The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker (24 page)

People like that made him sick. As he returned his gaze to the altar, occasionally glancing at his wife, Karvinel couldn’t help a sneer distorting his features. Knights and their ladies had no idea what life was all about – just like the merchants in Vincent’s league. They hadn’t a clue what a man had to do to survive, to succeed. It was hard enough when times were good, when competition undercut your prices and forced you to find cheaper suppliers, but when times were bad and you couldn’t persuade anyone to buy what you had, that was really tough. And then you got troubles like Karvinel’s, when some bastard broke into your house and nicked everything. And later torched it.

Sometimes the only way a man could survive was by betraying his own soul. Occasionally a man must steal and risk damnation just to be able to live. Karvinel knew that now. Had known it two days ago when he went down to shout at his bottler for not waking him, and had found the man’s bed unslept in. The last of his servants, bar the cretinous urchin who swept the hall, had left.

Juliana had shrugged carelessly, saying it was lucky. It would be a relief to be rid of so expensive a mouth to feed, and he wasn’t really necessary now.

‘What do you mean, not necessary?’ he had shouted.

‘You don’t have that much business to conduct, do you, my dear?’ she had returned coldly

‘There are the gloves to finish for the Cathedral, the wine for—’

‘Precisely. There really is very little for you to do, husband. Perhaps there will be more soon, for if your creditors all appear and ask for your money, I suppose we shall be forced to sell the house and all our belongings. But until then, there is little to be done that you can’t do alone, is there?’

Her spiteful manner had made him see red. He could have hit her, punched her, and the release would have given him immense satisfaction . . . except he knew what the end result would be. She would simply look at him contemptuously and go quiet, perhaps silently walk away from him – and from that moment she would be entirely lost to him.

That was the trouble, he knew, watching his wife as she watched other men. Everything he had done was intended to keep her as his own. He couldn’t risk losing her. The loss of prestige should she leave him was too appalling even to contemplate. But he couldn’t tolerate her flirting with other men, not even if that was the price he must pay for her continued company. Swallowing painfully, he viewed the future. Unless he could soon reveal his renewed financial status, she would leave him.

Then a new resolve stiffened his spine. There was no need for him to go on suffering this intolerable situation. Juliana’s stupid behaviour must improve soon. She would hardly go looking for another man to support her if she learned that her own husband was immensely wealthy again. That was the reason for her coldness recently – the belief that he was a failure. Well, soon he’d be able to show her – point to the large sums of money he’d acquired – and then she’d warm up towards him, she’d love him again as she had before.

Right now she was drooling over every available male in the area. It looked as though she was determined to find anyone who had money so that she could desert him. Any fellow with a well-filled purse would do, Nick thought cynically; she’d leap into his bed without compunction. There was nothing to hold her to Nick. Not while he was bankrupt. In Juliana’s mind, her marriage to Nick Karvinel was a financial transaction: he could possess her, provided that he gave her access to his money. While his finances were healthy, she was happy.

And, at this minute she was far from happy. His recent difficulties had turned her frigid, impervious to his needs. He could prove to her that he was strong, but there were risks: if she boasted about his money, others could get to hear. It was far too dangerous. No, he’d have to keep his secret hidden, even from her.

Especially from her.

In his thick cloak, Sir Thomas stood trying to keep out of the view of the general public. He couldn’t keep his hood up, for that would have appeared disrespectful in God’s house, so he partially concealed himself in shadows wherever he could away from the brightest candles. Then he caught sight of a figure he recognised: the Bailiff of the City, William de Lappeford. Sir Thomas retreated slightly. He knew de Lappeford only too well, and de Lappeford knew his description. All the officers involved in the law knew of Sir Thomas.

It was then that Hob gasped and pulled at his sleeve. ‘That’s them, Sir Thomas! Karvinel and his Lady.’

Following his pointing finger, Sir Thomas caught a fleeting glimpse of the couple. Although he had been responsible for stealing from the man, and even setting his house on fire, the outlaw had never actually seen his victim in the flesh. Fearing he might lose sight of them, Sir Thomas slipped away from his place of concealment and went up the side of the nave, his eye fixed upon the pair. The candles lit up his face a couple of times, but he didn’t care. He kept on going, resting at a pillar from where he had a good view of them.

And as he waited there, he saw Juliana’s gaze pass along the men at this side of the Cathedral, saw her notice him, look him over appraisingly. With a thrill of amusement Sir Thomas realised that her look was as blatant as a whore’s. Her husband didn’t look up: he was praying, Sir Thomas saw as he returned her smile. Karvinel was bending his head and murmuring quietly, crossing himself regularly.

‘As you should,’ Sir Thomas whispered to himself. ‘After you murdered Hamond.’

Brother Stephen watched the two Secondaries return to their places in the stalls. Adam stood facing him, while Jolinde was in the row immediately before him, and Stephen could look down upon his tonsured head.

The service was not as beautiful as that of the night before. The midnight ceremony, the Angel’s Mass of Christmas Eve, was intended to reinforce the notion that the light of salvation appeared at the darkest moment in the depths of winter, and because it was held by candlelight many people came to witness it, but fewer attended this, the Shepherd’s Mass. It was difficult to persuade people to go to any service at dawn, but today only the most determined and committed would come – especially if they had been up late the night before to attend the Angel’s Mass.

He sensed that the choir was lightening and glanced up, past the altar. Although there was a massive wooden partition to separate the nave from the new choir and high altar which were still being built, there were slats in the screen to allow the light to enter. In years to come he would be able to look up from his stall and behold the sunlight streaming in through the coloured glass panels of the new eastern window. He longed for that day. It would be a wonderful sight. Once he had seen it, he could die happily, for then he would know that his most important work, that of ensuring that the Cathedral could afford to pay for this rebuilding, would be almost done.

So many years of effort. Stephen sighed inwardly as he thought about it. The man with the vision had been the first Bishop Walter – Bishop Bronescombe. It was said that he had had the idea while attending the consecration of Salisbury Cathedral. That was in 1258, more than sixty years ago, and so far only the new choir’s external works had been finished. There was still at least another five or six years’ work in fittings: the
reredos
, the new Bishop’s throne, the
pulpitum
and the
sedilia
. Until they were all completed, the choir would remain out here in the ancient Norman nave, often singing in the dark, all waiting for the time when they could migrate beyond the wooden fence that kept them from the new building. And then all the services could be held in there, while this, the oldest remaining part of the church itself, could be razed to the ground – well, to the window sills, anyway – before being built up, layer on layer, in the new style. It would be at least another sixty years before the project was complete.

But Stephen would have succeeded in completing his task if the works could progress during and after his life. It was his duty to ensure that the funds were there.

Of course, Bishop Walter Stapledon was a good financial bulwark against the problems which invariably occurred. He took as much interest in the rebuilding as Stephen himself, walking about under the gantries and scaffoldings with the eye of a man used to overseeing such works. Stapledon had already contributed much of his own money to building a school in Exeter and a college in Oxford, for he was firmly convinced of the importance of education. He believed that all his priests should receive constant training, and he was committed to finding the best scholars from all over Devon and giving them the benefit of a true education. To Stephen’s knowledge, Walter Stapledon was the most widely travelled Bishop the Chapter had ever possessed, constantly on the move and dropping in on all the parishes within his See. He took such matters seriously, for how could a Bishop be sure that the poor souls within that See were being properly guided if he didn’t know the strengths of his priests?

And while travelling over his See, he found boys who could be of benefit to the Cathedral or used in churches. If they had the ability to learn, they could be moulded to be useful. Bishop Stapledon had found many like that. Adam was one such, as were Luke and Henry. All of them had been found and saved from lives of irredeemable poverty, educated to the limits of their abilities and trained to sing and praise God.

Luke, of course, had to be recommended to the Bishop, but Stephen couldn’t regret his actions. At the time he was convinced it was best for the boy and for the Cathedral; but he was less convinced of Adam. The boy helped about the place, it was true, but he had an unpleasant streak in his nature. Not really suitable material for the Cathedral. He was capable of making and distributing candles, delivering loaves within the Close, sweeping floors or cleaning metalwork, but he was a sad failure when it came to Latin, to writing or counting. The best that could be said of him was that he had found his niche. He would certainly never advance, whatever the Dean wished.

The Dean stood. Stephen idly considered the importance of Mass. In a normal day a priest was allowed to say only one Mass. All others were given by different priests. There were few exceptions to this rule. On Good Friday no Masses were permitted, because of the Agony of the Crucifixion, so on Easter Day two Masses were allowed, as they were on special occasions such as marriages or funerals. On Christmas Day three Masses were needed.

Funerals. Stephen thought again about the death of the Secondary. It was a shame that a man so young should have his life ended, but the fellow shouldn’t have tried to commit theft. Stephen would have to consider raising the matter in Chapter. The Secondary had committed the heinous crime of theft from the Cathedral; he couldn’t be given a funeral within these sacred grounds. Although many would argue that he deserved kindness, that he should be buried like any other cleric, that there was no proof of his guilt, Stephen had no such qualms.

Peter Golloc had deserved to die, the liar!

Nicholas Karvinel went home with his wife as soon as the service was over. They must prepare for the feast at Vincent le Berwe’s, making themselves look presentable, clean and
grateful
, Nick thought savagely.

Gratitude was to be his lot in future, so far as Vincent was concerned. The latter obviously thought that Nick would be thankful for whatever morsels fell from his plate. If there was something that he could give to his poor friend, Vincent’s smug attitude seemed to imply, then he would be glad to help. It was like receiving charity, and all the more frustrating and humiliating because Nicholas couldn’t complain to anyone about it.

At his door he handed Juliana inside, but then a spirit of rebellion rose in his breast and he walked out to John Renebaud’s tavern. It was near his house, a haven to which he often repaired. Vincent patronised it too, but he would be busy at home. He needed a few moments’ peace, a quart of ale or a pint of good strong wine to set him up so that he could tolerate the graciousness of the good Receiver of the City, Vincent le Berwe. For although Karvinel was out of the woods now, thanks to his little windfall, courtesy of the Cathedral, he couldn’t let anyone know. The theft was too recent. Were they to hear of his sudden wealth, they might guess at the source of it – and that would be catastrophic. No, better keep his mouth shut. He would continue paying cash from his meagre supply of coins, waiting until he saw a suitable opportunity to declare his wealth. A ship with goods for him, something that would explain the appearance of his new money. After all, any man could speculate; a glover could double his income with a lucky gamble on a shipload of spices.

If Vincent became insistent, Karvinel thought, he would definitely ask what the other man had been doing outside Ralph’s house on the day he died. That would shut the bugger up! So taken up was he with his thoughts, Nick never saw the cloaked man pausing at his door, glancing up at the sign and picture of gloves which hung above it, then smiling coldly, following Karvinel to the inn.

Hob waited after the service, confused when his master didn’t return. He left Coppe to make his own way back to his seat by the gate, then walked outside to look for Sir Thomas, but there was no sign of him. The cold began to eat into Hob’s bones.

Eventually he gave up and left for the camp, walking carefully along the road to the South Gate in the city wall, then out past the terraced fields which led down to the Shittebrook and on to Bull Meadow. He skirted past the Maudlin, where the lepers congregated, watching the gates of the colony with a superstitious dread, recalling the stories of how they could grab passers-by to rape them or eat them, but he was lucky: no one was keen on taking him and he could continue unmolested.

The trees here were much thinner. Many had been cleared for the use of the citizens, whether for building or for firewood, and there was more coppicing than old woodland.

He soon heard the sharp whistle as he hurried along the rough track. The weather wasn’t cold enough for the ruts and hoofprints to solidify, and the mud was awful. His feet were sodden as he stepped into deeper puddles which filled his boots and made him grimace with revulsion as the chilly water slopped about, squelching with every step he took.