Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Jeanne agreed and they made their way to a tavern. Jeanne was feeling a little chilled so she had a mulled cider, sweetened with honey and scented with cinnamon, ginger and galingale. It sent its heat shooting straight to her toes and fingertips, scalding as it passed down her throat, but filling her with glowing delight when it reached her belly.

Outside they strolled idly along the Northgate Street, and soon saw the two youths who had run from St Petrock’s. They were walking up behind two men, obviously important fellows, for they swaggered as they walked, their feet in step but at a pace too slow to be dignified as a ‘march’. Giggling, the two boys darted up to the two older men, there was a burst of angry shouting, and the youths pelted back past Edgar and Jeanne, laughing like idiots, one gripping a bowl, the other a handful of what looked like rags.

The two men looked at each other, shrugged, and continued on their way. And Jeanne saw that both had a large patch of coloured material stuck to their back. The boys were glueing patches of cloth on unsuspecting citizens as a joke.

Jeanne giggled to herself and glanced at Edgar. He too was smiling, but he wasn’t looking at the men. His attention was on a large copper pot hanging above a nearby trestle. Edgar had recently married, much to Baldwin’s oft-stated astonishment, for Edgar had been a noted philanderer ever since he and Baldwin had left the Knights Templar, but there it was: Edgar the bachelor was now Edgar the married man. He had given his vows before everyone. Jeanne saw his peering study of the pot and was touched that he should be thinking of his new wife even now, miles from home. Not that he or she had need of a pot that size. If he ever wanted something to cook in, there were plenty of large coppers in Baldwin’s kitchen.

Jeanne was about to suggest that he should borrow one of theirs, when Edgar whirled. Jeanne squealed with alarm as a boy in clerical garb fell in front of her, and when she turned to look, the second was wearing his bowl of glue, sitting unhappily in a large puddle.

‘Should we return now, do you think, my Lady?’ Edgar said imperturbably.

Once Gervase saw how professionally the apothecary was treating his charge, his mind flew to the question of how the lad could have been poisoned. He was no trained inquisitioner, but he was no fool either, and with his University training he felt sure he could learn something. In the kitchen he asked a fearful and defensive cook about the food.

‘There was nothing in that to hurt anyone. It was fine. All he had was a dish of thin pottage. I made it last week, and there wasn’t nothing wrong with it. Good lettuce, dried peas, some cabbage and onion, garlic, barley and a marrowbone to give it some body. I swear that pottage would do any man good.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Here,’ the cook said. He scooped up a ladleful and held it out. ‘Want to taste it?’

Gingerly, Gervase sipped a tiny amount. It certainly tasted all right. A little insipid, perhaps, but there was no bitterness or sourness such as he recalled the Arabic tracts warning of.

The cook was offended by his caution. He drank the whole ladleful and then a second. ‘See? It’s fine. If there was something wrong with my soup, it was done outside of my kitchen. The idea!’

He was still muttering as Gervase hurried back across the yard to Stephen’s door. Inside, the apothecary was kneeling by Adam. He had removed his clyster from the unfortunate clerk’s mouth, and was in the process of inserting it in Adam’s… Gervase delicately termed it Adam’s posterior orifice. The sight made Gervase wince.

Stephen had left the room, and now only the apothecary and Gervase remained to administer to the unfortunate invalid. Adam shuddered and winced as the tube was pushed deeper and deeper, and then Gilbert filled the bladder with salted water and began the process of pumping it into Adam.

To distract him, Gervase spoke, trying to ignore what was going on at the youth’s nether regions.

‘Do you have any idea what happened here?’

‘It was Luke, Succentor. He poisoned me.’

‘Why should a lad like him wish to poison you?’

Adam looked away. He felt considerably better after his belly had been purged and he didn’t want to admit to his behaviour in front of the apothecary. ‘I don’t know, Succentor. Maybe he just doesn’t like me.’

Gervase patted his shoulder meditatively. He didn’t believe Adam, but he shrewdly guessed that Adam had been guilty of bullying Luke, just as he had other boys.

Gilbert finished his operation and withdrew rapidly as Adam’s bowels voided themselves.

Adam burst into tears of frustration and shame. ‘Why should he try to murder me, Succentor? Why?’

Baldwin and Simon responded instantly to the Dean’s urgent summons. They were almost back at their inn when the pale-faced and anxious Arthur, Stephen’s Vicar, ran towards them, calling for Sir Baldwin, and as soon as he had caught his breath and blurted his news, the two men turned and ran at full tilt to the Cathedral.

It was in a state of near uproar. The whole precinct was filled with the murmur of confused and worried voices. Arthur led the way past the milling throng and up to the Dean’s hall, where they found him standing and biting his lower lip in consternation, talking to the Succentor.

‘You have ahm heard the facts?’ the Dean asked anxiously as soon as they had entered.

‘Yes, although I find it extremely difficult to believe,’ Baldwin answered.

‘Sir Baldwin, you must question whomever you wish, whenever you wish, but hmm you have to find the killer. The thought that a man with murderous intentions is here within the precinct is ah unbearable.’

‘Or murderous boy ,’ Gervase commented quietly. In his scrip was the small flask, which felt as if it was burning a hole in the leather. ‘It is true, Sir Baldwin. The victim has accused one of the Choristers of being responsible.’

‘Before anything else, Dean, could you answer a few more questions? First, I am not so convinced that the killer of Peter is from within the cloister. Are any of your Canons or Secondary clerics allowed out at night?’

‘Good God, no! They all must sleep in their rooms.’

‘Are any permitted to avoid services?’

‘No ahm they should all attend every service. Even the Annuellars. Only the Choristers are um occasionally exempt. We only require four or five to each service and the rest of the time they spend with the Succentor here learning their singing and writing.’

‘Of the Secondaries, would Peter have had a chance of a future as a Deacon? He seemed old to still be wandering about the Cathedral.’

The Dean licked his lips considering. ‘You are correct,’ he said at last. ‘Peter and Jolinde are both old. They failed to show the necessary skills to ahm progress to Holy Orders. Peter could have remained as an acolyte, and perhaps, if he had applied himself, he could have anticipated rising to become a Deacon in years to come. Not Jolinde, I fear. He will have to um find more suitable employment. He should go to er University.’

‘There are other lads here who are also old for their posts.’

The Dean peered at him unhappily. ‘Yes?’

‘Adam himself, for example. What does he do here?’

Gervase answered. ‘Adam is like Jolinde, a Secondary looking for something better, although he’s hardly the sort to advance himself.’

‘There is time!’ the Dean said. ‘He is young, still.’

Gervase shrugged.

‘What does he do here?’ Simon asked.

‘Odd tasks,’ Gervase said. ‘He makes candles and keeps the sconces filled so that the Cathedral is always full of light. And he delivers bread in the mornings.’