Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

For his part Simon was like any other man. In the past he had made use of whores when he was taken by the urge, but since marrying Meg he had rarely felt the need. He didn’t stay away from home that often, but now, here in this strange, unfamiliar city, Simon felt that the comfort of a woman would be pleasant. He could almost feel Juliana’s flesh in his hands.

As soon as he had the thought, a picture of his wife’s face appeared in his mind, his laughing Meg with their daughter Emily in her arms. Meg was tall, fair-haired, gentle in manner, for ever calm. Simon adored her, and his daughter.

The thought made him smile to himself. In any case, he was probably confusing a woman’s polite chatter and unintentional flirting with the professional eroticism of a slut. It was lucky he had realised his error in time.

Returning to watching the priest at the altar, he began to pray. Meg would be giving birth soon. Simon asked God to give them another boy, an heir to replace poor Peterkin, the son he had buried two years before. The priest moved with a slow deliberation, and Simon wished he would hurry and finish the service so that the Bailiff could leave and find a private spot in which to empty his bladder, but his train of thought was broken as Vincent pushed his way back through the crowd.

Clumsily, Vincent bumped into a cleric who was fitting fresh candles into a candelabra, knocking the box of replacements from his hand. The wooden box fell with a loud crack and the expensive white cylinders rolled hither and thither while the young Secondary scampered after them.

Vincent scarcely seemed to notice the mayhem he had caused. He merely snorted with amusement before peering ahead, trying to see where Baldwin and Simon were; when he saw Simon, he shoved his way over to the Bailiff’s side. Simon could not help but notice the relief and satisfaction on the merchant’s face. It made his own discomfort all the worse, and he was mightily glad when, only a short while later, the service ended. The priest at the altar finished his last sung prayer, holding up his hand and making the Sign of the Cross over all those present while they bowed their heads and crossed themselves or held their hands together in prayer. Then the crowds began to move away from the screen and towards the door.

‘Sir Baldwin, Lady Jeanne, you must come back to my house and celebrate the new Christmas Day,’ Vincent said. ‘It will only be ourselves. No one else has been asked back.’

Seeing the expression on Jeanne’s face, Baldwin refused the offer with as much politeness as he could muster. ‘I would like to, but we have been up since a very early hour, sir. Please excuse us, but with my wife pregnant, I think she should be allowed to find her bed as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, of course. My apologies, Lady Jeanne. I wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she smiled, grateful that Baldwin had seen her mood.

‘I must ask the Bailiff, though,’ Vincent said, gazing about him as they walked out of the western gates. ‘Where is he?’

Baldwin laughed. ‘Where there is a dark alley and no prying eyes.’

‘Oh, he was desperate for a piss as well, was he? In that case, Hawisia, would you like to return home?’

Jeanne watched the merchant stroll away and pushed her hand through the crook of her husband’s elbow. ‘Try as I might, I cannot like that man,’ she whispered confidentially.

Luke and the other Choristers filed from the Cathedral and made their way to the door, then out to the grassed area.

In the clear night air Luke shivered and felt a heavy lump weighting his belly. From here in the doorway, he was facing the graveyard and charnel chapel. Never before had he given credence to the foolish rumours and silly stories of ghosts and dead Canons who walked the precinct, but now he felt less sure.

He could have jumped out of his skin when the man had taken his arm. It was just after he had left the Cathedral and had removed his silk clothing ready to return to the choir. The other boys had already gone, but Luke had more to remove, and he was a conscientious boy. He wouldn’t throw good silks onto the floor. No, he carefully shook out and folded his robes, installing them in the chest before leaving the room. And it was then, as he shut the door silently behind him, that the man had loomed out of the shadows, grabbing his elbow.

‘Luke?’

He couldn’t answer. There in the gloomy shadow of the Cathedral wall, he was overcome by fear. It was as if a long-dead Canon had risen from the grave to terrorise him.

‘Are you Luke, boy?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Me, boy?’ Sir Thomas smiled with the brittleness of melancholy. ‘I’m your father.’

Luke had instinctively known he was telling the truth, yet Stephen had told him for so long that his father was dead, that accepting Sir Thomas who had appeared as if from nowhere, was difficult to swallow. Easier by far to believe him a ghost.

And his reason for turning up seemed equally odd. He wanted to talk to Luke, he said, but he appeared more interested in learning as much as he could about the dead cleric, Peter.

Janekyn yawned and shut the great doors that comprised the Fissand Gate, nodding to the two clerics. They dragged the massive wooden bars from their sockets in the left-hand wall and hauled them across to fit into the shallower seats in the wall opposite. Janekyn shrugged himself further into his robe and tried to protect his throat from the biting wind that threatened to flay the skin from his neck.

He had the one remaining duty, and that was to walk around the gates and make sure all were locked for the night. After so many years of performing this nightly service, he had a set routine. He had already seen to the Palace Gate, the Bear Gate, St Mary’s and St Petrock’s. All were locked. Now he had two remaining: the Bicklegh and St Martin’s Lane. One of the two Secondaries helping him was slapping his arms together in an attempt to warm them and Janekyn said kindly, ‘Come, the faster we walk the sooner you’ll be able to stand before a fire.’

The pair nodded enthusiastically, thinking of the jugs of steaming wine set before Janekyn’s fire.

As soon as they had gone, a figure drew away from the charnel chapel and stood listening for a moment. Hob of Whyteslegh shivered and it was only partly from the cold. He was petrified of being discovered.

The grounds of the Cathedral precinct were deserted. Above him the moon showed bright and clear in a starry sky, while the chill breeze from the south sent clouds scudding across at speed; each looked like a silken feather, billowing and changing shape in the silver light.

For Hob, the moon’s stark brightness was terrifying. He felt that, if he were to step another yard towards the gate, he must be seen by someone. Even now, there might be a Canon or clerk watching him, probably calling for armed guards to cut him down for desecrating the Cathedral’s grounds. The idea made him want to sidle back into the shadows of the charnel chapel and hide there, but fear of all the old bones interred within made him dread returning even more than he dreaded leaving.

At last he heard the faint whistle. It stirred him into action, and he scampered across the grass, slipping once and almost falling as his foot caught a loose cobble, but then he was at the corner of the Cathedral. The whistle came again and Hob gurgled with happiness to know he wasn’t alone out here with all the dead bodies in the cemetery. It was a moment or two before he could compose himself enough to whistle back in return, and a few moments later Sir Thomas walked around the wall. He nodded curtly to Hob, then peered cautiously about the precinct.

Sir Thomas was not in a contented mood. After searching through all Peter and Jolinde’s belongings in their room and finding nothing, since Jolinde had already removed his dead friend’s effects, he was bitter at the waste of time. Every moment he spent here, in the Cathedral’s grounds, he was in danger. If he should be found, many would recognise him, and there was only one punishment for an outlaw: the rope.