Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

‘What, you think he conspired to have his goods stolen from him?’ Simon laughed.

Baldwin looked at him seriously. ‘There are other possibilities. He could have made a powerful enemy, for instance. You recall this man they all talk about as a vicious outlaw leading a large band of men – Sir Thomas of Exmouth? Perhaps he has a specific grudge against Karvinel.’

‘What?’ Simon grunted, tugging the cloak and blanket which served as his bedclothes more closely about him. ‘What are you saying, that this poor fool Karvinel has upset someone who can hire an entire outlaw band to give him a kicking? Does it sound reasonable?’

‘Remember what we were told about Karvinel’s legendary bad luck,’ Baldwin said, looking at his friend with a serious, worried expression on his face. ‘Karvinel lost his ship years ago, his house was burgled, then put to the torch, and finally this outrageous attack was sprung on him as he was approaching the city. Does that sound normal to you? How often have you known evil luck of that nature dog a man’s footsteps?’

‘That’s not the point. The point is, you have no rational explanation as to why someone should be, as you say, dogging Karvinel with such foul luck.’

‘No,’ Baldwin admitted.

‘It could as easily be someone else who could afford to pay for this Sir Thomas’s services. Until you know who is wealthy enough to pay him, you’ll never find out anything.’

‘We have to find out more, yes,’ Baldwin said slowly, and then he sat upright with a beatific smile on his face. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

‘Eh? What for?’ Simon demanded suspiciously.

‘Why, for showing me what I should do, of course,’ Baldwin said innocently and walked from the room.

Simon swore under his breath, then swore again when he saw his breath hanging on the air in front of him. Reaching forward he threw more logs onto the fire, and shivered glumly. He knew he’d never get back to sleep again now.

Jolinde walked from the inn to the cookshops, scratching at his head and yawning luxuriously. It astonished him how Claricia could work until late, bed him until he must run to the Cathedral for the early-morning services, and then welcome him back to her bed later in the morning without showing any apparent signs of exhaustion.

For his part, he was utterly tired out. Even when Claricia left him alone, he found it hard to sleep. He kept seeing poor Peter’s face in his last agonies, puking and fouling himself in his stall. And then there was the thought of the stuff. Where could it have gone? Not that Jolinde truly cared. He would never have thought of making off with it. It was tainted money, stolen from Ralph, the rightful owner.

‘So you are up early, Jolinde?’

‘Canon Stephen,’ Jolinde said. ‘You startled me.’

‘Most of the Secondaries are back in their beds trying to catch up with the sleep they missed during Matins and Prime. I am pleased to see that you need less sleep.’

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Jolinde said. It was nothing more than the truth.

‘You mustn’t concern yourself with your friend’s death, Jolinde.’

There was a kindness and gentleness in Stephen’s voice that made Jolly look up at him. ‘Canon?’

‘Your friend was a bad sort,’ Stephen explained. ‘I saw him on the day he died, late in the afternoon. He was a sinner, Jolinde, and quite undeserving of his position here. He committed a dreadful act, a truly awful crime, and I would not have you worrying yourself over his death. If he was deserving of forgiveness, God will recognise His own, but having learned what I did from him, I would scarcely think Peter could achieve a place at God’s side.’

Shaking his head sadly, he walked on a short way.

Jolinde could not speak. It was all too clear what Stephen meant: he had learned that Peter had stolen the money; even now he was blaming Peter for the theft of Ralph’s cash. It was terrible! Jolinde must do what he could to defend Peter’s name, but how?

Then the means came to him. He would admit to being responsible for the theft. It would destroy his position in the Cathedral, but he didn’t think he had any future there anyway, so that was no loss. No, he would confess to his own part in the matter and that would clear Peter’s name.

Except it might not, he realised. Men demanded tangible proofs, otherwise they might simply assume that a loyal friend was taking all the responsibility upon himself. And there was another point: they might decide that if he was truly guilty, he should not benefit from his theft.

He must find the money. That little purse with the filched cash could be produced to show that Peter was innocent, and could prove that he, Jolinde, had no intention of profiting from the theft.

Where the Hell could Peter have hidden it?

Justice was much on Henry’s mind. He had awoken with a backside still smarting from the lashing Gervase had given him the night before. The Canon had laid into him in front of all the other Choristers, taking a stiffened strip of bull’s leather and whipping Henry for all he was worth.

The memory made Henry’s eyes fill with tears of frustration. He had been made to look a fool and thrashed in front of all his friends and enemies when he was completely innocent! He’d not pushed Luke – he’d not even known the other boy was out there. No, he’d been working, keeping his head down, the sort of thing that Gervase kept telling him he should do, and look how he’d been repaid!

He wouldn’t be surprised if Luke had shoved his own face in the muck just so he could put the blame onto Henry. Henry was a fair-minded boy, and he accepted that there would be a certain justice in Luke getting his revenge like that, because after all Henry had made his life difficult often enough.

Henry cast a glance to his right where the cloisters lay. A naughty smile crossed his features as he recalled putting that beetle down the back of Luke’s neck. And then when he’d hit him with dung; it had been deeply satisfying, hearing that damp slapping noise. Brilliant! He had fled Luke’s justifiable rage, hurrying into the cloisters and out the other side, to the works where he had his refuge.

It was a small gap in a wall in a cellar, near where the new workings met the old Cathedral tower. He had found it the previous summer in an idle moment, wondering what lay behind, and when he squeezed his way inside, he discovered that a wall had been knocked down, and beyond was a shaft going down. A ladder was propped, and he descended into a large, airy tunnel. He had no idea what it was for, but as soon as he discovered it he knew it was a perfect place to conceal himself. After any attack on Luke he would scurry down the shaft, dragging the ladder after him, and stay there, listening with beating heart and eager ears, feeling the thrill of the chase, even if from the prey’s perspective, mingled with the delight of the battle he had instigated.

Yes, he decided, if Luke wanted revenge, the easy approach would be to mess himself up, then pass the blame on to Henry. But hang on! That couldn’t be right. Luke wouldn’t even have known Henry was there. And his cry sounded genuine – really terrified. Henry shook his head doubtfully. It was very confusing.

He shuffled idly along the path that led around the Cathedral up towards the Choristers’ hall where he intended doing a little more work before attending his next service. That reminded him of his yellow orpiment. Someone had taken it. He’d known something was missing. The thought made him glower. He hadn’t finished with it.

He soon found the bottle on Luke’s desk. Henry picked it up and noticed how low the level had sunk. Huh! Typical of Luke to splash the stuff all over his pages. He was just lucky that his daubings always seemed to turn out to look so good. He put the orpiment back on Luke’s desk. There was no point in keeping it.