Many Secondaries failed; usually because of laziness on their part, Luke reminded himself. He had heard that sage comment passed by another Secondary talking about Jolinde, and was privately convinced that the same applied to Adam. He was not suited to the Canonical life, anyway. He was a bully and a cheat.
With a wash of cold anguish, Luke recalled his father’s face from the night before. Now he had his own notoriety: he was the son of a felon, related to an outlaw. Perhaps Stephen’s deliberate concealment of his father’s survival had been intended as a kindness, Luke realised. The Canon might have considered it preferable that other Choristers couldn’t discover what had truly happened to Sir Thomas. If so, perhaps he was right. Luke shuddered as he thought how Henry would torment him, should he learn that Luke’s father had become an outlaw. It would reverse all the insults Luke had hurled at him for being lower-born. Henry could at least assert that his parents had never broken the King’s Peace.
It was a relief when Adam kicked his shin beneath the table. The cruel pain took Luke’s mind off his father.
If the stories were true, Adam had been a good Chorister, with a fine voice, but when his voice shattered during a long Psalm one Easter Day, it had destroyed his confidence. His whole existence up until that point had been built upon the solid foundation of his ability to sing, and as soon as that was taken from him, he appeared to lose all motivation. He failed in his studies and proved himself incompetent at figures. Now the strong rumour in the Close asserted that he would be lucky if he was permitted to remain in the Cathedral as an acolyte.
Some did. They stayed, hanging about the place like sad and mournful hounds who had lost their master, getting in the way of the choir as they hurried from cloister to choir to Chapter to dormitory. Many simply left while in their early twenties. There was no point haunting a place where you weren’t wanted, Luke thought, but Adam seemed to have no idea where else he could go. Pathetic.
Luke reached down to pick up his bread, but there was nothing there. Staring at the table where it had been, he was astonished to see it had disappeared. Then he saw Adam smiling derisively as he crammed the last piece into his mouth and chewed slowly, with evident relish.
The meal was finished. Arthur, Stephen’s Vicar, stood and said the Grace, and the small group left the table to go and watch the plays in the Cathedral. Luke couldn’t help but cast a regretful eye back at the table as he rose. There had not been enough food. His stomach was calling for more. Perhaps if Peter’s half-loaf hadn’t hardened to a rock-like consistency, he could eat a little of that later. He could toast it beside a fire – make it more edible.
With that decided, he was about to head for the door when he felt a foot lash out around his leg, making him stumble. He tripped, felt himself falling and grabbed at the first thing he could. It was the tablecloth. Pulling it with him, he fell to the ground, ducking as trenchers and the salt showered down on top of him.
‘Luke!’ he heard Stephen gasp.
‘I’m sorry, but I—’
‘You clumsy cretin! What in God’s name . . . Go! And do not return for food today. You will get nothing more from here!’
Luke turned away and averted his head as tears threatened to flood his face. He ignored the grinning face of his tormentor and left.
Simon smiled broadly as the boar’s head was carried in. This was more to his taste than a whole mix of fish dishes. Vincent le Berwe had done his best yesterday, but no matter how you arranged the dishes, fish didn’t appeal to a man with a strong carnivorous appetite like Simon. He preferred red meat every time.
And this was the way to feast, he thought. Plenty of good venison: a haunch or two of doe, one fresh, one salted, two hares and a boar that Vincent said a grateful friend had provided as the result of a little favour he had been able to perform. Simon felt his mouth water as he stared at the dishes piling up in front of them. He only wished he could do someone a similar ‘little favour’.
He grabbed at his drinking horn and drank deeply. It was a pleasant cup, with a small face moulded into the end, the whole thing glazed in green. Far better than being down on one of the other tables, where the drinkers had to share a pitcher and wipe it before passing it to their neighbour.
By the time the servants had arrived to clear the tables of their debris, Simon was feeling very relaxed. He belched quietly behind a hand, smiling apologetically to Juliana at his side.
Soon the tables were away, secreted out into the buttery or in the small yard behind, and all the guests had been moved so that their benches ringed the room; now they could rest their backs comfortably against the walls. It was at this point that the musicians entered and started singing.
Not bad, Simon thought, although by this stage he would have thought a dog’s howling contained a certain merit. There were three men playing, one with a fiddle, one with a citole and the last with a drum, which he tried to beat in time. From the glazed look in his eyes, his failure was down to Vincent’s over-lavish hospitality. The trio sang several carols, and then were joined by a dark-haired young woman who gave a demonstration of her tumbling and dancing skills.
Simon waved his drinking horn in time to the music as she sprang onto her hands and walked the length of the room, then somersaulted, landing with her legs outspread before and behind, waiting for the applause to finish.
‘By God’s Cods,’ Simon cried. ‘She’s damn good!’
She rose and continued, this time with a slower, more contemplative dance. The drummer had been persuaded to return to the buttery, and now the music was more sedate; soon the girl stopped her dancing and stood before Vincent to sing a carol. It was a popular one, and several of the other guests joined in. Simon himself did with gusto, singing the chorus enthusiastically, if not entirely accurately.
Looking about the group ranged on benches at the walls, Simon saw only delight on all faces, except when he looked to his left and caught Nicholas Karvinel watching him. As soon as Simon met his gaze, Karvinel turned away, but Simon had seen his face and recognised the self-loathing of the cuckold.
Chapter Eighteen
Baldwin too had enjoyed the meal, although he was careful to eat and drink less than he could. His system had been used to a sparse diet for so long now that if he consumed too much it caused a reaction and his whole body was upset for days afterwards. So instead of having his mazer of wine topped up continually, he insisted upon waiting until he had emptied it before allowing the bottler to refill it.
He saw that Simon was fascinated by the dancer. She was light on her feet when whirling to the music, elegant and deceptively subtle, just like a Saracen woman would have been, although she walked with the heavy precision of a professional dancer.
Baldwin could remember Eastern women from his time in Acre and Cyprus, before he joined the Templars. This one had the same smoothly flowing movements, the same confidence in her body and ability, and he wondered for an instant whether she was perhaps the daughter of one of the soldiers who had gone out to the Holy Land to defend it – but then he realised how ridiculous such a thought was. Although she was darkly beautiful, her complexion was of soft English peach and she was in her early twenties, no more. The daughter of a soldier in Acre would be at least thirty by now.
‘An excellent dancer,’ he complimented Vincent.
‘Yes. She is the daughter of a baker of ours. He pulls his hair out, as you’d expect. A girl like her flaunting herself before the eager eyes of so many men,’ Vincent grinned. ‘There are enough to be jealous of Elias.’
‘She’s Mary?’
‘Yes, I thought you knew,’ Vincent said off-handedly.
It was intriguing to watch her. Baldwin, his eyes on her feet in an attempt to keep up with the rapid movements, could easily imagine how a young lad could become infatuated by her: a boy brought up in the secluded, bachelor environment of the glover’s household. Meeting this splendid creature each morning to collect his daily loaf of bread, was it any surprise that he should be knoc
ked sideways?
‘Sir Baldwin,’ Vincent had risen and was standing before him. ‘You haven’t met my friend, have you? This is Nicholas Karvinel – the man who has helped to make your gloves.’
‘Master Karvinel, it is a pleasure,’ Baldwin said, with a faint hint of remoteness in his tone. ‘Tell me, aren’t you the poor fellow that was robbed on the road south of the city? And you later found one of the outlaws in a tavern?’
Unaccountably the man looked wary, glancing at Vincent. ‘Um, yes,’ he said after a pause, ‘and I’m glad to say the bastard swung, God rot him!’
‘Well, at least you caught the villain,’ Baldwin said politely.
‘Yes, that at least was good.’
Vincent excused himself and went to speak to another guest, and Baldwin was left smiling blankly at a man about whom he knew nothing except for his reputation for miserably bad luck.
At his side, Jeanne rescued him. ‘It must have been dreadful to hear that the other glover was murdered. Such a terrible thing to happen to anyone, that kind of petit treason. The thought that your own servant should kill you . . .’
‘It is a horrible thing to dwell upon, my Lady,’ Nicholas Karvinel agreed. ‘But there is murder and madness upon all the streets. All we can do is hang those who would break the laws. It’s the only rule they understand. And the apprentice who kills his master is very certainly deserving of his end. What sort of world would we live in if we allowed that kind of lunacy?’
‘Ugh, yes! Horrid,’ Jeanne said, with affected revulsion. Baldwin restrained the grin that threatened to crack his serious features. His wife was already bored with the man and disliked his opinions, although she was too well-bred to contradict him. ‘Tell me,’ she continued, ‘how magnificent are these gloves to be?’
‘Ah, my Lady, you wouldn’t expect me to give away the secrets of my work? My commission was to produce splendid gloves so that the Dean and Chapter could show their appreciation to the city and the friends of the Cathedral. I couldn’t possibly tell you what they would be like.’
‘Oh, I see. But you got all you needed from the poor dead glover?’
‘The gloves were almost finished. I only had to add some gems – ah! You have made me confess that much already!’
‘But I understood that jewels and the money for the commission were already paid to poor Master Ralph. Has the Cathedral had to pay twice?’
‘I couldn’t afford to do the work for free,’ Karvinel smiled, ‘but the Cathedral needed only to pay me for finishing Ralph’s work.’
Baldwin was listening to him with interest. ‘I suppose you have had to help many other people who would have made use of Ralph the glover’s services?’
‘A few people have come to me, Sir Knight,’ the man conceded, then added: ‘but I hope you don’t think I might have arranged poor Ralph’s death just to win over some of his clients!’
‘My Heavens! What a thought,’ Baldwin said, as if shocked. Then: ‘What happened to the rest of the attacking outlaws?’
‘Eh? What, the men who waylaid me and my man?’
Baldwin didn’t bother to nod. He merely remained staring unblinking.
Karvinel was more heavily set than Vincent, but was sluggish; he lacked the drive which seemed a major part of le Berwe’s make-up. Baldwin reflected that it was probably due to the fact that he was financially in dire straits. Vincent was a success, Nicholas Karvinel a failure.
Vincent was suave and confident in his manner, no matter what he was talking about or to whom; Karvinel was, in comparison, wary and aggressive. The latter now stood with every sign of being cowed by Fate. His eyes moved about the room constantly; his hands were clasped with an outward show of humility and meekness, but there was something about him which Baldwin distrusted.
At his side, Jeanne felt the same. It was hardly a surprise that Karvinel’s business should fail, she thought, when the proprietor was so oily and unpleasant. She would never buy gloves from so unsavoury a character. He reminded her of a snake preparing to strike.
After a moment or two Karvinel replied, ‘They all turned and ran down the road beyond the Maudlin. Like the cowards they are!’
‘Does anyone know who they are?’ Jeanne asked.
‘Oh, their leader styles himself a knight; he has some fifteen or so men with him. All sorts, all ages, all characterised by their willingness to flout the law. It’s a disgrace.’
‘You called the Hue and Cry when you returned to the city, of course?’
‘Well, of course I did! What else would a man do when he has been robbed?’
‘I was merely wondering. Vincent told us that you saw one of the men in a tavern or somewhere, and had him arrested immediately.’
‘Yes, I caught the devil myself. Hamond. God’s blood, but the cheeky sod said he hadn’t been down that way at all. It didn’t do him any good; he was known to be a man of manifest guilt. He was indicted for going about at night-time with a weapon some years ago.’
‘Ah!’ Baldwin said. He recalled his first thoughts on hearing of the hanged man’s background. This Hamond had been so well-known for his nefarious behaviour that when a crime was committed, he was the first to be arrested. Men in his position were often found guilty because the jury who presented them to court thought they were the most likely culprits. So long as someone in the Hundred was convicted of a crime, the King’s Judge would be content, and any jury would prefer to see a useless or dangerous man removed rather than risk a prolonged investigation which would invariably prove still more expensive.
By now, Baldwin was growing to actively dislike this Karvinel. The man had a face rather like a toad’s, with small narrow eyes placed rather widely apart; his nose was thick at the base, broken before the nostrils and badly set. He had not been shaved well, and his stubble was thicker on the left than the right, which made him look sloppy. Normally Baldwin would not think to condemn a man for his dress or toilet, but today was Christ’s, celebrating the infant’s birth and although Baldwin himself was very ambivalent in his attitude to the Church since the destruction of the Temple, that did not affect his adoration of Christ.
When he studied Karvinel, the merchant looked away, a trait which Baldwin had learned to mistrust in any man, but Karvinel added to the knight’s feeling of unease in his presence by staring at Baldwin’s shoes. It was not Karvinel’s fault that Baldwin’s shoes proved how wet and muddy the roads were, but irrationally it made Baldwin feel that an intentional slight was being offered.
‘I assume this man’s family stood up for him?’ he asked stiffly.
‘I don’t know where he came from,’ Karvinel said dismissively. ‘I shouldn’t think anyone else did either.’
‘Vincent told me he was a local,’ Baldwin remembered.
‘I am surprised Vincent knew of him,’ Karvinel said, and his expression confirmed his words. He frowned after their host doubtfully. ‘The lad had every opportunity to defend himself, but he couldn’t get away from the fact that my clerk and I saw him there. We actually saw him with the gang.’
Baldwin set his head to one side in exaggerated surprise. ‘You mean his face was not masked or covered? He must have been the veriest fool in Christendom to attack travellers and not try to hide his identity.’
‘Perhaps, but such is how it was.’
‘What of the rest of the gang?’
‘They were masked.’
There was a lightness to his voice which could have indicated boredom, as if he found the repetition of his attack infinitely dull – or maybe the man was simply ashamed of the attack. But that was foolish. How could a man be embarrassed about being set upon by fifteen or so men? ‘They were all armed, I suppose?’
‘All with sticks or axes. Some had billhooks. It was terrifying, I assure you.’
A whole band armed with such weapons would be a fearsome sight. ‘I wonder why this one had no face covering.’
‘He was a fool.’
‘It is merely odd. In my experience, o
utlaws would happily kill a traveller to prevent their being recognised later – especially if they are local and could be seen by another local man.’
Karvinel shrugged but said nothing.
‘And your clerk has died too, hasn’t he?’ Baldwin continued after a moment. ‘The young Secondary, Peter?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saw him in a tavern a few days ago – the twenty-third, I think. He turned from you as if angry – why should he do that?’
‘He never avoided me.’
‘But I heard . . .’
Karvinel had been surveying the other guests but now he turned to face Baldwin, and the latter could see the naked rage that simmered under the polite exterior. ‘Are you suggesting that I am not telling the truth, Master Knight? Do you call me a liar?’
‘No, Master Nicholas,’ said Baldwin with a suave smile. ‘Of course not.’
He had no need to when Karvinel’s manner convinced him of the fact.
The Bailiff was enjoying himself immensely as his drinking horn was topped up once more. He stood, a beatific grin spread over his features, the horn gripped tightly in his right hand.
Some of the guests were sitting at low tables and playing merrills or backgammon while servants brought in harps and other instruments ready for more singing. Simon was all in favour of gambling and singing, especially after a good meal, and now he leaned against a table, eyeing the throng with a benevolent expression on his face.
Baldwin saw Simon swaying gently and smiled to himself. Walking over, he nodded at the drinking horn. ‘It is my fervent wish that you should regret your consumption tomorrow, Simon.’
‘Me? Hardly had more than a few. No, I can handle my drink.’
Baldwin curled his lip. More than a pint or two of wine and his head was unbearable the next day, not to mention the acid in his belly.
‘The dancer was talented, wasn’t she?’ Simon continued pensively. ‘She could tempt a man, that one.’ In his mind he recalled the tall, slim woman springing up onto her hands, then backwards onto her feet again. The thought of such suppleness brought a happy smile to his face. ‘Yes, she could tempt a monk, that girl. God’s balls, but she can move!’
The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker Page 20
