Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

The candle-flames fluttered gently in the sconces and candelabra, making the whole place alive with warm light and dancing shadows. There were more candles than at any other service: seven on the high altar, three before the Cross, hundreds in the ambulatories. Occasional gusts of wind from the works at the eastern end of the crossing, where the new choir was being constructed, twitched the flames, making them dance in unison, bringing the stench of burning tallow with it.

He felt a shudder of delightful expectation shiver up his spine and he whispered a prayer of thanks that he should have lived to have participated in yet another Christmas Eve. It was a distinct honour, he thought, to have been allowed to witness the celebration in this, the most beautiful of all Christian churches.

Finishing with a short ‘Amen,’ he took in the faces of the other Canons, all glowing in the light.

The men stood in their stalls in rows at either side of the path to the altar; three at either side of a narrow corridor in which sat the two Rulers. The two inner rows were filled with Choristers; behind them were the Annuellars and Secondaries; last, furthest from the corridor, were the Canons and Vicars, with the four Archdeacons, the Dean and his four dignitaries. The Bishop, when he was in attendance, sat on his throne near the altar.

Stephen’s own post lay at the south-western side of the choir, from where he had a good view of all the other members of the congregation. He could see that all the men had excited expressions, although some of the oldest displayed signs of apprehension. They knew how long it would be before they could seek their beds and rest their weary legs.

The younger folk showed no anticipation of pain or exhaustion. Stephen smiled to see the bright expectation on their boyish faces, for this service was the beginning of their season, when they would begin to take all power from the Church’s authorities. The boy-Bishop would soon come into his own, and then the Choristers would rule the Cathedral for twenty-four hours. Lunacy, of course, Stephen reminded himself, but a necessary madness. And it made up for the rest of the year’s solemnity, making routines bearable for boys of eleven or twelve years old.

There was a sudden hush which broke into his thoughts, and he settled back against his misericorde as the service began.

Gervase watched his two Rectors like a snake studying two mice, his attention constantly moving from one to the other, preparing to leap at any moment should either fail in his duty, but his anxiety appeared unnecessary.

One Rector stood and the nave fell silent as he prayed with his eyes closed, one hand gripping his staff of office, and then called loudly the invitatory to Matins.

Too loud, Gervase considered critically. But well spoken, and at least each word was clear. The Rector sat once more on his revolving white-leather seat; at the opposite side of the aisle was the second, facing him. Both clasped their wooden staffs ornamented with silver; they held each other’s gaze a moment, then gave a slight nod as they began.

It was the job of the two Rectors to regulate the singing and prayers. This service, the Angel’s Mass, was Christmas Day’s Matins, but it was held before midnight on Christmas Eve and required more complicated sequences of praise. It was too much to expect the Canons and Secondaries to remember the details of every service through the year, so the Rectors were carefully briefed by Gervase on the precise order for each special service. This one was perhaps the most important of the year and one of the most confusing.

But also the most breathtaking, Gervase added to himself as the first lesson was chanted and a Chorister appeared in the doorway of the screens next to the high altar.

It was Luke. He stood there on the highest step, dressed in plain white alb and amice , a lighted torch gripped in his left hand, facing the altar. As the lesson was completed, he turned to the choir and sang out in his clear, sweet voice.

‘ Ho die nobis celorum …’

Gervase nodded, translating to himself as the child went through the beautiful little ceremony.

‘ On this day the King of Heaven consented to be born for us of a virgin .’

The lad did well, Gervase told himself. He had thought he would. It was the best he could do to compensate Luke for being passed over for boy-Bishop, giving him this rôle.

Luke remembered all the instructions. He raised his right hand upwards as he mentioned Heaven; he turned and reached out to the statue of the Virgin Mary as he spoke of Her, and finished by falling to his knees before the altar. This was the signal for the rest of the choir to respond, and Gervase began to sing, but all the time half his mind was on the next sequence, and it was with a sense of mild relief that he saw the three Choristers from each side of the aisle, all similarly dressed, proceed to the lowest step of the altar. Luke descended, his head bowed, and when he reached the bottom with the others, all seven sang ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax, hominibus bonae voluntatis.’

At the exquisite sound Gervase felt tears spring into his eyes once more. He smiled blissfully with the sheer loveliness of the ceremony as the children passed in procession through the midst of the choir and disappeared.

The Dean stood to celebrate Mass. This was the first of the Masses for Christmas Day, and the secular congregation, many of whom had feasted before arriving here, began to jostle and shift weight from one foot to another long before the end. Too many men and women had drunk quarts of ale or pints of wine for them to be entirely comfortable.

Baldwin felt fine, but he had restricted his own consumption. At his side, Simon grunted to himself every so often, standing with his hands clasped behind his back with his weight squarely balanced upon both feet. Vincent le Berwe was not so fortunate. From the corner of his eye Baldwin noticed him fidgeting uncomfortably, then chewing at his lip, before finally making his way through the crowds to the door.

It made Baldwin shake his head a little. Men should concentrate more on the importance of the ceremony of Christmas, rather than feasting to excess in celebration of it. There would be many painful heads on the morrow, he thought uncharitably.

It was as the Dean lifted the golden chalice high overhead that Gervase felt the first flicker of concern.

Initially it was only a wry observation that Luke had not returned from changing out of his silk robes, but his cynical assumption that the little devil had decided to return to his bed for a snooze, or maybe was even now raiding the buttery for a pottle of strong wine, began to turn to slight concern – even anxiety – as the lad didn’t return. It made him begin to wonder whether Luke could have fallen and hit his head, or tripped into a hole. The workings here were quite dangerous at night.

It was a relief when he saw the Chorister walk back and sit down – but when he saw Luke’s features he saw with a shock that the boy’s face was as pale as a corpse. The face of someone who had seen a ghost – or someone who had been terrified beyond belief.

Simon was standing next to Hawisia near a pillar when Vincent reappeared. The congregation had returned to their places after the Communion, and Simon eyed the folk about him idly. Suddenly he found his gaze falling upon Juliana Karvinel and her husband. Juliana smiled, and Simon was sure her eyebrows rose momentarily, as if she was giving him an invitation. In his alcoholically bemused state, Simon felt a vague libidinous attraction to her, but then the crowds moved and the sight of her was lost.

She was an attractive woman, he thought, thinking of her breasts and that special, lazy way she had of smiling. And she clearly thought him a good-looking man, too, from the way she had flirted with him. Simon had a feeling that if he asked her to warm his bed, she’d agree with alacrity. It was something to think that a married woman would behave in so flagrant a manner.