Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Even if he couldn’t draw and paint as well as Luke, he could at least take pleasure in the fact that he was going to be the boy-Bishop – and he could enjoy running about the streets with other boys.

Going to the door, he glanced out. The weather looked cold, but bright. There were several clouds, but at this moment the sun was beaming down on the city. Henry smiled. His arse was still bruised from the lash, but that happened yesterday, and Henry was nothing if not sanguine. Today was a new day, with new opportunities for fun. He stepped out.

He had only gone five paces when he heard a noise behind him. Henry was not so slow as Luke. In a split second he had darted to one side and ducked behind a tree.

There was a chuckle, and when he peered around the trunk, he saw Adam standing and rocking with mirth. ‘You should have seen the way you hurried off! Like a startled rabbit, you were, with a slingshot up the backside.’

Henry kept his mouth shut. There were loads of Secondaries and other clerks who enjoyed beating or bullying the Choristers. They largely got away with it, because they held out the threat of even more punishment if their victims told a Canon or Gervase. And even if Gervase was told, that was no guarantee that the perpetrator would be punished.

‘You’re lucky. I thought you were Luke. If it had been him, I’d have ducked his face in the shit again,’ Adam said comfortably. ‘Obnoxious little bastard that he is.’

Henry watched him with narrowed eyes as Adam walked to the Choristers’ hall, looking in through the doorway. ‘More candles here,’ he said, and walked inside.

Chewing his lip, Henry stood scowling at the shut door reflectively. He could go and tell Gervase, but the Succentor probably wouldn’t believe him. He’d think Henry had invented the story to make Gervase feel guilty, or perhaps to work off a grudge against Adam. No, Henry couldn’t go to Gervase. But there must be someone he could tell.

Yes, if no one else, at least Luke would be interested. He might not believe Henry at first, but Henry was prepared to forgive that. All he wanted was to make sure Luke realised Henry himself was innocent.

Anyhow, he couldn’t have picked up Luke and thrown him into the crap.

Luke was far too fat and heavy.

Coppe grunted as he eased his position. The cold was affecting his big toe. The toe of the leg he had left in the sea near France.

It was the same with the scar that so transfigured his face. The scar could predict with unerring accuracy when the weather was about to change. Now, looking up and snuffing the air, he could distinguish, over the scent of the woodsmoke, horse dung, dogs’ urine and mud, the metallic tang of the cold. There would be snow soon, he told himself with a grimace.

Snow was an additional burden to him. Not only would he freeze his arse off, sitting on the ground as he must, but he’d not see many folks either. They’d prefer to stay inside rather than pass by his station here.

A shadow passed over him and he looked up to see Janekyn. The old man was cupping a drink in his hands. ‘Want some?’

‘Thanks,’ Coppe said, taking the steaming wooden mazer from him and sipping. ‘You won’t believe this,’ he said, sadly contemplating his legless stump, ‘but I can feel the heat going all the way down to my toes.’

The older man chuckled. ‘We’re a pair of wrecks, you and me, John. You’re all cut to pieces, and me, I’m so old I’ve got little time left to me.’

‘You’ll probably see me out, Jan. In fact, I’d be glad if God would take me right away. I’ve had enough of this. It’s no way for a man to live, begging for alms all the time.’

Janekyn looked down at Coppe. He’d known the cripple for most of his time as porter, for he had only taken on the role three years ago. The thought of standing here without the cripple huddled by the wall was strangely upsetting. It would leave a horrible gap in Janekyn’s life. He enjoyed his occasional arguments with the old sailor. Abruptly he turned and walked back inside, calling for a clerk.

Jolinde was hurrying past the entrance as Janekyn disappeared, and Coppe looked up brightly. ‘Come, Master, a coin or two for wine to warm my veins?’

‘I have nothing.’

Coppe was surprised at the snarl in Jolinde’s voice. ‘There’s no shame in that, Master. No need to be angry. At least you haven’t run into anyone like your friend did with Ralph that morning.’

‘What do you mean? What friend? What morning?’ Jolinde cast a baffled look at the cripple.

‘Why, the morning poor Ralph Glover was killed. Your friend pelted back to the gate and ran slap into him, wasn’t looking where he was going was he? All agitated, he seemed.’

‘He ran into Ralph?’

‘Yes. The glover was with Stephen. I saw your friend run into him down near St Petrock’s and then he came haring up here to the Fissand, nearly tripped over me there, and nipped straight inside.’

Jolinde was frowning now. ‘Are you sure? What on earth would he have been doing out of the Cathedral at that time of day?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Coppe said, automatically waving his bowl under Jolinde’s nose. ‘He was back in time for the service, though only just, I’d guess. He ran past me here just as the bells stopped.’

Jolinde dropped a farthing into his bowl and walked on slowly and musingly. Only a few feet from Coppe, he suddenly stopped and cried, ‘Shit! He can’t have taken them back! He can’t ! What can I do if he took them all back?’

He burst into a shambling run, and Coppe stared after him as he hurried over to the lane that led to his house. As he disappeared from view Janekyn appeared dragging a lighted brazier by a rope which he had lashed to one of the legs. ‘What was that about?’

‘I only wish I knew,’ Coppe said with transparent honesty.

‘Never mind. Here you are, one brazier, and more wine to warm your veins. Merry Christmas! And if it gets colder…’ He dropped a few pennies into Coppe’s hand. ‘You can go and find yourself a warm tavern where you can sit before a fire.’

Sutton’s Inn was blessedly quiet. In the hearth a fire was burning strongly, with three faggots throwing out a delicious scent of applewood and oak as they flamed and sputtered. Smoke rose up to the rafters high overhead – a fine, thin smoke that provided the room with a pleasant, incense-like odour. Occasionally there was a minor explosion as a log split in the heat, but then the wood settled again and was quiet.

Simon and Baldwin had arranged to meet the Coroner to discuss progress.

‘Do you really think that poor fellow in the gaol could have murdered his master?’ Baldwin began.

‘No. That was one reason for taking you there, to meet him in the flesh. The Bailiff, William, always was too keen to pick the easiest victim. Personally I think I have as much of a duty not to imprison the innocent as I have to capture the guilty.’

‘I should like you to tell us about some of the other people in the city. For example, this girl Mary with whom Elias fancies himself in love. What do you know of her ?’

The host appeared and the three men ordered two quarts of spiced wine to be set by the fire to warm. When the man had brought a large pot of strong Bordeaux flavoured with cinnamon and nutmeg he left them and Roger leaned forward thoughtfully.

‘She’s a bright little thing, very comely. Daughter of a baker called Rob near the Shambles, and often works with him, since her brother Martin died. But she’s flighty, that one. I doubt whether she was ever that serious about Elias.’

‘Is she vain? Greedy? Deceitful?’

‘Ho, Sir Baldwin,’ Roger smiled, leaning back. ‘She’s a woman, but she’s no worse than many, I swear. No, I don’t think she’s overly greedy or vain. No more than any woman.’