Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Downstairs he found Edgar already kneeling by the fire stirring a pot filled with spiced wine while Simon sat on a stool nearby scratching at his head. The pleasant aroma filled the hall: cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg. All good, warming spices for a man who was about to go out into the cold. Baldwin took the proffered cup and sipped at the drink. The heat travelled straight down to his toes and he gave his servant a smile of gratitude. ‘Thank you, Edgar, but today of all days…’ He took the pot from Edgar and poured out a large cup for his loyal Sergeant.

‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin.’

‘What about me?’ demanded Simon.

Soon they heard footsteps in their host’s small chamber. Outside, the Cathedral bell was ringing loudly and from the noise in the streets, many citizens were moving towards the churches and Cathedral for the next Mass, the Shepherd’s Mass, which was always celebrated at dawn. Baldwin refilled his cup and took it to his wife.

Jeanne was reluctant to rise from her bed. The freezing air made her wish to remain beneath the covers. It was too cold, and too early as well. Her head felt light from lack of sleep. She was used to getting to bed much earlier, and her attendance at the Mass last night had left her quite dozy and unaware. She could feel her eyelids dragging like leaden weights, forcing her to close them. When her husband laughed, it was no consolation.

‘Laugh now, husband, but remember that I shall visit all your humour upon you when you are suffering from too much wine. And my vengeance shall be not swift, but longer-lasting, and entirely painful for you,’ she growled as she squinted at him in the meagre light of the cresset.

Her temper had greatly improved when they came to the great Fissand Gate. There in the gloomy arch, she once more saw the crippled figure sprawled at the edge of the gateway. Today he looked so meagre, so destroyed, that the sight tugged at Jeanne’s heart. She quickly left Baldwin’s side and fumbled with her purse.

‘Lady, thank you,’ John Coppe said, taking the coins and ducking his head in gratitude. He smiled, his mouth twisted up as he watched her give him a gracious little gesture of her hand, then turn and walk back to her waiting husband; she pushed her hand through Baldwin’s elbow, matching her pace to his as they walked in through the great open gates to the Cathedral.

Coppe sighed faintly as another coin was casually tossed towards him. ‘Thank you, Master,’ he called automatically, stashing it away with the other coins he had collected already. That, he knew, was the good aspect of Christmas. The priests would all look after him anyway, but on this one day of the year, people wouldn’t begrudge him a few pennies. With any luck he could get enough to keep him in drinks through the next week.

The man who had thrown him the coin stalked off towards the Cathedral, and Coppe watched him go, his eyes narrowed. Coppe wouldn’t turn down any man’s generosity, but there was something odd in the way the fellow threw his coin and marched off. He was dressed in a thick woollen cloak, with a hood over his head. Even his face was concealed, giving Coppe the impression of glittering eyes, but little else. Not that there weren’t any number of others dressed in a similarly defensive manner against the icy air.

Coppe saw him make for the western door, but then slow down and dawdle as if waiting for someone. Last night, when that idiot boy came and offered to help him into the Cathedral to attend the Mass, there had been a man like this one standing nearby. It hadn’t been easy to see his face, for it was hidden beneath a large hat, but from the build and height it could have been this same fellow.

‘Do you, um, want to go in again?’

Coppe looked up to see that his friend of the night before had returned, suddenly appearing at his side; a malnourished and dim-looking idiot. Coppe gave an inward groan. He hadn’t intended going into the morning’s Mass. He’d been to Mass the night before, and one Mass a day was enough for him. ‘You back, then, eh? I don’t know why you want to drag me about, lad. You go in, I’ll be all right here.’

‘No, you must come! Please, let me help you, yes?’

‘You go on in. It was kind of you to help me in last night, but you don’t have to today.’

To his astonishment, the fellow looked as if he was on the verge of tears. He wrung his hands, his mouth working uselessly, alternately gaping at Coppe, then at the Cathedral doors. The crush in the Fissand Gate was dwindling now, and it was obvious that the service must soon begin. ‘You must come with me.’

‘Bugger off, lad,’ Coppe said curtly. ‘I don’t have to go nowheres I don’t want. You carry on, just do as you want.’

The lad had the brains of a fool. Probably he’d been told to help cripples; perhaps his village priest had told him to give any service he could to a beggar – knowing what hypocritical bastards some village priests could be. Half the time the village idiot was born to one of the priests’ own mounts. Never mind that they were supposed to be chaste; Coppe had seen them, out in the streets, small dogs on leads to tempt the women. As soon as a woman expressed delight in the priest’s toy dog, he knew he had her halfway to his bed. Coppe understood much. That was how he spent his life: observing. He was no fool, he could make connections, could pursue ideas until he explained things to himself.

He wasn’t unique. It was how all the beggars with brains spent their lives. Not that there weren’t plenty of cretins amongst the alms-takers at the Cathedral gates, but Coppe knew several who had brains beyond the brute intelligence of an animal. They saw and noted much, and for the most part were ignored by the rest of humanity because they were no one. They were nothing. As important as a gatepost.

The idiot’s hand-wringing grew more pronounced and his brow wrinkled as if he was tortured by the thought that Coppe might be left behind. He glanced fretfully towards the Cathedral doors.

Coppe followed his gaze. There, to the side of the door, was the hooded man. When he glanced back at the boy’s face he saw the fear on it, and gave an inward sigh. The lad was touched, but Coppe was convinced that his present anxiety was due more to the cloaked man at the door.

The cloaked man had been there the night before. He had joined Coppe and the idiot as they entered the Cathedral, although he had slipped out during the service. Others had too. Many needed to piss halfway through the Mass. But now he thought about it, Coppe couldn’t remember the man returning. Perhaps he, like others, had been bored by the length of the celebration. Now he stood like a man trying to sink into the walls, as if he would crawl under a shadow if he could. Coppe had a feeling that he was trying to remain concealed from someone – but that was madness! Even if he was a felon, he was safe within the sanctuary of the Cathedral grounds. Perhaps he was as daft as the boy at Coppe’s side.

All the beggar knew was that this poor idiot child was suffering the torments of the damned purely because Coppe wouldn’t let him pull him into the Cathedral with him.

‘Oh, damn me! All right, I’ll go with you. But afterwards you’ll have to let me get out and buy a pot of strong ale,’ he grumbled. Only later did he wonder whether the two wanted him with them because two men helping a cripple were almost invisible. People’s eyes went to the cripple and then away; if a cripple was of no note, of how much less importance were his attendants?

Jolinde was detailed to assist Adam with replenishing the candles, and he was in the main nave of the Cathedral as people began to arrive. He saw Sir Baldwin and Lady Jeanne in the crush, the Bailiff at their side. It would be a relief when the building work was complete, he thought. Everyone was so cramped up in the nave, pressed together like sheep in a pen. When the new eastern half was opened, the choir could move into their stalls beyond the towers, leaving all the nave to the congregation.