Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

If Vincent became insistent, Karvinel thought, he would definitely ask what the other man had been doing outside Ralph’s house on the day he died. That would shut the bugger up! So taken up was he with his thoughts, Nick never saw the cloaked man pausing at his door, glancing up at the sign and picture of gloves which hung above it, then smiling coldly, following Karvinel to the inn.

Hob waited after the service, confused when his master didn’t return. He left Coppe to make his own way back to his seat by the gate, then walked outside to look for Sir Thomas, but there was no sign of him. The cold began to eat into Hob’s bones.

Eventually he gave up and left for the camp, walking carefully along the road to the South Gate in the city wall, then out past the terraced fields which led down to the Shittebrook and on to Bull Meadow. He skirted past the Maudlin, where the lepers congregated, watching the gates of the colony with a superstitious dread, recalling the stories of how they could grab passers-by to rape them or eat them, but he was lucky: no one was keen on taking him and he could continue unmolested.

The trees here were much thinner. Many had been cleared for the use of the citizens, whether for building or for firewood, and there was more coppicing than old woodland.

He soon heard the sharp whistle as he hurried along the rough track. The weather wasn’t cold enough for the ruts and hoofprints to solidify, and the mud was awful. His feet were sodden as he stepped into deeper puddles which filled his boots and made him grimace with revulsion as the chilly water slopped about, squelching with every step he took.

The band was waiting near a large oak, one of only a very few which had survived the demands of construction in Exeter. About it tents had been erected, enough for the fourteen men who followed Sir Thomas. A charcoal fire was smoking in the middle, over which were spitted two ducks, a goose and a small pig.

‘So, Hob, you came back when the hunger got to you, did you?’ Jen called lightly. ‘Where’s Sir Thomas?’

‘I thought h-he’d be back already. Isn’t he here?’

Jen had been stirring at a pot but now she stopped and stood upright. ‘You lost him?’

‘He was in the crowd, but he went off to see the…’

‘He saw the merchant?’ Jen asked.

Hob was worried by her expression. Jen looked angry with him, very angry. ‘He asked me to take him there, to the big Church.’

‘That was so he could see his other son.’

‘That was last night. Today he said he wanted me to point out the merchant.’

‘You idiot! Are you mad?’

‘He told me, he told me!’ Hob asserted, his head retreating into his shoulder, gazing down at his feet. He hated upsetting his sister; she was all he had in the world, but he couldn’t help it. Sir Thomas scared him, and Sir Thomas had told him to point out the merchant if he saw the man. He couldn’t disobey Sir Thomas. He scuffed his boot in the dirt, doodling with a toe.

‘Stop that! Don’t you realise anything? Jesus! You’re so thick on occasion,’ Jen said scathingly. She threw the wooden spoon into the pot and went into the tent she shared with Sir Thomas, returning with a bonnet and thick coat. ‘You’ll have to stay here, Hob. Look after that food and don’t let it burn!’

One of the lookouts had witnessed Hob’s discomfiture from his vantage point. Now he called down, ‘Where are you going, Jen?’

‘You heard. Your leader has gone to seek the man who says he was robbed.’

‘The one that got Hamond killed?’

She looked up as she shrugged into her coat. ‘Yes. The one who had Hamond hanged.’

Luke the Chorister sat sedately as he should, waiting until the cup of wine arrived before him. He sipped slowly, holding it carefully with both hands, and even when Adam, at his side, nudged him viciously in the ribs with an elbow, Luke didn’t spill a drop.

The food was good, but not too rich. Stephen didn’t enjoy overly spiced foodstuffs, and refused to spend large sums to obtain them. Thriftiness was his watchword, as it should be for a Treasurer. He looked upon all the money spent within the Cathedral as his own, and when he spent his own, he measured his expenditure against what it could acquire for the Cathedral itself.

It was an irritation, but Luke ate politely and with silent determination. Stephen did not like disruption at his table, and Choristers who chattered were as obtrusive and annoying as a guest who rudely denounced the quality of his wine. Neither were to be borne.

Not that Luke wanted to talk. Since the shock of the night before, he had wandered about feeling quite dazed, as if someone had struck the back of his head with a club.

For years he had been told that his father was dead. His father, a knight from the Soth family, the last to live in the small manor at Exmouth, had been killed when a neighbour had attacked him, or so Stephen had told him. Why should the Canon have deceived him? His father had become an outlaw, a felon, and Luke had not even been told.

Luke moved in time to prevent another nudge from Adam forcing him to knock over the salt. He had to bite back the angry words which rose to his lips. It wasn’t fair that Adam should keep pushing him, for ever trying to make him look a fool, when Luke had never done anything to upset him. It wasn’t his fault Adam was a failure.

That was the problem, though. Luke knew it well enough. He’d even been warned about such things when he first showed promise. It was Stephen himself who drew him aside and told him that other Choristers might pick on him because of his abilities. In fact, at the time Luke was quite sure the Treasurer was letting him know that Henry would probably make his life difficult, but now Luke knew the Treasurer had meant people like Adam.

Adam wasn’t the only one. There were quite a few like him in the Cathedral precinct: fellows who had expected to move up the church’s hierarchy until they themselves ran their own See as Bishop, or perhaps became a Precentor or a Dean. So few ever seemed to appreciate that for every Precentor there were some hundred or more who were of a lower level even within his own church. No, few realised that there was every likelihood that, if there were fourteen Choristers, none of them would become a dignitary within that church. Luke himself had already seen how many boys fell by the wayside.

He broke off another piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. It wasn’t only because of bad behaviour or manners that the boys were thrown out of the choir. There had been two in Luke’s first year who simply couldn’t make head nor tail of Latin, spoken or written. Another fellow had taken to weeping each night before sleep. Lonely and miserable, he had come from a lord’s household, and suddenly being dropped into Exeter had been too much for the eight-year-old. He had been sent home before six months had passed.

But when the Choristers’ voices broke, their troubles multiplied. Then they had little genuine reason for remaining within the cloister, apart from trying to better themselves, learning as much about writing and reading as they could so that they might prove their value as clerics. If they were successful, they would be able to continue in this manner, as Secondaries, before they gradually received enough attention to be promoted. Some would then remain at the lowest levels, perhaps after many years of striving achieving the status of a Chaplain, while those who were lucky might progress from Deacon to the exalted heights of Vicar or Annuellar.

Being a Vicar was probably best, Luke judged reflectively. A Vicar had all his food and lodging provided by the Canon he served, and when there was a gap in the number of Canons, there was the possibility of promotion. There was also much to be said for being an Annuellar, a chantry priest. These men were appointed by the Dean and Chapter and lived in rented chambers in the Close, but were free for much of their lives. They did not have to go to their Canon to obtain food or lodging, they were given an annual stipend, and from that they could buy what they needed. Nor were they forced to turn up at all services in the way that Secondaries and Vicars were. The only people free of compulsion to attend were the Canons, who could ignore the bells’ summons if they wished, and the Annuellars. The latter had the one duty, performing a Mass every day at a specific time and at a specific altar.