Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

The apprentice licked his lips and peered at the Coroner. ‘There is one thing, sir,’ he said hesitantly. When Baldwin nodded, he spoke slowly. ‘That morning, not long after Ralph had left for church, I stayed a while in my bed, but I was woken by the cleric Peter. He wanted to put some more jewels and money in my master’s strongbox. He said that he and his friend had made a mistake when they had delivered the payment and the jewels before. There wasn’t enough, just as Ralph had said. I let Peter upstairs and opened the chest, and added the extra coins and jewels in the purse he gave me.’

Baldwin and the other men were frowning uncomprehendingly.

‘He brought extra treasure for Ralph?’ Baldwin muttered, baffled.

‘He asked me not to tell anyone, said it would get him into trouble,’ Elias nodded wretchedly. ‘That was why I didn’t mention it before. But it can’t hurt him now, can it?’

Coroner Roger glanced at Baldwin. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘I have other cases to look into. Is there anything else you want to know?’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘No. Godspeed, Elias.’

‘Merry Christmas!’ Elias said, mournfully, as he turned and trudged back to his cell.

The nervous, smiling boy capered into the woods when he returned from the city. He was worried, because his master was sometimes in a bad mood when he came back, but today Hob was relieved to see that Sir Thomas was laughing as he sat back on a tree trunk, one arm around Jen, the other gripping a wineskin, from which he poured wine into his mouth. He stopped, grinned wolfishly, then tipped wine over Jen’s breasts, making her squeak. Sir Thomas dropped the skin and thrust her backwards, grasping her torso and slobbering over the wet tunic, sucking the juice from it, then, pulling her tunic apart to free her breasts, he began to lick more slowly at her flesh while she smiled down at him, cradling his head with an elbow like a mother with her child.

Seeing Hob approach, she frowned and shook her head, signing to him with her eyes not to interrupt, and Hob slipped back into the trees again.

He left them there. There was no point in trying to speak to Sir Thomas if he was busy with Jen. When he started squirming on top of her like a dog on a bitch, neither would listen. Worse, Sir Thomas would get angry. Aye, he’d throw something at Hob, scare Hob. Make him run. Hob didn’t like Sir Thomas to be angry; Hob had to please Sir Thomas, because Sir Thomas was his protector. That was what Jen had told him. She said Sir Thomas was their guard. He looked after them. That was why she had to keep him happy, and Hob had to as well.

Hob wandered disconsolately along the pathway through the trees. All the branches were empty now. Hob didn’t like seeing them bare like that. It took away all the places to hide. The beech trees, they tried to keep their leaves: there were still a few clinging to the bough overhead. Hob liked beech trees.

It was a long time since he and Jen had met Sir Thomas. Beforehand, Hob and Jen had lived alone, ever since the dreadful famine when the crops all spoiled on the ground and their parents died. They had been allowed to remain in their little cottage after they were orphaned, living on whatever Jen could bring in. She knew Hob would never be able to earn enough to keep them. It hadn’t been easy for her, not at a time when grain rose in price daily.

Their mum had brought eight kids into the world, but only three survived the hungry years. Or so Jen said: their oldest brother had been taken away by the Bishop’s men when their parents were still alive and she fondly assumed he had lived. Hob was only young when he’d gone. That was before his mother had died. It was years ago now. Ages. Jen said it was better to forget, but Hob couldn’t. Not after finding her body.

Hob’s eyes filled with tears at the memory of the wretched, emaciated corpse sprawled in her feeble agony. Hob had found her lying over the fire when he came back from his work scaring crows from the fields. It looked as if she had just toppled over and died on the smouldering logs. She must have felt the flames scorching her flesh, but was too weak to get away. Hob had stood in the doorway staring. He couldn’t even cry out for help. Not that anyone could do anything for her. Her body came away in halves when they dragged at her, burned through in the middle.

That was when their father arrived, called by one of the other men in the vill. Strong, good-looking, he was, but all Hob could remember was his face cracking with horror when he saw what had happened.

So many others had died, there was scarcely anyone to offer sympathy. All had lost family or friends; the vill itself was falling apart. Rain fell in torrents and the plants that took root withered where they straggled upwards. Those which produced grain were so sodden that it must be dried in special ovens first, and when bread was baked, it was un-nutritious and unwholesome. Not that the villagers would have refused it. There was nothing else, not after that hideous summer. All the winter food was gone, the pigs and sheep eaten long before.

It was midwinter when their father gave up. He had kept Jen and Hob in scraps of food as and when he could, but with the loss of his wife, he had lost his desire to live. One morning Hob woke in the family bed knowing that something was wrong. Jen wasn’t there, but she often wasn’t. She had her own friends and more and more often stayed away from the home. Father was past caring. But this morning Hob jerked awake to find that his father was dead. His face was slack, the jaw hanging. Hob hadn’t even been able to cry that time. Lost in the depths of despair, he rocked back and forth, cradling himself, until Jen came.

That was 1316, so Jen said. He had been almost thirteen if the priest could be believed. And not long afterwards Jen and Hob left the village for ever.

Jen was clever: Hob knew she was. When she realised that their father had abandoned hope, she had made up her mind to find someone who could protect them both. Another man in the vill had already suggested that she should give herself to him and live under his roof. He had promised to feed her and look after her – but Hob, he said, would have to find somewhere else to live.

That was no bargain as far as Jen was concerned. She told Hob later that she wouldn’t take a mate who wouldn’t look after Hob as well. Hob wasn’t sure what she meant, but he was glad that she wasn’t going to leave him. That much registered.

She had known Sir Thomas already; confessed to Hob that she had been as good as married to the nobleman since the summer. He had ridden past the vill and she caught his eye. The knight had offered her food and she had accepted. When their father was gone and buried, Jen and Hob left the vill and went to live at Sir Thomas’s manor. Jen was welcomed, although Hob was abused, being little use for anything but the most menial work; at a time of famine no one wants a useless mouth to feed. Sir Thomas’s men made their feelings plain. They kicked Hob, hurled stones and spat at him, and beat him with sticks, just as they might ill-treat a cat or a stray dog. Hob didn’t know why, but everyone hated him. Only Jen loved him.

He sniffed again, wiping at his eye with a grubby sleeve. Hob wouldn’t whine; Hob wouldn’t complain. Hob was strong.

He’d never been popular in the vill. He was used to being made fun of, being thrashed. It hurt, but everyone treated him like that because he was different. One day, Jen saw him being kicked and she told Sir Thomas, who saved Hob. Rushing out into his yard with a cudgel, he smashed the hardened knob over one man’s head, then another’s, and hauled the squirming boy to his feet. That was when Sir Thomas had bellowed at them, ‘You leave him alone – he’s under my protection. He has no father, no brother, so I am his defender. If you want to beat him you’ll answer to me!’