The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker aktm-10

by Michael Jecks

  He heard the Bailiff’s steps, the shuffle as the man tried to peer between the shutters into the room, the tentative rattle of the latch. With a lurch in his gut he heard the door to the shop open. Panicking, he went to the ladder and slid downstairs, bolting for the front door even as the Bailiff appeared, blocking it. His face was white and in his hand he held Elias’s knife.

  Elias could not help but stare at it. The blade was smeared with a thin oil-like layer of blood.

  ‘Get out here, you shit,’ William snarled.

  John Coppe, squatting on his haunches outside the Cathedral grounds, was the first to announce the news of the death to the porter and, through him, the rest of the Cathedral precinct.

  Janekyn Beyvyn was in his small room by the gate when he heard the excited murmur outside. A youngster, scarcely twelve years old, came scampering down the street cheerily declaring the news, but his voice was too high and his enthusiasm too great for Janekyn to understand him clearly. By the time Janekyn had left his porter’s lodge and got out to the roadway, the lad had disappeared, pelting along at speed to tell his friends the news.

  ‘It’s a terrible world,’ John Coppe declared grimly, ‘when you think how those who are evil can yet prosper, and a poor soul like Ralph is destroyed. It’s a cruel, terrible world.’ And so it was, he told himself. There were not many who could be relied upon every morning to give a penny to a beggar at Fissand Gate. Enough for food and drink for a day if you were careful and went to Joan’s alehouse. He shook his head with regret at his personal loss, tinged with compassion for the man whom he had personally considered kindly and generous.

  ‘Eh?’ Janekyn demanded, squinting. ‘What’s happened?’

  John Coppe peered up at the older man. ‘It’s the glover,’ he began.

  ‘Which bugger?’

  ‘Not bugger, glover! You know, Ralph – the fat man, always threw me a coin or two.’

  There was a spark of understanding. ‘Ah, him. What of him?’

  ‘Dead, Porter. Murdered! His own apprentice slew him.’

  Old Janekyn shrugged. It was none of his concern that some foolish trader had chosen an apprentice with murderous tendencies. If anything, he was most aware of that special satisfaction which the old feel upon hearing of the death of others younger than themselves. Then reality hit him like a cudgel and he gaped. ‘Gracious God! The poor man. And what will happen to his goods now?’

  ‘The Good Lord only knows – but at least the city will have a good hanging. A servant killing his own master – that is treason of the worst sort! He’ll have to be hanged. I hope he thought it was worth it.’ Coppe felt he could afford to be jocular about it. True, he had lost a friend, but Ralph was not his only friend.

  Janekyn wasn’t listening. He turned sharply and went to the small lodge by the gate, where he spoke shortly to the cleric warming himself at the brazier. Soon the young man was running full tilt to the Treasurer’s offices.

  The Dean, a quiet and contemplative man in his early sixties, with a sparse fringe of white hair above an almost perfectly circular face, was today forced to wear a most unhabitual frown of concern. His wonted expression was one of mildly confused happiness, his smile that of a man to whom the world was a neverending source of wonder, as if he was convinced that there was a greater, logical plan to all the mayhem and lunacy if only he could understand it. But not today. Today his grimace owed more to his discontent at the failings of men than contentment with God’s works.

  Brother Stephen usually found his gentle, muddled demeanour intensely irritating, and the change from mildly befuddled Dean to bemused and annoyed Dean was no improvement. ‘The apprentice murdered him, Dean.’

  ‘But why?’ the Dean demanded earnestly. ‘Were all the apprentices to kill their masters, where should we be, hmm? In a world of madness, that is where.’

  ‘This is more important than you appreciate, Dean,’ Brother Stephen said, watching narrowly as Dean Alfred stood and walked to the window.

  The other man waved a hand petulantly. ‘But what can be more important than this? That a youth, almost a boy, should murder his master? It is an outrage against the natural order. Why, one could expect to see a Canon’s own Vicar killing him if this kind of hideous incident were tolerated. It would be horrible. No one would be safe. My Heavens, what could be worse, hmm?’

  His mannerisms, many and varied as they were, all grated on Brother Stephen, but this, the mild, enquiring clearing of the throat, was by far and away the worst. Brother Stephen gritted his teeth. ‘Dean, you will recall that we are shortly to celebrate Christmas,’ he murmured silkily.

  ‘Well naturally, Brother. It is December. In only… my Heavens! Can it really be only four days to Christmas? It seems only an instant ago that we were celebrating the Feast of Holy Innocents last year.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it will soon be Christmas, and a short while thereafter we shall be celebrating Holy Innocents again. And for that we need the gloves.’

  ‘I am sure you have them in hand,’ the Dean muttered, smiling gently at the pun. He was peering from the window out over the cloisters, his hands clasped behind his back. Why wouldn’t Brother Stephen leave him alone, he thought. Always had his nose in other people’s affairs as if he was trying to conceal his own failings. And he did have much to hide from other Brothers. That was why Stephen kept himself aloof. But it was also his value and importance. His shame had ensured that he was among the most committed of all the Chapter, which was why the Dean had entrusted Adam, to his care.

  The Brother’s next words made him forget his musings about the Canon.

  ‘Dean, I speak of the gloves which shall be given to the leading folk of the city. Those for the Burgesses are already prepared, but there are others…?’ He let his voice trail away on a vague note of enquiry.

  ‘Others?’ Dean Alfred repeated, but then he slowly turned to face the Canon. ‘You mean that the other gloves are not ready?’

  ‘Dean, I do not know!’

  The Dean snapped his fingers in annoyance. ‘Hmm. My dear fellow, you are usually so full of bright ideas. Why not go and enquire?’

  ‘I am a competent manager of money, Dean; I am not a Bailiff!’

  ‘Hmm. Um. I did not mean to imply that you were. Yet we must have someone search for the gloves. Ahmm – were they all finished? Perhaps they are waiting at the glover’s house?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Perhaps you could speak to the City Bailiff? He should know.’

  ‘I think you should go yourself. This is Chapter business, after all.’

  ‘Oh, ha! No, I don’t think so,’ said the Dean, smiling quickly. He ducked his head, then stuck a finger in his ear and dug around, while Brother Stephen sat fuming. ‘No, you go and enquire and we shall soon find out what’s happened, I am sure. I have complete faith in you.’

  Brother Stephen drew breath to argue against the Dean’s proposal, but the Dean nodded encouragingly, backing away towards the door, and before the angry Canon could rally his thoughts Dean Alfred had passed into the next room, his private chamber.

  Brother Gervase walked back to his hall with a sour smile catching at his lips. Little sods! They’d really done it this time.

  The election was supposed to be a formality. Gervase knew as well as any cleric in the Cathedral that the freedom granted to the Choristers was so risk-filled that the boys needed direction… guidance. They had to be advised to select the one from within their ranks who would be best able to conduct services, who could act as a suitable ambassador for the Cathedral and who could be relied upon not to cause too much upset in the city when he proceeded along the roads with his retinue. Luke had the carriage, the education, the courteous manners, the suave accent. He was perfect.

  Gervase reached his hall and entered, pushing the door shut and leaning against the worn timbers.

  But the monsters had picked Henry. It was no surprise really, not if, like Gervase, you knew the boys. As he often told himself, boys
of this age could be contrary little brutes at the best of times. Perhaps that was why they had elected Henry. The Choristers had ignored the clear and obvious wishes of the Canons; they wanted a leader who could make their day of freedom fun.

  It was also possible that Henry had offered them bribes. Gervase recalled whispered conversations between Henry and others over the last few weeks. However, Gervase was more persuaded by the argument that his charges had selected a candidate with the sole intention of putting the collective noses of the Canons out of joint.

  Children today just weren’t as well-behaved as they had been in his youth, he told himself sadly. God alone knew what horrors they would get up to on Holy Innocents’ Day. He pictured Henry: tousled, scruffy, trying to look innocent while holding his hands behind his back to conceal a sling, a beetle, or something equally repellent. Gervase tried to put that grubby figure into the silk robes of the boy-Bishop. It wasn’t easy. The child would ruin the fine clothes. And as for what he could get up to as the Bishop, well! Gervase’s mind boggled.

  And then, unaccountably, he felt himself start to chuckle.

  Chapter Four

  It was two days later, on twenty-third December, that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill drew near to the city. Sitting on his favourite rounsey, he gave his wife a twisted smile and then returned to surveying the River Exe on their left side and warily eyeing the trees on their right. He was always looking for danger. Outlaws were everywhere nowadays.

  ‘I know, my love. And I am glad, too, that we shall not be forced to remain here overly long,’ he said.

  His wife gave a longsuffering sigh. ‘All I said was, I am glad it was not my fault we were invited, Baldwin. It should be enjoyable – I don’t understand why you are so glum.’

  ‘I do not like to have to travel. Especially over the feast of Christmas. It is a time to be at home, to celebrate in our own church.’

  The knight had travelled extensively when he was one of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – a Knight Templar – but since settling once more in his family’s estate at Furnshill near Cadbury and marrying Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, the tall, grave man had thought that he would no longer be forced nor expected to journey far and wide.

  Sir Baldwin was Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, a job with some responsibility, but which required limited effort since few crimes plagued the small country town, nor were they generally violent in nature. He rarely suffered the difficulties of enquiring after murders and when there was such a case, it could normally be speedily resolved since the perpetrator was commonly still standing over the victim with a knife or rope in his hand when the Hue and Cry arrived. Many criminals surrendered themselves quietly, accepting that they had done wrong and must pay. Since becoming the King’s Keeper of the Peace five years ago, Baldwin had only been forced to seek four murderers in Crediton itself.

  But this was not Crediton, Sir Baldwin told himself, looking past the weir towards the stonework of the city of Exeter.

  The small city was a pretty red sandstone marker in the green of the fields all about. There were few solid buildings outside the walls, for all those who could afford to would buy a small house within their safety. Only a few timber buildings leaned against the outside of the walls. Looming over all was the castle, a solid-looking fortress built on the highest ground. Beneath it Baldwin could see the great mass of St Peter’s, the Cathedral, with its pair of tall spires marking the two towers of the crossing.

  Away from the city were a few sparse settlements which stood out in this smoothly rolling countryside. There were any number of church spires and towers: to the north lay St David’s, ahead of him, over beyond the South Gate was the small leper hospital of St Magdalen, while he knew that St Thomas’s was almost dead ahead on the Cowick Street, not that the church could be seen from here. There were too many trees blocking the view.

  Still, Sir Baldwin confessed to himself that it was a pretty enough little city; not so busy and hectic as London or Paris, not so scruffy as York, nor so unbearably humid and noisome as Limassol. It lay sheltered above a great sweep of the River Exe, quiet and serene in the clear wintry light.

  The trouble was, he had another reason to wish to be at home. He did not want to travel all the way to Exeter for Christmas – especially not with his wife.

  ‘Well, you may remain as gloomy as you wish; I for one intend to enjoy myself,’ Jeanne said tartly.

  He grinned at her. Jeanne and he had been married only since the springtime and he had never known such happiness. Even now, with her face betraying her truculence, he adored her. Never shrewish, usually calm and contented, she was a source of pleasure. Right now she was unhappy, rolling in the coach with each jolt as the wheels thundered over the rough roadway, registering her displeasure at every jarring crash, yet he could only see her beauty. Lady Jeanne was a tall, slender woman with red-gold hair and the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. Her face was regular, if a little round; her nose short, perhaps too small; her mouth over-wide with a full upper lip that gave her a stubborn appearance; her forehead was maybe too broad – but to Baldwin she was perfection.

  Except her temper had fluctuated recently since she had learned that she was pregnant.

  It wasn’t that she was temperamental – Baldwin would hesitate to use such a perjorative term to describe his wife – but she had become a little more peppery since becoming pregnant. She responded badly to his well-intentioned suggestions designed to ensure her comfort. This was Baldwin’s first child and he intended guaranteeing that his wife remained healthy and that their unborn baby was cosseted and protected. Riding all the way to Exeter in the middle of winter did not strike him as the best way to protect either Jeanne or her baby, which was why, against her wishes, he had insisted that she should ride in comfort in the wagon.

  ‘Not too far now, my Lady,’ he said encouragingly.

  In answer she gave a snort of disgust. ‘Good. Oh, this damned road!’

  He grinned and she lifted her chin in haughty contempt, but his bellowed laughter made her give a fleeting smirk. Feigning annoyance, she turned from him and pulled her furs more tightly about her. It was hard not to giggle with him when he relaxed in this way. Just then a triple hammering jerk almost knocked her sideways, and she swore viciously under her breath.

  She adored her husband. He was considerate, kind, intelligent and serious. She loved his dark complexion, his almost-black eyes, his grizzled hair which contrasted so strongly with his black beard and eyebrows, as if his head had been caught in a heavy frost. Even the scar which ran from his temple almost to his jaw was, to her, an endearing mark, a proof of his martial past, evidence of his chivalry – but that didn’t change the fact that he was being too overprotective because she was pregnant.

  After many years of wanting children and not being able to conceive with her first husband, she had fallen with Baldwin very soon after the summer – a profound relief, because she had wondered whether she was barren as her first husband had told her – yet Baldwin’s constant anxiety was wearing. Other women gave birth naturally. It was a normal event in any woman’s life, as natural as breathing or making love or dying.

  Earlier in the year Jeanne had seen one of Baldwin’s peasants going out to harvest turnips, a short woman with a massive belly. In one hand she carried a wicker basket. Later that afternoon, the woman returned, a basket full of vegetables on her hip with, on the top, a contented baby swaddled expertly against the cold. When Jeanne asked her how she had coped, the woman shrugged evasively, unsure how to answer her mistress. Eventually, when pressed, she muttered that she had given birth to seven others, all in the field while she worked. There was nothing special about this one, she said.

  And yet here Jeanne was, forced to ride in an open coach like royalty, because her husband was concerned that she might strain something riding on her mare. ‘More risk of straining something in this damned wagon,’ she spat as the coach thudded heavily into another rut.
<
br />   At least here the route was downhill. Up was worse because then the wagon lumbered more heavily. Going down was easier, faster and more comfortable. As she thought that, another deep hole made the wagon rattle and creak and Jeanne struck her head on a stanchion supporting the roof. Cursing quietly to herself, a hand at her bruised temple, she tottered to the front of the coach and sat on the board beside the driver, Edgar, Baldwin’s steward and loyal servant for many years.

  Peering ahead she could see the city, its great bridge reaching out over Exe Island, where a growing number of houses were springing up, most on the island where there were many businesses, but quite a few on the bridge itself.

  ‘It’s pretty enough, isn’t it?’ she commented, shading her eyes against the morning’s sun which lay low in the sky so late in the year.

  Edgar nodded, hunched in his seat and staring at the road ahead. He grunted his agreement as Baldwin rode up to their side, a troubled expression on his face. ‘Shouldn’t you be resting, my Lady?’

  Jeanne looked at him coldly without comment.

  The bridge led to the great western gate of the city, which gave onto a broad roadway running up the hill towards Carfoix, where the northern, southern, eastern and western roads all met in the city centre.

  Soon Baldwin and his small entourage were rattling slowly up the incline. Gardens, orchards and fields lay on either side between or behind houses; pigs squealed and rootled among piles of leaves and rubbish while dogs snapped at each other as they scavenged. A cock crowed and horses neighed or whinnied on all sides. It was not as noisy and unpleasant as some places, Baldwin told himself, but there was still proof that crime occurred. A man lolled in the pillory, blood dripping from a gash in his forehead where a rock had been hurled. Nearby, a man’s body hung from a beam lashed between two trees, his hands bound behind his back, his madly staring eyes gazing all about him as his corpse swung gently, turning from left to right as the breeze blew up the hill.