Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Leaping back convulsively, he saw the razor-edged knife flash past his breast. Before he could say a word, it was reaching towards him again, up to his throat, and he was aware of maddened eyes in front of him. Jerking his head to one side, he felt the swift dragging at his flesh as the dagger sliced through his cheek and on up to his eyebrow. There was no pain, not yet, and he was only aware of a slickness, as if he had broken out into a heavy sweat. Jumping backwards again, he tried to escape the fast-moving blade, but it seemed impossible. His chest was open and unprotected. He saw rather than felt the blade sink into his upper body, grating against his collar-bone, before it was pulled out and came back.

Sobbing with shock and scared beyond his wits, he could do little more than keep moving back, for ever trying to get beyond the range of the knife, but then he was saved by a loose stone. With a muffled cry, he fell on his rump. His assailant hadn’t noticed and even as he scrambled to escape, Hawisia fell headlong over him. He felt the dagger pierce his thigh and clapped a hand to it before she could take it again. With a strength born of sheer panic and terror, he tugged it free and stabbed once, twice, three times, and was rewarded by the twitching and shivering which he recognised as his assailant’s death throes.

It was only then, as her blood seeped over him and her body gradually became flaccid in death, that he recognised his attacker from her odour. He could not believe his senses.

Vespers, Baldwin thought, had to be among the most tedious of all church services. It was invariably later than it should be, because the priests all wanted to let their meals sink down beforehand and would sit around drinking their fine wine while the congregation waited patiently, but at least tonight, on the eve of the feast of the Holy Innocents, there was a subtly different feeling to the place.

The light had long since fled. In the Cathedral there was a thick fug, composed of the smell of sweat and the herbs and spices carried by the richer people in the city to conceal it. Damp clothing gave off various scents: fur smelled of wet dogs, leather stank of burned wood or urine. The effect of these different odours in such a confined area was powerful upon Baldwin. Fortunately, they were driven off by the wafting clouds of pungent smoke which issued from the censers.

All this was normal, but tonight as Baldwin stood in the nave of the Cathedral, his wife on one side, his friend on the other, he could sense that the atmosphere had greatly improved. Only this morning the place had been filled with panic-stricken folk who were fearful of the murderer, and then who wanted to see the body of the dreaded woman who had so unsettled the city. Her body had to be displayed before the Cathedral doors for all to see, because rumours had flown about so speedily, many didn’t believe she had died.

Now all appeared serene. The end of Hawisia’s short reign of terror had fortuitously coincided with the celebration of the boy-Bishop, and all were keen to enjoy themselves. That was obvious from the cheerful, happy attitude of all the people in this great room.

The mood grew lighter still as the boy-Bishop himself appeared, dressed in his miniature mitre, gloves, and carrying his pastoral staff. He was accompanied by Choristers, all likewise dressed in their silken copes. Once at the altar steps, they faced the congregation and sang the text of the Book of Revelation where it spoke of Herod and the slaughter of the innocent boy-children of Israel.

‘ Centum quadraginta quattuor milia qui …’

Baldwin could translate it in his mind: ‘ The one hundred and forty-four thousand who were redeemed from the earth… They now reign with God and the Lamb of God with them .’

The young voices were shrill, but pure, and as their singing drew to an end, the boys formed a procession and walked slowly through the choir to the screen, offering incense to the Cross and then singing still more prayers. Baldwin found himself relaxing, feeling the worry and strain of the last few days falling from him.

Simon was quiet, he noticed. At the end of the service when they all walked out, Baldwin glanced at his friend. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. I just want to leave this place, that’s all. Get back to my wife and daughter,’ Simon said. He stood aside while a young woman pushed to the doors ahead of him. ‘I wasn’t made for city life. I need space.’

‘I can easily understand that,’ Baldwin said. There was a tinge of sadness to his voice. There had been a time, when he was many years younger, when he would have enjoyed living in a city much larger than this one, but with the passing of the years he had grown to appreciate the peace and relative calm of the pastoral life. In his manor all he need worry about was providing enough food for his table. Matters of politics left him cold, the more so since the destruction of his Order. Oddly enough he found that spending time in a place such as this led him to suspect the motives of all about him.

And not only the motives. There were people whom he was convinced had misled him intentionally. Intelligent, educated people had deliberately led him astray for their own reasons.

‘Simon, Jeanne, I would like to detour a short way before returning to our inn.’

The hall was lighted when they arrived, although it was clear from the face of the bottler who opened the door that the servants and their master had been given leave to go to their beds.

‘Please ask if we may see your master,’ Baldwin said as the door opened upon the bleary-eyed and bitter-looking man.

Grumpily the bottler grunted assent and took them up the stairs to the upper hall. Here they were greeted with warmth, if a little surprise.

‘Sir Baldwin! And hmm your good lady wife – Lady ahm Jeanne, is it not? And Bailiff Puttock. Please enter and take seats. Ah, wine. Yes, bring wine, warmed and spiced. You would like warmed wine? Ah, yes, of course.’

Baldwin smiled and nodded and as the Dean bustled around, his head ducking in a curiously birdlike manner, Baldwin sat and observed him. The Dean appeared to notice his close scrutiny and asked, faintly bemused, ‘Is there um a difficulty, Sir Baldwin?’

‘No. Not now that we have found the killer of the people in the city. All is resolved.’

‘Once poor Adam and Jolinde are cured.’

‘Yes. One hopes they will soon um recover. The physician seemed hopeful, even about Jolinde.’

They lapsed into silence. All knew how even the smallest nick in the flesh could give rise to appalling infection.

The Dean broke the sombre mood. ‘What can I do for you so late in the evening?’

‘I wanted to ask why you suspected one of your own staff to be guilty of the murders.’

‘What makes you think I suspected anyone, Sir Baldwin?’

‘You were convinced that someone from your Treasury was guilty. Naturally you thought it was likely to be a young, callow, untrained Secondary, but you were not stupid enough to think that only a youth would steal. A large sum could be a temptation to anyone, couldn’t it? No, you felt anxious that someone else could have been guilty. And so you asked for two unknowns in the area to come forward and seek the murderer. You could only do so when there was another death – of one of the two Secondaries about whom you already harboured suspicions – but you were not so certain that you felt you could take anyone into your confidence.’

The bottler arrived and dispensed wine, but once he had left, the Dean waved a hand airily. ‘Please continue.’

‘I think that you held suspicions about someone. Someone with access to privileged information, someone with a motive, or perhaps someone whom you feel is not entirely trustworthy.’