At least Henry hadn’t been so bad on the day, Luke thought. He had dreaded it, knowing how Henry would crow over him while he enjoyed his power as boy-Bishop, but in fact it hadn’t been so bad. Henry had not made his life as miserable as he could have. And when the mayhem began, Luke had been allowed to play with Henry and his friends.
That had been fun, too! Luke rolled over and rested his head on his arm, wriggling himself lower under his blanket as he tried to keep warm. One of the Secondaries had thrown water from a pot over another, and Henry had seen it. Instantly he ran for the nearest tavern, where all the Choristers grabbed pots, pans and cups, before gleefully running to the stream and filling them, before ambushing whomsoever they could. One merchant and his wife had been drenched, as had an Annuellar, but when they mistakenly caught one of the Canons, the game lost its lustre. They all knew Stephen would remember who was guilty and would see to it that their work and behaviour was monitored ever more stringently over the coming weeks.
Luke sighed happily. If he had been boy-Bishop himself he might not have enjoyed it so much. No, thinking about it, he was happy that Henry had won the election.
There was a creak of timber and Luke was just thinking how much this old hall settled in the cold of night, when he heard a muffled snigger and snapped into full wakefulness just as an entire pot of water cascaded over his face.
‘You whoreson, festering, buggering, putrid heap of cat shit!’ he screamed as he leaped from his bed. Henry was already at the far end of the room, holding his sides with laughter, and then he saw the light of battle in Luke’s eyes, and scuttled from the room.
Soaking wet, Luke chased after him, both silent and determined not to be discovered, two boys full of life: Henry, who would in fifteen years become the Archdeacon of Cornwall: and Luke, who would leave the Church and become one of Europe’s leading mercenary soldiers.
In Will Row’s alehouse John Coppe raised his pot and Joan tipped more wine into it, smiling down at him. He toasted his dead friends and drank deeply, passing it to her. She lifted it and closed her eyes, finishing it.
‘He’s leaving the city,’ Coppe said after a few moments.
She nuzzled against him, his arm about her shoulders. He smelled homely, warm, sweaty and all manly. ‘He can go.’
‘Le Berwe had your man killed, though. It doesn’t seem right,’ Coppe grumbled half to himself.
She pulled away and stared down at him. ‘Vincent le Berwe may have told the pirates about the ship, but even if he hadn’t, there’s still a good chance they’d have got to hear. It’s not as if the ship was secret, is it? What happened to you and the others could have happened whether or not le Berwe had dealings with the French, so there’s no point worrying about it. And he’s wrecked. He’ll never have money again, nor position. His wife is dead, and his reputation is gone. I think that’s enough revenge.’
Coppe cocked his head. Outside, the wind was picking up and he could hear the shutters rattling in the grooves, while the bush tied above the doorway squeaked and scratched as the dried twigs moved across the painted door. ‘Rain soon,’ he said.
‘Lucky the fire’s going, then, isn’t it?’
A pounding on the door made both of them look up with alarm, but Joan lifted his arm from her and walked to the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘The Coroner. Open up!’
She lifted the peg from the latch and pulled the door open, scraping it across the floor. ‘Coroner?’
‘I’ve just come from the Guildhall. They wanted you to be given this.’
She took the purse and hefted it in her hand. ‘What’s it for?’
‘A few of the merchants wanted to give it to you and Coppe – to remember your ship and the men who were killed. Look on it as a New Year present.’
He pulled his hood up over his head, scowled at her and, before she could utter a word of thanks, he stalked back out into the night.
‘God! look at all this,’ Joan said, peering inside the purse. ‘Do you know what all this money means?’
‘What?’ asked Coppe, craning his neck to see into the purse.
‘It means we can afford more wine!’
And in the Cathedral precinct, in the room Jolinde had shared with Peter, a rat scrambled cautiously across the floor. Tentatively, nose twitching with earnest deliberation, it leapt onto a stool and surveyed the room. The loaf left by Hawisia lay on the table amid a mess of platters, cups and trenchers, but the rat was not discriminating. Anything would do.
It jumped again and was on the table. As it began to gnaw through the outer crust of the loaf, a second and a third rat appeared and followed their leader to the table.
By the time Jolinde returned to pack his few belongings, the rats were all dead.
The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker Page 35
