The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker (9 page)

‘What else has happened to him?’ asked Jeanne.

‘What
hasn’t
happened to him?’ Vincent chuckled unkindly. ‘He’s an interest in several local and overseas trades but this year I doubt whether he’s made any profit at all. He had a share in a ship that was caught by French pirates five-odd years ago, then a man who owed him money died and his widow is refusing to pay back the debt, and in the summer his house was burgled and all his plate taken. Only a few weeks later someone else broke in and not only took all his new plate and spare money, but also set fire to the place. Luckily a neighbour saw the flames and called for help, but much of his hall was damaged and he can scarcely afford to have it repaired. And recently, to add to the injury, a glover to whom he’d loaned money was murdered and left nothing. His apprentice stabbed him to death, then took all his money, so Nicholas won’t see that sum returned either.’

‘The poor fellow,’ said Baldwin, shaking his head. ‘As you say, it’s astonishing bad luck.’

‘I personally feel that a man makes his own good fortune,’ Vincent said with a trace of smugness as he contemplated his mazer. ‘Nicholas, poor bastard, has the smell of failure about him, God Bless! What can you do with someone who invariably fails, eh? Nothing. That’s why he didn’t win the position of Steward as he was expecting.’

‘He was up for a Stewardship?’ Baldwin said.

Vincent gulped down the remains of his mazer. ‘He was in the race against me but when his fortune seemed to slide his friends wouldn’t give up. They asked for him to be granted the Wardenship of the Bridge, which would have put him in charge of the rents on the houses and shops on the bridge apart from everything else – but the Freemen wouldn’t allow it. The city can’t afford to have someone that unlucky as Warden. No, they all voted for another man in the end. Someone more reliable.’

Jeanne had moved to their side. She wasn’t sure that she liked Vincent; he seemed too bullish and proud, almost amused at the disasters which had struck this man Nicholas Karvinel. Now she interrupted, saying, ‘Who would that be?’

He smiled, but then allowed a frown to pass over his brow as if realising that his levity was out of place. ‘It was Ralph – the glover who died.’

Peter Golloc, Secondary cleric and sometime clerk to Nicholas Karvinel, returned to his room with leaden steps. He felt like an old man, as if he had aged years in the last week. His face was puffy from weeping at night and exhaustion threatened to force him to doze even during the services. He felt awful. His bowels were loose, and when he went to the privy, he had severe diarrhoea. His belly was on fire after every meal or drink, to the extent that he hadn’t been able to eat yet today. Every time he swallowed water he nearly retched – and wine was unthinkable. He had drunk some with Jolinde at the tavern earlier, but it had turned his stomach even before he saw Karvinel.

It wasn’t unknown for a malaise to strike a man like this, of course. People put it down to meat which had been off, or inhaling foul air, a miasma, on his way to the Cathedral but from all he had heard, such evil vapours only struck during hot, humid summers, and in any case, if the air had been that revolting, why hadn’t anyone else been struck down by it? Come to that, why hadn’t he smelled it himself? With a shuddering sigh he accepted his fate. He knew the cause of his illness and it filled him with self-loathing – and despair.

Only with an effort could he acknowledge other people in the precinct: the Secondary Adam chatting to a Canon; behind them a couple of idle choirboys scuffing their feet in the dirt; a cripple who waited hopefully at the bakery door. Peter smiled sadly at this last and reminded himself that others suffered more than him.

At his house he pushed open the door and, dragging his feet, crossed to a stool where he could sit. As he sank onto it with relief, he grabbed at his belly again, but forced himself to relax. It wasn’t now that his ailment would attack but later, when he was ready for church. He knew the symptoms only too well.

It was an end – he knew that. He had hoped to earn some money to go away, to find a place at university so that he could learn his clerking properly, so that he could devote himself to useful studies and teaching. Maybe the Bishop, who had been enormously generous to others, might give him the money: Bishop Walter II had done as much for clerks all over his See. But now Peter’s guilt and the resulting disease of his soul made all that impossible. He could not go to a university with a clear conscience; he dare not confess to his malady and gain a cure.

The door slammed and another cleric came in, whistling.

‘Hello, Jolly,’ Peter said, smiling weakly.

‘Peter. Here, catch!’ He threw a small joint of beef at his friend, then a great round loaf of bread.

Peter caught the joint, but the bread slipped from his grasp. His fingers were too feeble even to grip a loaf of bread. He felt the breath catch in his throat, making him sob with despair.

Jolinde’s mouth fell open and he paused, pulling his cloak from his back. ‘What in God’s name . . .? You look terrible!’

‘I feel it,’ Peter said with a feeble gesture. He looked at the food.

‘Take it, Peter. You need it.’

‘Where did it come from?’

Jolinde Bolle sighed, but faced his friend. ‘Look, I didn’t steal it, all right? The meat I bought with some money from my father. The bread came from him too.’

Peter gave a wan smile. ‘Well . . . thanks, then.’

‘Least I can do.
You
can’t afford it,’ Jolinde said, taking the bread and meat and setting them on the table.

Jolinde and Peter had been sharing their rooms since the year when their voices had broken. Like Adam they had failed to proceed to the lower orders, but both were allowed to remain with the Dean and Chapter, helping with the essential work of the Cathedral in the hope that they might be able to advance themselves.

Peter closed his eyes. They hurt, even with the poor light here in their chamber, and he heard Jolinde fetch a cloak. ‘Here, put this on. It’ll keep you warm,’ he said, passing it over Peter’s shoulders.

‘Thank you. Yes, that feels a little better,’ Peter murmured.

‘You must see the infirmarer.’

Peter shook his head. ‘No, I won’t see him. There’s no point.’

‘What do you mean, “no point”? He might be able to cure you. A barber to let out a little of your blood . . .’

‘I won’t,’ Peter declared stubbornly. Jolinde had brought him a small pot of wine, and he sipped at it now, wincing as he felt the queasiness return to his belly. ‘Ugh, no, I can’t.’

‘Peter, you have to see someone. I know an apothecary in the city, won’t you consult him? Or someone else who’s trained in medicine?’

‘Look, for God’s sake, just leave the subject, will you!’

‘No, I won’t,’ Jolinde approached him and, kneeling before him, he peered up into Peter’s eyes with an anxious expression on his face. ‘Look, you have to see a physician. I’ve never seen you look so unwell. Your skin is pasty, your hair is lank . . . and you look so skinny. Have you not been eating?’

Peter looked away, and Jolinde stood up with a swift intake of breath. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve not been able to eat for days, and now you won’t see a doctor because you’re convinced you’re going to die. Oh, Peter. God’s body! This is stupid. Let me go and fetch the infirmarer now.’

‘No, not now. Let me wait until the morning. See how I feel then,’ Peter begged. ‘If it’s so serious I die in the night, there’s nothing he could do now to save me, is there? If I’m going to die, I’d rather do so quietly, making my peace with God, than in the infirmary with a load of old men coughing and hacking through the night. Is that so strange?’

‘You’re scared that he might tell you you are about to die,’ Jolinde said softly. ‘It is not a sin to fear the pain of death, Peter. Why don’t we both go now, and ask the infirmarer to examine you? Come! I shall stay by your side.’

Peter wearily turned his face to the fire. ‘Oh, why don’t you listen? I don’t want to go.’ The roiling began in his belly once more and he clenched his teeth. Behind his eyes he felt the prickling of tears at the horror of it all. He could have wept under the burden of his appalling secret. ‘I prefer to wait. One night can’t hurt. And if it is food poisoning, I shall be fine by morning, I am certain.’ It was his own secret. He couldn’t tell anyone. Even Jolly would hate him if he knew the truth.

He looked up and saw Jolinde nod. If he could have, Peter would have turned to him, begged for help, but he couldn’t. His secret was so terrible that he couldn’t seek the help of any other man. He hated even to see the sympathy in Jolinde’s eyes as his companion watched him rise.

‘Where are you going?’ Jolinde asked.

‘I’ve got to get some air. You stay here. I need solitude . . . to think.’

Taking the cup of wine which Jolinde had given him, and the loaf which the other pressed upon him, Peter went out into the cold air.

It was almost oppressive, it was so still. Animals appeared to have fled the area, seeking a warm chamber or stable. Only a human could be out in this, Peter told himself. He shuddered as another spasm shook his body, but resolutely forced himself on. Perhaps the cold would help him. He sipped wine and broke off a piece of bread, chewing it slowly and swallowing it with more wine. It hurt his stomach and almost made him heave, but that was all part of his disease. If he could eat at least half of the loaf, then he would have a little strength, could combat the evil within him.

With a series of cries, Choristers burst from the Cathedral, released from their final singing practice. Most scampered or pelted along the paths, heading for their hall and a last drink of hot wine before bed.

He watched them wistfully, recalling a time when he had been carefree and happy. Before he had been lured into evil and had been taken over. A violent clenching made him clutch at his belly.

‘Sir, are you all right?’

Looking down, Peter saw Luke peering up at him with an expression of concern. ‘I am fine,’ Peter told him. ‘I just have this pain. If it hasn’t gone by morning, I’ll see the infirmarer. You are on the way to your hall?’

‘Yes. Are you?’

Peter smiled faintly. ‘No, I came out for a walk.’

‘With your supper?’

Looking down, Peter realised he was still gripping his bread. ‘I’d forgotten it.’

Luke gave him a vague smile.
He
wouldn’t have forgotten a whole loaf of bread. Like the other Choristers, Luke lived in a state of perpetual hunger. No matter how much he ate, there was always a corner of his stomach that felt just a little empty. Not that the Secondaries were all that different, he thought. All, Secondaries and Choristers, depended upon their Canons for their food and some were more frugal with their servings than others. Luke’s Canon was Stephen, a man who carried his thrifty habits with him from the Treasury into his own home. It was rare for Luke not to be hungry of an evening.

Peter was still gazing at the loaf. The sight of it made his stomach churn anew. Glancing at Luke, he smiled. ‘I remember that when I was a Chorister, my Canon considered that if a few loaves and fishes could feed a crowd, a Chorister should be grateful for the same share. He was a most religious man.’

Luke giggled. It was rare for a Chorister to be treated as a human by a Secondary, and he rather liked it. Peter was known as one of the few Secondaries who would act with generosity towards the Choristers, but his next act surprised Luke.

‘Here!’ he said, breaking the loaf in two and passing one half to Luke. ‘Keep it for the moment when you need a little extra to eat.’

‘Thank you . . . Thanks very much,’ Luke stammered, holding the gift tightly. He watched as the Secondary slowly walked away, then looked down, thinking, He’s mad.

It was a view with which Peter would have entirely agreed. He stumbled as he walked, trying to ignore his aches and pains. It was not easy. He chewed methodically at the bread, his mouth dry, washing it down with slurps of wine.

‘Oh, God,’ he moaned to himself as he felt the queasiness attack his belly again. ‘God, please help me!
Save
me!’

Jeanne and her husband left Vincent le Berwe’s house just as the sun was sinking. Here in the city there was a curious twilight as the sun hid behind the houses and city wall; at their home in Furnshill, the sun concealed herself behind the woods, leaving the sky illuminated from within by a golden-pink torch, then swiftly extinguishing herself. Here there was none of that healthful, glowing ruddiness. The air was filled with the smoke from a thousand fires and down towards the river, west of them, the tanners and dyers sent up plumes of yellow and black smoke from their coal furnaces. It coloured the sun’s dying rays with greyness and filth.

It was the kind of impression that filled Baldwin with longing for his own manor. He was out of place here, among the bustling hordes, and yearned for the clean, fresh air of Cadbury, a good rounsey beneath him, a hunting dog at his side and a quarry before him. That was life. Not this mean existence in narrow alleys and streets filled with the refuse of other men, of rotting carcasses of cats and dogs, of scuttling rats and the all-pervasive reek of excrement.

A drunk walked towards them and Baldwin took his wife’s arm above the elbow, guiding her gently towards the wall where she would be safe. The drunk saw his movement and belched uncomprehendingly, then staggered on, bouncing off a wall and swearing at it.

Baldwin sighed. They were still in the High Street, but now he turned northwards along Goldsmith’s Street. It was quiet now as the sun disappeared. Fine gold and silverwork could not be produced by candlelight, so the smiths were all shutting their shopfronts, lifting up the shutters and bolting them inside. A short way along the street lay the crossroads. The left turning led to the Talbot’s Inn, and Baldwin was about to turn this way when he happened to glance right.

A few yards from him stood a pleasantly appointed house and shop. Limewashed timbers and plaster showed that it had been looked after, but now there was an air of sadness about it. A cross had been painted upon the door, and a small bunch of flowers lay on the doorstep. Nearby stood a lone figure, a one-legged cripple resting uncomfortably on a crutch. He was staring up at the house. Recalling Vincent’s words, Baldwin guessed that this must be the house of the dead glover: Ralph.