Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

It had been a jolt to see Sir Thomas in the tavern, but the fellow had cleared off smartish, taking his half-wit with him, thank God. The dribbling weak-minded wretch repelled Vincent; how Sir Thomas could bear the creature’s proximity was beyond him. Still, the two had gone, and that was a relief. Vincent had no desire to be seen anywhere near his leading business associate, as he liked to think of Sir Thomas, in case he decided to talk to Vincent. Someone might have seen them together, which would have been disastrous. It was too risky. The man was a known outlaw, for God’s sake!

Vincent jerked his head at a serving girl for more wine.

That was the pleasantest aspect of the position of Receiver – the fact that he could expect respect from everyone in the city. Not least because he would become one of the richest men in the place. It would depend upon how the revenues went during his term of office, naturally, but provided that he could keep afloat for a few more months, he should be all right. And that meant pulling in every debt he owned.

As if on cue he saw Nick Karvinel appear in the doorway. Vincent motioned to the other merchant to join him. Karvinel hesitated, but then he pulled a wry face and crossed the room, sitting where the Breton had been only a few minutes before. ‘What are you after, Vincent?’

‘Come on, Nick. There shouldn’t be any hard feelings. All I want is the money you owe me. Do you have it yet?’

Karvinel took a mazer from the next table, glanced into it, then filled it with Vincent’s wine. He drank deeply, then met Vincent’s gaze with a firm eye. ‘I don’t think I care to pay.’

Vincent felt hot blood rush into his face. Karvinel’s tone was insolent, intentionally rude. It was not the voice of a man who owed respect, it was that of a man who owed nothing. ‘What do you mean, you “don’t care to”? I don’t give a shit what you do or don’t wish, Nick. You owe me money and I want it back – all right?’

‘Shut up, Vincent. I don’t like the tone of your voice.’

‘You don’t like my voice? I don’t–’

‘Where did all Ralph’s basan and Cordova leather go?’

‘What?’

Karvinel leaned back and cast a contemplative eye over the people in the room. None had so far noticed their altercation, and Karvinel was happy that it should remain that way. He smiled coldly at Vincent. ‘The fact is, I hear that you sold Ralph a load of basan and cordwain. It was witnessed by the Coroner, wasn’t it? Yet there’s none in Ralph’s shop.’

‘He must have sold it.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Vincent pulled his lips back over his teeth in what could have been a smile or a snarl. ‘Prove it! Do you realise I can have you arrested for such an allegation?’

‘I wonder what the City Freemen would think of a Receiver who took leathers from a dead man’s shop. And if he did that,’ Nick continued, now eyeing Vincent with a more serious expression as the Receiver went very still, ‘ when did he do it? Did he take the stuff after his friend had been dead a matter of hours – or a matter of moments?’

‘What are you saying?’ le Berwe whispered.

‘Did you kill him, Vincent?’

‘I should stab your God-cursed body for that!’

‘I know you were there that day. So did my clerk; he saw your cart outside.’

‘Bollocks! Bring him here!’ Then Vincent’s face went white.

‘Yes, Vincent. That’s what I wondered too. How convenient that the only witness to your act was a man who is now also dead. My poor clerk Peter,’ said Karvinel pointedly. He rose. ‘I have to go now, but I think there’s no hurry in paying you. You may be in prison soon.’

Outside, Nicholas Karvinel felt justifiably pleased with himself. He had effectively called a halt to the threat of a demand for money while at the same time putting the fear of God into Vincent.

Of course he had no proof that Vincent was actually responsible for the murder of Ralph, but it would make sense, bearing in mind that Ralph was a possible competitor for honours; honours meant money, and Karvinel was sure that Vincent would not turn down any opportunity for increasing his wealth. Ignorant of the foundering of Vincent’s ship, Karvinel thought le Berwe’s demand for his debt to be repaid was motivated by pure greed. This unreasonable demand from one whom Karvinel thought to be rich was an insult.

Reaching his door, he paused a moment. Farther along the street he could see Coroner Roger. On an impulse he waved and shouted to him to let him know where he could find Vincent. Then, with a feeling of satisfaction, he watched as the Coroner hurried away, calling to the City Bailiff as he went.

He could remember the clear, alcoholically enhanced fantasy of killing Vincent from the tavern on Christmas Eve, and the vision rose before him again of Vincent le Berwe’s face as Nick shoved his dagger into the greedy bastard’s guts. It would be good to see the bastard squirm while spitted like a capon on a stick. But if he couldn’t do that, at least he could put the Coroner onto him. That might be even more enjoyable in its way.

The smoke above the city swirled, blown by a freezing blast from the south, and Karvinel saw the clouds scudding past at speed. It was getting dark now, and the weather looked as if it would break soon. It would be good to get inside and sit beside the fire.

Then a spirit of rebellion rose in his breast. What was the point of going home? His wife would be sitting sulking because of the loss of her maid and their bottler, and because of their financial problems. She would be waspish about any conversation he instigated, scathing about any new ventures he mentioned. Her companionship was the last thing he needed tonight.

He sniffed disdainfully and set off to an alehouse further up the street.

Coroner Roger saw Vincent le Berwe as soon as he entered the tavern. Nodding towards their quarry, the Coroner marched up to Vincent’s table and pulled up a stool without offering a greeting.

Vincent gave him a welcoming smile, but the Coroner’s face twisted into a mask of revulsion.

‘I wanted,’ he said in a low voice, ‘to see you to ask what sort of a man could do it.’

‘What?’ asked the baffled Vincent.

‘Pay his own son to perjure himself,’ the Coroner spat.

Vincent felt his face go chill, as if all the blood had drained in a moment. ‘Perjure? I… I don’t…’

‘Balls, you lying bastard ! Your boy has confessed to his part in the fraud and theft from Ralph, and he’s told us how you bribed him to make sure that Ralph was conned. Were you proud to have perverted your own son?’

‘It wasn’t a perversion, it was the only way to protect him!’ Vincent snapped, stung into retaliation.

‘How?’

‘Ralph stood in my way: he was the only man who could have prevented my being re-elected as Receiver. I had to make sure that he was removed. Otherwise, how could I have built up my position in the City? If Jolly is to win my inheritance, I have to protect it. I couldn’t allow Ralph to get in the way.’

‘So you tried to ruin him?’

Vincent looked away. ‘It seemed the best thing to do,’ he muttered.

‘And when you failed, you had him murdered.’

‘No! I didn’t do that. I’ve never tried to have a man killed.’

‘Then who did? Everyone liked Ralph…’

‘What about Karvinel? He couldn’t stand Ralph, and Ralph was even more of a competitor to him, seeing both were glovemakers.’ Vincent’s brow cleared. ‘That must be it! Nick Karvinel knew that the Cathedral always ordered gloves from Ralph to be made for the Holy Innocents’ Day celebrations. If he could get rid of him, he thought he’d be able to win the contract to finish the job and earn himself some much-needed cash. So he murdered Ralph and took over that business, but he also stole all Ralph’s money.’