The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker aktm-10

by Michael Jecks

  ‘As I recall, Baldwin, you weren’t much use during the investigation into the murders at Belstone,’ Simon Puttock laughed, grasping Sir Baldwin’s forearm. ‘So, as I was the poor devil who had to do all the work, the good Bishop decided to reward me too.’

  ‘And deservedly, too. The good Bailiff of Lydford should be rewarded,’ Baldwin said heartily. ‘Edgar, more wine from the landlord. Now,’ he continued, helping his wife to a seat near the fire and drawing up a stool for himself, sitting upon it and studying Simon with a steady eye, ‘tell us about Meg. How is she?’

  Simon let his head fall back and roared with delight. ‘She is well, Baldwin. Only a couple of weeks to go and she’ll pod. And then I hope I shall have another son!’

  Baldwin nodded without speaking. He prayed with all his heart that Simon should win this single desire. Simon had been the proud father of a boy, young Peterkin, who had died quite suddenly two years before. With that death Simon had felt that all his dreams and hopes were also dead, and the fresh-faced, middle-aged man (for Simon was already over thirty-five) had suddenly lost his square, rugged appearance. In his place was a grey-faced man, his brown hair shot with silver; deep gashes were slashed at either side of his mouth, wrinkles appeared at his brow, and all at once Simon had looked ready for the grave himself. It was only his work which had kept him on an even keel, Baldwin felt. Thank God the Bailiff had recovered some of his easygoing nature since then.

  And it had not only affected Simon. His wife had been a pretty, contented young woman, with a tall, slender frame, long, blonde hair and an appealing face. As soon as Peterkin died her flesh fell away, leaving her ghostly thin, with a white complexion. Baldwin had always felt a strong affection for Margaret, and to see how she had faded was dreadful.

  ‘How are you keeping, Jeanne?’ Simon asked, turning to gauge her shape with an experienced, measuring gaze. ‘You’re just beginning to show.’

  She reddened, but held her head high. ‘Perhaps my waist is thickening a little.’

  ‘Waist? Hah, more your belly, my dear! You wait, you’ll be heavier than ever before in four or five months’ time. Why, Meg puts on at least a third as much again as her usual weight.’ He nudged Baldwin with a broad grin. ‘More to cuddle up to at night!’

  Baldwin almost laughed, but stifled the sound when he saw the expression on his wife’s face. He cleared his throat. ‘So we are to be presented with our rewards together?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Simon agreed. ‘I don’t know what the exact procedure is, but the host of this inn says the clerics of the Cathedral will present them to us with the boy-Bishop on Holy Innocents’ Day.’

  Baldwin groaned. ‘Another five days, Simon.’

  ‘He has been bemoaning his duty since the good Bishop Walter invited him here,’ Jeanne said caustically. ‘Anyone would think he disliked the thought of the Bishop’s generosity.’

  ‘I don’t reject the honour – indeed I am grateful for it – but five whole days, Jeanne! We could be enjoying our own quiet Christmas at home. Our first together at Furnshill.’

  ‘Instead we shall be here,’ Simon said happily, refilling his jug. ‘Eating, drinking and relaxing, and for my part I am happy to be away from the freezing blast on the moors, away from the mires, the mists, the snow and driving rain. No need to worry about the miners arguing with the landowners for a few blessed days. Ah, for me, I have to say I am content. Especially since we get to attend the Christmas Eve Mass at the Cathedral; I’ve never seen it here at Exeter before but I’ve heard it’s special. And there’s the mayhem of the Holy Innocents’ Day celebrations. I look forward to them too.’

  Baldwin was not to be soothed. ‘Yes, but it’s five days. What will we do until then?’

  If he had but known, Peter Golloc would soon ensure that he had plenty to occupy him.

  Early the next morning, while Baldwin and his wife lay asleep, the Cathedral began to wake to the new day. The Secondary stationed in the church looked at the clock and saw that it was time to call the Cathedral’s congregation together for Matins. Yawning while he bowed to the altar, he instantly offered up an apology for his disrespect before shuffling through the dark chamber, scarcely lit by a few remaining candles, and began pulling upon the bellrope.

  In his bed on a palliasse on a large bench by the fire in the hall of Talbot’s Inn, Simon didn’t stir beyond giving a short snore, smacking his lips, and mumbling in his sleep. Upstairs behind a curtain in a large chamber, Baldwin heard the bell and snapped awake. He couldn’t help it: the early call to Matins reminded him of his time in the Knights Templar when he would have risen at this hour to go and give praise to God. He heard the wakeful breath at the other side of the curtain: Edgar. He insisted upon sleeping on a bench near his master to protect him from any nocturnal attack. Edgar had also been a Templar; for many years he was Baldwin’s own Sergeant, the man-at-arms who trained with Baldwin and was constantly at his right side whether on horse or on foot. Since they had left the Order Edgar had taken it upon himself to protect Baldwin. Clearly he too remembered their youth as warrior monks, for from the sound of his yawning Baldwin could tell he had also woken on hearing the bell.

  Lying in the crook of his arm Jeanne twitched her nose, but then continued to sleep. Baldwin smiled gently. He wanted to touch her face, to feel the soft smoothness of her cheek, to stroke her naked belly and thighs – but he checked his hand. She was tired, especially after the long journey to get here. No, he would leave her to rest.

  Baldwin closed his eyes resolutely and waited for sleep to overwhelm him once again.

  Peter awoke with a shivering ague that started in his belly and griped, threatening him both with vomiting and soiling himself. He swallowed with an effort, shuddered at the acid bile, closed his eyes and prayed.

  The bell tolled relentlessly but he couldn’t rise. His belly was a source of heat and pain. He could only roll over and grip at it, sobbing out a plea to God to ease this terrible agony, and as if in answer to his fervent prayers, the sensation of rending and stabbing within his guts retreated a little. Gasping with relief, he gradually eased himself upwards and stood, swaying. He almost called out to Jolinde for help – but then he saw that his mattress lay empty. Jolly had gone to his woman again.

  He must wipe his face. That might help soothe him. There was a pot on a chest near his window, and he stumbled to it, dashing cold water over his face and standing still while the dampness dripped down his cheeks and onto his chest. There was a kind of relief, as if the purity of the water helped to drive away his suffering – but not for long.

  A wave of relentless pain rocked him. He had to grasp the chest’s top to steady himself, head hanging, while his belly clenched. There was a burning in his throat and he choked, spitting out a little bile onto the floor. The bell rang once more and he whimpered quietly. This was his terror, the pitiable horror that he had not dared confess to Jolinde: that he was possessed by a devil.

  It was the only explanation. A foul spirit had him in its grasp; his sins had allowed the creature to win him over, his weakness had let the evil into his soul. Now the demon was forcing him away from the path of righteous praise of God, so that he could be more easily bent to the will of the Devil. ‘Oh Holy Mother Mary, please save me,’ he pleaded as he felt the liquid movement in his bowels again, and he wept as he lurched to his chamber pot.

  Afterwards he felt much improved. He rinsed himself and his hands, pulled his cloak on, slipped his feet into his shoes and prayed quietly. The action of calming his breath and thinking of God soothed him, and while the effect lasted, he dipped his spoon in the broth he had made the night before out of the joint Jolinde had brought him. It appeared to sit easily on his belly, but made him feel hungry again. Well, he reflected, after throwing up half my food and having the rest pass through me like water, it’s no surprise. He broke off a portion of bread from Jolinde’s loaf and popped it into his mouth, chewing it dry as he prepared to leave the hall for the Cathedral. After vomit
ing earlier he was aware of a curious taste to it, but shrugged it aside.

  Jolinde wasn’t downstairs in the hall, but there was nothing new in that. These days, he was rarely at home. He went out drinking until far too late, or stayed with Claricia Cornisshe at Sutton’s Inn, but as Jolly’s father was rich and a friend of the Dean, he felt he could get away with it. It seemed disgraceful to Peter, but he was in no position to condemn any man while he was racked with his devil-inspired malady.

  He shut the door and crossed the grass to the western door. Jolinde would be inside, no doubt. Probably darted there as soon as he returned to the Cathedral precinct – although how he managed to scale the walls was beyond Peter. Having sated himself with his drinking and lusting, Jolly would beg personal forgiveness while his companion clerics prayed for other men’s souls. Jolinde! Peter gave a dry smile.

  Jolinde’s girlfriend allowed him to stay with her overnight. That was why he was so often late back, usually rushing straight to the first service. ‘First service?’ he had laughed bawdily when Peter had asked him. ‘This isn’t my first service tonight!’

  His behaviour had shocked Peter at first, but Jolinde was no hypocrite. ‘I’m not going to be a priest, I don’t want to be, but my father insists that I should learn to read and write. That way I can be more use to him in his work.’

  To Peter, whoring about the city was a disgrace to the cloth, but there was no sin if a man confessed and Jolinde had sworn that he would. And since Peter had no rich parents to help support him, Jolinde’s occasional gifts of extra bread, meat or poultry were welcome. There was a twinge of near guilt each time Peter accepted the presents, as if he was taking a bribe again, as he had from Karvinel when the merchant begged him to confirm the identity of the felon, but Peter had persuaded himself that there was little point in starving himself. He might as well take advantage of Jolinde’s patronage as another’s. If not, he’d be no better off than a cripple or leper begging at the Fissand Gate.

  Not that it was easy to imagine someone being worse off than him. He was the unwilling participant in the killing of the innocent Hamond and the unwilling accomplice in a theft. A wave of self-pity washed over him. Perhaps if it weren’t for them, he wouldn’t be prey to this horrible punishment: possession. He had reached the great western door now, and took a deep breath before entering. The Punctators spotted him as soon as he slipped inside, one of them shaking his head at the sight of the Secondary arriving late once more. Jolinde was already in his place. The singing had begun and Peter stood in dumb confusion for a moment before coming to himself and tottering forwards to his stall, trying to disturb as few other clerics as possible on his way.

  The church felt hot, but a moment later it was freezing. A fine sweat broke out upon his back, then chilled him to the core as all warmth fled. The candlelight flickered while the choir’s voices rose in song, praising God. Peter settled upon the misericorde and attempted to focus his attention on God.

  He survived the first half hour, but then the changes in temperature began to accelerate, and he suddenly felt much worse. The choir appeared to move about him. Perspiration dewed his forehead and then he felt the surging rush in his belly and bowels. There was a final, terrible, clutching agony in his belly, squeezing again and again, while he closed his eyes trying to hold back his screams. The room began to spin faster; the fumes of the censer filled his lungs and made him retch.

  No! He mustn’t be sick, not here in church. It would be obscene, an insult to God. Swallowing, he tried to keep the urge to vomit at bay, but then a spasm made him spew up a thin dribble. He felt it drip down his chin and he desperately tried again to swallow, but then the sharp pain ripped at his stomach. He bent over, vomit projecting from his mouth. While his fellow-clerics stared in shock, he fell to his knees, sobbing, coughing up bile which was bright with his blood.

  He managed to croak out a single cry, a heartfelt plea to Holy Mother Mary for Her forgiveness, before collapsing in his stall, his body convulsing for a minute or two after the poison had stopped his heart.

  Chapter Seven

  The urgent summons reached Simon and Baldwin before they had risen from their beds. Baldwin’s eyes snapped open at the first sharp rap, and he listened as the landlord of Talbot’s Inn shuffled along the screens passage to the door. It sounded, from his grumbling, as if mine host didn’t like to be pulled so early from his bed.

  A second loud knock echoed through the almost empty building to be answered with the host’s testy, ‘I’m on my way, you bastard, cool your bollocks! What’s the hurry?’ Confident it could be nothing to do with him, Baldwin swung around gently, so as not to wake his wife, and sat on the edge of his bed stretching. He was here as a guest of the Cathedral, not in any official capacity. It was probably an early customer wanting his morning whet.

  Rising and pulling on a shirt to cover his nakedness and combat the cold. Baldwin went to the window. The shutter was held up by a thong looped over a nail, and overnight the string had become stiff and frozen. He had to struggle to unhook it and push the warped shutter down in its runners. Once it had fallen away, Baldwin found himself gazing upon a dark and grey view. Although it was not raining, the gloomy black clouds overhead were threatening. Baldwin snuffed the air. It was too early for most citizens to have lighted their fires, and he could taste a metallic tang in the air. It was too cold to rain; if anything, there would be snow and lots of it. The prospect made him give a fleeting frown at the thought of his manor so many miles away, but then he shrugged. There was nothing he could do from here and in any case, his staff knew their jobs well enough. The cattleman would have his beasts in the byre, the shepherd would be out in his hut, his fire lit. All the hay was stored, all the grain in the chests ready to be ground as it was needed. All the same, he would prefer to be there if the weather was going to deteriorate.

  As the thought passed through his mind, he heard the door open and the angry voice of the host was cut off by the curt tones of another. Baldwin listened carefully. He could hear Edgar walking across the floor towards the door, and knew that his servant would have grabbed his sword and gone to listen, as always thinking of his master’s protection before anything else.

  Christmas Eve, Baldwin thought to himself sourly. Thursday twenty-fourth December, and here he was, miles from home, not knowing what was happening at his manor and now he couldn’t even be granted a decent rest in his bed.

  ‘Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar called quietly after a short while, ‘there has been a death in the Cathedral and the Dean has sent his Bailiff to ask you and Master Puttock to see him.’

  ‘But we’ve only been here one night!’ came a small plaintive voice from Baldwin’s bed.

  He smiled at his wife, snuggled well under a pile of blankets and cloaks. ‘Tell the good Bailiff that we shall attend the Dean as soon as we are dressed,’ he said.

  The Bailiff of the City had hurried off as soon as he had delivered his message, so Baldwin and Simon had to make their own way to the Dean. At the great gate they were pointed to his small house and were soon hurried upstairs to his hall.

  Simon was unimpressed by the Dean. It took only a few minutes to classify the fellow as a foolish old dolt. Dean Alfred stood before his table, rubbing his hands together as if he was washing them, and surveyed his guests with an anxious face that reminded Simon uncharitably of Baldwin’s old mastiff.

  ‘My friends, I am grateful that you should have come so speedily to our aid,’ he said. ‘Hmm. Um, this matter is so serious that I fear I must ask for help from whichever quarter I…’

  ‘There was no need,’ came an uncompromising voice from behind them, and Simon spun to meet the stern gaze of another man.

  ‘This is Roger de Gidleigh, Coroner of Exeter,’ said Dean Alfred unhappily. ‘Ahmm, he claims the right to perform the inquest.’

  ‘It is my duty under the King’s laws,’ the man stated.

  ‘But not Canon law,’ the Dean said miserably. ‘Um, I have to ensure that the
Cathedral itself is represented within the Cathedral’s walls.’

  ‘You could as easily send a cleric as your representative.’

  The Dean ignored his loud, rasping voice. ‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff Puttock, hmm, would you please help the Coroner in his enquiries? Poor Peter is dead.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure,’ Simon lied, wondering who ‘Poor Peter’ could be. It didn’t take long for the Dean to tell them, explaining how the boy had died during the service.

  Baldwin was puzzled. ‘So this fellow went into convulsions and collapsed?’

  ‘Just like a man who had been poisoned,’ said Coroner Roger grimly. ‘And he had been showing symptoms of illness for some days, so I am told.’

  ‘As if he was being slowly poisoned?’ Baldwin asked. No one answered.

  ‘Why should someone wish to kill a cleric?’ Simon asked.

  The Dean looked at him with an infinity of sadness in his eyes. ‘Some men would do anything for revenge, Bailiff.’

  ‘Revenge? What makes you mention that?’ Simon pressed sharply.

  ‘This cleric helped identify a robber and felon in the city recently. I wonder whether the outlaw’s leader might have wanted to avenge his hanged associate.’

  Coroner Roger had been listening with growing impatience. ‘Rubbish. It was because the dead boy had been supposed to take jewels and money to a glover in the city…’

  ‘The glover who was killed by his apprentice?’ Baldwin demanded. First there was the fact that the cleric had been with the merchant Karvinel, now he was connected to the dead glover as well.

  ‘The same, yes. Only since his death, the money and some of the jewels have disappeared.’

  ‘And the gloves, too, were gone?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘No, they were found and have gone to another glover to be finished. Most of the jewels were already on them, and they only need a little work to be completed,’ the Dean sighed. ‘Ummm, it means the Cathedral must buy even more gems and pay more money to finish the work on time. It is terrible, especially since we only recently lost money to the hanged outlaw. You er probably saw him hanging?’