Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

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 one man who could have had a reason to wish to harm him: Jolinde.