The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Chapter Twenty-Two

Stephen sat at his table and waited patiently while his servant brought in a large platter with the pies and dishes. Another man bowed and placed the salt at his side, and then the trencher was before him, a small loaf at his side, which he methodically broke into four precise pieces. One quarter went straight into his alms dish for the poor, the rest was for himself.

He began to eat, his eyes on his guests. Adam looked as scruffy as usual. Stephen watched him fixedly until he took his own loaf of bread and dropped an offering into the alms dish. Gervase had told Stephen about the attack on Luke, so he was not surprised to see that Luke looked tired and pale. Stephen wondered whether he was feeling unwell. ‘Luke?’

In answer to his Canon’s kindly enquiry Luke assured him that he was fine, thanking him for his concern while, from the corner of his eye, he saw Adam smugly grinning to himself.

‘Thanks for the bread,’ Adam muttered a short while later.

‘What?’

‘The bread you left for me yesterday. It was lovely… Mmm.’

Luke stared, then glanced down at Adam’s plate. The bread didn’t look the same as the one he had carried yesterday, not at all. Adam was surely only trying to upset him. It was Henry who had thrown him into the shit.

‘Shame Henry came out a moment or two afterwards. I was going to roll your face in the crap and stuff it down your shirt. I think,’ Adam considered judicially, ‘I think I’ll do that later.’

Adam pulled off another piece of bread and studied it with a satisfied grin, but Luke hardly noticed. It had never occurred to him that it could have been Adam all the time – Henry’s presence had made his guilt so apparent. As he watched, Adam turned, shoved the bread into his mouth and chewed with a smile.

It wasn’t the half-loaf he’d dropped, but that was probably too old and stale for him. Or he’d eaten it earlier. Maybe he had, just so he could gloatingly tell Luke that he’d eaten it. Adam didn’t need it himself, not with his access to the bakery, for he often delivered loaves to Canons, and he could select his own, picking the largest when he wanted to. And now Adam was taunting him with the knowledge that he had stolen Luke’s own dried-up bit of bread. Adam had attacked him last night, and Luke had seen to it that Henry was punished.

Luke felt a simmering anger beginning to rise in him. He felt his face flush, his belly tighten and the muscles of his throat contract. It was hard to swallow. Somehow, he didn’t know how, he would have his revenge.

Stephen reached for the salt and glanced about the quiet table. Seeing Luke’s expression, he hesitated. It looked as though Luke was remembering his attack, he thought. Children like Henry could be horrible little beasts if they weren’t controlled. He hoped the matter hadn’t upset Luke too much. The boy did look rather peaky, he thought.

As Stephen was considering asking Luke whether he had thought of visiting the infirmarer, Adam hiccuped. He went a little pale as he burped again and glanced apologetically at Stephen. He felt rather appalled that he might have offended his Canon. All knew how Stephen hated noise at his dining table. He was the precise opposite of a courtly noble: there was no place at his table for frivolity or merriment. Dancers and musicians were unwanted. It was like living with a saint, but a saint with a streak of cruelty, Adam thought. Stephen could be unkind when he wanted. Sometimes he would use his tongue to pull a man apart, reducing even a strong fellow to a quivering wreck in a short time. Adam looked up warily and saw that Stephen’s gaze had moved on. That was a relief.

In reality Stephen’s mind was hardly on Adam at all. He had scarcely registered his Secondary’s lapse. Stephen’s attention was fixed upon the problems with the Cathedral. Even today, which was theoretically one of rest, his mind whirled with numbers and expenses. There was so much to be done.

It was ridiculous that when the Dean and Chapter had a crucial task to perform, which was to finish the Cathedral that they had begun, they should relax for over a week. The workmen should be back now, creating the fittings for the new Lady Chapel, the new High Altar and the screens for the choir. Instead, they were probably rutting on their sluts, stuffing their faces with strong ales and rich foods, or lying moaning after the event.

Stephen felt very strongly about it, knowing that if there was a temptation, he could easily fall prey to it. It was many years since he had enjoyed an encounter with a woman, longer still since he had realised the danger that lurked in too much strong ale or wine, but he always had the fearsome example of his brother before him. If he should lapse, he could become a sinner. Better by far that he should divorce himself from all temptations. Only that way could he guarantee himself a place in Heaven.

The Cathedral would be a magnificent building, he considered. In his mind’s eye he could see the place rising up. The two towers, each with its tall steeple, the massive western doorway with its profusion of carved figures, all painted to make them the more lifelike: Kings, Queens, Bishops, Saints; all honouring the great work that had gone on in the Cathedral. And inside the magnificence of the gold and scarlet paintwork and the long, sweeping ceiling. It made his heart beat faster just to think of it. And, inside, the multiple chapels. To the Virgin, to St John the Evangelist, to St Gabriel and St George among others. It would be a wonderful place for any man to enter. Tall, wide, with beautiful voices rising in the clean air while the sun streamed in through the marvellous, coloured eastern window at dawn, or the equally impressive western window at sunset, it was a dream to make a man’s blood rush!

And Peter had threatened it all.

Stephen had seen him that last day before he died, the twenty-third. It was the first opportunity he had found to speak to Peter alone. He had gone to Jolinde and Peter’s hovel and questioned Peter closely. He had to, for his brother’s words had burned into him after he had visited Sir Thomas in the woods that morning.

Aye, he had watched and listened to Peter’s answers, and the lad had lied to him. He knew it, for Peter was not a good liar, and his deceit rang discordantly in the Canon’s ears. Eventually, worn down by Stephen’s questions, Peter had confessed. He had told Stephen all, under the promise of secrecy. He had not been with Karvinel when Karvinel swore he had been attacked; he had not witnessed Hamond attacking anyone. He had been in his hall all that day until Karvinel came and claimed to him that he had been attacked, said that one of the outlaws was even now sitting in a tavern. Peter had urged him to call the Hue and Cry, but Karvinel protested with tears in his eyes that no one would believe him.

To Stephen, Peter had begged forgiveness, had declared that he would do anything to atone for his crime, but he had been urged to lie in order to support the law. It was only after Hamond had hanged that he had learned that Hamond had been innocent. And that knowledge tore at him.

It was no excuse. Stephen could give him no hope for absolution. Peter had sent an innocent man to his death by swearing a false oath. By his perjury, he was a murderer. He deserved his own end.

Stephen sighed, then glanced down to see that a fresh course was already before him. It was a steaming dish of mussels, the whole served with a piquant wine sauce. The steam rose, giving off a wonderful smell.

The steward passed along the table setting the bowls before each diner. Using his knife to take a little salt from the silver pot, the Canon sprinkled it over his bowl. His cook never used enough salt. With a little sigh of contentment he dipped his spoon into the dish and extracted the first of the succulent creatures.

There was a slight movement from the end of the table. Stephen made a point of not looking. It was important that the Choristers should learn to respect and admire their elders, and if Adam took to bullying his nephew Luke, Stephen felt strongly that he, as a Canon, should not interfere. It was for them to resolve the issue. Luke in particular, he thought grimly, should learn humility. Otherwise he could succumb to the family’s weakness and sinfulness.

As he finished his bowl and began scraping up the last of the delicious liquor, there was a cough, and a stool scraped. Stephen looked up irritably.

It was Adam. His face had gone green. ‘I… I… feel…’ He clapped a hand over his mouth, but too late. To Stephen’s disgust a stream of vomit issued, spattering the table. ‘Good God!’ Stephen cried. ‘Go outside, you cretin, before you…’

He was too late. Adam fell to his knees, threw up once more, then collapsed retching.

Calling his steward, Stephen thundered: ‘Take that repellent fool out and get someone in here to clean the table. Ugh! He has quite ruined my appetite. What is it, is he drunk? Eh? Have you been drinking, you sot?’

Adam stared back, his eyes red and streaming, his mouth besmeared with vomit. ‘I’ve been poisoned, sir!’

After leaving the Coroner, Baldwin showed Simon Ralph’s shop. It was a small, narrow-fronted place, and Baldwin tried to peer in through the closed shutters while Simon stood back at the opposite side of the street and looked it over.

The shop in Correstrete had lime-washed walls and carefully painted woodwork to show that the dead owner had valued his property. The roof was shingle, and the wooden slats still possessed the fresh almost orange tints of newness. There was no chimney, nor any louvres through which excess smoke could leave. Two doors gave access, one to the shop, the other to the hall behind, and both were well protected by the overhanging jetty from the upper chamber, whose oak timbers looked newer than the rest of the surrounding woodwork, making Simon think that the glover had only recently put in the second storey.

Not many of the other houses in this street were so well appointed or modern. Most looked little better than hovels, with a uniformly slatternly appearance; Ralph’s stood out like a gentlewoman surrounded by drab sluts.

It was while he stood there that a beggar came limping along the road and Simon cast a scornful eye over him. From his threadbare fustian cloak to his scuffed and ruined shoe, the bowl hanging by a thong from his neck, the fellow looked every bit the professional beggar, and Simon had no wish to be bothered by his sort today. He and Baldwin were too busy.

Seeing how he curled his lip, John Coppe changed his mind about asking for money. Coppe was perfectly used to being ignored. He gave a mental shrug and considered the second man. Baldwin was at the door studying the shop, peering in through a gap, and Coppe began to wonder whether he had arrived just in time to prevent a theft. The cold had persuaded him to go and seek the warmth of a tavern, but now it looked as though his old friend’s shop was about to be broken into. He should call the Bailiff – and yet why bother? Whatever Ralph had owned was no longer his. The poor fellow was dead. Perhaps it was as well to let someone rob the place rather than see all Ralph’s goods fall under a tax or be legally stolen by the Receiver and others.

All these considerations flashed through Coppe’s mind as he hobbled along, and by the time he was close to the knight he had made up his mind. He tentatively held out a hand. ‘Master? A coin for some pottage?’

Baldwin gave the man a long, thoughtful stare, then nodded and reached into his purse. He drew out a coin. The beggar’s face lit up with delight when he saw it, and he bowed. ‘Thank you, Master, thank you.’

Coppe wanted to leave and invest the money in a refreshing pot of ale, but something made him remain standing there, watching the knight peering again through a shuttered window. ‘He’s dead, you know.’

Simon crossed the street casually as Baldwin nodded slowly. ‘I had heard. I wanted to see where he had lived.’

‘They ought to make him a saint,’ Coppe said gruffly.

Simon glanced up at the house. ‘Why? Was he good to you?’

‘He was always giving us money. Not like some of the tightfisted bastards in this city. If you was on fire they wouldn’t piss on you without charging for their time and trouble – aye, and for the ale they’d drunk, too.’

‘But Ralph was generous?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Him? He used to give feasts to the poorest of the city. At Christmas and Candlemas, and if the weather stayed bad, he’d give another on Lady Day. Any of us who could get to his door was always welcome to a pot of wine and some bread. He didn’t feel the need to wait for a feast day.’

Coppe was gazing up at the house with an expression of such sadness and longing that Simon found himself wishing he could have met Ralph. Certainly for a man to have earned the trust and loyalty of even a tatty beggar like this one spoke of his Christian spirit.

Baldwin interrupted his reverie. ‘Have you often been inside his hall?’

‘Often enough.’

‘I should like to go inside to see whether anything is missing. Would you know if anyone would have a key to it?’

John Coppe cast an eye up and down the knight, his mind recalling his first assumption. Baldwin did not look like a thief, but sometimes the wealthiest men in the land could behave worse than the poorest. That was how they became rich. ‘Why would you want to go inside?’

‘I am Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton and the Coroner has asked me to enquire about Ralph’s death. I want to see whether he was robbed of anything other than his money when he died.’

‘Oh! Well, in that case I’d try there,’ Coppe said, pointing at the house next door but one. ‘Ask for David. He used to see quite a lot of Ralph.’

It was a larger place, but not so well looked after, to Simon’s mind. The paint was peeling from the woodwork and the limewash hadn’t been renewed for many a long year. Strips had faded or been discoloured by the smoke and soot of the adjoining buildings and it had an air of shabbiness, like a woman who has lost interest in her looks and cares only for the essentials of life: no longer bothering about her physical appearance, only about being comfortable.

The owner was a cheerful enough fellow: stooped, peering through narrowed eyes under a thin greying thatch of curling hair. He wore a good quality shirt and tunic, although both had seen better days. He looked enquiringly at the three men when he came to his door, and when Baldwin told him who he was, he agreed to let them see the house and shop so long as he himself stayed with them.

‘This is fair,’ Baldwin said. ‘I would prefer witnesses.’

The four entered the dead glover’s hall first. The neighbour had a key and he threw open the front door, standing aside to let Baldwin lead the way inside, Simon behind him.

It was much like any other little hall. The corridor from the front door led along the length of the shop into the hall itself, behind which was a small pantry and parlour. Baldwin stood and contemplated the hall, then went upstairs with David while Simon went out and opened the door from the pantry. At the back was a little yard with a variety of plants growing in raised beds prettily laid out with wickerwork walls to keep the compost and manure in place. The back door was locked with a wooden peg that fitted into and securely held a latch.

Simon surveyed it, but it told him nothing about the death of the glover or the identity of his killer.

Walking back inside, he crouched at the fireside. Coppe had sat down on a stool at the wall and Simon saw that his foot had left ashy prints over the floor. When the door opened, a little of the fire’s ashes were disturbed by the draught, blowing out of the hearth and onto the floor where people would step in it and, like Coppe, tread the ashes all over the place.

When Baldwin came down the ladder, he saw Simon at the doorway. ‘Nothing up there, I’m afraid.’

In the shop itself Baldwin and Simon asked their companions to wait in the street doorway while they looked around. Simon in particular had hoped to find ashy footprints, but there were none. So many people had come in after finding the body that there was nothing more to be discovered. He leaned against a large counter-top with his arms crossed while Baldwin stood in the middle of the floor and gazed about.

The room was square, with skins and leathers tied together and hanging from strings looped over hooks on all the walls. Behind the counter were shelves, and here lay some of Ralph and Elias’s finished products: soft pigskin gloves; delicate and dainty light gloves for ladies; heavier, working two-fingered gloves, into each finger of which the wearer pushed two of his own; fine soft gloves for a gentleman; even thick gauntlets for men-at-arms.

Simon found his attention wandering. He looked at the hanging furs and leathers, smelling the faintly sour odour of the smoke, barks and urine used in the tanning processes. Then he found himself contemplating the paintwork. On the wall at the front there was only good, clean whitewash. Only when he noticed some marks low on the side wall under some skins did he feel his interest waken. He crossed the room and bent, touching the marks and sniffing at his fingers. ‘Aha! This is where he died, then.’

‘Why are you so sure?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Men who’ve been stabbed will often thrash about and kick, won’t they? The floor in the house there had ash on it. Some had got onto Ralph’s boots, I guess, and when he fell, his boot caught the wall. These smudges are wood ash. I imagine he opened the door to someone, turned to lead the way in here and that was then they threw the first blow, getting him in the back. Ralph fell, and his boots scuffed up the wall here.’

From the doorway, David spoke up. ‘He wasn’t there when they found him.’

‘Where was he?’

‘Here.’

Simon crouched again. There was blood in a dried and crusted pool where David pointed. ‘Someone must have moved him.’

David shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Only in so far that he was moved away from the door. The killer couldn’t get in and out with him lying in the way,’ Simon said. ‘Then again, perhaps someone wanted to avoid trouble.’

The ‘First Finder’ of a murdered man would be fined to ensure he appeared at the Coroner’s court. Many chose to avoid that cost by pretending not to see a body.

Baldwin added, ‘So many men prefer to deny seeing anything. It is cheaper.’ He noticed a small frown on David’s face as he absorbed all this. Baldwin’s tone sharpened. ‘Did you see anyone here the morning Ralph died.’

David looked as though he was about to shake his head, but then he grimaced unhappily. ‘Masters, it’s so hard to know what to do for the best, but yes, I saw someone with him that morning.’

Baldwin’s eyebrows rose. ‘Did you tell the Bailiff or anyone?’

‘There was nothing to tell! I saw Ralph and another man entering here. That’s all. I looked away, and when I looked back, they were gone.’

‘Didn’t it occur to you that the man with him might have killed Ralph?’ Baldwin exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘You saw Ralph with his murderer and did nothing?’

‘I didn’t see who was with him, so there was little I could tell anyone. And I didn’t know Ralph was going to be killed. I just thought he’d opened up early for once and there was no reason to report that,’ he said defensively.

Baldwin glared at him furiously. ‘You mean you didn’t want to get involved in the Coroner’s inquest and risk getting amerced to turn up when the murder trial is held, preferring to hold your tongue to avoid paying anyone.’

The man flushed slightly but didn’t speak.

John Coppe gripped his crutch as if readying himself to strike David with it. He rasped, ‘You saw the man? You saw the bastard who killed the glover and didn’t do anything about it? You’d rather see the apprentice hanged, is that it?’

The other three ignored him. ‘So,’ Baldwin said slowly, ‘was the man with Ralph his apprentice – Elias?’

‘I didn’t see clearly…’

‘Be damned to that!’ Simon roared suddenly, his anger getting the better of him. He took a couple of quick paces towards the man. The neighbour would have bolted, but the beggar grabbed his arm, and before he could free himself, Simon had his shirtfront in both fists. He hauled the man closer until their noses almost touched. ‘The knight asked you if it was Elias who was there with his master. Think carefully, you God-damned shit, because if you start lying to protect your own arse, I’ll have you in gaol before you can fart.’

‘You can’t – you have no authority here. I’m a Freeman of the City, I…’

‘Fetch Coroner Roger,’ Simon spat at the beggar.

‘No!’ the man cried, wilting in Simon’s grip. ‘All right, I don’t think it was Elias. I would have told the court, I wouldn’t have let the pathetic wretch hang for it. I just didn’t think it’d matter if I didn’t tell people just yet.’

‘You bastard!’ Simon said. He maintained his grip. ‘You saw that poor devil stuck in gaol for something he never did, and did nothing to protect him. Just to save you a few pennies.’

‘Did you recognise the man?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘I told you, no! He was under the overhang in the shadow and wearing a cloak or something, with a wide-brimmed hat. I only had a fleeting glimpse, no more. I thought it was just a client.’

‘That tells us nothing. Everyone will have a cloak and a broad-brimmed hat against the rain,’ Baldwin said.

Simon studied the man in his grasp. ‘Not necessarily, Baldwin. A cleric wouldn’t, would he?’

‘You consider this finally proves Peter’s innocence?’

‘Perhaps,’ Simon said. He shook David, not ungently. ‘It wasn’t Elias?’

‘No. Elias is taller, more gawky and clumsy. This one moved confidently, easily,’ David muttered. ‘I just thought it was someone after an urgent bit of work or something. How was I to know he’d kill poor old Ralph?’

‘Was this fellow taller or shorter than Ralph?’ Baldwin pressed him. At the same time Simon began to relax his grip a little.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps… no, he was shorter. I remember now. Ralph opened the door and thrust it open, allowing the client in first, and Ralph was taller.’

The beggar hawked and spat on David’s shoulder. ‘You make me want to puke. You were going to let the apprentice swing for something you knew he didn’t do, just so you could keep away from paying money into the court.’

David pursed his lips while Simon hastily withdrew his hand from the spittle. ‘Get inside,’ he said. Then to the beggar: ‘You stay out here and there’ll be another penny for you. Yes?’

‘Yes, Master,’ Coppe said, his head hanging low.

Ignoring David, Simon addressed Baldwin. ‘We know Ralph was murdered in this room. The killer didn’t run much of a risk. All he had to do was stab Ralph and leave him, dart next door and take everything from the cash box. Easy.’

‘Perhaps.’

Simon ran his hand over the gloves on sale. ‘He was a good worker.’

‘So was Elias,’ David offered.

‘He still bloody is,’ Baldwin snapped.

David appeared fully cowed and like many who find themselves on the wrong side of the law, he was keen to show how total was his conversion. Taking a deep breath he cleared his throat. ‘Sirs, there is another thing. A while before the two entered here, I saw another man.’

‘How long before and who was it?’

‘The bells were still ringing for the service, so I think it was before the first Mass, and it was a cleric of some sort – I think a lad of twenty or so years. He had a thin sort of face, long and anxious. I saw him quite clearly.’

‘Was he a Vicar?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I think he was one of the Secondaries.’ He hung his head. ‘I think it was the one you mentioned. The lad called Peter.’

‘Peter was out that morning,’ Coppe agreed, and told them about seeing the cleric running smack into Ralph outside the gate. ‘If it wasn’t for the Treasurer, Ralph would have fallen,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think Peter was well that day. Later I saw him leave the Cathedral again, walking as if he was in a daze. He left after Ralph and didn’t return till much later.’

‘You didn’t see him come back here?’ Baldwin asked David.

‘I was working after that. Maybe he returned. There was someone outside with a wagon, I know. While I was out back I heard the wheels stop outside here.’

‘I see,’ said Baldwin. ‘So now we know Stephen was outside the Cathedral that morning as well.’

David jerked his head at the door. ‘I saw Peter go to the front door of the house and walk inside with a small bag in his hand. He didn’t look guilty or furtive. If he was breaking in to commit a crime, he was begging to be caught.’

Baldwin gave a dry smile. ‘I think that is the most observant comment you have given for a long time. Did you see him leave?’

‘It was a short while later. He came out, looked up and down the road, and then hurried off back to the Cathedral grounds. I noticed that he didn’t have anything in his hands then. It was quite some while later that I saw Ralph and his visitor, and then my wife called me and I went back to my own hall.’

‘Well, I think you have cleared up much that was confusing,’ Baldwin said. He was handling the hanging leathers, a small frown puckering his brow.

‘What is it?’ Simon asked.

‘The Coroner told us Ralph paid Vincent le Berwe for basan and cordwain and took it away the same day, but there’s none here.’