Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

In reality Stephen’s mind was hardly on Adam at all. He had scarcely registered his Secondary’s lapse. Stephen’s attention was fixed upon the problems with the Cathedral. Even today, which was theoretically one of rest, his mind whirled with numbers and expenses. There was so much to be done.

It was ridiculous that when the Dean and Chapter had a crucial task to perform, which was to finish the Cathedral that they had begun, they should relax for over a week. The workmen should be back now, creating the fittings for the new Lady Chapel, the new High Altar and the screens for the choir. Instead, they were probably rutting on their sluts, stuffing their faces with strong ales and rich foods, or lying moaning after the event.

Stephen felt very strongly about it, knowing that if there was a temptation, he could easily fall prey to it. It was many years since he had enjoyed an encounter with a woman, longer still since he had realised the danger that lurked in too much strong ale or wine, but he always had the fearsome example of his brother before him. If he should lapse, he could become a sinner. Better by far that he should divorce himself from all temptations. Only that way could he guarantee himself a place in Heaven.

The Cathedral would be a magnificent building, he considered. In his mind’s eye he could see the place rising up. The two towers, each with its tall steeple, the massive western doorway with its profusion of carved figures, all painted to make them the more lifelike: Kings, Queens, Bishops, Saints; all honouring the great work that had gone on in the Cathedral. And inside the magnificence of the gold and scarlet paintwork and the long, sweeping ceiling. It made his heart beat faster just to think of it. And, inside, the multiple chapels. To the Virgin, to St John the Evangelist, to St Gabriel and St George among others. It would be a wonderful place for any man to enter. Tall, wide, with beautiful voices rising in the clean air while the sun streamed in through the marvellous, coloured eastern window at dawn, or the equally impressive western window at sunset, it was a dream to make a man’s blood rush!

And Peter had threatened it all.

Stephen had seen him that last day before he died, the twenty-third. It was the first opportunity he had found to speak to Peter alone. He had gone to Jolinde and Peter’s hovel and questioned Peter closely. He had to, for his brother’s words had burned into him after he had visited Sir Thomas in the woods that morning.

Aye, he had watched and listened to Peter’s answers, and the lad had lied to him. He knew it, for Peter was not a good liar, and his deceit rang discordantly in the Canon’s ears. Eventually, worn down by Stephen’s questions, Peter had confessed. He had told Stephen all, under the promise of secrecy. He had not been with Karvinel when Karvinel swore he had been attacked; he had not witnessed Hamond attacking anyone. He had been in his hall all that day until Karvinel came and claimed to him that he had been attacked, said that one of the outlaws was even now sitting in a tavern. Peter had urged him to call the Hue and Cry, but Karvinel protested with tears in his eyes that no one would believe him.

To Stephen, Peter had begged forgiveness, had declared that he would do anything to atone for his crime, but he had been urged to lie in order to support the law. It was only after Hamond had hanged that he had learned that Hamond had been innocent. And that knowledge tore at him.

It was no excuse. Stephen could give him no hope for absolution. Peter had sent an innocent man to his death by swearing a false oath. By his perjury, he was a murderer. He deserved his own end.

Stephen sighed, then glanced down to see that a fresh course was already before him. It was a steaming dish of mussels, the whole served with a piquant wine sauce. The steam rose, giving off a wonderful smell.

The steward passed along the table setting the bowls before each diner. Using his knife to take a little salt from the silver pot, the Canon sprinkled it over his bowl. His cook never used enough salt. With a little sigh of contentment he dipped his spoon into the dish and extracted the first of the succulent creatures.

There was a slight movement from the end of the table. Stephen made a point of not looking. It was important that the Choristers should learn to respect and admire their elders, and if Adam took to bullying his nephew Luke, Stephen felt strongly that he, as a Canon, should not interfere. It was for them to resolve the issue. Luke in particular, he thought grimly, should learn humility. Otherwise he could succumb to the family’s weakness and sinfulness.

As he finished his bowl and began scraping up the last of the delicious liquor, there was a cough, and a stool scraped. Stephen looked up irritably.

It was Adam. His face had gone green. ‘I… I… feel…’ He clapped a hand over his mouth, but too late. To Stephen’s disgust a stream of vomit issued, spattering the table. ‘Good God!’ Stephen cried. ‘Go outside, you cretin, before you…’

He was too late. Adam fell to his knees, threw up once more, then collapsed retching.

Calling his steward, Stephen thundered: ‘Take that repellent fool out and get someone in here to clean the table. Ugh! He has quite ruined my appetite. What is it, is he drunk? Eh? Have you been drinking, you sot?’

Adam stared back, his eyes red and streaming, his mouth besmeared with vomit. ‘I’ve been poisoned, sir!’

After leaving the Coroner, Baldwin showed Simon Ralph’s shop. It was a small, narrow-fronted place, and Baldwin tried to peer in through the closed shutters while Simon stood back at the opposite side of the street and looked it over.

The shop in Correstrete had lime-washed walls and carefully painted woodwork to show that the dead owner had valued his property. The roof was shingle, and the wooden slats still possessed the fresh almost orange tints of newness. There was no chimney, nor any louvres through which excess smoke could leave. Two doors gave access, one to the shop, the other to the hall behind, and both were well protected by the overhanging jetty from the upper chamber, whose oak timbers looked newer than the rest of the surrounding woodwork, making Simon think that the glover had only recently put in the second storey.

Not many of the other houses in this street were so well appointed or modern. Most looked little better than hovels, with a uniformly slatternly appearance; Ralph’s stood out like a gentlewoman surrounded by drab sluts.

It was while he stood there that a beggar came limping along the road and Simon cast a scornful eye over him. From his threadbare fustian cloak to his scuffed and ruined shoe, the bowl hanging by a thong from his neck, the fellow looked every bit the professional beggar, and Simon had no wish to be bothered by his sort today. He and Baldwin were too busy.

Seeing how he curled his lip, John Coppe changed his mind about asking for money. Coppe was perfectly used to being ignored. He gave a mental shrug and considered the second man. Baldwin was at the door studying the shop, peering in through a gap, and Coppe began to wonder whether he had arrived just in time to prevent a theft. The cold had persuaded him to go and seek the warmth of a tavern, but now it looked as though his old friend’s shop was about to be broken into. He should call the Bailiff – and yet why bother? Whatever Ralph had owned was no longer his. The poor fellow was dead. Perhaps it was as well to let someone rob the place rather than see all Ralph’s goods fall under a tax or be legally stolen by the Receiver and others.

All these considerations flashed through Coppe’s mind as he hobbled along, and by the time he was close to the knight he had made up his mind. He tentatively held out a hand. ‘Master? A coin for some pottage?’