.”
“Yes,” Arthur said heavily. “No one has any songs about the new King yet, do they?”
“Father, don’t be so nasty. I’m sure everything you hear about him is untrue.” She got up, looking down at him affectionately. “I’ll go to my bed now. You should go up soon too. You look tired.”
“I am,” he admitted. “But I have a little more to do.”
“Oh yes?” she said, glancing pointedly at the goblet and jug.
He slapped her rump. “Yes, little shrew! Don’t look at my wine like your mother. You are getting more like her every day as it is.”
“I am not!” she declared hotly, but kissed him and left the room. Her maid stood aside, curtseyed, and followed her charge.
It was a few minutes later that Henry walked in. Arthur waved him to a seat where a flagon of ale stood warming by the fire. While the man took a long draft, Arthur drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. “Well?”
Henry was a wiry, short man with his face pitted and scarred from a disease in his childhood. He gave an expressive shrug. “She met him early on, but not for very long. Afterward she just walked round the town, watched the dancers and acrobats, then went out to the fairground.”
“She met no man there?”
“A couple of monks. The first had some words with her, but she sent him off with a flea in his ear.”
“Why? Could you hear what they said?”
Henry gave him a long, cold look. “If I was close enough to hear what was said, I’d have been close enough to be seen, and Avice knows my face. What would you want, that I could hear what was said and be told to leave her alone, or that I kept back and could stay with her to protect her from footpads and thieves?”
“You are right, of course. Continue.”
“The monk ran off to the north, and your daughter carried on round the edge of the fairground. Further on, she met another monk, who had his face covered with his cowl against the cold, for the wind was chill. Your daughter told Susan to leave her for a while, and he walked with her for some time, talking. She left him when she decided to come home.”
“It must have been getting late by then.” Arthur frowned. “And it was another monk?”
“It was late. I heard the compline bell ringing as we went back down the road to town. He must have been known to her, for she was civil enough to him. Not like the first one.”
Arthur stared at the flames. “Another monk,” he repeated. “Henry, you may think me paranoid or just an old fool, but what was a monk doing out of the Abbey at compline? The monks are all supposed to be in their church.”
“Perhaps the Abbot had given him a special mission, sir.”
“If he was performing a duty for the Abbot, what was he doing chatting to my daughter? Henry, this second monk: was he tall, short, fat, thin, broad, narrow? No! Before you answer, think. Specifically: was he like Pietro?”
“The Venetian?” Henry asked sneeringly, but then his brow furrowed. There was a faraway look in his eyes for a minute or two, and he took a drink from the flagon gazing into the middle distance. “It couldn’t be, surely. In body I suppose he was very like the boy, but would he dare to emulate a priest?”
“I think the bastard would impersonate the Pope to get his hands on my blasted daughter!” Arthur snapped, and sat back, glowering. “In the name of God, don’t tell my wife about this. If Marion was to hear of it, I shudder to think what she’d do.”
“Do you want me to stay with Mistress Avice when she goes out in future?”
Arthur slumped limply in his chair. “Yes, do that. And in the meantime, I shall have to do some other work.” Other work about summed it up, he added to himself. If his daughter was so set on the lad, he would have to speed up his enquiries about the Venetians staying with the Abbot, and see whether they were as prosperous as they appeared. “Henry, tomorrow, as soon as it is light, go to the Abbey and see if you can find a monk to talk to. Learn all you can about this boy and his father. I must know what sort of men they are.”
He’d done this often enough in the last two years, and he knew his business. It was late, but that should help. His victims would be the more insensible from tiredness and drinking. The first places to check were the taverns and alehouses which lay dotted all over the town. Here would be the drunks, the men who could be quickly subdued, struck once on the head and then relieved of all their spare money and any valuables.
It was urgent that he should get as much as he could as quickly as possible. He could kick himself for his error, but it was hardly a surprise he’d killed the wrong man. It was so dark without sconces or torches. When he’d seen the burly frame, he had instantly assumed it was Lybbe; it was not his fault that Torre looked so similar in the dark. When he had struck, the man’s back was to him, and he hadn’t bothered to check his face. There hadn’t seemed to be the need.
But he felt stupid about the mistake; and his own danger was doubled as a result. Not only was he still at risk in case Lybbe might recognize him, now he must keep one step ahead of the knight from Furnshill over Torre’s death.
There was an increased anticipation as he waited. His desperate need to escape from the town fuelled his tension.
He’d decided not to go to the tavern where he had attacked Will Ruby. There might be a watchman posted to catch him. No, tonight he went further up the hill, past the cell and on toward the fair. Here there were several alehouses which even now, late in the evening, were filled with merchants and tradesmen spending their earnings on wine, ale, and women.
The first one he came to had a handy, quiet alley alongside it, from which he could see the whole of the front of the place and most of the street in both directions. He installed himself in the darkness at the entrance and leaned against a wall, idly swinging his club. There was plenty of time. He had all night, and his patience was up to the task.
At breakfast the next day, Baldwin was pleased to note that Jeanne appeared happy to see him. Simon watched his old friend walk to the table and take his seat beside her. When Margaret nudged him delightedly, he grumbled cantankerously, “I know, I have eyes in my head!” But she could tell he was relieved as well.
The knight glanced at Jeanne. “No Abbot this morning?”
“You haven’t been to the fair before, have you, Sir Baldwin? No, well, today is the Feast of St. Rumon, and the Abbot will be with his monks. They will hold an extended service to the honor of the Saint, and a Mass for the founders of the Abbey.”