The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker aktm-10

by Michael Jecks

  There was a sudden hush which broke into his thoughts, and he settled back against his misericorde as the service began.

  Gervase watched his two Rectors like a snake studying two mice, his attention constantly moving from one to the other, preparing to leap at any moment should either fail in his duty, but his anxiety appeared unnecessary.

  One Rector stood and the nave fell silent as he prayed with his eyes closed, one hand gripping his staff of office, and then called loudly the invitatory to Matins.

  Too loud, Gervase considered critically. But well spoken, and at least each word was clear. The Rector sat once more on his revolving white-leather seat; at the opposite side of the aisle was the second, facing him. Both clasped their wooden staffs ornamented with silver; they held each other’s gaze a moment, then gave a slight nod as they began.

  It was the job of the two Rectors to regulate the singing and prayers. This service, the Angel’s Mass, was Christmas Day’s Matins, but it was held before midnight on Christmas Eve and required more complicated sequences of praise. It was too much to expect the Canons and Secondaries to remember the details of every service through the year, so the Rectors were carefully briefed by Gervase on the precise order for each special service. This one was perhaps the most important of the year and one of the most confusing.

  But also the most breathtaking, Gervase added to himself as the first lesson was chanted and a Chorister appeared in the doorway of the screens next to the high altar.

  It was Luke. He stood there on the highest step, dressed in plain white alb and amice, a lighted torch gripped in his left hand, facing the altar. As the lesson was completed, he turned to the choir and sang out in his clear, sweet voice.

  ‘Ho die nobis celorum…’

  Gervase nodded, translating to himself as the child went through the beautiful little ceremony.

  ‘On this day the King of Heaven consented to be born for us of a virgin.’

  The lad did well, Gervase told himself. He had thought he would. It was the best he could do to compensate Luke for being passed over for boy-Bishop, giving him this rôle.

  Luke remembered all the instructions. He raised his right hand upwards as he mentioned Heaven; he turned and reached out to the statue of the Virgin Mary as he spoke of Her, and finished by falling to his knees before the altar. This was the signal for the rest of the choir to respond, and Gervase began to sing, but all the time half his mind was on the next sequence, and it was with a sense of mild relief that he saw the three Choristers from each side of the aisle, all similarly dressed, proceed to the lowest step of the altar. Luke descended, his head bowed, and when he reached the bottom with the others, all seven sang ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax, hominibus bonae voluntatis.’

  At the exquisite sound Gervase felt tears spring into his eyes once more. He smiled blissfully with the sheer loveliness of the ceremony as the children passed in procession through the midst of the choir and disappeared.

  The Dean stood to celebrate Mass. This was the first of the Masses for Christmas Day, and the secular congregation, many of whom had feasted before arriving here, began to jostle and shift weight from one foot to another long before the end. Too many men and women had drunk quarts of ale or pints of wine for them to be entirely comfortable.

  Baldwin felt fine, but he had restricted his own consumption. At his side, Simon grunted to himself every so often, standing with his hands clasped behind his back with his weight squarely balanced upon both feet. Vincent le Berwe was not so fortunate. From the corner of his eye Baldwin noticed him fidgeting uncomfortably, then chewing at his lip, before finally making his way through the crowds to the door.

  It made Baldwin shake his head a little. Men should concentrate more on the importance of the ceremony of Christmas, rather than feasting to excess in celebration of it. There would be many painful heads on the morrow, he thought uncharitably.

  It was as the Dean lifted the golden chalice high overhead that Gervase felt the first flicker of concern.

  Initially it was only a wry observation that Luke had not returned from changing out of his silk robes, but his cynical assumption that the little devil had decided to return to his bed for a snooze, or maybe was even now raiding the buttery for a pottle of strong wine, began to turn to slight concern – even anxiety – as the lad didn’t return. It made him begin to wonder whether Luke could have fallen and hit his head, or tripped into a hole. The workings here were quite dangerous at night.

  It was a relief when he saw the Chorister walk back and sit down – but when he saw Luke’s features he saw with a shock that the boy’s face was as pale as a corpse. The face of someone who had seen a ghost – or someone who had been terrified beyond belief.

  Simon was standing next to Hawisia near a pillar when Vincent reappeared. The congregation had returned to their places after the Communion, and Simon eyed the folk about him idly. Suddenly he found his gaze falling upon Juliana Karvinel and her husband. Juliana smiled, and Simon was sure her eyebrows rose momentarily, as if she was giving him an invitation. In his alcoholically bemused state, Simon felt a vague libidinous attraction to her, but then the crowds moved and the sight of her was lost.

  She was an attractive woman, he thought, thinking of her breasts and that special, lazy way she had of smiling. And she clearly thought him a good-looking man, too, from the way she had flirted with him. Simon had a feeling that if he asked her to warm his bed, she’d agree with alacrity. It was something to think that a married woman would behave in so flagrant a manner.

  For his part Simon was like any other man. In the past he had made use of whores when he was taken by the urge, but since marrying Meg he had rarely felt the need. He didn’t stay away from home that often, but now, here in this strange, unfamiliar city, Simon felt that the comfort of a woman would be pleasant. He could almost feel Juliana’s flesh in his hands.

  As soon as he had the thought, a picture of his wife’s face appeared in his mind, his laughing Meg with their daughter Emily in her arms. Meg was tall, fair-haired, gentle in manner, for ever calm. Simon adored her, and his daughter.

  The thought made him smile to himself. In any case, he was probably confusing a woman’s polite chatter and unintentional flirting with the professional eroticism of a slut. It was lucky he had realised his error in time.

  Returning to watching the priest at the altar, he began to pray. Meg would be giving birth soon. Simon asked God to give them another boy, an heir to replace poor Peterkin, the son he had buried two years before. The priest moved with a slow deliberation, and Simon wished he would hurry and finish the service so that the Bailiff could leave and find a private spot in which to empty his bladder, but his train of thought was broken as Vincent pushed his way back through the crowd.

  Clumsily, Vincent bumped into a cleric who was fitting fresh candles into a candelabra, knocking the box of replacements from his hand. The wooden box fell with a loud crack and the expensive white cylinders rolled hither and thither while the young Secondary scampered after them.

  Vincent scarcely seemed to notice the mayhem he had caused. He merely snorted with amusement before peering ahead, trying to see where Baldwin and Simon were; when he saw Simon, he shoved his way over to the Bailiff’s side. Simon could not help but notice the relief and satisfaction on the merchant’s face. It made his own discomfort all the worse, and he was mightily glad when, only a short while later, the service ended. The priest at the altar finished his last sung prayer, holding up his hand and making the Sign of the Cross over all those present while they bowed their heads and crossed themselves or held their hands together in prayer. Then the crowds began to move away from the screen and towards the door.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, Lady Jeanne, you must come back to my house and celebrate the new Christmas Day,’ Vincent said. ‘It will only be ourselves. No one else has been asked back.’

  Seeing the expression on Jeanne’s face, Baldwin refused the offer with as much politeness as he could
muster. ‘I would like to, but we have been up since a very early hour, sir. Please excuse us, but with my wife pregnant, I think she should be allowed to find her bed as soon as possible.’

  ‘Oh, of course. My apologies, Lady Jeanne. I wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she smiled, grateful that Baldwin had seen her mood.

  ‘I must ask the Bailiff, though,’ Vincent said, gazing about him as they walked out of the western gates. ‘Where is he?’

  Baldwin laughed. ‘Where there is a dark alley and no prying eyes.’

  ‘Oh, he was desperate for a piss as well, was he? In that case, Hawisia, would you like to return home?’

  Jeanne watched the merchant stroll away and pushed her hand through the crook of her husband’s elbow. ‘Try as I might, I cannot like that man,’ she whispered confidentially.

  Luke and the other Choristers filed from the Cathedral and made their way to the door, then out to the grassed area.

  In the clear night air Luke shivered and felt a heavy lump weighting his belly. From here in the doorway, he was facing the graveyard and charnel chapel. Never before had he given credence to the foolish rumours and silly stories of ghosts and dead Canons who walked the precinct, but now he felt less sure.

  He could have jumped out of his skin when the man had taken his arm. It was just after he had left the Cathedral and had removed his silk clothing ready to return to the choir. The other boys had already gone, but Luke had more to remove, and he was a conscientious boy. He wouldn’t throw good silks onto the floor. No, he carefully shook out and folded his robes, installing them in the chest before leaving the room. And it was then, as he shut the door silently behind him, that the man had loomed out of the shadows, grabbing his elbow.

  ‘Luke?’

  He couldn’t answer. There in the gloomy shadow of the Cathedral wall, he was overcome by fear. It was as if a long-dead Canon had risen from the grave to terrorise him.

  ‘Are you Luke, boy?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Me, boy?’ Sir Thomas smiled with the brittleness of melancholy. ‘I’m your father.’

  Luke had instinctively known he was telling the truth, yet Stephen had told him for so long that his father was dead, that accepting Sir Thomas who had appeared as if from nowhere, was difficult to swallow. Easier by far to believe him a ghost.

  And his reason for turning up seemed equally odd. He wanted to talk to Luke, he said, but he appeared more interested in learning as much as he could about the dead cleric, Peter.

  Janekyn yawned and shut the great doors that comprised the Fissand Gate, nodding to the two clerics. They dragged the massive wooden bars from their sockets in the left-hand wall and hauled them across to fit into the shallower seats in the wall opposite. Janekyn shrugged himself further into his robe and tried to protect his throat from the biting wind that threatened to flay the skin from his neck.

  He had the one remaining duty, and that was to walk around the gates and make sure all were locked for the night. After so many years of performing this nightly service, he had a set routine. He had already seen to the Palace Gate, the Bear Gate, St Mary’s and St Petrock’s. All were locked. Now he had two remaining: the Bicklegh and St Martin’s Lane. One of the two Secondaries helping him was slapping his arms together in an attempt to warm them and Janekyn said kindly, ‘Come, the faster we walk the sooner you’ll be able to stand before a fire.’

  The pair nodded enthusiastically, thinking of the jugs of steaming wine set before Janekyn’s fire.

  As soon as they had gone, a figure drew away from the charnel chapel and stood listening for a moment. Hob of Whyteslegh shivered and it was only partly from the cold. He was petrified of being discovered.

  The grounds of the Cathedral precinct were deserted. Above him the moon showed bright and clear in a starry sky, while the chill breeze from the south sent clouds scudding across at speed; each looked like a silken feather, billowing and changing shape in the silver light.

  For Hob, the moon’s stark brightness was terrifying. He felt that, if he were to step another yard towards the gate, he must be seen by someone. Even now, there might be a Canon or clerk watching him, probably calling for armed guards to cut him down for desecrating the Cathedral’s grounds. The idea made him want to sidle back into the shadows of the charnel chapel and hide there, but fear of all the old bones interred within made him dread returning even more than he dreaded leaving.

  At last he heard the faint whistle. It stirred him into action, and he scampered across the grass, slipping once and almost falling as his foot caught a loose cobble, but then he was at the corner of the Cathedral. The whistle came again and Hob gurgled with happiness to know he wasn’t alone out here with all the dead bodies in the cemetery. It was a moment or two before he could compose himself enough to whistle back in return, and a few moments later Sir Thomas walked around the wall. He nodded curtly to Hob, then peered cautiously about the precinct.

  Sir Thomas was not in a contented mood. After searching through all Peter and Jolinde’s belongings in their room and finding nothing, since Jolinde had already removed his dead friend’s effects, he was bitter at the waste of time. Every moment he spent here, in the Cathedral’s grounds, he was in danger. If he should be found, many would recognise him, and there was only one punishment for an outlaw: the rope.

  Sir Thomas was not sanguine about his prospects. Outlaws tended to die young. One day, if it was possible, he might give himself up and find a new, legitimate life, but not yet. Not while the murderer of Hamond lived. Hamond deserved to be avenged. That was why Sir Thomas had run the dreadful risk of joining the congregation in the Cathedral to hear the Mass, to seek out his son and learn all he could about the dead cleric Peter – the man who had born false witness against Hamond.

  Unfortunately, Luke had been no use at all, apart from pointing to Peter’s and Jolinde’s house. And now he must escape from the Cathedral grounds before he could be discovered. In the past, Sir Thomas had made use of the Church’s wealth, robbing well-endowed parish chapels of their silver and pewter, selling their goods for cash. If he were found, the Bishop would be delighted to see him hang.

  At first Sir Thomas had been forced into his outlawry when his lands had been overrun. It was impossible for him to compete when his neighbour, who was a friend of Hugh Despenser the Younger – at the time not a well-known man, but still related to the King by marriage – had launched first a legal attack, and then an armed sortie against Sir Thomas.

  If Sir Thomas had been wealthy and renowned, he could have beaten off both. But he wasn’t. He was only a knight by birth and his poor little manor was scarcely able to support itself in peace, let alone raise funds to fight a small army. Perhaps if his wife, Luke’s mother, had lived he could have used her diplomatic skills to effect some kind of peace, but she was dead. Thrown from her mare only a year or so after Luke had left to join the Cathedral.

  Without her he had no chance. All he knew was how to fight, but against this overwhelming force he was powerless. His neighbour’s men moved in and beat up all his servants in the fields until some were killed and the others feared going to their work, his crops rotted on the ground and he was forced to leave the place. There was nothing there – no income, no food, nothing.

  In revenge Sir Thomas gathered up the men whom he could trust and launched a swift chevauchée against his tormentor. It had been successful, but the result had been the declaration some weeks later from the King’s own courts that he, Sir Thomas, was an outlaw. ‘If that is their decision, so be it,’ he had declared, and his men had cheered him. They slept that night in a tavern, then rode to his neighbour’s land. There he and his men executed their vengeance. The granaries were put to the torch; the barns, the outhouses, the cattle sheds, all were razed to the ground after Sir Thomas and his men had taken the best horseflesh, and then they had ridden off to the forests.

  The first months had been tough, the succ
eeding ones infinitely worse as famine continued to scour the land. There was little to buy, let alone steal, and the only advantage to Sir Thomas was that his ranks were swelled by adventurers who were prepared to risk their lives to win a meal rather than die of starvation. Churches yielded their wealth to him and his men; rich travellers gave up their purses.

  Up and down the county of Devonshire men and women paled at the news that Sir Thomas and his band were nearby. His face was described by those whom he had caught and released and since Karvinel’s accusation that he and his band had robbed him, Sir Thomas knew that if he were recognised in the city, he would be bound to be caught. That was why he now could come out only at night when he could walk in shadows. It wasn’t safe, but it was safer than daytime.

  At least he had learned something. After talking to Luke, he had gone to Peter’s small home, had spotted Jolinde coming out of there and had followed the youth round the side of the cloister, observing him as he surreptitiously ducked below a beam and disappeared into a small space near the Cathedral’s wall. When Sir Thomas investigated, he learned how Jolinde had left and re-entered the Cathedral at night. The discovery pleased the grizzled knight. It could prove useful to him too, at some time in the future. If he didn’t have other men to meet now, he’d take the tunnels as a shortcut into the city. Only then did he return to search Jolinde’s house, but without success.

  Hob was whimpering with trepidation; the moon was shining down upon them. Sir Thomas nodded and walked to the wall. There Hob untied his leather jack and unwound a thin rope from about his belly and chest. Sir Thomas wrapped a stone in linen and tied it to the rope, then hefted it in his hand. They were at Little Stile now, a small gate without a tower above, and Sir Thomas waited a moment, then whistled. There was nothing at first, so he tried again. This time there was a low, cautious whistle on the other side of the gate. Sir Thomas stepped back, whirled the stone at the end of the rope a few times over his head, then hurled it up and over the gate.