Michael JECKS: The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

The first of the murders which so shook the Cathedral passed with little comment. Those who knew most about it thought it was a mere robbery. The murdered man’s body was found stabbed, in his shop with all of his jewels and cash missing. There was nothing at first to connect his murder to the later deaths since he was not discovered in the Cathedral and the obvious suspect was captured so swiftly.

It took Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the knight investigating the crime, to show that this victim was only one in the dreadful series of killings that spread such alarm and fear throughout the whole of Exeter.

The victim’s name was Ralph Glover, and he felt as though his heart would burst with contentment when he threw open his shutters in the grey half-light before dawn on the Feast Day of St Thomas the Apostle, twenty-first December in the year of our Lord 1321. He adored the winter-time, especially when there was a fire and hot food indoors, and this fine, crisp morning struck him as perfect. A pair of clouds floated overhead; apart from them the sky was clear in the east. All was clean and pure and when he inhaled it felt as though he was drinking in air as fresh as the water from a Dartmoor spring, with none of the sting of wood- and coal-smoke which would later pollute it.

Leaving the house in response to the summons of the Cathedral bell, he saw that there was a light frost riming the timbers of the house opposite. The water puddled in the mud of the roadway had turned to ice and he had to mind his step if he didn’t want to fall; he must also take care to avoid the piles of excrement that lay frozen like small cobbles in the gutter running down the middle of the road. This road was fortunate enough to be fed from its own spring and the stream usually washed the gutter clean, but today it too had frozen.

People were already up and about. Hawkers were making their way along the streets, maids and servants were busily sweeping dirt from the houses, innkeepers standing in the doorways watching for their first customers. All were swaddled in thick coats or cloaks against the chill breeze. At one corner Ralph passed a few poorer folk huddled round a brazier of charcoal. In the glover’s opinion they looked little better than heathens, standing with their hands outstretched to the flames like priests worshipping fire, but when he saw a beggar nearby, Ralph gave him a coin.

Ralph was a cheery soul with a prominent belly and, in this cold weather, his cheeks were so red they might have been painted. Small blue eyes glittered in a fat jowly face, and his mouth was invariably fixed in a wide grin. Even in the foulest of weather he could be seen striding through the city, his great staff in one hand, clad in a cheap tunic of tatty wool, scratched and torn hose covering his legs, a heavy black cloak to exclude the worst of the weather, a simple felt hat to keep the rain from his face and scuffed, stained boots on his feet.

Despite his shabby appearance, Ralph often gave money to the poor and needy; he was rich enough from the proceeds of his glovemaking and mercantile ventures, but as a pious man he disliked flaunting his wealth. That seemed to him disgraceful. If God gave a man skills and abilities to make money, that was God’s benevolence. There was nothing for the recipient of His kindness to brag about. To some extent that was why Ralph tended not to mix with other members of the Freedom of the City. He privately thought most of them were too irreligious for their own good. There were too many who sought all their rewards here on earth and Ralph felt faintly uneasy in their presence – worried that by associating with such people he might himself become tainted. The new Receiver of the City, Vincent le Berwe, was one such. Ralph couldn’t like him. He was too greedy, quite prepared to tread upon those who were weaker in his quest for personal wealth. Nick Karvinel, another glovemaker, used to be the same, until he fell on hard times. Nick had shown almost intolerable greed until recently; strangely, once his fortunes were lost he hardly appeared to care.

As a member of the Freedom, Ralph was one of the most senior men in the city now he had won the Wardenship of the Bridge, but that didn’t make him feel differently and he still had no desire to mix with rich people. He harboured a suspicion that a certain member of the Freedom was guilty of corruption, and he wanted as little to do with such people as possible.

Ralph was happier mingling with ordinary folk; like a friar he often went among the poor. On this, his last day, he behaved as he did on every other: walking up the High Street towards Cook Row he exchanged quips and jokes with the whores touting for business near the Fissand Gate, gave money to the poor at St Martin’s Lane, silently dropped a few coins into a leper’s bowl near St Petrock’s Church. He always asserted that it was the duty of every man to help his fellow, and he demonstrated his conviction by liberality on a level that in others would have been called foolhardiness – or, more probably, lunacy.

He knew how people spoke about him, but didn’t care. Ralph’s outlook was as simple as his clothing: Christ told men to give away their money to help those poorer than themselves; the poor would most easily find the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, and Ralph intended to do the Good Lord’s bidding. That was why he held feasts through the year to which he invited the indigent, giving them food and drink and gifts of clothing. There was little else for him to spend his money on. He had no family to worry him, only his apprentice Elias, who was old enough to leave Ralph’s service now; he was certainly qualified.

Ralph slipped and almost fell on a patch of ice, but he only chuckled at his clumsiness and continued past St Petrock’s Church and down Cook Row. He stopped at a stall and took a pie for a few pennies, chewing slowly as he returned up the road to enter the Close via the Fissand Gate.

He adored this season: he loved to see frost liming the trees, icicles dangling dangerously from roofs and upper storeys. In his cheap clothing the cold could penetrate and chill his skin, but he didn’t care. Wherever he went there were fires, in houses and in the streets. And even as the flesh of his belly was chilled, his chortle of delight remained unabated. Everyone was happy at this time of year, laughing and joking, for it was almost Christmas, and all would celebrate.

It wasn’t only the religious connotation of the season that gave him pleasure; he took a keen delight in the cold, ice and snow. He loved the starkness of the landscape, the bare trees, fields empty and brown, while the water solidified and stopped in the stream-beds. All the world appeared to pause and take stock, waiting for God’s renewal, just as the whole of mankind would soon be forced to stop in its mad onward rush and consider its position as the Day of Judgement approached. Winter reminded him that before too long, God willing, he would be able to join his wife in Heaven. As was his wont, he glanced upwards at the thought and murmured a short but devout prayer before continuing on his way.

Which is why he wasn’t looking where he was going and accidentally got in the path of a cleric who was running full pelt towards him.

‘Oh, I’m…’ There was a squeak of shock, and the cleric fled.

The collision was so forceful, Ralph was winded. He staggered backwards into a man behind him, and had to grasp the stranger’s shoulder to save himself from falling.

‘Clumsy damned fool,’ the man growled in a deep voice as the figure in clerical garb hared off towards the Fissand Gate and darted into the Close.

‘The enthusiasm of youth, I fear, friend,’ Ralph gasped. He stood a while with a hand on his heart and caught his breath. ‘I am easy to stumble into, I’m afraid,’ he continued with a better humour. ‘It’d be different if I were a young maiden with tits out to here and a saucy smile, but I’m just an old fat man with a belly like a hog’s. Let me release you, I must be straining your shoulder. I assure you I’m better now.’