The Abbot's Gibbet by Michael Jecks Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
Tags: Historical, Deckare
Ads: Link
the neck and exposed the bones beneath before removing the head. That too went into the basket. 46
Michael Jecks
The carcass was tossed onto the growing pile as he reached for the next. Beside him, his wife and son sat on stools, surrounded by a gently billowing cloud as they plucked furiously, stuffing the feathers into sacks. His apprentice was fetching the other carcasses from the wagon stationed by the fairground, setting them out on their hooks or laying them on the boards where the customers would be able to inspect them. Will was pleased to see that the boy had learned how to conceal the worse parts of any joint and laid out the cuts to best advantage. There was no point in giving a customer an opportunity to argue for a lower price. He nodded approvingly. The boy had gone again while he inspected his wares, and when Will glanced over, he saw that there were no more chickens ready to be drawn yet. His wife and son were still plucking.
The midden-basket was almost full, and he was beginning to feel warm as the sun rose higher. At this rate he would need more than the one basket. A draft of ale would help cool him, too. “I’ll just empty this,” he said to his wife. She hardly looked up, just nodded, as he wiped his hands on his bloody apron and moved off along the stalls carrying the basket.
There was another good reason for taking a walk: to look at how the other stalls had presented their stock to the world. Being butchers, there was the benefit of having no outside competition, because the Abbot promised them their monopoly, but Will knew that all would have bought in extra stock, and he wanted to see how good it looked.
From a distance he stopped and gazed back. His own stall was bright and colorful with its red and yellow awning. He’d picked the colors because they stood out among the greens and blues of the other stalls. The The Abbot’s Gibbet
47
trestle was almost filled to overflowing, and he had enough meat hidden behind in barrels and boxes to supply a lord and his retinue. Feeling satisfied, he carried on, casting an eye to right and left as he went, assessing how others were doing. The midden lay at the far side of the fairground, and he passed by the new toll-booth on the way. A long queue of merchants from outside the borough stood there, waiting. All had goods to sell, and they grumbled together about the costs. “A halfpenny for a cart of wheat? It’s theft, that’s what it is.” A red-faced farmer was insisting that he should have free access because he came from an ancient tenement on the moors and shouldn’t have to pay, while his geese extended their necks and waddled nearby, a skinny and mangy dog herding them whenever they strolled too far. Will barged past the arguing men. It was much like any other year. Prices were higher, but they had been rising since the disastrous famines of four or five years before; at least people could expect to make a profit. There were good reasons for a goose-farmer to want to avoid paying, because from every fourteen birds brought in, one must be given in toll, and that was a heavy price.
Whistling tunelessly, the butcher arrived at the midden. So early in the morning, it was not as violent on the nose as it would become, but there was enough of a rotten stench to make him hurry. In future, he decided, someone else would discard the garbage. He upended the basket and set off back to his shop. Another basket or two would be needed, and he might as well fetch them now—especially since the journey would take him past the tavern.
It took little time to enter through the town gate and 48
Michael Jecks
make his way to his shop, where he at once went in and fetched the spare baskets from under his bench. He was still whistling as he slammed the door behind him and moved toward the tavern, but at the entrance to the alleyway he paused.
Shaking his head, he surveyed the pile. It had been reduced, he saw, but that would not satisfy the portreeve.
Michael Jecks
The carcass was tossed onto the growing pile as he reached for the next. Beside him, his wife and son sat on stools, surrounded by a gently billowing cloud as they plucked furiously, stuffing the feathers into sacks. His apprentice was fetching the other carcasses from the wagon stationed by the fairground, setting them out on their hooks or laying them on the boards where the customers would be able to inspect them. Will was pleased to see that the boy had learned how to conceal the worse parts of any joint and laid out the cuts to best advantage. There was no point in giving a customer an opportunity to argue for a lower price. He nodded approvingly. The boy had gone again while he inspected his wares, and when Will glanced over, he saw that there were no more chickens ready to be drawn yet. His wife and son were still plucking.
The midden-basket was almost full, and he was beginning to feel warm as the sun rose higher. At this rate he would need more than the one basket. A draft of ale would help cool him, too. “I’ll just empty this,” he said to his wife. She hardly looked up, just nodded, as he wiped his hands on his bloody apron and moved off along the stalls carrying the basket.
There was another good reason for taking a walk: to look at how the other stalls had presented their stock to the world. Being butchers, there was the benefit of having no outside competition, because the Abbot promised them their monopoly, but Will knew that all would have bought in extra stock, and he wanted to see how good it looked.
From a distance he stopped and gazed back. His own stall was bright and colorful with its red and yellow awning. He’d picked the colors because they stood out among the greens and blues of the other stalls. The The Abbot’s Gibbet
47
trestle was almost filled to overflowing, and he had enough meat hidden behind in barrels and boxes to supply a lord and his retinue. Feeling satisfied, he carried on, casting an eye to right and left as he went, assessing how others were doing. The midden lay at the far side of the fairground, and he passed by the new toll-booth on the way. A long queue of merchants from outside the borough stood there, waiting. All had goods to sell, and they grumbled together about the costs. “A halfpenny for a cart of wheat? It’s theft, that’s what it is.” A red-faced farmer was insisting that he should have free access because he came from an ancient tenement on the moors and shouldn’t have to pay, while his geese extended their necks and waddled nearby, a skinny and mangy dog herding them whenever they strolled too far. Will barged past the arguing men. It was much like any other year. Prices were higher, but they had been rising since the disastrous famines of four or five years before; at least people could expect to make a profit. There were good reasons for a goose-farmer to want to avoid paying, because from every fourteen birds brought in, one must be given in toll, and that was a heavy price.
Whistling tunelessly, the butcher arrived at the midden. So early in the morning, it was not as violent on the nose as it would become, but there was enough of a rotten stench to make him hurry. In future, he decided, someone else would discard the garbage. He upended the basket and set off back to his shop. Another basket or two would be needed, and he might as well fetch them now—especially since the journey would take him past the tavern.
It took little time to enter through the town gate and 48
Michael Jecks
make his way to his shop, where he at once went in and fetched the spare baskets from under his bench. He was still whistling as he slammed the door behind him and moved toward the tavern, but at the entrance to the alleyway he paused.
Shaking his head, he surveyed the pile. It had been reduced, he saw, but that would not satisfy the portreeve.
Similar Books
