The beauty of Vincent’s efforts after that lay in their subtlety. The robbery from Karvinel’s house that left him so anxious about even his own home – especially when the second robbery occurred. Both times Karvinel was away with friends of his and Vincent’s; Vincent himself was with them. The perfect alibi! Nobody could connect Vincent with the thefts or the arson attack on Karvinel’s house.
But Hawisia knew that there were plenty of men who would consider anything – maybe even murder – if the money was good. And Vincent could afford to pay well at that time.
The priest finished; the service was over, and Hawisia left by the great door. She saw Adam as he hurried about his duties and smiled at him.
‘Adam, how are you?’
‘Well enough, my Lady. Too much work as always.’
They exchanged a few words and then she continued home. Once there, she asked her servant where Vincent was, but he replied that the master was in meetings at a tavern with other merchants, so Hawisia walked through to the hall and asked for some thin ale and bread to break her fast.
Her routine had been like this much of the time recently. Vincent was rarely about when she came home from church. He was so worried about his work.
So far they had managed to keep news of the disaster from their friends – once those foxes got to hear about it, they’d all want their debts returned – but the truth was bound to slip out soon. It was ironic, really, after Karvinel’s problems, since it was Vincent’s ship which had caused their financial troubles, only in his case it wasn’t pirates, it was the normal maritime risks. It had struck a rock. Only two sailors survived to tell the story and the cargo was lost.
That was why Vincent was so engrossed in his work. He was desperately trying to cover himself, carefully investing what little money he had left into a variety of new ventures.
It was money that was stolen from Karvinel, she recalled. With a shock she wondered whether her husband had helped to waylay Karvinel on his trek back from the coast – but then Hawisia relaxed. He had been with her that day: she recalled it clearly. And if Karvinel had any thought that his worst enemy could have had a hand in his destruction, he would have shouted it from the rooftops. No, it must have been as Karvinel had said: a band of outlaws.
When a fluttering, as of a tiny butterfly, tickled her belly she rested a gentle hand upon it and smiled contentedly. No matter what other people said or thought, she knew that Vincent was still hers. And that he would be pleased when he heard of their child. She had kept her pregnancy secret until she was quite certain that she wouldn’t miscarry, but now she was sure. And it would be a boy, she felt.
An heir; a boy to help her husband. It was terrible to see him working himself to the bone all because he was so worried about their livelihood. Not that he would ever tell her that directly! Hawisia felt her heart swell. It was wonderful to be married to such a strong man. He never confessed to any weakness, never moaned or whined, only got on with whatever he needed to do. In comparison Karvinel was a weedy little man; Hawisia had married a titan.
She was so proud of him.
Adam was also considering weaker men as he refilled his box with candles and made his way back to the Cathedral. At the door he bowed to the altar and the Virgin’s statue, before quietly moving across the paved floor to the candelabra. He began to remove the used lumps, cleaning the thick gobbets of wax from the metal sockets as he went, and only when all was clean did he insert the replacements.
This was a neverending job – a life’s work, he sometimes felt. As soon as he had completed his rounds, changing all the candles which were burned down, it was time to go to a service, and once the service was done, he must replenish another group.
If it wasn’t mentally stimulating, at least it left him time to consider, reflect and contemplate. He could allow his mind to wander while he moved among the flickering lights.
He would have to order some more wicks, he thought as he slotted the last in place and moved to the next candelabra. One month ago he had ordered 150 pounds of candlewax from Vincent le Berwe, but he was already running short of wicks sufficient for the remainder. After Christmas he would need to make many more for the Candlemas service at which the local population would come to buy candles to keep them through the coming year. If someone fell ill, if someone died, the candle flame, blessed by the Cathedral, would offer some solace.
It was pathetic, though, that he should be out here slaving away while others relaxed, taking their ease. There were plenty in this Cathedral who could benefit from a little hard work, he thought. The Dean himself, for one. Stupid old prat! Just because he’d been able to read and write well, he’d been given power over all the other Canons. Stronger, brighter men like Adam were left to do all the menial tasks.
This was no life. Other Secondaries, Jolinde for instance, had something to aim for, something they hoped to achieve. It was easy for them – they had help. Peter Golloc, for instance had been friendly with people in the city. He had been close to Karvinel, clerking for him every so often. He could have got a job with him, maybe, until Peter took that poison. As for Jolinde, he could make something of himself yet. With his father being Vincent le Berwe, there was bound to be a position for someone with Jolinde’s skills.
Adam, like the other two, had once been a Chorister, but when his voice broke he discovered that it had been his only asset. Without it, he was unwanted. True, the Bishop had made sure he had a roof over his head with this responsibility for candles and a home with Canon Stephen, but that was nothing. Both Jolinde and Peter before he died had jobs in the Treasury, because they could read and write and add: three skills which Adam had signally failed to acquire.
He thrust a candle roughly into its holder. To his surprise, the arm of the sconce snapped off at the base where it had been welded to the stand and he stood staring dumbly down at the wreckage. He would have to report it to the smith to be mended, he told himself, moving on to the next stand.
It wouldn’t have troubled him except he knew he had a good head on his shoulders; he had more up top than most of the others. Yet they had a chance, while he had none. He’d have to make his own way. That was why he’d formed his plan. All he needed was a little money. He had it all mapped out: he’d go to the coast, take a ship and travel to the Cinque Ports. With the money he had saved, he’d invest in a little fur-trading, and as soon as that took off, he’d move into wines as well. There were huge profits to be made on wine. He’d learned that from le Berwe. Now he had some cash, he could soon go. Get away from this dump.
The older lads like Jolinde could stick their days scribbling and scratching at their vellum in the Treasury; he’d be enjoying the high life, drinking and whoring in London or Bordeaux. Jolinde could slave away: Adam would be having fun. He shoved another candle into a holder – more gently this time. It was the last. He returned to his store, set the used stubs to one side, then replenished his box with fresh ones.
Work, work, work. Adam sometimes felt that if it wasn’t for his own personal efforts the place would fall apart. His candles kept it all going. Without the light he provided, the services couldn’t continue. It was a source of pride to him that his post was so crucial. Not like some, who simply idled their time away.
This thought came to him as he caught sight of Jolinde standing in a private vigil at the feet of his dead friend. When he left, perhaps Jolinde could take over the candles, Adam thought with a chuckle. Do him good!
It was sad Peter had died. And strange, too, Adam considered, collapsing like that in the middle of the choir.
Rumours already abounded in the Chapter that he must have been poisoned. Adam had heard two Canons discussing the matter. They had nodded to him as they passed by while he was fitting candles into wall brackets, but no one appeared to have any idea why someone could want to hurt Peter. It wasn’t as if the fellow was a pest or caused anger with other members of the Chapter. He was reasonably well liked. Adam had quite liked Peter and only knew of o
ne man who could have had a reason to wish to harm him: Jolinde.
Jolinde had his little secrets. If they were ever exposed, he would probably be evicted from the Cathedral. And Peter had known all his faults. So who else would have wanted Peter silenced?
Knowing that, it was strange to see how Jolinde stood there for hour after hour, his hands clenched. Adam paused in his continual passage up and down the church, watching him for a while.
‘Pathetic!’ he sneered under his breath.
Karvinel had heard of the death of the boy while he was still in John Renebaud’s tavern, a short while after Vincent left him there.
Left him there? If he’d stayed any bloody longer, his guts would be on the floor! The bastard, the God’s-body whoreson shit! If Vincent had been in similar trouble, he, Nick Karvinel, would have helped him, but oh no! Not our new high-and-mighty Receiver, not the Seneschal of the Common Goods of the City, not Master le Berwe.
There had been many times in the last few years when Karvinel could have paid Vincent a bad turn, but he’d never tried to. Karvinel had always believed that a Christian Freeman of the City would consider any other Freeman to be honourable. It was only now that he realised his error. Le Berwe was not a decent gentle man. He was a thieving, grasping usurer.
Snapping his fingers, he attracted the attention of a serving-girl and ordered another flagon of wine, gazing sombrely into the distance while he waited. When it arrived, he sank a quarter in one long draught. He was a long way from being maudlin drunk, but anger was overcoming him again and he needed the strong wine to counteract it.
One thing was clear. He’d get little help from Vincent, unless he paid the bastard up front in hard cash. Vincent thought he had him over a barrel – and that was no position to be in with a man as powerful as the Receiver. Greedy shit!
Karvinel took another long pull at his wine. It was starting to warm him, easing his blood and making him feel stronger, more vital. Earlier he’d wanted to punch Vincent. Now he was ready to kill him. If le Berwe were here now, he’d stab the bastard: shove his dagger up to the hilt in the fat man’s gut, twisting it slowly to let the bastard feel the pain. Yes, that’d be good: watching le Berwe’s features screw up in agony, his eyes pop out in horror as he realised he was about to die.
For Vincent le Berwe wanted all his money back. The lot. And although Nick had enough to repay all the debts he owed him, if Nick paid the lot he’d have nothing to live on. He wouldn’t be able to buy stock, food or booze. A man couldn’t live like that. This year had cleaned him out completely, until his gamble made him a little money. It was still dangerous, though. He daren’t show off his new wealth by paying Vincent. Better that everyone still thought he was finished, washed up.
His eyes narrowed as he suddenly made a connection. His poor clerk Peter was dead, and it was Peter who had told him about the day that Ralph had died. He had been in Correstrete and had seen Vincent outside Ralph’s shop, collecting leathers and hurrying away with them.
Maybe he could use that, Karvinel thought. After all, a Receiver could hardly afford to be accused of robbing the dead. And then he had another thought, one which made him stop and stare into the distance. One witness, and he was now dead.
What had Vincent been doing in Ralph’s road the day the glover was murdered?
Simon and Baldwin entered the Cathedral with Roger de Gidleigh, the Coroner, all three bowing and genuflecting at the cross. They asked the candle-bearing Secondary where they would find Peter’s body, and were directed forward to the small Lady chapel near the choir in which Peter lay. Jolinde still stood at the dead man’s feet.
‘He was brought here because one of the clerics said he heard Peter speak the name of the Blessed Virgin,’ Jolinde told them in a hushed, reverent voice. ‘Poor Peter.’
‘Did you know him well?’ Simon enquired.
‘I shared a house with him, sir.’
‘This is Jolinde Bolle,’ Coroner Roger said shortly, glowering disapprovingly at the clerk.
‘Ah. Then we shall wish to speak to you soon,’ Baldwin said. ‘Leave us, but don’t wander far.’
Jolinde nodded tearfully and left them.
As soon as he had gone Baldwin motioned to Roger. ‘As Coroner, you should inspect the body.’
‘As Coroner, yes I should,’ the man agreed. ‘But I should do so before witnesses, before the whole jury.’
‘Why don’t I call the cleric back in?’ Simon suggested, eyeing the corpse unhappily. He had never come to terms with this manhandling of dead men. He loathed the indignities of death, the smells and sights of violence and suffering. Any escape was to be seized upon. ‘I could go and ask him to return to witness your enquiry…’
His hopes were dashed. ‘Leave him out of it!’ Roger snapped. ‘There’s nothing he can do to help. Especially if he is implicated in this crime.’
Simon nodded and subsided and the Coroner resolutely began to undress Peter. The Brothers had cleaned the poor emaciated body and rolled him in a plain winding sheet. When the corpse was naked, he inspected it, first studying the lad’s hands and feet. ‘No sign of his struggling with an attacker,’ he noted. The hands were soft and unmarked by slashes or cuts.
Simon glanced at Baldwin. ‘Attacker? I thought he keeled over in the choir here.’
‘Even if he died here, if, as the good Dean tells us, this lad was poisoned,’ Roger said heavily, ‘I would want to confirm that he wasn’t forced to swallow it against his will. No, there’s no sign that he had his hands bound, nor his ankles.’ Nor were there any scratches on his body. The lad’s body was remarkably flawless. That, Roger thought to himself, was what happened when you were fortunate enough to spend your whole time living in a pleasant, secluded environment like the Cathedral grounds. This lazy devil probably never even had to mount a horse or journey outside the walls of Exeter. The Coroner felt an uncharacteristic wave of jealousy wash over him. There were attractions to the religious life. Even chastity could appeal, he thought, although he’d never dare say that to his wife, the shrewish bitch.
‘What of his mouth?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Any loosened teeth? Scraped gums? A bruised or enlarged tongue?’
The Coroner’s voice was muffled as he bent and peered in and around the dead man’s mouth. ‘Ugh! Still stinks of vomit.’
‘Let me see,’ Baldwin said, and peered in his turn, holding the man’s jaw and cheeks. He sniffed. ‘He was certainly sick. I should not be surprised if he inhaled his own vomit and drowned – but let us continue to assume the poison ended his life. His tongue has been bitten, look, but I should imagine that would be from his death throes. A man dying from a poisoning will sometimes go into spasmodic convulsions. At such times, he might well bite his tongue. There is no indication that he was forced to eat poison, though.’
‘Which means he either took it willingly or by accident… Or wasn’t poisoned at all and we’re chasing a will-o’-the-wisp.’
‘Yes. Let us speak again to that admirable cleric who was here just now.’
‘Good idea,’ said Simon fervently. Anything, he thought, to get away from that hideous stench of death.
Chapter Nine
Jolinde paced anxiously up and down outside the Cathedral, wondering who the visitors were. The Coroner he recognised, of course, but the other two were strangers to him.
He was sad Peter was dead, for they had been good companions. It was never easy to share rooms with another male adolescent, but Peter and he had tolerated each other’s company since they had met seven years ago, when both were Choristers. Almost at once they had recognised a similar set of interests: the same abilities with numbers; the same fascination with the writings of Bacon and other clerical dabblers in nature; the same urge to advance.
Both should have been able to anticipate some kind of progress in their careers. As Jolinde knew, you only had to be eighteen to become a sub-Deacon, or twenty-five to be a full Deacon. And he was almost twenty himself now. He should have been given some sort
of senior responsibility by now. But no, he had no patronage in the Church hierarchy.
That was something his Succentor had told him when he was much younger, that there was no point being the best priest in the world if he never told anyone about it. Those who won promotion within the Church’s hierarchy were either those who had money and friends and didn’t need help, or those who were careful to make sure that they grabbed every opportunity for self-promotion. The best priest could remain a lowly countrified yokel seeing to the cure of souls within a tiny parish without friends to exercise their influence on his behalf: those who advanced were the men who were prepared to tell their superiors how they had succeeded in their posts and all the good work they had achieved. Only then would their patrons have ammunition to see to their advancement. And then the friends that they had won in higher places could assist their progression upwards, easing their path for them. All benefited, since the recipient of the patronage would win greater financial rewards with his increased power, while the patron himself could expect to receive gifts – both early on in anticipation of his help and, later, in gratitude for it.
The Succentor’s advice was welcome, because until then Jolinde had not realised how Byzantine were the politics of the Church. Not that it mattered now. He accepted that his own prospects of elevation were remote in the extreme. His father was friendly with the Dean, but Jolinde knew that the Bishop himself, and the Precentor beneath him, both had little time for Jolinde. There were others with greater abilities in writing and arithmetic, and many with better contacts at a higher level than the Dean. The Precentor himself had a young nephew who was intended for the next sub-Deacon’s post.
He had no chance compared with the likes of that boy. Jolinde was nothing more than the illegitimate son of a local merchant. Hardly the sort to be made a Bishop – although he had once hoped to become a Deacon in his own right, or even a Vicar, or perhaps be fortunate enough to win the seat of an Annuellar. That would be a good life – up to £4 a year in stipends and little responsibility apart from ensuring that the daily service was conducted.
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