The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker (4 page)

At the end of the Mass he joined the other members of the early-morning congregation trooping out from the Cathedral, but while the others moved towards one of the seven gates which gave on to the city outside the Cathedral precinct, Ralph loitered.

The sun was in the sky now, dangling over the roofs of the buildings surrounding the Cathedral. Eastwards was the row of houses owned by the Canons themselves, and Ralph stood contemplating them for a short while, admiring their limewashed walls and timbers. Smoke rose like columns in the clear, still air and from the breadhouse next to the north tower came the odour of baking bread, a delicious scent that set Ralph’s mouth watering, especially when he caught a whiff of spiced wine. Outside the bakery were several Annuellars and Secondaries, all collecting their daily loaf. Others wandered among them: beggars and the poor who depended upon the Cathedral for their food, but there was also a sprinkling of richer folk who gave good donations to the Cathedral and in payment were occasionally permitted to buy some of the Cathedral’s better quality breads.

Ralph saw the Receiver’s wife at the side of a Secondary, the young lad called Adam; he smiled and bowed to her. She acknowledged his courtesy ungraciously, but then, as Ralph knew, he was her husband’s greatest enemy and competitor for advancement. Nick Karvinel was someone else she openly despised. In a way, he could sympathise, Ralph thought. There were few people in the city whom he actively disliked, but Nick Karvinel the glovemaker and dealmaker was one.

But enough of such sour topics. ‘Time to break my fast,’ he grunted, and turned to make his way up to St Martin’s Gate. About to pass the conduit, he stopped to watch two Choristers running up from the Street of the Canons. One appeared to be chasing the other; they leaped the low fence to the cemetery, one straining ahead while the other panted curses and stretched out a hand to grab his victim.

The two hared off around the charnel chapel, then over the roadway and out of sight behind the Church of St Mary Major, and Ralph followed them with his eyes, grinning and shaking his head. There had once been a time when he too could have chased a friend around a churchyard – but that time was long gone, he told himself ruefully as he stomped heavily through the cemetery and out via the gate to the High Street, a genial fellow in faded and shabby clothing.

Afterwards John Coppe, a cripple begging at the gate, and Janekyn Beyvyn, the porter for the Cathedral Close, both recalled seeing Ralph shamble up towards the gatehouse.

Coppe was squatting in his usual place at the Fissand Gate, sheltered a little from the wind that gusted up the High Street, holding his hands to the brazier lighted by Janekyn to warm them both. As Coppe would later tell the Coroner, he saw the glover walking away just after Henry the Chorister had rushed past the gate’s entrance, laughing fit to burst, fleeing his brother-Chorister Luke. Later Coppe heard that Henry had been forced to flee after dropping a beetle down the other’s neck as they set off for the Cathedral.

When the Coroner questioned him, Janekyn admitted he had been supping a warmed, liquid breakfast of spiced ale standing near the charcoal brazier, peering towards the Bishop’s Palace, from whose kitchen rose heavy grey smoke, proving, if proof were needed, that the Bishop’s men were preparing their bread and food. He was looking forward to the arrival of his loaf of bread so that he too could break his fast, but Adam was late as usual.

Janekyn noticed Ralph as the glover passed the small charnel chapel. Ralph had been walking slowly at his usual speed, up towards St Martin’s. For all Janekyn knew, Ralph might have gone out by that gate, but he didn’t see him do so. Janekyn was a thin, slightly deaf cleric of some fifty years, with a grey complexion and feeble constitution. He hadn’t stood rooted to the spot, gawping at other folk while his hands went blue; no, he had concentrated on his brazier, gripping his pot of hot ale and trying to persuade some warmth into his emaciated frame. In any case, he had been distracted by the two boys.

The sight had made Janekyn give a wheezing chuckle. Henry had reappeared, apparently fresh and ready for a longer chase, but Luke pounded along with a determined glower. Darting to one side, Henry bent and picked up a lump of horse-dung, flinging it at his pursuer. It hit Luke’s shoulder, and Henry sped away again, giggling, while the other stood horrified, gazing down at the brown mess smearing the white perfection of his clothes. Then, with a renewed fury, he chased off after his tormentor.

Luke set his mouth in a line of determination as he chased Henry, his most loathed and despised enemy. Henry was a . . . ‘a whoreson buggering Godless sinner’. Luke had heard a hawker shout that after an urchin in the street and he thought it described Henry perfectly.

The open grassed space led around the walls of the cloister, and here there was a wider area. Before him was the plain leading off, in the distance, to the city wall, while on his left was a clearing bounded by the Chapter House, the Cathedral and the Bishop’s Palace, each with lean-to sheds accommodating tools and workmen involved in the rebuilding works. There was nowhere for Henry to have escaped to. On the right, Luke would have seen him running over the clearing down towards the Palace Gate, and left were the shacks, each of which should have been locked, and yet Henry was nowhere to be seen.

Half-heartedly Luke went along the line of sheds, tugging at a door here or there. This part was all off-limits to the Choristers, but Luke was unwilling to go without attempting to find his enemy.

There was a noise, a creaking as a door slowly opened, and Luke grinned with the quick satisfaction of the hunter. His quarry was at hand! He crouched, taking up a handful of thick, glutinous mud, and readied himself. There was a crack as a door was thrust wide, the leather hinges complaining, and then Luke swiftly dropped his weapon.

It wasn’t Henry but Jolinde Bolle, the Secondary, who came into the light with a leather-wrapped parcel which he thrust under his shirt before, blinking in the sun, he made off towards his chamber.

As Ralph walked through the gate and into the High Street, he was followed. All along the High Street and left along the Correstrete beneath the castle to his own door.

Glovers never earned much money, but Ralph was comfortably off as a result of his mercantile ventures. Not that he had need of money. His wants were few and he was not an acquisitive man. The only things he craved he could
not
buy: his wife and child. Both were dead. Tragically, they had died in the same accident when a cart overturned on them, but Ralph consoled himself with his faith, content in the knowledge that he would see them again in Heaven, God willing.

His house was one of the smaller premises, but it was adequate for him and his apprentice. There were two doors to the street; the one on the right opened straight into his shop, while the lefthand one gave onto a passage which bypassed his place of business and led behind to his little hall. Inside the hall, a ladder propped against a wall led up to the chamber above where Ralph and his apprentice slept while the scullery and kitchen lay at the rear and had their own back door to the garden.

Ralph opened the door on the left – he rarely locked his house door – walked down the passageway into his hall. Puffing slightly, he heaved himself up the ladder to his chamber, where he threw off his cloak and pulled on a thick woollen jack which made him feel a little warmer. Then he went to his money chest, as was his wont when returning, unlocked it and peered inside to check the contents. He nodded to himself and was about to close it, when he noticed a small sack that lay within.

He had never seen it before. Baffled, he picked it up and hefted it. When he opened it, a collection of gemstones and coins fell into his hand. Mystified, he could only stare. They were not his; he had no idea where they could have come from.

Then an explanation dawned. Each year the Cathedral commissioned pairs of gloves to be presented after Christmas to honour those who had helped the Cathedral over the year. Stitched from the finest pigskin and studded with jewels, they were valuable – and expensive to make.

This year Ralph had been asked to provide the gloves for the ceremony, but he had been surprised to find that there had been less money than agreed – and fewer gemstones. The Secondary, Jolinde Bolle, who delivered them with Peter, had haughtily pointed out that if he didn’t want the commission, Karvinel would happily take it over. Bolle said that Canon Stephen, the Treasurer, didn’t think it necessary to spend so much on gloves this year. With the cost of the Cathedral’s rebuilding stretching their resources, economies must be made.

Ralph had accepted the money and jewels, but it had seemed odd. He had agreed the quality and the price with the Dean when he was asked to make the gloves; but if the Treasurer had decided that the price was too high, who was he, Ralph, to argue?

That was back in the first week of December, on the Feast of St Nicholas, sixth December. Now Ralph counted the gems and money and beamed. Someone had changed his mind: the sack made up the shortfall! That must be it: the Treasurer had decided to revert to the original arrangement. Strange he didn’t mention it this morning, but he must have sent someone to drop off this money and Elias had put it in the strongbox for safekeeping.

Where was he? The lad should be back by now, but he had a ridiculous infatuation with Mary Skinner, the baker’s daughter, and was probably idling his time away with her. It was a pity, for Ralph was convinced that Elias was wasting his time. She was too flighty for a stolid fellow like Elias. Perhaps it was a good thing; there were times when her face was harsh and unkind, even when she was smiling at Elias. Not like his own dear wife Alice. Ralph allowed himself a moment’s quiet pleasure, recalling her gentle smile, her calm grey eyes and soft hair, like finest spun gold . . .

The knock at his door broke into his reverie and startled him. It was early for a client. Most people wouldn’t be about for some time, which was why he and his apprentice tended to eat their breakfast at this hour. Then he remembered his invitation to the City Bailiff, asking him to call to discuss a sensitive matter. He must do his duty and explain what he had discovered in the Guildhall: an attempt to defraud the Cathedral.

Bracing himself, Ralph went to answer his door but it was no client who had knocked: only death stood waiting for him.

After Ralph left the Cathedral grounds, the religious day continued. Every moment was spent in praise of God and no man was free from the great task. Each had his own duty. While Ralph passed through St Martin’s Gate, other Annuellars had already arrived at their altars up and down the Cathedral; at the same time fourteen Vicars appeared with some Choristers to sing the morning round of services: Matins, Lauds and the other Hours of Our Lady before beginning the Lady Mass in Her honour.

And while they sang, the bells pealed for Prime, the first of the daytime services. For this all the Canons and their Vicars were on duty; all should attend.

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.