The Abbot's Gibbet Read Online Free PDF Page A

goods. Tavistock Fair would attract people from as far away as Castile, and it was his responsibility, as port-reeve, to make sure it was ready.
    There was no need to have so many men, he knew, but if he let one go, the others would plead their own cases, and soon he’d have nobody. They scrambled all over, getting in each other’s way and snapping shingles not already ruined. Each was fitted with a pair of dowels which hooked onto the lathes running along the rafters, and as the men worked along the pitch, he could see the wood splintering where the pegs fitted. The Abbot’s Gibbet
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    They’d be lucky to rescue any, the way these cretins were working.
    “Sir? The Abbot wondered . . .”
    David Holcroft turned suspiciously. A youth stood by him, grinning. The Abbot’s official kept his voice low and calm, but it was evident enough to the lad that Holcroft was controlling his frustration with an effort.
    “Yes, yes. The Abbot wants to know when we’ll have this job finished so he can be sure to earn as much as possible, and he’s told you to come and see that I’m getting everything sorted out. Well, you can tell him from me that I’m standing here making sure these idle whelps get on with things, and the more interruptions there are, the slower the job will be!”
    “I’m sorry, sir, I was only asked to—”
    “To come over here and make my life a misery. Look, it’s hard enough keeping the lazy buggers from the alehouse without having Abbot Robert sending his messengers across every few moments. What does he think I’m doing, eh? Sitting in a tavern and supping ale? He asked me to ensure that the booth was ready, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. But when you report back, you can tell him that there are other things for me to see to, like making sure the shambles are laid out, and seeing to the weights and measures. Even the tron hasn’t been checked yet.”
    He shot a glance at the men, keen to be away. The tron was the huge beam used to weigh goods. It had to be tested to make sure it was accurate, and that was just one more chore he must do when this nonsense was completed. With relief he saw that the shingles were all piled on the ground, and that most of the men had come down from the roof. Only two remained sitting on the walls, beating the panelling away from the 20
    Michael Jecks
    frames with their hammers. “Why didn’t I get this done before?” he asked himself aloud now.
    “There’s so much to be done through the year, sir. Things like this are always forgotten till the last minute,” the messenger said encouragingly.
    “It should have been done by Andrew last year,”
    David muttered, but he knew the work should have been done by him. He was the port-reeve. Many looked on the job as a sinecure. It only lasted twelve months, being an annual appointment by the Abbot’s steward, the port-reeve being selected from two or three names put forward by the town’s jury, and as well as the allowance of a couple of shillings, there was freedom from the year’s taxes. But after almost twelve months, David was worn out by his duties. The port-reeve was the man who arranged the conduct of the fairs and markets. He had to tie together all the little details and make sure they went smoothly, to the Abbey’s profit. The port-reeve must witness any large trades, ensure that the watchmen behaved, tally up any sums owed, tell the beadle of any amercements that must be collected . . . in short, he was responsible for any problem, no matter when it might occur. There was no blaming Andrew, last year’s incumbent, for not rebuilding the booth. It had been leaning when David was elected at Michaelmas last year, and now it was almost St. Rumon’s Day. From the end of September until now, the end of August, he had never found time to see to its refurbishment. In fact, it had slipped his mind completely until the Abbot reminded him the night before. He’d been with the Abbey’s steward finalizing