The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker (44 page)

‘I think I understand. He will leave the Cathedral?’ asked Baldwin.

‘I cannot allow him to remain.’

‘What of Jolinde?’

‘He has gone. He had decided to leave before this final disaster.’

‘Will Luke stay?’

The Dean eyed him a moment contemplatively. ‘When the, ah, family lost everything in a squabble with their neighbour, who happened to be a friend of the King, Luke’s mother was already dead. With his father an outlaw, it was, um, natural that his uncle, our Canon Stephen, would protect the child as best he may. And he concealed the true nature of his brother’s activities from the child. Why should the boy learn the demeaning truth – that his own father was a felon? If we can, we should hide that shame from him.’

Baldwin smiled faintly. ‘The Cathedral seems a haven for many children.’

‘There are many innocents whose births are not legitimate,’ the Dean answered.

‘I see,’ Baldwin said, standing. ‘Dean I thank you for your patience. Please excuse us if we leave you now.’ He drained his cup and bowed.

The Dean rose and nodded, making the sign of the cross, first over Baldwin, then to Simon and Jeanne. ‘Go with God.’

The place was filled. Simon was used to such sights. As Bailiff of the Stannaries, he often had to speak to large groups of men and the scene gave him no concern, but Baldwin felt discontented to see so many people all watching him. It was not like being in a court, he felt. There he was aware of his own authority and the aura of the position itself cushioned him from the public gaze, but here, in a strange city, with unknown people staring at him, he felt exposed and threatened.

Henry had the words off pat. He stepped forward and while his friend read out the note of thanks, Henry waited. As soon as the last words were spoken, he took a pair of cordwain gloves, wonderfully stitched and studded with jewels, and passed them to Baldwin. Then there was another short reading, and a second pair were given to Simon, before the boy made the sign of the cross and prayed for them.

Soon the affair was over and Baldwin could breathe a sigh of relief. He and Simon walked away from the public attention while other worthies stepped up to take their awards, and when Baldwin had returned to Jeanne’s side, he heard a rough cackle.

‘So, Sir Baldwin, are you content now?’

‘Coroner, I didn’t see you – my apologies. I am very content, thank you. It is enough no longer to be the focus of attention.’

They chatted idly, but there was nothing in their conversation to interest Simon. He had his eye on the Dean, who stood watching Luke and Henry with hawk-like intensity.

Later, when the crowds had thinned and the two men were walking about the city with Jeanne, Simon turned to Baldwin. ‘The Dean’s son is Adam, so why didn’t he confront his boy and ask if he was telling known robbers about Cathedral money?’

‘I think he was anxious to be fair at all stages,’ Baldwin said. ‘He agreed to have the child brought here to be educated, and, to ensure that the boy received the best training possible, he had him quartered with the Treasurer, Canon Stephen. When he began to fear that the thefts were somehow the responsibility of the Treasurer, what could he do?’

‘He could have accused the man,’ Simon shrugged.

‘He could hardly do that, for the Treasurer could retaliate by telling all that the Dean had fathered an illegitimate boy and kept him in the Cathedral for his own satisfaction. At the least you can assume that the boy would have been sent away.’

Simon considered a moment. Then he asked, ‘What do you think will happen to Sir Thomas?’

‘I think he will be granted a pardon. He is an important enough man, after all. Yes, I would imagine he would be freed. And then he may settle here with his woman.’

Simon nodded. ‘And the half-wit with them.’

‘Yes, they seem genuinely fond of the lad.’

‘Meanwhile Vincent . . .’

‘Don’t expect me to feel sympathy for him,’ Baldwin said grimly.

‘It hardly seems fair. The man is ruined, and through his wife’s acts, not his own.’

‘He was as evil as her in his own way. He may not have dirtied his hands, because he employed Sir Thomas to do his work for him, but that is no excuse. Vincent was prepared to see Ralph broken utterly, just because he feared that a competitor might prove too powerful. To achieve his own ends he destroyed Karvinel. If it wasn’t for his own greed and arrogance, Ralph, Peter, Nick and Juliana Karvinel – yes, even Hawisia herself – would probably be alive still. All were killed for Vincent’s comfort and avarice. No, don’t expect me to feel
sympathy
for him. He is a felon, no better than the worst of Sir Thomas’s outlaws. I expect he will swing.’

Jeanne squeezed his arm comfortingly at the tone of cold contempt in her husband’s voice.

Simon continued quietly, ‘What of Vincent’s first wife?’

Baldwin was quiet for a second. ‘Hawisia was quick to use poison on Jolinde.’

‘So you think Hawisia killed her?’ Jeanne asked. ‘But she said to me that Jolinde had killed Vincent’s first wife.’

‘That,’ Baldwin said, ‘is why I am sure Hawisia did it.’

‘Jolinde . . .’ Simon continued quietly. ‘I wonder what will happen to him?’

Jolinde lay back on the bed in Claricia’s room and watched her pour him a large cup of ale. Holding his head in the crook of her arm, she lifted the cup to his lips.

‘I really am fine, love. You don’t need to do this,’ he protested weakly. His speech slurred: after the slash at his cheek, the wound had been wiped and cleaned and plastered with egg-white, but it stung and flamed whenever he moved his mouth too much.

‘I want to. You poor love, if you could only see yourself.’ She pulled the blanket a little further up his body so that she couldn’t see the bloodstained bandage over the wound in his chest. Every time she saw that mark she wanted to weep. An inch further away, the physician had said, and the boy would have been dead. One inch!

He saw her expression. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘Is there any bread?’

In the Choristers’ hall, the boys settled quietly for the night. One boy was already snoring, while another, deep in a dream of his long-dead parents, was quietly weeping in his sleep.

Luke sought sleep but it resolutely evaded him. He rolled over on his solid palliasse and tugged his blankets and cloak tighter to him against the freezing chill. Although the shutters were closed, the cold air whistled through the gaps between the wooden slats and seeped through all the bedclothes like water.

At least Henry hadn’t been so bad on the day, Luke thought. He had dreaded it, knowing how Henry would crow over him while he enjoyed his power as boy-Bishop, but in fact it hadn’t been so bad. Henry had not made his life as miserable as he could have. And when the mayhem began, Luke had been allowed to play with Henry and his friends.

That had been fun, too! Luke rolled over and rested his head on his arm, wriggling himself lower under his blanket as he tried to keep warm. One of the Secondaries had thrown water from a pot over another, and Henry had seen it. Instantly he ran for the nearest tavern, where all the Choristers grabbed pots, pans and cups, before gleefully running to the stream and filling them, before ambushing whomsoever they could. One merchant and his wife had been drenched, as had an Annuellar, but when they mistakenly caught one of the Canons, the game lost its lustre. They all knew Stephen would remember who was guilty and would see to it that their work and behaviour was monitored ever more stringently over the coming weeks.

Luke sighed happily. If he had been boy-Bishop himself he might not have enjoyed it so much. No, thinking about it, he was happy that Henry had won the election.

There was a creak of timber and Luke was just thinking how much this old hall settled in the cold of night, when he heard a muffled snigger and snapped into full wakefulness just as an entire pot of water cascaded over his face.

‘You whoreson, festering, buggering, putrid heap of cat shit!’ he screamed as he leaped from his bed. Henry was already at the far end of the room, holding his sides with laughter, and then he saw the light of battle in Luke’s eyes, and scuttled from the room.

Soaking wet, Luke chased after him, both silent and determined not to be discovered, two boys full of life: Henry, who would in fifteen years become the Archdeacon of Cornwall: and Luke, who would leave the Church and become one of Europe’s leading mercenary soldiers.

In Will Row’s alehouse John Coppe raised his pot and Joan tipped more wine into it, smiling down at him. He toasted his dead friends and drank deeply, passing it to her. She lifted it and closed her eyes, finishing it.

‘He’s leaving the city,’ Coppe said after a few moments.

She nuzzled against him, his arm about her shoulders. He smelled homely, warm, sweaty and all manly. ‘He can go.’

‘Le Berwe had your man killed, though. It doesn’t seem right,’ Coppe grumbled half to himself.

She pulled away and stared down at him. ‘Vincent le Berwe may have told the pirates about the ship, but even if he hadn’t, there’s still a good chance they’d have got to hear. It’s not as if the ship was secret, is it? What happened to you and the others could have happened whether or not le Berwe had dealings with the French, so there’s no point worrying about it. And he’s wrecked. He’ll never have money again, nor position. His wife is dead, and his reputation is gone. I think that’s enough revenge.’

Coppe cocked his head. Outside, the wind was picking up and he could hear the shutters rattling in the grooves, while the bush tied above the doorway squeaked and scratched as the dried twigs moved across the painted door. ‘Rain soon,’ he said.

‘Lucky the fire’s going, then, isn’t it?’

A pounding on the door made both of them look up with alarm, but Joan lifted his arm from her and walked to the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

‘The Coroner. Open up!’

She lifted the peg from the latch and pulled the door open, scraping it across the floor. ‘Coroner?’

‘I’ve just come from the Guildhall. They wanted you to be given this.’

She took the purse and hefted it in her hand. ‘What’s it for?’

‘A few of the merchants wanted to give it to you and Coppe – to remember your ship and the men who were killed. Look on it as a New Year present.’

He pulled his hood up over his head, scowled at her and, before she could utter a word of thanks, he stalked back out into the night.

‘God! look at all this,’ Joan said, peering inside the purse. ‘Do you know what all this money means?’

‘What?’ asked Coppe, craning his neck to see into the purse.

‘It means we can afford more wine!’

And in the Cathedral precinct, in the room Jolinde had shared with Peter, a rat scrambled cautiously across the floor. Tentatively, nose twitching with earnest deliberation, it leapt onto a stool and surveyed the room. The loaf left by Hawisia lay on the table amid a mess of platters, cups and trenchers, but the rat was not discriminating. Anything would do.

It jumped again and was on the table. As it began to gnaw through the outer crust of the loaf, a second and a third rat appeared and followed their leader to the table.

By the time Jolinde returned to pack his few belongings, the rats were all dead.