Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

‘No, nothing. A man walked over my grave.’ The merchant had identified the felon, so had his clerk. ‘No, I am fine,’ he said, and carried on at a faster pace as if he could leave his unsettled feelings behind him.

By nightfall the Secondaries were asleep, like the Canons and others. They must all wake for the first Mass at midnight, so tended to get their heads down early.

Peter was no exception. He lay on his palliasse and grunted and snuffled in his sleep, but nearby Jolly lay with his hands clasped behind his head and stared upwards. He had to wait a little longer, to make sure that the porter and others would be well gone. Then he could nip off out to see Claricia. Beautiful Claricia. Just the memory of the smell of her hair and sweet-scented body was enough to make the blood course faster through his veins. At last he could wait no longer. He stood, pulled on a thicker cloak against the chill and moved towards the door.

But on the way he froze as Peter cried out, ‘No!’

Jolinde turned and looked at his friend, and then realised Peter was still asleep. He was about to ease open the door when he heard Peter begin to talk in his sleep. Words, wild and frantic, tumbled out of him. Although he was not by nature nosy, as Peter spoke Jolly listened, at first with amusement, but then intently and with a close horror.

Talbot’s Inn was a good-sized property, not significantly larger than the other houses in Paul Street, but then there was no reason why it should be. It had been a merchant’s home until recently, when the merchant in question decided to profit from the excess of ale which he regularly brewed; however, the only sign that he had opened his parlour and hall to guests was the large blackthorn bush which he had tied over the front door. Baldwin entered and ushered in his wife, relieved to hear only a few voices murmuring in the hall and sniffing at the smell of roasting fowl and fresh bread.

He followed Jeanne into the hall, then stopped dead as he recognised the man coming towards him. ‘Simon? God’s blood! What are you doing here?’

‘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.