Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

‘So this Peter would have found it hard to get out after they were locked?’

Coroner Roger gave a twisted grin. ‘Now, then, Sir Baldwin. What were you like when you were a horny young buck and you knew that women were over a wall waiting for a rutting? Jolinde Bolle has often been out in the alleys and streets; I’ve seen him myself.’

‘How would he get out when the gates were locked?’

‘Come on, Sir Knight! If the fellow is randy enough, he’ll find a way. And if Bolle knows how to get out, you can bet that his friend did too. And if they knew how to get out, they must have known how to get back inside again.’

‘It follows then that if this Peter was murdered with poison administered at night, then the killer is someone within the Cathedral, unless that person secreted himself in the grounds after the gates were locked last night or knew how to clamber over the wall,’ Baldwin continued musingly. ‘Anyone who knew Bolle or the dead clerk could have followed them and learned their route.’

The Coroner shot him a quick look. ‘In other words, anyone in the city could have done it.’

‘Let’s just see whether this poor devil was truly murdered before we leap to conclusions, eh?’

‘It’s the Dean who’s doing that. He hardly needs my help.’

Simon was unimpressed. ‘The Dean can invent what he wants. I’ve often seen priestly men like him. Their imagination is given too free a rein. Surely he has little understanding of the real world.’

‘Yes, Bailiff. Men like the Dean read books and learn more than is good for them, looking at odd stuff about all the temptations devils can throw in their paths to tease them. Think what it must be like! Temptations of the flesh tormenting them all the time and never allowed to touch…’

‘If they don’t they’ll be among the only clerics in the country who manage to keep from sheathing their daggers where they shouldn’t,’ Simon grunted. Although he had himself been brought up by Canons, he had grown more sceptical about the behaviour of religious men and women after his experiences in Belstone earlier in the year.

The Coroner gave him a contemplative look. ‘You won’t be surprised to hear that the younger clerks here are no different from the ones you’ve come into contact with Bailiff. It’s not only Bolle and the dead lad. Any of them will leave the precinct and run about the town when they get a chance, whoring and drinking just like ordinary lads. And why shouldn’t they? I doubt whether God would concern Himself with a boy who enjoyed natural pleasures.’

Baldwin was stung into objecting. ‘The Bible tells us that fornicating and wallowing in gluttonous behaviour is as obnoxious to God as it is to other men,’ he began, but Roger gave a short snort.

‘You think so, Sir Baldwin? If God cares so much, why doesn’t He send a thunderbolt every so often, hey? No, for my part I’ll believe my own priest, who tells me that so long as I apologise and confess before I die, I’ll be all right. Not that I admit to any wrongdoing, of course,’ he added with a twinkle.

Hawisia le Berwe was in the Cathedral as the Bratton Chantry priest began the Mass. Her husband had left the house before she was dressed, muttering something about a meeting he must attend, but it was no surprise to her. Staring at the altar, she closed her eyes with patient suffering and prayed for him.

She knew all about the rumours. Others saw him about the city; no doubt her own servants had told others that he rarely visited her bed any more. Her mother had heard a tale from some gossip or other, had written warning Hawisia that older men lost their urges, became phlegmatic and corpulent, and for a woman to find that her husband had deserted her was dreadful. Had he lost interest in her?

The recollection of that message made Hawisia smile now. No, Vincent still showed her plenty of affection. When a man left his wife, he showed little concern for her feelings; that was what she had heard from other women who tried to broach the subject with her. Some were women who had lost their husbands to the warmer, more acrobatic beds of younger courtesans. Thinking Hawisia was a new recruit to their ranks, they had spoken candidly of their search for their own new bedfellows, seeking out younger men who would appreciate their wealth and patronage. Hawisia was appalled by their behaviour. It convinced her that they were dishonourable and it was hard for her to maintain her calm and courteous demeanour with them.

For Hawisia was a polished hostess. She knew that in order for her to be accepted she must befriend all the women who visited. Especially the wives of the more influential men in the area. That was why she had been so meek and deferential to Jeanne when she had visited with her husband Sir Baldwin. Hawisia knew that she must not shine compared with the wife of so important a man.

Not that he had looked particularly impressive, she reflected, listening with half an ear as the priest began to preach his sermon – badly as always, she sighed. Rumour had it that he had only won his post owing to the size of his father’s pocket, and listening to him Hawisia could easily believe it.

Her husband was often not with her because he was very busy with his work. Hawisia knew that. She could trust him; he was a good husband to her. And she was immensely proud of him. He kept her well, and now he had his senior post in the hierarchy of the city there was every possibility of greater rewards. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love her any more. It was all down to business.

First, she knew, he had been fretful because he feared that Nick Karvinel would persuade enough of the members of the city’s Freedom to support his bid to become Receiver. The post was important. Of course it restricted other business because the holder couldn’t leave the city without a special licence from the Mayor, but even so, the potential for making a small fortune was there.

If Karvinel had got it, poor Vincent would have been dreadfully damaged. His career would have suffered – or so he told Hawisia. And he would have suffered from the loss of face before his peers. Not that she was terribly concerned by what impact that might have upon her; to her the most important aspect would have been the hurt and disappointment felt by her husband. She didn’t want to see him shamed.

But then Karvinel had suffered disaster after disaster, one after another, in an unending sequence. It had been quite strange really to see how the strutting, arrogant little man who had begun his campaign to win the Receiver’s job the previous year had gradually gone downhill. Then he had been Vincent’s leading competitor in the city, someone to be reckoned with. No more. Now Karvinel was no sort of a threat whatever. And Hawisia had a shrewd idea why: because Vincent had ruined the man.

He was too bright to risk his own neck, of course. When Karvinel lost his ship and entire cargo, it wasn’t because Vincent had stolen it, but Vincent le Berwe still had family who lived in the Breton lands on the northern coast of France. It wouldn’t have taken much to send a message to them about his enemy’s ship, and although that was five years ago, he had never fully recovered from that blow.

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.