The Abbot's Gibbet by Michael Jecks Page A

being led inside to the large square room beside the gate itself.
    Ten constables and twenty-nine watchmen were due to meet him, the complement from the surrounding vills, each man earning two pennies. He had already checked the mounted men the previous afternoon. These, eight all told, were stationed up and down the roads wherever the woods were thickest, to protect any travellers who came to attend the fair from outlaws. Felons often tried robbing merchants: they were easy pickings while tired after a long journey. The mounted men were always the best, he knew. They were the ones who could afford horses, which 44
    Michael Jecks
    necessarily placed them above the average vill watchmen; that was why they earned six pennies a day. It wasn’t only the extra expense of looking after a horse that justified the money, it was the fact that they were simply better men.
    Nodding at the clerk who kept records of the payments made to the men, and any amercements, he stood as the men filed in. At the sight of the constables, he closed his eyes in silent despair, offering up a quick prayer before opening them again with resignation. The first that came into view was Daniel, the farmer’s son from Werrington. Daniel radiated kindness and goodwill, with the open smile of the pathologically truthful man. He gave the impression of bovine clumsiness and dull-wittedness, and the portreeve meditated grimly on the devious market-traders. They would all try to pull the wool over this one’s eyes. Next to him were the four watchmen from Denbury, led by Long Jack. David gave them a sour stare.
    “Let’s see them, then.” The port-reeve eyed the weapons held out for him to inspect. “What is that ?”
    Daniel was hurt. “It’s my father’s sword.”
    “Father’s? Are you sure it’s not your greatgrandfather’s? I can’t see any metal for the rust!” said David in disbelief. He took it and gazed at it. It was so old that the leather grip had worn away, and the wooden handle beneath was rough on his hand. The metal of the tang was sharp, and the pommel had fallen off. In a fight the grip could turn and catch the skin. He tested the blade with his thumb, his expression reflecting his disgust. “A penny.”
    “A penny fine? But . . .”
    “If you aren’t happy, I can raise it to a day’s money. For now, get that thing to the blacksmith and see The Abbot’s Gibbet
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    whether he can put an edge of some sort on it, and a new grip. This isn’t just to make the fair look good, it’s to protect people— and so you can protect yourself. How can you keep the King’s peace with an ancient block of rust like that? What have you been doing with it—hedging?”
    The watchman shifted uneasily, and mumbled an apology. David shook his head. Any tool was there to be used, in the minds of the peasants of the area, and an old weapon was no more than a good, edged farm implement. It had more cutting power than a bill-hook, and was easier and lighter to carry to a hedge than a heavy axe. While the watchman reddened, David moved on to the next man. This one had a cudgel and a welsh knife, one with a good long blade of over a foot. David gave it a grudging nod and continued along the line, making sure that all the blades were strong and sharp, the sticks solid and not cracked. Almost all were fine, especially those of the men from Denbury, who appeared to have good new blades and oaken clubs. He watched them go with a lackluster eye. “I don’t know how people feel about outlaws and thieves,” he said to the clerk as the last one tramped out, “but personally that lot scares me more than all the felons in the clink.”
    Will Ruby sliced through the skin quickly in a long cut round the vent, and thrust two fingers into the capon, drawing the innards out and dropping them into the midden basket by his feet. Feeling around inside, he located the kidneys where they lay on the back of the ribcage, and tugged them free. He cut through the flesh of