The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

Chapter Six

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.

Vincent had said that it was the apprentice who had killed him. Probably a dispute over how much the apprentice was being paid, or an argument over whom the apprentice was seeing. Masters were sometimes short with their boys, especially when their charges discovered the sweet delights of the opposite sex, although it was extremely rare for an apprentice to murder his master.

Baldwin had never heard of such an event in all his years in Crediton as Keeper of the King’s Peace. The idea that a servant could murder his master was terrible – incomprehensible. It was surely caused by the evil nature of life in a city, he thought. Not much worse than Vincent’s tale of the robbed man and his robber, Hamond, someone who already had an evil reputation. Anyone who had once been thought guilty would inevitably be assumed to be the perpetrator when another offence was committed. Why look for another felon when the whole town knew of one already? was the attitude of many. Especially when confirmed by the evidence of the merchant and his clerk.

When the Knights Templar had been destroyed, Sir Baldwin was horrified. He knew his friends and comrades were all men who had chosen to dedicate their lives to God, to obey His will, to swear the threefold oaths of poverty, chastity and obedience, and to fight in His holy army. Templars had been accused of hideous crimes: that they renounced God and worshipped Satan at their initiation ceremonies – accusations which were ludicrous! Baldwin’s Order had demonstrated near-fanatical devotion to Christ. At Safed, two hundred Templars were captured and told they could live if they renounced Christ and accepted the true faith of Islam. Next morning they were forced to watch while their commander was hideously butchered: skinned alive in front of them. When he died at last, his men were ordered to abandon Christianity or die. To a man they affirmed their belief in Christ and one by one were beheaded.

Safed and other instances of martyrdom proved that the Templars were honourable. Their trial was a showpiece. There was no justice involved; it was simply persecution with the aim of stealing all their wealth. In the aftermath Baldwin was fired with a sense of disgust and hatred for absolute power. He was determined to ensure that the innocent were protected and unjust decisions were quashed. That was the spur to Sir Baldwin. He was filled with a passionate loathing of bigotry, injustice and politics – for it was politicians who had lied about, and seen to the ruin of, his Order.

That was why he was aware of a niggling unease. The hanged felon had been known: he had a ‘common fame’. Baldwin shivered. Many men, he knew, had been wrongly executed on the basis of flimsy evidence and wrong assumptions.

‘Something wrong, my love?’ Jeanne asked quietly.

‘No, nothing. A man walked over my grave.’ The merchant had identified the felon, so had his clerk. ‘No, I am fine,’ he said, and carried on at a faster pace as if he could leave his unsettled feelings behind him.

By nightfall the Secondaries were asleep, like the Canons and others. They must all wake for the first Mass at midnight, so tended to get their heads down early.

Peter was no exception. He lay on his palliasse and grunted and snuffled in his sleep, but nearby Jolly lay with his hands clasped behind his head and stared upwards. He had to wait a little longer, to make sure that the porter and others would be well gone. Then he could nip off out to see Claricia. Beautiful Claricia. Just the memory of the smell of her hair and sweet-scented body was enough to make the blood course faster through his veins. At last he could wait no longer. He stood, pulled on a thicker cloak against the chill and moved towards the door.

But on the way he froze as Peter cried out, ‘No!’

Jolinde turned and looked at his friend, and then realised Peter was still asleep. He was about to ease open the door when he heard Peter begin to talk in his sleep. Words, wild and frantic, tumbled out of him. Although he was not by nature nosy, as Peter spoke Jolly listened, at first with amusement, but then intently and with a close horror.

Talbot’s Inn was a good-sized property, not significantly larger than the other houses in Paul Street, but then there was no reason why it should be. It had been a merchant’s home until recently, when the merchant in question decided to profit from the excess of ale which he regularly brewed; however, the only sign that he had opened his parlour and hall to guests was the large blackthorn bush which he had tied over the front door. Baldwin entered and ushered in his wife, relieved to hear only a few voices murmuring in the hall and sniffing at the smell of roasting fowl and fresh bread.

He followed Jeanne into the hall, then stopped dead as he recognised the man coming towards him. ‘Simon? God’s blood! What are you doing here?’

‘As I recall, Baldwin, you weren’t much use during the investigation into the murders at Belstone,’ Simon Puttock laughed, grasping Sir Baldwin’s forearm. ‘So, as I was the poor devil who had to do all the work, the good Bishop decided to reward me too.’

‘And deservedly, too. The good Bailiff of Lydford should be rewarded,’ Baldwin said heartily. ‘Edgar, more wine from the landlord. Now,’ he continued, helping his wife to a seat near the fire and drawing up a stool for himself, sitting upon it and studying Simon with a steady eye, ‘tell us about Meg. How is she?’

Simon let his head fall back and roared with delight. ‘She is well, Baldwin. Only a couple of weeks to go and she’ll pod. And then I hope I shall have another son!’

Baldwin nodded without speaking. He prayed with all his heart that Simon should win this single desire. Simon had been the proud father of a boy, young Peterkin, who had died quite suddenly two years before. With that death Simon had felt that all his dreams and hopes were also dead, and the fresh-faced, middle-aged man (for Simon was already over thirty-five) had suddenly lost his square, rugged appearance. In his place was a grey-faced man, his brown hair shot with silver; deep gashes were slashed at either side of his mouth, wrinkles appeared at his brow, and all at once Simon had looked ready for the grave himself. It was only his work which had kept him on an even keel, Baldwin felt. Thank God the Bailiff had recovered some of his easygoing nature since then.

And it had not only affected Simon. His wife had been a pretty, contented young woman, with a tall, slender frame, long, blonde hair and an appealing face. As soon as Peterkin died her flesh fell away, leaving her ghostly thin, with a white complexion. Baldwin had always felt a strong affection for Margaret, and to see how she had faded was dreadful.

‘How are you keeping, Jeanne?’ Simon asked, turning to gauge her shape with an experienced, measuring gaze. ‘You’re just beginning to show.’

She reddened, but held her head high. ‘Perhaps my waist is thickening a little.’

‘Waist? Hah, more your belly, my dear! You wait, you’ll be heavier than ever before in four or five months’ time. Why, Meg puts on at least a third as much again as her usual weight.’ He nudged Baldwin with a broad grin. ‘More to cuddle up to at night!’

Baldwin almost laughed, but stifled the sound when he saw the expression on his wife’s face. He cleared his throat. ‘So we are to be presented with our rewards together?’

‘I suppose so,’ Simon agreed. ‘I don’t know what the exact procedure is, but the host of this inn says the clerics of the Cathedral will present them to us with the boy-Bishop on Holy Innocents’ Day.’

Baldwin groaned. ‘Another five days, Simon.’

‘He has been bemoaning his duty since the good Bishop Walter invited him here,’ Jeanne said caustically. ‘Anyone would think he disliked the thought of the Bishop’s generosity.’

‘I don’t reject the honour – indeed I am grateful for it – but five whole days, Jeanne! We could be enjoying our own quiet Christmas at home. Our first together at Furnshill.’

‘Instead we shall be here,’ Simon said happily, refilling his jug. ‘Eating, drinking and relaxing, and for my part I am happy to be away from the freezing blast on the moors, away from the mires, the mists, the snow and driving rain. No need to worry about the miners arguing with the landowners for a few blessed days. Ah, for me, I have to say I am content. Especially since we get to attend the Christmas Eve Mass at the Cathedral; I’ve never seen it here at Exeter before but I’ve heard it’s special. And there’s the mayhem of the Holy Innocents’ Day celebrations. I look forward to them too.’

Baldwin was not to be soothed. ‘Yes, but it’s five days. What will we do until then?’

If he had but known, Peter Golloc would soon ensure that he had plenty to occupy him.

Early the next morning, while Baldwin and his wife lay asleep, the Cathedral began to wake to the new day. The Secondary stationed in the church looked at the clock and saw that it was time to call the Cathedral’s congregation together for Matins. Yawning while he bowed to the altar, he instantly offered up an apology for his disrespect before shuffling through the dark chamber, scarcely lit by a few remaining candles, and began pulling upon the bellrope.

In his bed on a palliasse on a large bench by the fire in the hall of Talbot’s Inn, Simon didn’t stir beyond giving a short snore, smacking his lips, and mumbling in his sleep. Upstairs behind a curtain in a large chamber, Baldwin heard the bell and snapped awake. He couldn’t help it: the early call to Matins reminded him of his time in the Knights Templar when he would have risen at this hour to go and give praise to God. He heard the wakeful breath at the other side of the curtain: Edgar. He insisted upon sleeping on a bench near his master to protect him from any nocturnal attack. Edgar had also been a Templar; for many years he was Baldwin’s own Sergeant, the man-at-arms who trained with Baldwin and was constantly at his right side whether on horse or on foot. Since they had left the Order Edgar had taken it upon himself to protect Baldwin. Clearly he too remembered their youth as warrior monks, for from the sound of his yawning Baldwin could tell he had also woken on hearing the bell.

Lying in the crook of his arm Jeanne twitched her nose, but then continued to sleep. Baldwin smiled gently. He wanted to touch her face, to feel the soft smoothness of her cheek, to stroke her naked belly and thighs – but he checked his hand. She was tired, especially after the long journey to get here. No, he would leave her to rest.

Baldwin closed his eyes resolutely and waited for sleep to overwhelm him once again.

Peter awoke with a shivering ague that started in his belly and griped, threatening him both with vomiting and soiling himself. He swallowed with an effort, shuddered at the acid bile, closed his eyes and prayed.

The bell tolled relentlessly but he couldn’t rise. His belly was a source of heat and pain. He could only roll over and grip at it, sobbing out a plea to God to ease this terrible agony, and as if in answer to his fervent prayers, the sensation of rending and stabbing within his guts retreated a little. Gasping with relief, he gradually eased himself upwards and stood, swaying. He almost called out to Jolinde for help – but then he saw that his mattress lay empty. Jolly had gone to his woman again.

He must wipe his face. That might help soothe him. There was a pot on a chest near his window, and he stumbled to it, dashing cold water over his face and standing still while the dampness dripped down his cheeks and onto his chest. There was a kind of relief, as if the purity of the water helped to drive away his suffering – but not for long.

A wave of relentless pain rocked him. He had to grasp the chest’s top to steady himself, head hanging, while his belly clenched. There was a burning in his throat and he choked, spitting out a little bile onto the floor. The bell rang once more and he whimpered quietly. This was his terror, the pitiable horror that he had not dared confess to Jolinde: that he was possessed by a devil.

It was the only explanation. A foul spirit had him in its grasp; his sins had allowed the creature to win him over, his weakness had let the evil into his soul. Now the demon was forcing him away from the path of righteous praise of God, so that he could be more easily bent to the will of the Devil. ‘Oh Holy Mother Mary, please save me,’ he pleaded as he felt the liquid movement in his bowels again, and he wept as he lurched to his chamber pot.

Afterwards he felt much improved. He rinsed himself and his hands, pulled his cloak on, slipped his feet into his shoes and prayed quietly. The action of calming his breath and thinking of God soothed him, and while the effect lasted, he dipped his spoon in the broth he had made the night before out of the joint Jolinde had brought him. It appeared to sit easily on his belly, but made him feel hungry again. Well, he reflected, after throwing up half my food and having the rest pass through me like water, it’s no surprise. He broke off a portion of bread from Jolinde’s loaf and popped it into his mouth, chewing it dry as he prepared to leave the hall for the Cathedral. After vomiting earlier he was aware of a curious taste to it, but shrugged it aside.

Jolinde wasn’t downstairs in the hall, but there was nothing new in that. These days, he was rarely at home. He went out drinking until far too late, or stayed with Claricia Cornisshe at Sutton’s Inn, but as Jolly’s father was rich and a friend of the Dean, he felt he could get away with it. It seemed disgraceful to Peter, but he was in no position to condemn any man while he was racked with his devil-inspired malady.

He shut the door and crossed the grass to the western door. Jolinde would be inside, no doubt. Probably darted there as soon as he returned to the Cathedral precinct – although how he managed to scale the walls was beyond Peter. Having sated himself with his drinking and lusting, Jolly would beg personal forgiveness while his companion clerics prayed for other men’s souls. Jolinde! Peter gave a dry smile.

Jolinde’s girlfriend allowed him to stay with her overnight. That was why he was so often late back, usually rushing straight to the first service. ‘First service?’ he had laughed bawdily when Peter had asked him. ‘This isn’t my first service tonight!’

His behaviour had shocked Peter at first, but Jolinde was no hypocrite. ‘I’m not going to be a priest, I don’t want to be, but my father insists that I should learn to read and write. That way I can be more use to him in his work.’

To Peter, whoring about the city was a disgrace to the cloth, but there was no sin if a man confessed and Jolinde had sworn that he would. And since Peter had no rich parents to help support him, Jolinde’s occasional gifts of extra bread, meat or poultry were welcome. There was a twinge of near guilt each time Peter accepted the presents, as if he was taking a bribe again, as he had from Karvinel when the merchant begged him to confirm the identity of the felon, but Peter had persuaded himself that there was little point in starving himself. He might as well take advantage of Jolinde’s patronage as another’s. If not, he’d be no better off than a cripple or leper begging at the Fissand Gate.

Not that it was easy to imagine someone being worse off than him. He was the unwilling participant in the killing of the innocent Hamond and the unwilling accomplice in a theft. A wave of self-pity washed over him. Perhaps if it weren’t for them, he wouldn’t be prey to this horrible punishment: possession. He had reached the great western door now, and took a deep breath before entering. The Punctators spotted him as soon as he slipped inside, one of them shaking his head at the sight of the Secondary arriving late once more. Jolinde was already in his place. The singing had begun and Peter stood in dumb confusion for a moment before coming to himself and tottering forwards to his stall, trying to disturb as few other clerics as possible on his way.

The church felt hot, but a moment later it was freezing. A fine sweat broke out upon his back, then chilled him to the core as all warmth fled. The candlelight flickered while the choir’s voices rose in song, praising God. Peter settled upon the misericorde and attempted to focus his attention on God.

He survived the first half hour, but then the changes in temperature began to accelerate, and he suddenly felt much worse. The choir appeared to move about him. Perspiration dewed his forehead and then he felt the surging rush in his belly and bowels. There was a final, terrible, clutching agony in his belly, squeezing again and again, while he closed his eyes trying to hold back his screams. The room began to spin faster; the fumes of the censer filled his lungs and made him retch.

No! He mustn’t be sick, not here in church. It would be obscene, an insult to God. Swallowing, he tried to keep the urge to vomit at bay, but then a spasm made him spew up a thin dribble. He felt it drip down his chin and he desperately tried again to swallow, but then the sharp pain ripped at his stomach. He bent over, vomit projecting from his mouth. While his fellow-clerics stared in shock, he fell to his knees, sobbing, coughing up bile which was bright with his blood.

He managed to croak out a single cry, a heartfelt plea to Holy Mother Mary for Her forgiveness, before collapsing in his stall, his body convulsing for a minute or two after the poison had stopped his heart.