Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

It was more gloomy than previous Chapter meetings. The Canons and Vicars walked in after Prime, taking the doorway in the southern wall of the Cathedral which led out to the Chapter House on the eastern side of the cloisters. Here the Dean gave a short prayer before sitting down, and Luke read out the calendar information for the services to celebrate Christmas while the Canons listened carefully, sitting on the stone seats that were fitted into the walls.

The calendar laid down the rules for every day: first the date, as if anyone wasn’t already aware of it; the age of the moon; the name of the man to be celebrated. Usually the name to be revered was that of a saint, but today, knowing that they were to honour Jesus Christ Himself, the Chapter was strangely quiet and thoughtful. Normally a Canon would be bound to be thinking of something else and there would be occasional bursts of humour, but on the eve of Christ’s birth no one felt the urge for levity. Especially after the horror of Peter’s death.

And Jolinde had felt it keenly, Gervase reckoned from the look of him. When Jolinde stood to read the rota of the duties, his face was pale and strained, but that was only to be expected after witnessing the death of his friend. Again a nagging doubt reminded Gervase that Jolinde and Peter had not been the closest of friends when they were younger, but he thrust the uncharitable idea from him. Such thoughts were not to be borne, not on Christmas Eve.

Once Jolinde had finished and had sat down again, the Dean stood and began the prayers. But today he had additional prayers for Peter.

‘Let us ahm, begin as usual with our prayers for our King, King Edward the Second, God bless him and keep him and send him good advisers… and for the Queen and her father the King of France hmm and for our own Bishop, Walter hmm and his family, especially his brother, Sir Richard Stapledon, buried here in our Cathedral hmm and we remember our own parents… And last, we should all think of poor Peter, who died so tragically this morning. It is a sad duty to remember one of our own who has passed away, but we can reflect on the joy his soul no doubt hmm feels, sitting now in the presence of God. Please, Lord, hear our prayers.’

On a normal morning, that would have been an end to it, but today there was much more, all to do with the Mass. Holding a Mass at night was complex, and tonight’s, the Christmas Eve Mass, was the only one of the year which was conducted by candlelight.

All in all, Gervase was convinced that the Angel’s Mass on Christmas Eve was the most beautiful and touching of any. But it did involve a lot more work, and what with the early beginning of the Mass, the early rising for the daily prayers and rituals afterwards, at which all Canons, Vicars, and their Secondaries were supposed to be present, every man in the Cathedral would be exhausted by the end of Christmas Day.

That was why at the end of Chapter the Dean had admonished all of them to, ‘Perform your service with absolute devotion and edifying recollection. This is the most important service in our year, and we must all do honour to the miracle and mystery of Our Saviour’s Nativity. Ahm I expect to see all of you in the choir for the service.’

Baldwin and the guests remained seated while the chaplain stood and said Grace after the meal, but when he was done and the bread for the poor had been collected in one large bowl, at least one quarter of all that which had been served, as well as the remains of the other dishes, the party rose and left space for the servants to clear the room. With the steward standing over them all and watching, the place was cleared in short order, the dishes all carried out to the scullery to be washed, the tablecloths folded and removed, the trestle tables taken apart, the benches moved against the wall.

The host and his wife stood and chatted to their guests and several times Baldwin felt Vincent or Hawisia’s eyes upon him, but he declined their unspoken offers to introduce him to still more citizens. He was convinced that his presence at this feast was less for Vincent le Berwe to honour him, more to reflect a little of his own honour upon Vincent, and Baldwin was happy to repay a good meal by being polite to the man, but saw no need to be ingratiating.

It was quite some little while before they all heard the Cathedral bells tolling. Luckily the miserable weather which had threatened had held off and they only had to contend with the mud-filled streets and malodorous contents of the gutters. One man stepped into something so foul that he had to seek a patch of grass to wipe off the worst of the offending muck, but for the most part they reached the Fissand Gate none the worse for wear.

Jeanne was relieved to have arrived without besmirching her clean dress and tunic with horse manure or dog’s turds, and she was congratulating herself when she caught the eye of a man at the gate’s hinge.

He squatted with a stout staff at his side, which he used as a crutch. There was a dreadful scar that clove his jawbone and had left a large dint in his face. But for all that he smiled when he saw her watching him, and his eyes were kind and gentle as he ducked his head in an admiring half-bow. She smiled in her turn, feeling an urge to curtsey. A man who had suffered as he clearly had deserved the honour more than many she gave it to, she thought rebelliously as she was swept along by the flow of the crowd.

The grounds before the Cathedral demonstrated the popularity of the service. Above them, the bells were still sounding out their command to all Christians to come and perform their duty and honour their Saviour. All the folk of the city would be here or in the parish churches which were dotted all about: some from pure devotion, some from compulsion because the Cathedral could refuse to buy goods from merchants who didn’t attend their services, and some from insurance, making certain of their places in the life to come.

Inside the great church Baldwin could feel the power and majesty of the building. It soared high overhead, the ceiling a dim pattern almost out of sight, supported by the magnificent stone columns. At his side he heard Jeanne gasp. She gripped his arm. ‘This is wonderful, isn’t it? What a fabulous building!’ she exclaimed.

‘It shall be even longer when they have finished the eastern end.’

‘But it’s already vast!’ She was awed. This place was daunting in its size. How it could remain standing, she did not understand, but although it was staggering in its dimensions, she was soothed by the familiar scent of incense and the sight of the small portable altar which stood before the screen. Obviously the choir itself was concealed from the general population. The Cathedral was here for the congregation of Canons to honour God, not only for the edification of the general public.

Yet it was good to see that the Cathedral allowed even the poorer folk to enter. From the corner of her eye she saw a squatting figure being helped inside. It was the beggar she had noticed at the Fissand Gate. He grinned widely at her, but in an instant he was bowing his head in a prayer. At his side she saw a black-clad man, while in the shadows next to him a lad was grinning foolishly. This gave Jeanne a pang. She always felt sorry for the witless, and now, knowing she bore a child in her womb, she was struck by a quick anxiety, worried that she could give birth to a fool, but then she forced her mind to empty.

This was no time to be entertaining morbid thoughts.

As the Canons assembled in their stalls, Brother Stephen looked about him beaming with pleasure. This service was, he felt, the most meaningful of all through the year. For some reason the simple fact that it was the only full Mass celebrated during the night made it more symbolic, more important – and certainly more beautiful.