Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Without a second thought she dropped the basket and fled. She knew the way to the secret passages, for Jolly had shown them to Vincent, and he had shown her, proud of his son. She darted through the workings to the little door and wrenched it open, then hurried down, into the darkness of the city’s tunnels.

Water dripped in the blackness. Behind her, light was reflected from the world above, but here was only dark and gloom. Occasional drips were caught in a shaft of sunlight and glistened momentarily like jewels, only to disappear as they fell. She could move quite swiftly here, knowing the direction the passage would take.

How could they have learned of her guilt? Was it something she had done which made them realise the killings were her work? Had someone seen her outside Karvinel’s place after she had been in to see Juliana and added her drops to the wine on the table? It was terrible to feel, after so much effort, that her work was all in vain, that all those people had died, their lives snuffed out, to no purpose. It was so unreasonable !

A shudder of remorse shivered up her spine as she thought of that poor man Ralph flinching as she thrust again and again. All to help her husband, all to protect him and ensure his safe promotion. All failed; all pointless.

Would it affect him? Yes, of course it would. His career was over. There was nothing she could do for him. Not now. It was too late.

Her mood altered. She was close to collapse, awash with devastation at the realisation that all her plans were destroyed. Where she had intended to serve her husband, all she had achieved was his total ruin. It was dreadful, ridiculous, that a gaggle of busybodies should have been responsible for Vincent’s downfall. Why had they insisted upon tracking her down? There was no need.

She heard a stone chink against another. Not behind her but ahead. They shouldn’t be there yet – how could they have got in front of her? They must have run like the wind along the High Street. A furtive step slapped into a puddle, and she shrank into a slight depression in the wall nearby, her eyes wide with the fear of the hunted. That was a man’s step, surely. It couldn’t have been a rat or anything, for a soft, muttered curse followed it. The owner of the voice had soaked his foot.

Reaching for her knife’s handle, she slowly eased it free as a figure gradually became visible ahead.

Baldwin and Simon chased after her as soon as she sped off past the side of the cloisters towards the building works. There they found themselves confronted with an empty space in the angle between the cloisters, the Bishop’s Palace and the Cathedral. As they gazed at each other in bafflement, the Coroner ran off to the far side of the Bishop’s Palace and stared over southwards towards the city’s wall. He turned back with a frown of incomprehension.

‘She can’t have disappeared,’ Coroner Roger panted.

‘Certainly not,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But where could she have gone?’

Simon peered about the area. There were innumerable doors to lean-to storehouses and workshops built to accommodate the builders. He began to pull at doors, rattling latches and tugging to see whether any were unlocked, but he had the conviction that it was a pointless exercise. If she were concealed inside one of them, she would surely have barred the door somehow.

Baldwin watched him for a moment; he had a feeling that they should hurry, that there was a strong chance of someone else being killed if they didn’t find Hawisia swiftly.

Behind him, a small crowd had formed. Hawkers and beggars had seen Baldwin and the others chase after the woman, and several had drifted over to see what was happening. Members of the congregation and choir had joined them, and already there was jostling as Canons and Vicars thrust themselves through. Stephen was the first to reach Baldwin and the Coroner.

‘What is all this?’ Stephen demanded, gazing from one to the other. ‘This is Church land! What are you doing here, Coroner? You have no rights here, what’s the meaning of your intrusion?’

Baldwin cut across the Coroner’s explanation. ‘We’re trying to prevent another murder, man! The murderer came here to hide and we need to find her.’

‘Her?’ Stephen gasped.

‘Wake up, Canon! Who knows this area best?’

‘Um… I suppose the architect, but he’s not here, he’s…’

‘Henry, Sir Baldwin,’ came the calm, unhurried voice of Gervase. ‘Henry knows all the Cathedral precinct. He has to, from running and hiding from people all the time.’

‘Fetch him.’

Gervase didn’t move but instead bellowed Henry’s name at the top of his voice. There was no sign for a moment that anyone had heard, beyond one Annuellar, who happened to bear the same name, looking up anxiously, but then there was a rush of pattering feet and Henry appeared from the direction of the Bear Gate with what looked like a suspiciously innocent expression on his face. Gervase didn’t miss it, but passed the lad to Baldwin without comment.

‘Henry, the murderer who killed Peter is here somewhere, but we don’t know where. Do you know where someone could hide?’

‘The tunnel,’ Henry said immediately.

There was a stone in his sandal. Jolinde groaned and sighed, then leaned against the wall with one hand while he fumbled in the dark to untie the thongs about his ankle which bound it. Releasing the sandal, he felt something damp and slippery on the sole and withdrew his hand in disgust as the noisome odour reached his nostrils. ‘Dog’s turd; oh, God’s teeth!’

The shoe fell with a soft ‘plop’ into a puddle and he peered downwards in an attempt to pierce the murk. ‘Oh, God’s body – what next?’ he breathed, his foot still in mid-air, one hand on the stones of the rough wall.

It was no more than he deserved, really, after spending the previous night with Claricia, missing the night’s Mass as he and she made love and slept fitfully, but since the death of Peter he was growing ever more depressed and unconvinced of his potential as a priest. He had taken his father’s money, agreeing to try to ruin another man purely to help Vincent; he had forced his friend to join him in robbing a man; he had failed in his oaths by missing services and spent his time indulging his gluttonous whims and in rutting with his woman. Still, she had agreed to wed him once he had left the Cathedral, so this was probably the last time he would come along the tunnel. It was only really from a sense of shame and embarrassment that he had taken this route rather than walking in boldly through the Fissand Gate.

Gloomily he reached down for his sandal and felt his hand sink into a soft, wet muddy-feeling dampness. It could have been anything, and Jolinde found himself hoping very intently that it was only mud.

It was no good. He couldn’t keep on living his life in two halves: one that of a serious Secondary, the other that of a secular man who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. He must find a new career. If his father would still agree, he could study a while at University, but if he wouldn’t, Jolinde would find a living as a clerk, either with another merchant, or perhaps with the Coroner. There were always openings for a fellow who could read and count.

As he came to this conclusion, he heard voices and saw a glimmer of light ahead. The sight made him want to dart back along the passage, but then he realised that with his new resolution there was no point. He would meet them, whoever they were.

Bracing himself and squaring his shoulders, he held his head high and marched towards the light.

There was a flash at his side and he froze with terror as the gleams of light caught a blade that swooped towards him. He screamed, thinking it was some appalling horror from the grave which was setting upon him; he could almost smell the putrefaction of the corpse.