The Abbot's Gibbet Read Online Free PDF

plans for the layout of the livestock pens when the Abbot had entered.
    “David, there was just one thing I wanted to ask,” he’d The Abbot’s Gibbet
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    said, walking in quietly as David was about to leave, and the port-reeve had felt his heart fall to his boots.
    “Er, yes, my lord?”
    It wasn’t that the Abbot was a harsh master—he wasn’t—but he had a way of making a man feel as if he hadn’t quite matched up to the high standard expected of him. Abbot Robert Champeaux was a difficult person to deal with: he was truly honorable and fair. His eyes twinkled at the tone of his port-reeve’s voice. “Have more wine, my friend. It is only a little matter, concerning the toll-booth on the Brentor road. It looks a bit derelict.”
    “Oh, er . . . Yes, I suppose it does.”
    “It is quite ramshackle. The roof has rotted, and the walls are sodden. I fear it could collapse.”
    The last of the panels fell with a slap like a wet cloth thrown against a rock, and David shook his head goodhumoredly. The Abbot had been right as usual: the wood was so wet as to be useless. Still, everything was worth money during the three-day fair. The shingles would be taken by someone needing cheap replacements for a shed or outbuilding—Roger Torre had already expressed interest—and enough solid timber could be rescued from the panels to make a trestle or box. Poor farming folk would be willing to pay for odds and ends.
    The workmen had fresh panels stacked near the booth, and now they nailed the boards in place while others scampered back to the roof and began hanging new chestnut slats.
    Turning from the little building, the port-reeve was faintly surprised to note that the messenger had left. He stared toward the fairground. The ditch had been cleared, and now formed the boundary. The grassed 22
    Michael Jecks
    area was filled with stalls. Seeing the men running round making good any faults in the stalls and trestles, David felt himself relax. It would all be worth it once the fair got going: the annual event would be a success again.
    He glanced upward and squinted. It was past noon; soon he must see to the other thousand and one things that still had to be organized. He waited until the men had almost finished the second side wall and one half of the roof before making his way along the lane to the busy town.
    On a normal day, the center would be filled with butchers, fishmongers and grocers plying their trade, but not now. In preparation for the fair, many had been moved from their usual premises. Cooks, poulterers and smiths were excluded from the town and must carry on their trade outside the fair’s ditch. It was too dangerous to permit fires to be lighted with so many visitors, especially with the number who were bound to get drunk. All livestock was kept out as well, in an attempt to keep the streets moderately clean, but it was not only animals which blocked lanes, and as he went David noted who had allowed garbage to collect. Each would receive a fine if they did not clear it; another duty of the port-reeve was to ensure that those who allowed obstructions to accumulate were punished. At one corner, near the bottom of the Brentor road as it approached the Abbey, he stopped dead and shook his head.
    In a narrow little alley that led between a butcher and cookshop, there was a pile of rubbish. Tattered remains of cloth, ancient and part-rotted sacks, broken staves, and other scraps and debris littered the ground. Shards of broken pottery and poultry bones crunched The Abbot’s Gibbet
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    underfoot, and he accidentally kicked a pot which smashed against the wall. A scrawny dog scavenged, crouching in the dark of the alley, anticipating a kick or hurled stone. Holcroft ignored it. Marching to the cookshop door, he hammered on it.
    “Elias? Elias, I know you’re in there! Open this door.” He beat upon the timbers again and shouted, and when there was no response, he took a step back, staring upward thoughtfully.