Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

That was the thought that nagged at him as he walked towards the chapel: Peter hadn’t trusted him. He’d taken the stolen jewels and hidden them somewhere Jolinde couldn’t find them. Or maybe he’d sold them? Tried to make his own profit?

The theft itself had been remarkably easy. They had collected the jewels and money for delivery to Ralph on sixth December as instructed, but while they were still walking to the glover’s place, Jolly had casually mentioned how easy it was to make fun of people. Peter hadn’t understood, perhaps intentionally, but then Jolly explained how simple it would be to remove some jewels and make off with the proceeds. He hadn’t introduced the concept as a suggestion that they should rob either the Cathedral or Ralph, but merely as an idea, a conversational twist, and it had worked. Peter had scoffed when he took Jolly’s drift.

‘You think so? They would notice if we took some of the jewels!’

‘Not necessarily,’ Jolly had answered, and the two of them made a wager. And of course Jolly was right. They left the glover’s shop with a handful of money and the precious and semi-precious stones. Ralph was a trusting man, pious and honourable. It had been all too easy to pull the wool over his eyes.

Almost immediately, Peter had begun to fret. ‘We have to take it back to him – this is theft,’ he whimpered. ‘We’re no better than felons if we keep it!’

‘We can’t,’ Jolly responded shortly. ‘If we try to take it back, we’ll have to explain how we made the mistake, and as soon as we do that he’ll realise we robbed him.’

‘But if we don’t we shall be felons!’ Peter stated despairingly. ‘We have to take them back or how can Ralph make the gloves? And we shall have to confess what we’ve done in Chapter too, before the Canons and the Dean.’

‘Now listen to me, Peter!’ Jolly said, and he gripped his companion forcefully. ‘Look, we can’t go back to the glover’s now or he will accuse us of theft – right? If we confess in Chapter we’ll probably be thrown out of the Cathedral. You want that? To be evicted under a cloud, with no prospects?’

Peter’s eyes slid away and Jolly knew he had hit the mark there. Peter would have liked to have become a Canon if he could; to be a Vicar would be enough to keep him content – but he knew that he would only ever remain at best a clerk while he had no patron. He was like Jolly; he had to find a new career away from the Cathedral if he wanted to advance. If he was to become a lawyer he would need money to travel to University, but even more than that, he would need the support of the Bishop. The thought that he could lose his place in the Cathedral was terrible. That would mean the end of his dreams.

Two or three weeks ago, that was, and Jolly could recall it perfectly. How Peter had argued and whined until Jolly pulled him into the alehouse, and there he had ordered drinks from the beautiful Claricia. He was smitten at once. And Peter’s continual whispered hissing in his ear was a distraction from his pursuit of her. Perhaps his desire for her was a means of forgetting what he had just done to Ralph, but it felt good.

When Peter said again that he couldn’t keep the jewels, that he was no thief, Jolly responded that his attitude was fine, but how was he going to get them back to Ralph with no one noticing? As proof of his own disinterest, he placed his small purse, which contained the money and gemstones, in Peter’s hand, telling him to give them back however he wished. Peter gripped the purse like a man holding a death sentence.

But Jolly could feel the guilt and shame fall from him as he gave the purse to Peter, and immediately he set about battering at Claricia’s defences. His assault had been successful: he had taken her by storm, and since then he had shared her bed regularly, in the small room over Sutton’s Inn. And because Jolly knew the secret of the tunnels, he could stay with her until late, making his way back to the Cathedral when he wanted, with no one any the wiser.

He had found the tunnels because of the building work. It was one day while he walked near the cloister that he saw it. He was idly watching builders working on the foundations for the new eastern section when a builder slipped into a hole. Laughing, he had called over the architect. Interested, Jolly wandered over.

‘Nearly fell in, sir,’ the workman was saying.

Peering over his shoulder, Jolly saw a cavity lined with stones. It was arched, and beneath was a gaping hole. The architect dropped a stone in and there was a rattle. ‘It’s an old sewer, that’s all. Not used now, I suppose. Nothing exciting, anyway.’

But Jolly knew he was wrong. To him it looked very exciting indeed. The men filled in the hole, but Jolly thought to himself that an old tunnel would be straight; there was no need for it to curve. He looked forward and mentally noted where the tunnel might meet the Cathedral wall. Later he found the entrance: it was the ideal means for him to get into and out of the Cathedral when the gates were locked, useful too for meetings which required a certain secrecy. That was why he had met his father there when Vincent had that special favour to ask him – the favour that led to the conning of Ralph. Which in turn had led to that session in the tavern with Peter, who had been so upset about the way Jolly had used him.

Although now Jolinde thought about it, Peter had looked even more angry and upset yesterday on seeing Karvinel, than he had while talking about the theft.

Baldwin was quiet, meditating as he walked back to the inn. Simon knew him far too well to interrupt his thought processes, and refrained from conversation until they reached the inn yard and Baldwin threatened to walk straight past.

‘Hey! In here, Baldwin.’

‘Hmm? Oh, sorry. Yes, of course.’

They entered to find Jeanne sitting in the parlour with Edgar.

‘Well, Baldwin? Was the murder not to your liking, that you should return so early?’

He smiled grimly. ‘I have not yet eaten lunch, so if you wish to hurl verbal barbs at me, at least let me sample some bread beforehand. Otherwise I may well expire.’

‘Not tonight, Sir Baldwin,’ the imperturbable Edgar remarked.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Baldwin demanded, sinking into a seat.

Jeanne was frigid as ice. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten that today we feast with Vincent le Berwe. He wishes us to share his evening meal before going with him and his family to attend the Mass in the Cathedral.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Baldwin with such hollow sarcasm that his wife rose and rested her hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s only a few more days, husband.’

‘It will feel like an eternity – except that with you at my side the time will fly past,’ he said gallantly.

But even as she smiled down at him in return, she saw his eyes lose their focus as his mind returned to the dead Secondary.

The Christmas Eve feast was an important event at Vincent’s house. There were eleven messes, Baldwin saw as he walked into the hall, so there were places for at least forty people, allowing four to each mess.

A twinge of guilt snagged at his consciousness as he sat down. He ought to be at his manor. It was his duty to provide seasonal hospitality for his villeins. They would bring their own faggots and he would provide the cooks, the food and the ale. Many lords, he knew, would expect the villeins to bring their own food and drink as well as the wood, but Baldwin felt strongly that his men had provided the food that would fill his belly for the year, so it was only right that he should feed them, just as he did at Michaelmas and Candlemas.

It was always a pleasant affair, Christmas at Furnshill. Baldwin would provide a loaf of heavy bread for his shepherd’s best dogs, and a variety of foods for all the men and women of the vill. There was usually a good strong chicken soup, bacon with beef and mustard, cheese and as much ale as the villeins could drink in the day. Usually the devils took that on as a challenge and there was little left remaining when Baldwin’s steward went over the accounts at the end of the day.