The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

by Michael Jecks

  The first months had been tough, the succeeding ones infinitely worse as famine continued to scour the land. There was little to buy, let alone steal, and the only advantage to Sir Thomas was that his ranks were swelled by adventurers who were prepared to risk their lives to win a meal rather than die of starvation. Churches yielded their wealth to him and his men; rich travellers gave up their purses.

  Up and down the county of Devonshire men and women paled at the news that Sir Thomas and his band were nearby. His face was described by those whom he had caught and released and since Karvinel’s accusation that he and his band had robbed him, Sir Thomas knew that if he were recognised in the city, he would be bound to be caught. That was why he now could come out only at night when he could walk in shadows. It wasn’t safe, but it was safer than daytime.

  At least he had learned something. After talking to Luke, he had gone to Peter’s small home, had spotted Jolinde coming out of there and had followed the youth round the side of the cloister, observing him as he surreptitiously ducked below a beam and disappeared into a small space near the Cathedral’s wall. When Sir Thomas investigated, he learned how Jolinde had left and re-entered the Cathedral at night. The discovery pleased the grizzled knight. It could prove useful to him too, at some time in the future. If he didn’t have other men to meet now, he’d take the tunnels as a shortcut into the city. Only then did he return to search Jolinde’s house, but without success.

  Hob was whimpering with trepidation; the moon was shining down upon them. Sir Thomas nodded and walked to the wall. There Hob untied his leather jack and unwound a thin rope from about his belly and chest. Sir Thomas wrapped a stone in linen and tied it to the rope, then hefted it in his hand. They were at Little Stile now, a small gate without a tower above, and Sir Thomas waited a moment, then whistled. There was nothing at first, so he tried again. This time there was a low, cautious whistle on the other side of the gate. Sir Thomas stepped back, whirled the stone at the end of the rope a few times over his head, then hurled it up and over the gate.

  The cloth bindings silenced its fall. A moment or two later Sir Thomas felt the line being pulled. He let it pay out, and then it was stationary. There was another whistle to show that it was securely anchored, and Sir Thomas immediately began to climb.

  At the top of the gate he swung a leg over and surveyed the ground. Soon, he promised himself, soon he would have his revenge. And with that thought engraved on his mind, he dropped over to the ground.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Christmas Day was clear and bright with the sun shining unhindered. Occasionally, solitary clouds drifted past at speed. The wind was strong, rattling the shutters of the inn, and it was their repetitive hammering which woke Baldwin before the dawn itself.

  He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. A cresset, a small wick floating in a reservoir of oil, had been left alight all night, and now it threw strange shadows upon the rafters above.

  Jeanne grunted and moaned beside him, snuggling closer and throwing a leg over his, but today he felt no erotic surge beyond a mild affectionate stirring. He rested a hand on her thigh and slipped the other under her neck to cuddle her to him, kissing her hair. It still smelled of incense from the Cathedral the night before.

  The two deaths, Peter’s and Ralph’s, intrigued him, yet he could see no link between them. Baldwin didn’t believe Peter’s death was suicide, nor yet that it could have been caused by food poisoning but he could not see who could wish to murder the fellow.

  Baldwin had enough experience of enquiring into murders to know that men rarely, if ever, killed without a good reason: even if that reason later appeared to be ridiculous. At the time that the murder was committed, the killer had a clear, understandable motive.

  There was another aspect to this killing, Baldwin reminded himself. Poison was a peculiarly coldblooded and cowardly method of murder. Someone had decided to kill with poison – and Jolinde had bought orpiment from the apothecary.

  Had Peter been the target? It was quite possible that Jolinde had argued with his friend and decided to murder him – but if so, why? There was no hint that the two had suffered a break in their friendship. Someone else could have put the poison onto or inside the food while it was left unguarded in the tavern. Jolinde certainly wasn’t going to notice while he was upstairs with the delightful Claricia; could the deadly food have been intended for him? And if it wasn’t, if it was meant for Peter – who, then, had known that Jolinde was supplying him with food? That would give Baldwin a starting point.

  Jeanne mumbled, half asleep, and Baldwin felt her hand stroking his chest, slowly moving down his body. He grinned and caught it, ignoring her murmurs of disappointment. There was little time if they were to get to the Cathedral for the second Mass of the day. He smiled down at her sleepy face, but then stood, wincing at the cold air on his naked body. He quickly pulled on his clothes: it was far too chill to linger. When he was dressed, he woke his wife with kisses and gentle entreaties, and only left her when her eyes opened and she gave him an ungracious snort as welcome. Jeanne was not at her best at this hour.

  Downstairs he found Edgar already kneeling by the fire stirring a pot filled with spiced wine while Simon sat on a stool nearby scratching at his head. The pleasant aroma filled the hall: cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg. All good, warming spices for a man who was about to go out into the cold. Baldwin took the proffered cup and sipped at the drink. The heat travelled straight down to his toes and he gave his servant a smile of gratitude. ‘Thank you, Edgar, but today of all days . . .’ He took the pot from Edgar and poured out a large cup for his loyal Sergeant.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘What about me?’ demanded Simon.

  Soon they heard footsteps in their host’s small chamber. Outside, the Cathedral bell was ringing loudly and from the noise in the streets, many citizens were moving towards the churches and Cathedral for the next Mass, the Shepherd’s Mass, which was always celebrated at dawn. Baldwin refilled his cup and took it to his wife.

  Jeanne was reluctant to rise from her bed. The freezing air made her wish to remain beneath the covers. It was too cold, and too early as well. Her head felt light from lack of sleep. She was used to getting to bed much earlier, and her attendance at the Mass last night had left her quite dozy and unaware. She could feel her eyelids dragging like leaden weights, forcing her to close them. When her husband laughed, it was no consolation.

  ‘Laugh now, husband, but remember that I shall visit all your humour upon you when you are suffering from too much wine. And my vengeance shall be not swift, but longer-lasting, and entirely painful for you,’ she growled as she squinted at him in the meagre light of the cresset.

  Her temper had greatly improved when they came to the great Fissand Gate. There in the gloomy arch, she once more saw the crippled figure sprawled at the edge of the gateway. Today he looked so meagre, so destroyed, that the sight tugged at Jeanne’s heart. She quickly left Baldwin’s side and fumbled with her purse.

  ‘Lady, thank you,’ John Coppe said, taking the coins and ducking his head in gratitude. He smiled, his mouth twisted up as he watched her give him a gracious little gesture of her hand, then turn and walk back to her waiting husband; she pushed her hand through Baldwin’s elbow, matching her pace to his as they walked in through the great open gates to the Cathedral.

  Coppe sighed faintly as another coin was casually tossed towards him. ‘Thank you, Master,’ he called automatically, stashing it away with the other coins he had collected already. That, he knew, was the good aspect of Christmas. The priests would all look after him anyway, but on this one day of the year, people wouldn’t begrudge him a few pennies. With any luck he could get enough to keep him in drinks through the next week.

  The man who had thrown him the coin stalked off towards the Cathedral, and Coppe watched him go, his eyes narrowed. Coppe wouldn’t turn down any man’s generosity, but there was something odd in the way the fellow threw his coin and march
ed off. He was dressed in a thick woollen cloak, with a hood over his head. Even his face was concealed, giving Coppe the impression of glittering eyes, but little else. Not that there weren’t any number of others dressed in a similarly defensive manner against the icy air.

  Coppe saw him make for the western door, but then slow down and dawdle as if waiting for someone. Last night, when that idiot boy came and offered to help him into the Cathedral to attend the Mass, there had been a man like this one standing nearby. It hadn’t been easy to see his face, for it was hidden beneath a large hat, but from the build and height it could have been this same fellow.

  ‘Do you, um, want to go in again?’

  Coppe looked up to see that his friend of the night before had returned, suddenly appearing at his side; a malnourished and dim-looking idiot. Coppe gave an inward groan. He hadn’t intended going into the morning’s Mass. He’d been to Mass the night before, and one Mass a day was enough for him. ‘You back, then, eh? I don’t know why you want to drag me about, lad. You go in, I’ll be all right here.’

  ‘No, you must come! Please, let me help you, yes?’

  ‘You go on in. It was kind of you to help me in last night, but you don’t have to today.’

  To his astonishment, the fellow looked as if he was on the verge of tears. He wrung his hands, his mouth working uselessly, alternately gaping at Coppe, then at the Cathedral doors. The crush in the Fissand Gate was dwindling now, and it was obvious that the service must soon begin. ‘You must come with me.’

  ‘Bugger off, lad,’ Coppe said curtly. ‘I don’t have to go nowheres I don’t want. You carry on, just do as you want.’

  The lad had the brains of a fool. Probably he’d been told to help cripples; perhaps his village priest had told him to give any service he could to a beggar – knowing what hypocritical bastards some village priests could be. Half the time the village idiot was born to one of the priests’ own mounts. Never mind that they were supposed to be chaste; Coppe had seen them, out in the streets, small dogs on leads to tempt the women. As soon as a woman expressed delight in the priest’s toy dog, he knew he had her halfway to his bed. Coppe understood much. That was how he spent his life: observing. He was no fool, he could make connections, could pursue ideas until he explained things to himself.

  He wasn’t unique. It was how all the beggars with brains spent their lives. Not that there weren’t plenty of cretins amongst the alms-takers at the Cathedral gates, but Coppe knew several who had brains beyond the brute intelligence of an animal. They saw and noted much, and for the most part were ignored by the rest of humanity because they were no one. They were nothing. As important as a gatepost.

  The idiot’s hand-wringing grew more pronounced and his brow wrinkled as if he was tortured by the thought that Coppe might be left behind. He glanced fretfully towards the Cathedral doors.

  Coppe followed his gaze. There, to the side of the door, was the hooded man. When he glanced back at the boy’s face he saw the fear on it, and gave an inward sigh. The lad was touched, but Coppe was convinced that his present anxiety was due more to the cloaked man at the door.

  The cloaked man had been there the night before. He had joined Coppe and the idiot as they entered the Cathedral, although he had slipped out during the service. Others had too. Many needed to piss halfway through the Mass. But now he thought about it, Coppe couldn’t remember the man returning. Perhaps he, like others, had been bored by the length of the celebration. Now he stood like a man trying to sink into the walls, as if he would crawl under a shadow if he could. Coppe had a feeling that he was trying to remain concealed from someone – but that was madness! Even if he was a felon, he was safe within the sanctuary of the Cathedral grounds. Perhaps he was as daft as the boy at Coppe’s side.

  All the beggar knew was that this poor idiot child was suffering the torments of the damned purely because Coppe wouldn’t let him pull him into the Cathedral with him.

  ‘Oh, damn me! All right, I’ll go with you. But afterwards you’ll have to let me get out and buy a pot of strong ale,’ he grumbled. Only later did he wonder whether the two wanted him with them because two men helping a cripple were almost invisible. People’s eyes went to the cripple and then away; if a cripple was of no note, of how much less importance were his attendants?

  Jolinde was detailed to assist Adam with replenishing the candles, and he was in the main nave of the Cathedral as people began to arrive. He saw Sir Baldwin and Lady Jeanne in the crush, the Bailiff at their side. It would be a relief when the building work was complete, he thought. Everyone was so cramped up in the nave, pressed together like sheep in a pen. When the new eastern half was opened, the choir could move into their stalls beyond the towers, leaving all the nave to the congregation.

  He saw the City Bailiff and the Coroner arrive together. They were talking in low voices, both frowning seriously as if their conversation was not pleasing to either. The Coroner’s gaze passed over Jolinde, and with a shudder of guilt Jolinde saw Roger de Gidleigh’s eyes return to him, studying him unblinkingly.

  The knowledge of his crime made Jolinde stumble as he hurried to keep up with young Adam. The Secondary tutted irritably as Jolinde almost tripped, and took the box from him. ‘Watch your step!’ he growled. ‘And mind out for clumsy bastards knocking you over. Last night it was the merchant, le Berwe, and half the folks today have already been at the wine.’

  Joline nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. If anyone here had seen him abroad on the night that Peter died, or worse, if they knew he had been about in the city on the morning that Ralph had died, they would have many questions for him. Especially if someone had guessed at his theft as well.

  He was relieved when the bells stopped ringing, and he and Adam could collect their boxes and tapers and make their way to the other side of the screen and into the choir.

  When he felt the man shove at his back Nick Karvinel snapped his head round ready to curse whoever it might be, but he held his tongue when he recognised the clerical garb. A candle cleric, he thought to himself with a sneer. Pathetic fool! The best he can manage is to fill empty candle-holders for a living.

  His wife was at his side, glancing openly about the nave, eyeing up the men present, the bitch. Juliana had been happy enough with him when he’d been a success, delighted when he made his big deals, getting a name for himself, making it into the Freedom of the City with all the big merchants. If things had gone right for him this year, she’d still be content.

  He kept a surreptitious eye on her as the crowd moved forward, jockeying for the best position to hear what was going on beyond the screen, or perhaps find a point from which they could peer through a section to where the Canons were singing their praises to God.

  She wasn’t watching the priest up at the altar, she was still ogling the men, he saw. Especially that Bailiff, Puttock, who’d been at her side the night before at le Berwe’s feast. Karvinel peered over the heads of the people nearest. The Bailiff was up to the right side of the nave, following the service attentively. At his side was his friend the knight, whose lips moved in time with the singing as if he knew the words. His wife Jeanne made a show of her piety, keeping her eyes downcast like a bloody virgin.

  People like that made him sick. As he returned his gaze to the altar, occasionally glancing at his wife, Karvinel couldn’t help a sneer distorting his features. Knights and their ladies had no idea what life was all about – just like the merchants in Vincent’s league. They hadn’t a clue what a man had to do to survive, to succeed. It was hard enough when times were good, when competition undercut your prices and forced you to find cheaper suppliers, but when times were bad and you couldn’t persuade anyone to buy what you had, that was really tough. And then you got troubles like Karvinel’s, when some bastard broke into your house and nicked everything. And later torched it.

  Sometimes the only way a man could survive was by betraying his own soul. Occasionally a man must steal and risk damnation just to be able to liv
e. Karvinel knew that now. Had known it two days ago when he went down to shout at his bottler for not waking him, and had found the man’s bed unslept in. The last of his servants, bar the cretinous urchin who swept the hall, had left.

  Juliana had shrugged carelessly, saying it was lucky. It would be a relief to be rid of so expensive a mouth to feed, and he wasn’t really necessary now.

  ‘What do you mean, not necessary?’ he had shouted.

  ‘You don’t have that much business to conduct, do you, my dear?’ she had returned coldly

  ‘There are the gloves to finish for the Cathedral, the wine for—’

  ‘Precisely. There really is very little for you to do, husband. Perhaps there will be more soon, for if your creditors all appear and ask for your money, I suppose we shall be forced to sell the house and all our belongings. But until then, there is little to be done that you can’t do alone, is there?’

  Her spiteful manner had made him see red. He could have hit her, punched her, and the release would have given him immense satisfaction . . . except he knew what the end result would be. She would simply look at him contemptuously and go quiet, perhaps silently walk away from him – and from that moment she would be entirely lost to him.

  That was the trouble, he knew, watching his wife as she watched other men. Everything he had done was intended to keep her as his own. He couldn’t risk losing her. The loss of prestige should she leave him was too appalling even to contemplate. But he couldn’t tolerate her flirting with other men, not even if that was the price he must pay for her continued company. Swallowing painfully, he viewed the future. Unless he could soon reveal his renewed financial status, she would leave him.

  Then a new resolve stiffened his spine. There was no need for him to go on suffering this intolerable situation. Juliana’s stupid behaviour must improve soon. She would hardly go looking for another man to support her if she learned that her own husband was immensely wealthy again. That was the reason for her coldness recently – the belief that he was a failure. Well, soon he’d be able to show her – point to the large sums of money he’d acquired – and then she’d warm up towards him, she’d love him again as she had before.