Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Peter had stared at him disbelievingly, in a state of shock. At first he had stammered questions loudly, while Karvinel tried to ‘shush’ him, to no avail. And then Peter had gone quiet, gazing into his own personal hell, shuddering with abhorrence when Karvinel accidentally touched his arm.

Karvinel had quickly reminded Peter that he had told him under the protection of the confessional, but Peter had curled his lip and withdrawn, not even offering Karvinel a ‘Godspeed’.

It was strange how clerical types would behave. Look at Peter that night. Petulant, sulking, turning his back ostentatiously…

That fellow Hamond was a thoroughly bad sort – everyone knew that. But perhaps Peter was angry that Karvinel had stolen money from the Cathedral. That would explain a lot. In Peter’s memory, Karvinel would repay the lot. It was the least he could do. At least he hadn’t robbed Ralph as well.

Yes, he would soon be able to afford to repay the Cathedral once a few of his investments came in, he thought, and then he could patch up his problems with Juliana. He wondered where his wife could have got to. The place was silent. She must have gone to her bed, bored with waiting for him to return. He went over to the backyard’s door and pissed out. Then he locked up and was about to make his way to the solar when he saw it.

There was a man’s cloak on the chest in the screens passage. At first he thought it was his own, but he didn’t recognise it; he’d never wear something so shabby and faded.

A horrible thought began to form in his mind. He hated to think that his bitch of a wife could have betrayed him, but her contempt for him over the last few weeks had been visible to all. He grimaced, his expression one of rage and fear; rage at his wife’s treachery, that she should dare to behave so, and fear that he might lose her and become the subject of every wit in the city.

He raised the jug but it was empty; he set his jaw and went to the door. No sound. He had intended going up to their room silently so as not to waken her, but now he took his shoes off and went up with particular caution, hoping to catch his wife’s lover in his own bed. When he saw her lying there, still fully clothed, and alone, there was a feeling of relief that she was not still entertaining a man, but he was still annoyed with her. He opened his mouth to rail at her, but then a sharp rumbling in his belly made him close his mouth and belch.

A cramp, he thought, nothing more, but there was a presentiment of something evil. He was aware of a coldness, a thickness in the air, and sweat broke out freezing upon his forehead. He was still a moment, confused and forgetting his wife as the pain began, but then he doubled up as the sword-thrust of agony lanced through his gut.

Mouth wide, but unable even to scream, the pain was so intense, he gasped for help from his wife.

But her corpse could do nothing.

Simon awoke with a dull pain at the back of his head. He snapped his eyes shut again at speed and waited for the strong wave of nausea to subside.

This was the trouble with cheaper taverns, he thought queasily. Cheap taverns sold cheap ales and wines. Although both last night had tasted fine, clearly there had been a problem with one or the other of them. Perhaps it was the third jug of wine he had shared with the grizzle-haired host when most of the other folk had left. That must have been the one – the others were fine. And the ale had tasted all right beforehand, as had the cider: a good, strong, tasty brew. In fact Simon realised he could taste it still even now, and the potent flavour was unpleasantly present on the tip of his tongue.

He sat up, puffing and blowing as he tried to settle his gut.

‘So you’re awake, Bailiff?’

‘Ha! I always wake at the same time, Baldwin,’ he croaked. ‘It takes more than a few drinks to make me oversleep.’

‘Really? Well, if you can sleep through your snoring, I suppose you can wake refreshed whenever you want,’ Baldwin observed caustically.

‘Was I snoring?’

‘Like a hog. You were so loud that Jeanne couldn’t sleep either, but I expect she will tell you all about her sleepless night shortly.’

Simon scratched at his head, one eye shut against the confusing split vision. ‘Could I tempt you to a walk before she wakes? I am sure she would appreciate the peace.’

‘Hypocrite!’ Baldwin laughed and threw a cushion at Simon’s head.

‘That,’ Simon said slowly and with great dignity, ‘was not kind, Baldwin.’

‘No,’ said Baldwin and threw another.

They walked along Paul Street and into Southgate Street, where they found themselves dazzled by the sun shining straight down the road at them. Simon winced and screwed up his eyes, but Baldwin only slapped his back and chuckled.

At the Carfoix they continued a short distance until Baldwin spied a baker’s shop. ‘Let us break our fast.’

‘Isn’t it a little early for food?’ Simon enquired tentatively.

‘Nonsense. And the bread smells wonderful, doesn’t it?’

Simon made no comment, which Baldwin took for acceptance, and the two entered.

The place was already busy, with men and women selecting their loaves from the pile on a table near the unglazed window. At the rear a pair of men wielding long wooden shovels moved loaves about in the large ovens while Mary Skinner stood at a bar and took people’s money. There was no mistaking her, not with her raven-black hair. Simon grinned to himself remembering how she had strained and moaned with her man on the evening of Christmas Day, but then the savoury smells of cooking assailed his nostrils and he staggered to the door.

Baldwin went to the counter and ordered a good thick pasty. Paying his money, he smiled at the woman. ‘Hello, Mary.’

‘Hello,’ she answered suspiciously.

‘I wonder if you could help me and my friend.’

The older of the two bakers whirled around and stood with his shovel resting butt-first on the ground. ‘What sort of girl do you think she is, eh?’

‘I am helping the Coroner with his enquiries into Ralph Glover’s death,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘Of course if you want to conceal anything, I shall simply tell the Coroner. I have no wish to cause any trouble.’

The man glanced over Baldwin, then Simon, then grudgingly nodded. ‘Go outside with them, Mary, but stay in sight.’

He managed to convey his deep distrust of the strangers in his tone, but Baldwin ignored him, walking outside chewing on his pasty.

From closer, Baldwin could easily see how Mary could have attracted the glover’s apprentice. Slim, with a white complexion, grey, steady eyes, and full, soft lips, she had the grace of a Celt with the calm beauty of a Norman.

‘What do you want from me?’ she asked, resting on a fence-post.

‘We have heard from Elias how he was with you the day Ralph died. We wanted to know whether you had been asked to delay him,’ Baldwin said.

‘ “Delay him”?’ she repeated scornfully. ‘Why should someone want to do that?’

Simon answered testily, ‘So that they could make the poor devil look guilty while someone else murdered his master, girl. Why do you think?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t see it’s any business of mine.’

‘If you weren’t asked to keep him here, it probably isn’t,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But if you did help a murderer by keeping the poor apprentice here, you would be guilty of conspiracy.’

‘Me? I’ve done nothing.’

‘That may well be true, but if you continue to do nothing, you may be helping Elias to swing. Still, if you’re content to carry the responsibility for his death on your conscience, there is little we can do. Come, Simon. We had better go and explain to the Coroner and Receiver that this woman doesn’t wish to help.’