Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

It was an important consideration, Hawisia acknowledged. If everyone went to Karvinel and simultaneously demanded that their loans be repaid, the money he owed to her husband might never be recovered.

She suddenly caught a glimpse of Juliana’s hand patting Simon Puttock’s thigh before lifting his cup and pressing it into his hand. It was no accident, Hawisia was convinced of that. And of course she knew full well that Juliana was as aware as any other of the serious nature of her husband’s finances. How could she not be, with such a series of terrible disasters? Juliana almost looked as if she was practising her flirting, reminding herself how to win a man, preparing to find a lover to run away with.

The concept was an idle one, not a rational thought at all, but it snagged on a barb in Hawisia’s mind and made her catch her breath with delight. It would be the final embarrassment for Karvinel. If his wife were to run away with a different man – especially a younger man like the Bailiff here – he would be distraught. He might even decide to throw himself upon the adulterer.

What would be in it for Juliana? Hawisia recalled the shame heaped upon Earl Thomas of Lancaster when his wife Alice left him. He had been the butt of jokes up and down the kingdom. Surely if he had been a mere gentleman like Karvinel, he would have been shattered by the discovery of his wife’s unfaithfulness.

Karvinel was almost wrecked as a threat to Vincent now, but Hawisia could not forget that he had until recently been Vincent’s leading competitor for all positions of importance in the city, and he could return to take up that rôle once more. But if his wife should leave him, he would be finished. It could be desirable, even if it meant Vincent didn’t recover the money he was owed. Perhaps Hawisia should warn him, advise him to collect Nick Karvinel’s debt sooner rather than later?

There was a speculative look in Hawisia’s eye when she next glanced in the direction of Simon and Juliana and it was with an almost absent-minded gentleness that she rested her hand once more upon her husband’s and softly stroked it.

Gervase the Succentor closed the door behind him and crossed the grassed pathway to the cobbled street that led up to the western door. He had need of peace and an opportunity for thought, now that poor Peter was dead. The lad’s horrific demise in the Cathedral had appalled all the Canons and Chapter. It was as if a demon had intruded upon their devotions and mocked them all – and God. It was deeply unsettling. Some had murmured that the place should be reconsecrated, although others pointed out that it would be, since the Cathedral was being rebuilt. It was good to find some peace and quiet where he could think without the pall of gloom sinking into his bones.

Peter had been a good fellow, a companionable sort, but that wasn’t the reason why Gervase had valued him. Peter was no great scholar, and his memory was poor – the two main reasons why he had not progressed beyond his position as a Secondary. He had a great skill with numbers, which was always useful, but for Gervase Peter had an infinitely more important rôle. Peter was one of his Rulers, or Rectors, a special clerk who knew the music and orders of service for all special events. While his memory regularly failed him when he tried to recall Biblical events or the correct services to hold on specific Feast Days, he could be entirely relied upon to carry a full sequence of songs and prayers, leading the choir in all the more fiddly ones. Gervase wasn’t sure how he could fill the place left by Peter. He had wondered about using young Jolinde, but it wouldn’t do. He had no interest in the music or services.

Peter had been a capable singer, if no better than that, but in terms of arranging the services, he was more talented than Gervase himself. He would have been an ideal replacement for Gervase – in fact the Succentor had been going to suggest that he should be allowed to go to University. It might have helped him develop. Everyone needed education.

Gervase himself had been to Oxford. Some years ago Bishop Walter had generously sent him away to study, and he had not only enjoyed his theological and astronomical studies, he had also been fortunate enough to meet and later be tutored by a man who had known the great ‘Doctor Mirabilis’, Roger Bacon. From this teacher Gervase had acquired some Arabic, and he had looked over many of the same Saracen documents which Bacon himself had read.

There he had learned about poisons which could be used to kill a man. Some were rare, curious mixtures of strange roots and leaves, which could gradually make a man fade without his knowing why. Others were more simple and crude. Putrefying flesh from a long-dead animal smeared upon a knife or arrow could be effective, but as Gervase knew, the more common a powder or liquid, the better for a poisoner.

Gervase shook his head and frowned. Peter’s death had affected the whole Cathedral. It was a dreadful thing to happen at Christmas. But there was no need for people to assume that Peter had been poisoned. So many died from food poisoning of one form or another – surely the young man’s death was the same, a tragic accident.

In years to come, Gervase might have a suitable replacement in Luke, he thought, not that he honestly believed he would be able to claim Luke for the next Succentor.

Luke and Henry were very different from Jolinde and Peter. Neither was so capable with music yet, and both were competent enough at their studies, a great deal more so than Peter had been. Gervase occasionally risked a small wager, and he would gamble a tenth of his annual £2 stipend in support of his view that both Luke and Henry would be Deacons before they were twenty years old. Both spoke and wrote Latin clearly and intelligibly, both sang well, and both had a good feel for the ritual of their jobs, although Luke was undoubtedly the better at each accomplishment.

Their rivalry was an irritation, certainly, but boys would be boys. As far as Gervase could recall, Jolinde and Peter had fought in much the same way when they were young Choristers. Fortunately they had patched up their differences.

Entering the Cathedral, he bowed to the altar. Rising, he saw Adam lighting candles near the Bishop’s throne. Poor Adam, he thought. The boy would never be allowed to rise through the ranks, no matter what his friends wished. It was odd that the Dean should have so taken to Adam, giving him his post as a Secondary and supporting him at every turn. Most others couldn’t stand the boy. Too uncouth and bullying. Still, Gervase reflected, walking to Adam’s side, there was hope even for the roughest boy.

‘Adam, could I have a word, please?’

‘I am very busy, Brother.’

‘Not too busy to hear that if I see you tipping wax down the necks of the Choristers again, I shall personally report you to the Bishop myself. You understand me?’

Abashed, Adam ducked his head sulkily. ‘Yes, Brother.’

‘Good. Now, may I help with these candles?’

The lad stood aside and allowed the Succentor to take a handful of candles. With them he set off to the nearest sconce and removed the old ones, replacing all with new. It was the way on Christmas Eve.

Gervase allowed thoughts of the dead Secondary to fall from his mind like rain dripping from a damp cloak. This was no time to be filling his mind with such macabre things. Infinitely more important was the service tonight, preparing the church, ensuring that the choir was ready and understood the order of songs and prayers. It was essential to perform the Opus Dei to the very best of their mediocre abilities.

The Cathedral had been decorated suitably and the candles reflected the bright green holly which adorned the window-ledges and filled any convenient gaps. Berries gleamed among the leaves like rubies. Ivy had been carefully twined about pillars as if it had grown there. The floor was well swept, displaying the old tiles and slabs, all the metalwork was polished, reflecting the light in sharp, clean bursts, making the woodwork glow as though it were illuminated from within. The whole church was as perfect as human hands could make it, Gervase sighed happily. That was, after all, the point, as the Dean had reminded them all that morning immediately after Chapter.