Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Dressed in his white surplice covered with the loose-fitting black cloak and cap, Canon Stephen cleared his mind of all the petty financial troubles involving the rebuilding works and prepared to leave his house to attend Mass.

With him were his household, all in black with the occasional flash of white where a surplice showed. Stephen cast an eye over them all. Young Luke didn’t live with Stephen, of course, but he had come over from the Choristers’ Hall to join his Canon on the walk to the Cathedral, and Stephen was disgusted to see filth on Luke’s cheek and a muddy mark on his shoulder. Stephen was tempted to send him off to wash and change, but he knew that the clean laundry hadn’t been delivered yet and he swallowed his angry words. Instead he went over to Luke and, taking up the hem of his cloak, spat upon it and rubbed at the sullen face.

Luke was still simmering with rage. Henry had teased and tormented him for years, but this latest trick was too much! If he had caught Henry, Luke would have beaten him to a pulp. He would have sat on his chest and battered Henry’s face until the bastard pleaded for mercy, but he wouldn’t have got any. Not from Luke. Not after all the things he’d done to him. It wasn’t fair! Henry seemed to think he could get away with murder. Well, he couldn’t. He’d see. When Luke was installed as boy-Bishop, he’d make Henry regret his actions. He’d make Henry apologise for dropping the beetle down his neck when he was singing, for throwing mud and horseshit at him, for catcalling and tipping water over him when he was asleep in bed. For all these indignities and more, Henry would have to pay.

But Henry had escaped him again – as he always did. Luke wondered where his enemy could have hidden. Could he have discovered a secret way through to the Chapter House? Or had he found a shed to hide in – or maybe a storeroom with a dodgy lock. Wherever it was, Luke was determined to find it and punish Henry at the first opportunity.

‘Keep still, boy!’ Stephen snarled and Luke returned to the present. ‘Do you think you can insult God by arriving in His house with all this muck on your face? My God, you stink! I don’t know what’s the matter with you today. You’re a disgrace to the Cathedral!’

Satisfied at last, Stephen stood back and surveyed his work. The little devil was certainly not perfect, but he was greatly improved.

Stephen nodded to his bottler at the door, who pulled it open, and the Canon and his household emerged into the chill morning air. Stephen went first, walking with his head sunk down meditatively, preparing himself for the service to come. After him came his Vicar Choral, a pleasant fellow, Arthur Hingstone, whom Stephen had appointed some few years before. Unfortunately, Stephen had been assigned a Secondary, not allowed to choose his own. The Canon preferred bookish, considerate youths, but instead the Dean had foisted Adam upon him – an incompetent reader, a worse writer, with the eating manners of a pig. Stephen was convinced that Adam’s presence at his table was the result of the Dean’s sense of humour, but then the thought that the Dean possessed something so human made Stephen grin sardonically.

Behind Adam was the last of his choral retinue, Luke. The Choristers were selected by the Precentor, and Luke at least had the merit of being the best of the current crop, to Stephen’s mind. Luke was generally quiet, well-mannered and educated. Miraculous when one considered his father, Stephen considered wryly. All in all, Luke should win the election later today. He would become the next boy-Bishop.

After Luke came the other clerics of his household. Stephen was wealthy enough in his own right and he was able to fund a goodly sized establishment. It went against the concept of shared possessions that the Canons were supposed to espouse, but more often than not, that rule was waived nowadays. Things had to move with the times, even in Cathedrals, and money mattered; as Treasurer, Stephen knew that only too well. Patronage was as important here in Exeter’s small Cathedral as it was elsewhere.

His servants followed along behind the clerical staff. His bottler, cook, ushers and others trailed behind him, he knew, like a dark shadow, all with their heads lowered and hands clasped. He had no need to look to make sure of their obvious reverence, for they were all being exposed to a tight scrutiny. On all sides similar lines of religious men were converging at a slow and thoughtful pace to a point just before the great western doors of the Cathedral. It was the same each day and just as Stephen could observe each of the men in his colleagues’ retinues, they would at the same time be watching his own. Any lapse on the part of the lowliest kitchen attendant or bottler, let alone Chorister, would be noticed and be cause for restrained chuckles later. There was no escape from the Canons. Well, not yet, Stephen amended, thinking of the Feast of the Holy Innocents. But that day was different.

He reached the door, entered, bowed to the altar, then to the Dean. The Bishop was away once more. He spent much of his time away now. Stephen wondered what interest the outside world of politics could hold for a man who was supposed to be dedicated to God, but squashed the thought. It wasn’t for him to wonder at the motivations of others, and Bishop Stapledon, Walter II of Exeter, was a most honourable man, spending time with his far-flung manors and priests, ensuring that the souls in his See were being ministered to and assisting any religious men by helping them find a place in his school or a seat at Oxford University, no matter how poor they might be. The meanest villein in a rustic manor could apply to him for education and perhaps professional training, if they showed that God had granted them the necessary intelligence.

Walking past the Punctators, Stephen made his way to his own stall, his household separating behind him, the servants standing in the great, freezing nave, the Chorister moving forward to the centre of the choir, Adam the Secondary taking his place behind the choirboys, the Vicar standing a little to Stephen’s right in the rearmost rank.

Stephen bowed his head and uttered a prayer. Finishing, he looked about him idly. Two Punctators stood near the northern door, cross-checking each other’s lists. It was the duty of the Punctators to note who turned up and who did not for the services, and from the frown on their faces Stephen correctly surmised that someone was missing. No one would worry too much, he thought. The weather was cold, and many younger clerics would be celebrating the onset of Christmas.

There was a loud slapping of feet on the cobbles outside, and the two Punctators turned, eyebrows raised, as the Secondary Jolinde appeared panting in the doorway. He marched in, head down, almost forgot to bow to the altar, and when he inclined his head respectfully to the Dean, Stephen saw the lad was red-faced, as if he had run a long distance.

Stephen watched the youth shuffle along the stalls until he reached his own, next to the Secondary Peter Golloc. Stephen studied the two. Jolinde would be in for a reprimand later, he thought. The fellow should have risen earlier: from the look of him he had been drinking heavily last night. His appearance was scruffy, his complexion feverish, like a man who had been up until late in a tavern and whose sole desire now was to return to his bed.

Next to him, Peter looked even worse. His face was pale, almost waxen, his lips grey, as if he was suffering from some kind of mental torment. Stephen sighed. The lad should be in the infirmary if he was unwell. There was no benefit to God in having a cleric collapse. An ill man was better advised to visit the infirmarer and make sure he got better. At that moment Jolinde jerked forward, and Stephen’s attention whipped back to him. The boy was carrying something under his robes – something he was concealing, Stephen was sure. Jolinde had half-dropped it.