Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

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.

Illegitimacy was no barrier, of course. It could be viewed with disdain or contempt in a small village if the bastard concerned was born to a poor family, but that was natural. The vill itself would have to see to the child’s feeding, his education, and if the place had little money, the peasants could be bound to a useless mouth in a time of famine. Conversely, if the father was rich, he would usually see to the feeding of the child and help the family and their friends by small gifts of money, perhaps even taking the child’s education in hand.

As Jolinde’s father had. Jolly would hardly have been brought here to the Cathedral if he hadn’t been pointed out to the Succentor by his father. Sir Vincent had wanted him to be helped as far as possible and educated, for after all Jolinde was his first child, his only child in those days, before Vincent was married.

Jolinde knew that his father was a lusty man, always happy to go wenching, but that didn’t colour Jolinde’s view of him. If it wasn’t that Vincent’s first wife had been very jealous, Jolly might have gone to live with them in the house in the city. But the young girl had been jealous, and God knew what sort of a fuss she’d have kicked up if Jolly had been invited to live there. Her death had been very… convenient.

By then Jolinde was already living as a Secondary. He, like Vincent, thought that a career in the Church would be most congenial, but if that failed, he could easily learn law, which would make him still more useful to the merchant his father. That remained a possibility, but he would have to travel to University to learn more about the Common Law and that idea held little appeal for Jolinde now – since meeting Claricia at Sutton’s Inn.

Peter had been thinking along the same lines. They had often spoken about their hopes for the future, and although Peter was inclined to remain in the Church, he knew that without a patron or relations who could assist him to a sub-Deacon’s post, he too would have to consider the law.

Wincing, Jolinde recalled the scene of his death. It had been dreadful seeing his friend collapse like that, vomiting and crouching on all fours, then toppling sideways and going into convulsions, his face contorted with agony. It brought home to Jolinde just how fragile life was. They were much the same age. It could so easily have been him instead. He shuddered at the thought. Horrible!

It was a relief to glance once more at the Cathedral’s doors and see the trio leaving. He walked to join them. ‘Sirs? Can I return to him now?’

‘No, you can wait here a while with us,’ Coroner Roger snapped. ‘We have some questions for you.’

Baldwin shivered. Roger appeared quite oblivious to the cold that was sinking into the knight’s bones; when Baldwin looked at Simon, he saw the same indifference to the chill. Neither man would mind remaining out here, Baldwin realised, and with the realisation came the solution. ‘Rather than question him here,’ he intervened, ‘I think we should go and talk in the place where the two lived. I want to see all the dead man’s belongings.’

Jolinde nodded effusively. It would be better than staying out here in this frost with the clouds preparing to smother them with snow, he thought. ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’ He led the way at a sharp pace, hurrying down the shallow incline towards the southern wall and following around the new Bishop’s Palace. ‘It’s not far.’

‘This is where you and your friend lived?’ Baldwin asked when they arrived at a small house near the city wall east of the Cathedral.

‘Yes, sir. We have been here in this chamber for several years. Both of us left the Choristers at much the same time, but we neither of us won advancement. I think poor Peter felt it very strongly. It was like a failure to him.’

‘You lived here? Ate here, slept here?’

‘Um, well most of the time, yes. Peter lived here, although he and I tended to eat with our Canons when they were here. It is their responsibility to feed us, you see, but both of our Canons are away from the city at present. Mine, Mark, is in London with Bishop Walter, while Peter’s, Geoffrey, has gone on pilgrimage to Santiago, so we have been feeding ourselves…’

Baldwin didn’t comment and after a moment Jolinde opened the door and thrust it wide. Beyond was a small hall with the embers of the previous night’s fire.

‘Oh, it’s out.’ He felt suddenly tearful, realising that from now on he would never again have company in this place, not now Peter was dead. ‘Forgive me,’ he said shakily, ‘I’ll relight it. It won’t take a moment…’ The simple task was enough to drive away some of the sadness. He gathered up tinder and set it atop the few glowing chips, then added dried sticks and small pieces of kindling about and above it, crouching down low to blow steadily. Within a few minutes there was a faint crackling, and soon afterwards the kindling caught. He balanced a handful of thicker twigs, then a pair of small logs over the flames and rested back on his heels.

It was enough. The fire should be fine now. He smiled up at the three men. ‘Please, gentlemen, sit if you wish,’ he said, waving a hand at the two stools which were all the house possessed. ‘I am happy to kneel. It is one thing we become accustomed to.’