He raised both hands in a gesture of despair. ‘Ah! Look at the sun! It must be well past noon. Jeanne will be wondering where we have got to. Let us return and see her. It is Christmas Eve and here we are dawdling like two old peasants.’
The quiet streets had become bustling and raucous. Youths chased each other or girls; hawkers bellowed their wares from the street corners while shopowners leaned against their doorframes watching the passers-by with measuring expressions.
They had almost arrived at Paul Street when Baldwin stopped and glanced at the shop they were passing. It was an apothecary’s, and on the trestle before the window were displayed many different herbs and powders.
‘Look – orpiment,’ Baldwin said, ‘and realgar. Yellow and ruby arsenic. I wonder . . .’
Simon followed him inside.
‘Godspeed, sir,’ said the keeper. He was a tall, hunched man in his late twenties, with a significant pot-belly, but pale and slender in his build apart from that. He had acid scars on his hands and a livid burn above one eyebrow that made Simon wince at the sight. It could so easily have taken out his eye, had it been one inch lower. ‘Can I help you? My name is Gilbert of Lyme. What can I do for you?’
‘Good day,’ Baldwin said. He had drawn himself up to his full height, and with his hand arrogantly set atop his sword-hilt, he looked very much the elegant, courtly knight, even with his unfashionable beard. ‘I see you sell orpiment.’
‘Ah, yes sir. It’s quite local, from a mine not far from here.’
‘Can you refine it?’
‘It is not difficult, my Lord. I can produce some for you,’ the man said, but now there was a hooded wariness in his eyes. ‘However, I should have to warn you – it is a very potent poison.’
‘I am glad to hear your warning. Is there anywhere else to buy it in the city?’
The shopkeeper glanced from Baldwin to Simon. ‘Sir, I do not understand why you are asking me so many questions, but yes, you could buy it from the rat-catcher, I expect. He likes it for poisoning vermin. Others use it to kill wasps and flies in the summer. And then again there are many uses for orpiment. It’s a most practical and adaptable substance. It is used for colourings – the yellow for golds, the ruby orpiment for good, strong reds . . .’
‘Such as the Canons would use!’ Simon breathed.
‘Why, yes, sir. Only last week I supplied a pound of the yellow to the Cathedral.’
‘Who bought it?’ Baldwin said.
‘It was a young Secondary from the Treasury, sir – a fellow named Jolinde.’
Chapter Thirteen
Jolinde had no idea that his name was being linked to the death of his friend in this way. As Baldwin and Simon exchanged a meaningful stare, he walked from the small house back towards the Cathedral.
It had taken him some little time to wrap up his friend’s clothing and the palliasse, now sadly leaking all its stuffing, and take the lot to the hall downstairs, where he set it against a wall, wondering what to do with it. Perhaps, he thought, the laundrymen would take the robes and wash them ready for some other new Secondary. With that thought he returned upstairs and stitched together his own palliasse where Baldwin had slashed it.
There was no point in going through his friend’s things, since he had already checked everything as soon as he was released from the services that morning. While the congregation sat dumbfounded, staring at the figure shaking and quivering as his life fled, he had gone to Peter’s side, listening for the last prayer. Not that he had heard anything. Peter’s eye had met his own accusingly, but only for a second, and Jolinde could well have mistaken it. But as soon as Peter was dead, the thought of the money waiting to be collected was like a cattle prod in his arse. At the first possible moment after the body had been carried away and the services had been completed, Jolinde scurried off to their rooms.
‘You fooled me again, didn’t you, you hypocrite?’ he said sadly, perusing the paltry belongings of the lad he had lived with for so many years. ‘You thought I was going to try to take it all back from you, didn’t you? But I wouldn’t, I never wanted it for myself.’
That was the thought that nagged at him as he walked towards the chapel: Peter hadn’t trusted him. He’d taken the stolen jewels and hidden them somewhere Jolinde couldn’t find them. Or maybe he’d sold them? Tried to make his own profit?
The theft itself had been remarkably easy. They had collected the jewels and money for delivery to Ralph on sixth December as instructed, but while they were still walking to the glover’s place, Jolly had casually mentioned how easy it was to make fun of people. Peter hadn’t understood, perhaps intentionally, but then Jolly explained how simple it would be to remove some jewels and make off with the proceeds. He hadn’t introduced the concept as a suggestion that they should rob either the Cathedral or Ralph, but merely as an idea, a conversational twist, and it had worked. Peter had scoffed when he took Jolly’s drift.
‘You think so? They would notice if we took some of the jewels!’
‘Not necessarily,’ Jolly had answered, and the two of them made a wager. And of course Jolly was right. They left the glover’s shop with a handful of money and the precious and semi-precious stones. Ralph was a trusting man, pious and honourable. It had been all too easy to pull the wool over his eyes.
Almost immediately, Peter had begun to fret. ‘We have to take it back to him – this is theft,’ he whimpered. ‘We’re no better than felons if we keep it!’
‘We can’t,’ Jolly responded shortly. ‘If we try to take it back, we’ll have to explain how we made the mistake, and as soon as we do that he’ll realise we robbed him.’
‘But if we don’t we shall be felons!’ Peter stated despairingly. ‘We have to take them back or how can Ralph make the gloves? And we shall have to confess what we’ve done in Chapter too, before the Canons and the Dean.’
‘Now listen to me, Peter!’ Jolly said, and he gripped his companion forcefully. ‘Look, we can’t go back to the glover’s now or he will accuse us of theft – right? If we confess in Chapter we’ll probably be thrown out of the Cathedral. You want that? To be evicted under a cloud, with no prospects?’
Peter’s eyes slid away and Jolly knew he had hit the mark there. Peter would have liked to have become a Canon if he could; to be a Vicar would be enough to keep him content – but he knew that he would only ever remain at best a clerk while he had no patron. He was like Jolly; he had to find a new career away from the Cathedral if he wanted to advance. If he was to become a lawyer he would need money to travel to University, but even more than that, he would need the support of the Bishop. The thought that he could lose his place in the Cathedral was terrible. That would mean the end of his dreams.
Two or three weeks ago, that was, and Jolly could recall it perfectly. How Peter had argued and whined until Jolly pulled him into the alehouse, and there he had ordered drinks from the beautiful Claricia. He was smitten at once. And Peter’s continual whispered hissing in his ear was a distraction from his pursuit of her. Perhaps his desire for her was a means of forgetting what he had just done to Ralph, but it felt good.
When Peter said again that he couldn’t keep the jewels, that he was no thief, Jolly responded that his attitude was fine, but how was he going to get them back to Ralph with no one noticing? As proof of his own disinterest, he placed his small purse, which contained the money and gemstones, in Peter’s hand, telling him to give them back however he wished. Peter gripped the purse like a man holding a death sentence.
But Jolly could feel the guilt and shame fall from him as he gave the purse to Peter, and immediately he set about battering at Claricia’s defences. His assault had been successful: he had taken her by storm, and since then he had shared her bed regularly, in the small room over Sutton’s Inn. And because Jolly knew the secret of the tunnels, he could stay with her until late, making his way back to the Cathedral when he wanted, with no one any the wiser.
He had found the tunnels because of the buildi
ng work. It was one day while he walked near the cloister that he saw it. He was idly watching builders working on the foundations for the new eastern section when a builder slipped into a hole. Laughing, he had called over the architect. Interested, Jolly wandered over.
‘Nearly fell in, sir,’ the workman was saying.
Peering over his shoulder, Jolly saw a cavity lined with stones. It was arched, and beneath was a gaping hole. The architect dropped a stone in and there was a rattle. ‘It’s an old sewer, that’s all. Not used now, I suppose. Nothing exciting, anyway.’
But Jolly knew he was wrong. To him it looked very exciting indeed. The men filled in the hole, but Jolly thought to himself that an old tunnel would be straight; there was no need for it to curve. He looked forward and mentally noted where the tunnel might meet the Cathedral wall. Later he found the entrance: it was the ideal means for him to get into and out of the Cathedral when the gates were locked, useful too for meetings which required a certain secrecy. That was why he had met his father there when Vincent had that special favour to ask him – the favour that led to the conning of Ralph. Which in turn had led to that session in the tavern with Peter, who had been so upset about the way Jolly had used him.
Although now Jolinde thought about it, Peter had looked even more angry and upset yesterday on seeing Karvinel, than he had while talking about the theft.
Baldwin was quiet, meditating as he walked back to the inn. Simon knew him far too well to interrupt his thought processes, and refrained from conversation until they reached the inn yard and Baldwin threatened to walk straight past.
‘Hey! In here, Baldwin.’
‘Hmm? Oh, sorry. Yes, of course.’
They entered to find Jeanne sitting in the parlour with Edgar.
‘Well, Baldwin? Was the murder not to your liking, that you should return so early?’
He smiled grimly. ‘I have not yet eaten lunch, so if you wish to hurl verbal barbs at me, at least let me sample some bread beforehand. Otherwise I may well expire.’
‘Not tonight, Sir Baldwin,’ the imperturbable Edgar remarked.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Baldwin demanded, sinking into a seat.
Jeanne was frigid as ice. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten that today we feast with Vincent le Berwe. He wishes us to share his evening meal before going with him and his family to attend the Mass in the Cathedral.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Baldwin with such hollow sarcasm that his wife rose and rested her hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s only a few more days, husband.’
‘It will feel like an eternity – except that with you at my side the time will fly past,’ he said gallantly.
But even as she smiled down at him in return, she saw his eyes lose their focus as his mind returned to the dead Secondary.
The Christmas Eve feast was an important event at Vincent’s house. There were eleven messes, Baldwin saw as he walked into the hall, so there were places for at least forty people, allowing four to each mess.
A twinge of guilt snagged at his consciousness as he sat down. He ought to be at his manor. It was his duty to provide seasonal hospitality for his villeins. They would bring their own faggots and he would provide the cooks, the food and the ale. Many lords, he knew, would expect the villeins to bring their own food and drink as well as the wood, but Baldwin felt strongly that his men had provided the food that would fill his belly for the year, so it was only right that he should feed them, just as he did at Michaelmas and Candlemas.
It was always a pleasant affair, Christmas at Furnshill. Baldwin would provide a loaf of heavy bread for his shepherd’s best dogs, and a variety of foods for all the men and women of the vill. There was usually a good strong chicken soup, bacon with beef and mustard, cheese and as much ale as the villeins could drink in the day. Usually the devils took that on as a challenge and there was little left remaining when Baldwin’s steward went over the accounts at the end of the day.
Today would be very different, of course, because it was a fast day. Although Friday was an official fast day during an ordinary week, the fact that tomorrow was Friday twenty-fifth December meant that it would have to be a Feast Day, which logically meant that today, Thursday, Christmas Eve, would be one without red meats.
On the sideboard, glistening under the yellow candle-flames, Baldwin could see herrings, eels, codlings and a variety of jellies. Pies were piled high on platters, and from the look of them they were probably Norwegian pasties, filled with cod’s liver and fish flesh; there were fried rissoles made from chestnuts, hardboiled eggs and cheese next to fresh codfish, trout and a salmon. And on one side were the fish that disgusted Baldwin: lampreys.
He loathed and detested lampreys. Any man who had ever seen a villein stumbling home from collecting these weird-looking fish, his sack over his back, and blood dribbling down his tunic where the foul fish had squirmed and sunk their fangs into him would also hate them. Baldwin had seen his cook prepare them once, splitting the mouth from the chin upwards, then tugging the tongue out and bleeding the horrible creatures into a dish so that their blood could thicken the gravy. The thought still made him shudder now.
But he would enjoy the other dishes. For once, the food was not overspiced and unrecognisable. Many of the dishes could be discerned – or, at least, their main constituents could be.
Vincent had placed Baldwin and Jeanne at his own right hand, a position which gave Baldwin some amusement. He scarcely knew Vincent and was sure he didn’t merit so privileged a position, but clearly Vincent wanted to ally himself with the knight in the eyes of his other guests. That thought made him glance along the tables.
When he and Jeanne had come to the hall the day before, only one table had been set up; now Vincent had a further four long trestle tables installed. Trestles were so much easier to rent and put up; they only needed long sections of cloth spread carefully over them to make them decent. The guests had benches.
Vincent had spent a small fortune on this feast, Baldwin thought. There were four large silver salts, one in the shape of an eagle, rather well executed, which remained before Vincent himself, while the others were simple lidded bowls for the guests. As soon as Vincent had washed his hands the bottler signalled to a waiting valet. The valet disappeared and while the bottler was pouring wine for his lord, the valet returned leading a train of servants, all with white napkins draped over their shoulders and with which they held the dishes.
Those on the main table were first to receive their trenchers. Vincent’s carver arrived before the main table with a small retinue of assistants. He took a round, heavy brown loaf of maybe eight inches diameter, and faster than Baldwin would have thought possible, he removed the crusts and converted the bread into four perfect square trenchers. On top of each he placed three hunks of good, white pieces of bread for eating, handling all only with his knife or napkin, before moving away to begin serving the other guests.
The initial courses were arriving now, and Baldwin was pleased to see that the dishes were simple and relatively plain.
From his own seat a little further along the table – since he wasn’t a knight, he could hardly expect the place of honour at Vincent’s side – Simon munched happily. He was fortunate in that his palate tolerated any and every mixture of dishes. He was some distance from Baldwin and Jeanne, but had struck up a conversation with the woman at his side, a pleasant lady called Juliana, whose husband, Simon discovered, had been raised not very far from his own birthplace near Crediton.
‘But you aren’t from Crediton yourself, surely?’ he said, trying not to spit crumbs from his tasty fish pasty.
She was chubby and happy, clearly enjoying her food and drink. Roguish dark eyes glinted with amusement, as if she was better born than anyone in the room and found a certain satisfaction and pleasure in observing the quaint, old-fashioned ways of people so far from civilisation. ‘No, I came from east of here. My husband and I met when he was visiting Winchester Market.’
He glanced at her man, who was talking loudly to his other neighbour. He was a large fellow, with broad hands and stumpy fingers, a thick, heavy body, jowled, with small eyes but a cavernous mouth when he roared with laughter. Simon felt sure that Juliana could not be happy in her marriage. ‘So you have travelled a long way?’ he said pleasantly.
She should have annoyed him, with her up-country attitudes, but he felt a degree of sympathy for her, and she seemed happier with his company than she would have been with any other man in the room. He found the fixed concentration of her green eyes very flattering.
‘Yes, a very long way. I miss my home.’ A shadow passed over her brow, but it was only there a moment and she said brightly, ‘But it is good to see new areas. You know, my mother never saw more than the lands maybe two leagues from her home.’
‘Really?’ Simon considered, slurping a mouthful of wine to wash down the fish. ‘Exeter’s a good city to live in, too, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it is pleasant. But Winchester is rather better.’
Deciding to change the subject, he emptied his mazer and held it aloft for the bottler to refill. Then he selected a piece of salted fish. ‘Here – try some of this,’ he said politely. ‘It’s excellent.’
She took a morsel, touching his finger for longer than was really necessary, and to his faint disquiet, she held his gaze while she slowly placed it in her mouth.
‘I think I should be careful,’ Simon told himself. ‘This woman could eat me up and spit out the remains.’
Hawisia rested her hand lightly on her husband’s. She could see that he was still worried, no matter how he attempted to conceal it, his eyes blinking quickly in that nervous manner she recognised so well, the little nerve twitching in his left cheek where the candlelight caught it. Patting his forearm reassuringly, she gave him a smile and was warmed to see him return it – slowly, to be sure, but with genuine affection.
The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker Page 15
