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Abbot’s Gibbet
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    Jack,” and chuckled when his welcome was ignored.
    “I’ll go and make sure my friar hasn’t got lost,” he said, rising to his feet.
    He had only been gone a few moments when Elias saw Holcroft at the threshold. The cook shielded his face, but he was too slow, and the port-reeve sauntered over to him. “I see your rubbish isn’t gone yet.”
    “I’ll have it finished tomorrow, I promise.”
    Holcroft took Torre’s seat and waved to the alewife.
    “See you do.” As usual at fairtime, many of the faces were unfamiliar to him. He recognized the watchmen, though. They were drinking heavily, standing in a huddle near the fire, and he hoped they wouldn’t be drunk all the time. In fairness, he knew they had walked all the way from Denbury, so they must be thirsty. Every year there were complaints about them. They felt that since they were in Tavistock to protect people, they should be able to demand fees from stall-holders. Sometimes a merchant would complain, but then he might find that his stocks became damaged, or his stall could unaccountably fall over, or perhaps the merchant would wake up the next morning in the gutter with a broken arm. David had heard it all from Andrew the year before, and had tried to get new men from Denbury this time, but as usual no one else was willing. Looking at the heavy-set figures, he thought their faces could have been carved from moorstone slabs. He knew why others didn’t put their names forward. Men like these knew how to deter volunteers. Another group appeared, two rich men and their servant led by a young monk. Holcroft had heard of the anticipated arrival of the Venetians when he met the Abbot’s steward earlier, and he assumed these must be the Camminos. If their expensive foreign clothing 32
    Michael Jecks
    didn’t give them away, the fact that a novice monk had led them to the tavern was proof enough. The Abbot only asked his monks to direct visitors when they were important.
    Agatha passed him a mug and nodded to Elias.
    “Someone wants to speak to you.”
    Nothing loath, Elias left Holcroft and followed after her. In a dark corner of the hall was a powerfully built figure, thickly bearded, dressed in red leather jerkin over his doublet and shirt, who watched Elias approach with glittering eyes.
    “Hello, Elias.”
    The cook stopped and stared, almost dropping his mug. “Christ’s blood! Jordan!”
    The Camminos’ servant Luke pulled a bench over for his master, and waved to the monk. “Go on, sit, brother.”
    “No, I—er—I should get back.” Peter was new to the town of Tavistock, and although his Abbot had asked him to direct the visitors to the tavern when they explained that they had to meet their fellow-travellers, he felt ill-at-ease in a drinking hall. There was too much ribald humor and singing, and the sight of the serving girls made him uncomfortable. “It’s late, I have duties . . .”
    “Oh, sit, brother,” Antonio rumbled. “We may need help to find our way back to the Abbey later. Have a pot of wine.”
    Luke rested on the bench gratefully and took a pot from the alewife. It felt good to relax, stretch his legs and drink good English ale. He had spent too many years with his master in Castile and Gascony, and these The Abbot’s Gibbet
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    last few weeks in England had been like a holiday. It was nice to be back in his own country again. He had been born north of London, near Huntingdon, the son of a cobbler. But he had seen more of the world than his father ever had, especially since he had worked for Cammino. The Venetian had saved his life; when Antonio had found him, Luke had been near the end of his money, and there was little chance that he would have been able to earn any more. The guilds in Gascony, where he had been living, were very strong, and finding work had been all but impossible as a foreigner. Cammino had taken him on and fed and clothed him, and Luke knew he owed his master a massive