Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Sir Thomas was not sanguine about his prospects. Outlaws tended to die young. One day, if it was possible, he might give himself up and find a new, legitimate life, but not yet. Not while the murderer of Hamond lived. Hamond deserved to be avenged. That was why Sir Thomas had run the dreadful risk of joining the congregation in the Cathedral to hear the Mass, to seek out his son and learn all he could about the dead cleric Peter – the man who had born false witness against Hamond.

Unfortunately, Luke had been no use at all, apart from pointing to Peter’s and Jolinde’s house. And now he must escape from the Cathedral grounds before he could be discovered. In the past, Sir Thomas had made use of the Church’s wealth, robbing well-endowed parish chapels of their silver and pewter, selling their goods for cash. If he were found, the Bishop would be delighted to see him hang.

At first Sir Thomas had been forced into his outlawry when his lands had been overrun. It was impossible for him to compete when his neighbour, who was a friend of Hugh Despenser the Younger – at the time not a well-known man, but still related to the King by marriage – had launched first a legal attack, and then an armed sortie against Sir Thomas.

If Sir Thomas had been wealthy and renowned, he could have beaten off both. But he wasn’t. He was only a knight by birth and his poor little manor was scarcely able to support itself in peace, let alone raise funds to fight a small army. Perhaps if his wife, Luke’s mother, had lived he could have used her diplomatic skills to effect some kind of peace, but she was dead. Thrown from her mare only a year or so after Luke had left to join the Cathedral.

Without her he had no chance. All he knew was how to fight, but against this overwhelming force he was powerless. His neighbour’s men moved in and beat up all his servants in the fields until some were killed and the others feared going to their work, his crops rotted on the ground and he was forced to leave the place. There was nothing there – no income, no food, nothing.

In revenge Sir Thomas gathered up the men whom he could trust and launched a swift chevauchée against his tormentor. It had been successful, but the result had been the declaration some weeks later from the King’s own courts that he, Sir Thomas, was an outlaw. ‘If that is their decision, so be it,’ he had declared, and his men had cheered him. They slept that night in a tavern, then rode to his neighbour’s land. There he and his men executed their vengeance. The granaries were put to the torch; the barns, the outhouses, the cattle sheds, all were razed to the ground after Sir Thomas and his men had taken the best horseflesh, and then they had ridden off to the forests.

The first months had been tough, the succeeding ones infinitely worse as famine continued to scour the land. There was little to buy, let alone steal, and the only advantage to Sir Thomas was that his ranks were swelled by adventurers who were prepared to risk their lives to win a meal rather than die of starvation. Churches yielded their wealth to him and his men; rich travellers gave up their purses.

Up and down the county of Devonshire men and women paled at the news that Sir Thomas and his band were nearby. His face was described by those whom he had caught and released and since Karvinel’s accusation that he and his band had robbed him, Sir Thomas knew that if he were recognised in the city, he would be bound to be caught. That was why he now could come out only at night when he could walk in shadows. It wasn’t safe, but it was safer than daytime.

At least he had learned something. After talking to Luke, he had gone to Peter’s small home, had spotted Jolinde coming out of there and had followed the youth round the side of the cloister, observing him as he surreptitiously ducked below a beam and disappeared into a small space near the Cathedral’s wall. When Sir Thomas investigated, he learned how Jolinde had left and re-entered the Cathedral at night. The discovery pleased the grizzled knight. It could prove useful to him too, at some time in the future. If he didn’t have other men to meet now, he’d take the tunnels as a shortcut into the city. Only then did he return to search Jolinde’s house, but without success.

Hob was whimpering with trepidation; the moon was shining down upon them. Sir Thomas nodded and walked to the wall. There Hob untied his leather jack and unwound a thin rope from about his belly and chest. Sir Thomas wrapped a stone in linen and tied it to the rope, then hefted it in his hand. They were at Little Stile now, a small gate without a tower above, and Sir Thomas waited a moment, then whistled. There was nothing at first, so he tried again. This time there was a low, cautious whistle on the other side of the gate. Sir Thomas stepped back, whirled the stone at the end of the rope a few times over his head, then hurled it up and over the gate.

The cloth bindings silenced its fall. A moment or two later Sir Thomas felt the line being pulled. He let it pay out, and then it was stationary. There was another whistle to show that it was securely anchored, and Sir Thomas immediately began to climb.

At the top of the gate he swung a leg over and surveyed the ground. Soon, he promised himself, soon he would have his revenge. And with that thought engraved on his mind, he dropped over to the ground.

Christmas Day was clear and bright with the sun shining unhindered. Occasionally, solitary clouds drifted past at speed. The wind was strong, rattling the shutters of the inn, and it was their repetitive hammering which woke Baldwin before the dawn itself.

He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. A cresset, a small wick floating in a reservoir of oil, had been left alight all night, and now it threw strange shadows upon the rafters above.

Jeanne grunted and moaned beside him, snuggling closer and throwing a leg over his, but today he felt no erotic surge beyond a mild affectionate stirring. He rested a hand on her thigh and slipped the other under her neck to cuddle her to him, kissing her hair. It still smelled of incense from the Cathedral the night before.

The two deaths, Peter’s and Ralph’s, intrigued him, yet he could see no link between them. Baldwin didn’t believe Peter’s death was suicide, nor yet that it could have been caused by food poisoning but he could not see who could wish to murder the fellow.

Baldwin had enough experience of enquiring into murders to know that men rarely, if ever, killed without a good reason: even if that reason later appeared to be ridiculous. At the time that the murder was committed, the killer had a clear, understandable motive.

There was another aspect to this killing, Baldwin reminded himself. Poison was a peculiarly coldblooded and cowardly method of murder. Someone had decided to kill with poison – and Jolinde had bought orpiment from the apothecary.

Had Peter been the target? It was quite possible that Jolinde had argued with his friend and decided to murder him – but if so, why? There was no hint that the two had suffered a break in their friendship. Someone else could have put the poison onto or inside the food while it was left unguarded in the tavern. Jolinde certainly wasn’t going to notice while he was upstairs with the delightful Claricia; could the deadly food have been intended for him? And if it wasn’t, if it was meant for Peter – who, then, had known that Jolinde was supplying him with food? That would give Baldwin a starting point.

Jeanne mumbled, half asleep, and Baldwin felt her hand stroking his chest, slowly moving down his body. He grinned and caught it, ignoring her murmurs of disappointment. There was little time if they were to get to the Cathedral for the second Mass of the day. He smiled down at her sleepy face, but then stood, wincing at the cold air on his naked body. He quickly pulled on his clothes: it was far too chill to linger. When he was dressed, he woke his wife with kisses and gentle entreaties, and only left her when her eyes opened and she gave him an ungracious snort as welcome. Jeanne was not at her best at this hour.