Henry stayed until they had finished the pitcher between them, but there was little more to learn, and he left the monk, now with every appearance of contentment, to make his way back to his master’s house. En route he saw a familiar figure, and dawdled to study him.
It was the young Venetian, Pietro, and his servant. The pair waited a little to the north of the tavern, standing in an alleyway in the shadow of a large house. Henry was not sure, but he had a feeling that they were waiting for someone, and as he watched, he saw the figures of Avice and her maid approach. When he noted how the young girl’s face lit with joy at the sight of her lover, Henry looked on grimly. His master would have a problem in persuading her to leave the Venetian alone.
He realized that the four were continuing down the hill toward him, and he turned to hurry away before he could be seen, when he tripped. Another hurrying fair-goer had stumbled into him, and Henry stifled a quick curse at the man as he recognized the young monk Peter. The groom scrambled to his feet and hurried to a wall, glancing up the road. He was amazed to see the monk standing before his master’s daughter. Also watching was the old friar, from the other side of the street.
“My lady, I must demand that you-”
Henry saw Pietro take a casual step forward. “If you are prepared to renounce your vocation, your habit is no protection. Leave my lady in peace!” he said, and suddenly his hand whipped out and slapped Peter on the cheek, almost spinning the boy completely around before he fell to the ground.
Peter lay sobbing with fury and jealousy, while Avice and Pietro stepped past. He could not even muster the energy to call out; he was exhausted-and ashamed of his action. The day before, life had seemed full of promise; his future was mapped out for him, and he knew his vocation-and yet now all was ruined. He was in love with a woman who spurned him, his life’s ambition was destroyed, and his hope for happiness had been crushed beneath her dainty heel.
He felt a hand grasp his elbow and he was hauled to his feet. “My son, my son, what is all this?”
Peter wiped his eyes, smearing dirt over his face. “Friar? It’s nothing. Nothing.” His eyes followed Avice as she made her way down the hill with her squire. “How could she prefer him?”
Hugo patted his shoulder. “It is better that she should choose a man such as he rather than persuade you from your calling.”
“But he…”
“What, my son?” asked Hugo patiently.
Peter set his jaw. “He might be a murderer!”
“What?” Hugo took an involuntary step back.
“Yes! I was there-you were, too! In the tavern on the night that man was killed, you must have seen it. When the man was in the way, that Venetian puppy almost drew his knife.”
“That means nothing. He didn’t actually draw it and-”
“But what if he waylaid the man later? What if he stabbed him? That would mean Avice was going to wed a murderer!”
Henry heard the words. He saw Hugo shake his head and advise the novice to be careful to whom he made such wild accusations, but the boy was not of a mind to be placated. “She is not for you, my son. You have a calling. You have to forget the passions of the flesh if you are to become a good monk.”
“I won’t be a monk. I have already told the Abbot.”
Hugo rested a hand on his shoulder with compassion. “Before you make a decision like that, you must reflect long and very hard. God has sent you this temptation to test your resolve. Can you really fail Him so easily?”
Peter shook the friar’s hand from his shoulder. “I love her.”
The friar shook his head in sympathy as the boy, head bowed, walked down toward the Abbey. Hugo had been lucky-he had never suffered from lust, and found it hard to understand the torment of others. For him, adoration of Christ’s Mother was enough.
Henry took his chance and walked to him. “Friar? Is the monk all right?”
Hugo glanced at him. “He is not harmed,” he equivocated.
“Those foreigners should be less arrogant.”
The friar put the young monk from his mind. He still wanted a theme for preaching, and he spoke absently. “It is not only them. Arrogance is not the preserve of Venetians.”
“It is typical of foreign bankers.”
“Bankers? Are they bankers? I thought they were only merchants.” Hugo suddenly stopped dead in the street and gave a little gasp of pleasure. It might be a well-worn theme, but at last he had an idea for a sermon.
16
B aldwin and Jeanne walked a few steps behind Simon and his wife, partly out of self-defense. While behind them, the knight felt that he was not quite so much under constant observation.
It was always the way, he knew, that a wooing couple would be subject to continual scrutiny, and the slightest failure of manners or courtly behavior would render the squire open to the most vicious of verbal leg-pulling, or worse. It was not all on one side, for any girl offering what might be considered by parents and friends to be overly indecorous or flirtatious comments would be severely reprimanded. He had hoped that if he was to find a woman to court he would at least be able to do so without the embarrassment of a friend listening nearby, and no doubt storing up each foolish word or misused phrase with a view to reminding the knight later when he was in a defenseless position.
He was painfully aware that his servant and Simon’s were both behind him, and that was almost more appalling than Simon and Margaret being within earshot in front. Baldwin had recently been given enough proof that Edgar had enjoyed the companionship of several of the younger women of Crediton. His martial appearance and easy flattery seemed to win them over, although Baldwin could not understand why. Only the week before he had heard his man paying court to a hawker in the street, and Edgar’s expressions of amazement at the girl’s beauty (although to Baldwin’s mind she was rather plain) won him a dazzling beam of happiness and every promise of more than a mere discount.
Flighty talk of that nature, which to Baldwin was little more than lies clothed in politeness, was irritating to him. It was meaningless. He would prefer to be able to make an unequivocal statement of affection to one woman he loved, and remain on terms of honorable politeness to all others than have to make even one gut-churningly embarrassing statement that was untrue. Baldwin was a knight, and the soft nature of a campaign to win a woman’s heart was a mystery to him. One thing he had already discovered was that wooing a lady was not so straightforward as setting his horse at an enemy and charging. A certain subtlety was required which was alien to his soul. With a feeling of defeat, he wondered whether he should take advice from his servant. Edgar knew how to fight this kind of battle.
Once inside the fair, the women naturally gravitated together, and Simon moved to his friend’s side. Baldwin ignored his leer and wink, and the elbow jerked into his side, maintaining what he hoped was a dignified silence.
Simon grinned wickedly, enjoying his friend’s discomfort. “Have you had any more thoughts on Elias?”
“I am afraid not. Until he realizes his own danger, there’s little we can do to force him to reveal the other man’s identity.”
“Your mind has been on other things, I know,” Simon smirked, “but one thing did occur to me. Elias is weakly in build, while Torre was barrel-chested and powerful. The clothes put on Torre fitted him, but they wouldn’t have fitted Elias. The man with Elias must have been the same in shape as Torre.”
“Yes, but how many hundreds here have a similar build?” Baldwin eyed the latest counter at which the women had paused. It held expensive gloves, and he felt a glow of sadistic pleasure as Margaret excitedly discussed them with the stallholder. “Why has Elias remained silent? That is what puzzles me. Do you think the man with him was the murderer?”