Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

In the doorway stood young Henry. ‘What is it?’ Gervase demanded. ‘We’re busy.’

‘Sir, it’s about Adam.’

Sir Thomas waited in John Renebaud’s tavern until Hob returned. The place suited Sir Thomas’s mood. Dark, crowded and evil-smelling, it fed his bitter and vengeful spirit.

He knew that Hob and Jen had a touching faith in him. On Hob’s part it was solely due to his simpleness, but Jen was a more complicated soul. She professed her love for him – but then she would. He was her protector. It was little more than the affection due to a lord and master from one of his serfs; it was the duty of a woman to her mate. No more. Probably when he, Sir Thomas, was dead, she would easily slip into another man’s bed.

Early death held no fears for Sir Thomas. He was well into his middle age already at thirty-four; he had lived longer than many of the folks with whom he had grown up. The men had died of disease or fighting; the women from childbirth or starvation since when there were famines the men were favoured with food in order that they might produce more. Women and children must starve.

Sir Thomas had lost everything. The small wars about his manorial demesne had wasted his whole fortune. There was nothing left but a few people, none of whom stayed with him anticipating riches, but from a sense of loyalty and their duty. Hamond, who had been of the same age as Sir Thomas, had been his most devoted friend and servant. Hamond, his longest-serving companion, had grown up with him, and yet he was dead now. Chivalry demanded payment. There was a responsibility lying upon Sir Thomas to honour the debt; Hamond had served him faithfully through his life, and now Sir Thomas must repay that death with blood. The blood of the man who had willed his execution.

He knocked back the last of his mazer of wine and wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. The merchants of any city were a corrupt set of pirates, out to steal whatever they could from anyone with less money and fewer opportunities to protect themselves, but the men here had surprised Sir Thomas with their avarice and brutality. It didn’t matter to him particularly if another man should die in order that he should survive the richer, but he was amazed that merchants should decide whether a man should live or die purely upon the basis of a potential benefit to them. It was unpleasant, an inversion of legitimate behaviour. It was one thing to travel abroad and fight Frenchmen or Moors, taking their wealth, but doing the same with Englishmen seemed wrong.

As he sat mulling over the black thoughts that chased themselves around his head, he noticed a figure standing near the fire. It was him again: Vincent le Berwe. The two men caught each other’s eye and Sir Thomas nodded slightly. His paymaster acknowledged him with a slow smile, nervous that someone else might witness it.

Before Sir Thomas could go over and speak to his client, he saw a cowering shadow slip through the doorway. ‘Hob! Over here, lad!’ he growled.

‘Master, I have seen him,’ Hob said expectantly. His face was like that of a dog, Sir Thomas thought, a dog whipped daily but still eager to be welcomed.

‘Where?’

‘At the Cathedral. He was going there alone, Master.’

‘Good,’ Sir Thomas muttered. He rose. At the door, while Hob waited patiently, a vacuous smile on his face, Sir Thomas considered his options. It was always dangerous to go to the Cathedral, but he must question Karvinel. A bell tolled and Sir Thomas glanced up. It was the signal for Mass – which meant Karvinel’s woman would be alone. Smiling grimly, he set off to Karvinel’s house, Hob scampering at his side like a hound out for a walk.

It was one of the reasons why Sir Thomas had been prepared to allow Hob to remain with him, this happy-go-lucky attitude. He never moaned, never tried to blame others for things, and provided he was occasionally praised he remained content. It took little to please him. If it hadn’t been for Jen, Sir Thomas would not have considered keeping Hob at his side, but Jen made it clear that the price for her body was that her brother should also be looked after. Sir Thomas had thought to point out to her that she was already his, and should he decide to rid himself of her half-witted brother, there was little she could do to stop him, but he knew that the threat was empty. He enjoyed Jen as a willing bed-mate, and if her fee was board and lodging for Hob, Sir Thomas was happy to accept.

It was strange how some lads were born without the brain of a dormouse, he reflected. Perhaps it was the horror of seeing his mother’s body which had addled the boy’s brains. Sir Thomas had heard such things could happen. However, the idle thought drifted from him as he approached the house of Nicholas Karvinel.

‘Wait here, Hob,’ he said, and knocked loudly upon the door.

He had expected a stout doorkeeper, but to his faint surprise there was no answer for a long period and then a young urchin opened it. ‘Yes?’

Sir Thomas blinked. ‘Who are you?’

The boy glared. ‘Servant to Master Karvinel.’

Sir Thomas smiled. ‘In that case, is your lady in the house?’

‘Who is it?’ came Juliana’s voice. She was in the hall and Sir Thomas walked past the boy along the screens passage. Entering the hall itself, he found himself in a smallish, slightly shabby room. A fire smouldered meanly on the hearth, two benches were ranged against the walls, a moth-eaten tapestry hung on one wall and a table was strewn with poor wooden bowls and plates.

On a chair by the table was Juliana Karvinel, drinking from a jug of wine. Seeing him, she stood and gave him a disconcerted smile. ‘Sir?’

‘My Lady,’ he said gruffly, bowing low. ‘I am Sir Thomas of Exmouth, Knight Bachelor. My apologies for following you here, but I saw you at the Christmas Mass and I was ravished. I had to find out where you lived.’

She gaped. It was easy to see that she was at once flattered and worried. ‘You… you saw me?’

‘And you saw me, my Lady.’

‘No, no, I am sure I…’

‘Why don’t you send the boy away and we can talk?’

She met his suggestion with a simper and a half-duck of her head, then bawled for the boy and sent him off to the tavern until he should be called for.

Returning to meet Sir Thomas’s smile she motioned with a hand towards the door at the back of the hall.

‘Why not?’ he said. He allowed her to lead the way. ‘It is very quiet and that boy said he was your servant – are all your servants away?’

‘If you mean “have they been sent away”, I only wish they had been! No,’ she said disdainfully. ‘My husband has failed in business and this necessitates the loss of all our servants. Surely you have heard about his evil luck? He has lost almost everything in failed ventures and thefts, and now we must make ends meet as best we can. Although,’ she added confidentially, ‘I don’t know that I can stand it much more. Not only has he taken away my maid and my small pleasures, now he seems to have gone mad. He tells me that he can renew our fortunes. I tell you, I begin to doubt whether he is sane.’

‘A merchant can hardly succeed without his servants. Where would he be without his staff: his bottler, his gardener, his steward? Without them he would be a poor kind of a host or companion to other merchants. And what would he do without his clerk?’ Sir Thomas paused as if studying the poor tapestry at the wall.

‘It is shoddy, isn’t it?’ she said, standing at his side and sneering up at it. ‘I am afraid it was the best we could afford after the last of the robberies here and the fire.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and smiled. ‘It must have been terrible for you.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled and stood very close at his side.