The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker (11 page)

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.

The urgent summons reached Simon and Baldwin before they had risen from their beds. Baldwin’s eyes snapped open at the first sharp rap, and he listened as the landlord of Talbot’s Inn shuffled along the screens passage to the door. It sounded, from his grumbling, as if mine host didn’t like to be pulled so early from his bed.

A second loud knock echoed through the almost empty building to be answered with the host’s testy, ‘I’m on my way, you bastard, cool your bollocks! What’s the hurry?’ Confident it could be nothing to do with him, Baldwin swung around gently, so as not to wake his wife, and sat on the edge of his bed stretching. He was here as a guest of the Cathedral, not in any official capacity. It was probably an early customer wanting his morning whet.

Rising and pulling on a shirt to cover his nakedness and combat the cold. Baldwin went to the window. The shutter was held up by a thong looped over a nail, and overnight the string had become stiff and frozen. He had to struggle to unhook it and push the warped shutter down in its runners. Once it had fallen away, Baldwin found himself gazing upon a dark and grey view. Although it was not raining, the gloomy black clouds overhead were threatening. Baldwin snuffed the air. It was too early for most citizens to have lighted their fires, and he could taste a metallic tang in the air. It was too cold to rain; if anything, there would be snow and lots of it. The prospect made him give a fleeting frown at the thought of his manor so many miles away, but then he shrugged. There was nothing he could do from here and in any case, his staff knew their jobs well enough. The cattleman would have his beasts in the byre, the shepherd would be out in his hut, his fire lit. All the hay was stored, all the grain in the chests ready to be ground as it was needed. All the same, he would prefer to be there if the weather was going to deteriorate.

As the thought passed through his mind, he heard the door open and the angry voice of the host was cut off by the curt tones of another. Baldwin listened carefully. He could hear Edgar walking across the floor towards the door, and knew that his servant would have grabbed his sword and gone to listen, as always thinking of his master’s protection before anything else.

Christmas Eve, Baldwin thought to himself sourly. Thursday twenty-fourth December, and here he was, miles from home, not knowing what was happening at his manor and now he couldn’t even be granted a decent rest in his bed.

‘Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar called quietly after a short while, ‘there has been a death in the Cathedral and the Dean has sent his Bailiff to ask you and Master Puttock to see him.’

‘But we’ve only been here one night!’ came a small plaintive voice from Baldwin’s bed.

He smiled at his wife, snuggled well under a pile of blankets and cloaks. ‘Tell the good Bailiff that we shall attend the Dean as soon as we are dressed,’ he said.

The Bailiff of the City had hurried off as soon as he had delivered his message, so Baldwin and Simon had to make their own way to the Dean. At the great gate they were pointed to his small house and were soon hurried upstairs to his hall.

Simon was unimpressed by the Dean. It took only a few minutes to classify the fellow as a foolish old dolt. Dean Alfred stood before his table, rubbing his hands together as if he was washing them, and surveyed his guests with an anxious face that reminded Simon uncharitably of Baldwin’s old mastiff.

‘My friends, I am grateful that you should have come so speedily to our aid,’ he said. ‘Hmm. Um, this matter is so serious that I fear I must ask for help from whichever quarter I . . .’

‘There was no need,’ came an uncompromising voice from behind them, and Simon spun to meet the stern gaze of another man.

‘This is Roger de Gidleigh, Coroner of Exeter,’ said Dean Alfred unhappily. ‘Ahmm, he claims the right to perform the inquest.’

‘It is my duty under the King’s laws,’ the man stated.

‘But not Canon law,’ the Dean said miserably. ‘Um, I have to ensure that the Cathedral itself is represented within the Cathedral’s walls.’

‘You could as easily send a cleric as your representative.’

The Dean ignored his loud, rasping voice. ‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff Puttock, hmm, would you please help the Coroner in his enquiries? Poor Peter is dead.’

‘It would be a pleasure,’ Simon lied, wondering who ‘Poor Peter’ could be. It didn’t take long for the Dean to tell them, explaining how the boy had died during the service.

Baldwin was puzzled. ‘So this fellow went into convulsions and collapsed?’

‘Just like a man who had been poisoned,’ said Coroner Roger grimly. ‘And he had been showing symptoms of illness for some days, so I am told.’

‘As if he was being slowly poisoned?’ Baldwin asked. No one answered.

‘Why should someone wish to kill a cleric?’ Simon asked.

The Dean looked at him with an infinity of sadness in his eyes. ‘Some men would do anything for revenge, Bailiff.’

‘Revenge? What makes you mention that?’ Simon pressed sharply.

‘This cleric helped identify a robber and felon in the city recently. I wonder whether the outlaw’s leader might have wanted to avenge his hanged associate.’

Coroner Roger had been listening with growing impatience. ‘Rubbish. It was because the dead boy had been supposed to take jewels and money to a glover in the city . . .’

‘The glover who was killed by his apprentice?’ Baldwin demanded. First there was the fact that the cleric had been with the merchant Karvinel, now he was connected to the dead glover as well.

‘The same, yes. Only since his death, the money and some of the jewels have disappeared.’

‘And the gloves, too, were gone?’ Baldwin asked.

‘No, they were found and have gone to another glover to be finished. Most of the jewels were already on them, and they only need a little work to be completed,’ the Dean sighed. ‘Ummm, it means the Cathedral must buy even more gems and pay more money to finish the work on time. It is terrible, especially since we only recently lost money to the hanged outlaw. You er probably saw him hanging?’

Baldwin wanted to concentrate on the central point. ‘How many jewels are missing?’ he asked. ‘You have a receipt, I suppose, to check against the gloves as they stand?’

‘Of course. Ahm . . .’ the Dean produced a roll of vellum. ‘Here is the account held in the Cathedral, and er here,’ he set a sheet on top, ‘is the ah receipt. As you can ah see, it is dated on sixth December, the Feast of St Nicholas.’

Baldwin read aloud, ‘“Four rubies, fifty assorted gemstones and fifty small pearls with two pounds five shillings and sixpence for the trouble, etc, etc.” Yes. This is signed by two men – Golloc and Bolle . . .’

‘Peter Golloc is the dead Secondary.’

‘I see. And it is marked with a cross and a seal for the glover himself.’ He looked up. ‘So you know that the gems and everything tie up; you have proof that the glover received his delivery. What could they have to do with this dead fellow?’

‘If the Secondary decided they would be pleasant to have,’ Coroner Roger said with an unpleasant leer, ‘he could have gone back and stolen them. Even perhaps killed the glover, if he was discovered in the act.’

‘That is a most ahm unreasonable and er unwarranted suggestion,’ cried the Dean, his face flushing with anger.

‘Anyone could have taken them,’ Baldwin said reasonably. ‘There is nothing in what you have said to suggest that this poor fellow might have robbed and killed his victim. Could Peter have committed suicide?’

‘What reason would he have to do a thing like that?’ the Dean protested in a squeak.

‘A woman, a debt, a guilty secret . . . the reasons for murder are varied – and self-murder is no different from ordinary homicide. People can hate themselves as much as they can detest others,’ Baldwin mused.

Coroner Roger responded slowly. ‘Certainly I have seen another cleric wandering the streets at night. Whether this one did as well . . . I’d have to speak to the Bailiff and the Constable.’

‘That might be worthwhile. Then again, you said immediately that it could be poison. It could as easily be a severe illness.’

‘One that causes a man to shit his hose and puke blood?’ Coroner Roger said.

‘There are such diseases,’ Baldwin said. In his mind’s eye he could see the foul, beleaguered city of Acre in 1291. The city had been under siege for ages when he arrived, and there were many pale, skinny folks there who suffered from a bloody flux and vomiting. Honesty made him add, ‘Although I have only seen them in battlefields and in camps. When they occur, God sends them to afflict many at the same time.’ He gave an enquiring glance to the Dean, who shook his head.

‘Nobody else has exhibited the same symptoms as far as I know.’

‘Did he live alone?’

‘No, he was in a hall with a friend. Jolinde Bolle.’

Baldwin saw the Coroner peer at the Dean through narrowed eyes. ‘Bolle?’

‘Who is he?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Another Secondary,’ the Dean answered. ‘Men here at the Cathedral are all of different ranks, Sir Baldwin. Ahm, when the voices of the Choristers break, they often remain here to study and learn all they can, hoping to be promoted later if they can win the patronage of a Canon, er, but sometimes they cannot and stay on as Secondaries, mere assistants to the priests and clergy. Jolinde is one such.’

‘He also spends much of his time in alehouses and taverns in the city,’ Coroner Roger said sternly. ‘I’ve seen him about the place often enough.’

‘Jolinde was never going to be a priest,’ the Dean said. He was washing his hands more vigorously now as his anxiety grew. ‘Oh, may God forgive me if I am wrong! Hmm, Sir Baldwin, um, I fear that Peter was murdered by someone who wanted to avenge the dead felon. Only a man who wasn’t a priest could behave like that, poisoning a clerk in the Cathedral.’

‘A man like Jolinde, you mean?’ Coroner Roger enquired dryly.

‘It’s always the same with the blasted Dean and his Chapter,’ Roger said as he walked with Simon and Baldwin over to the cemetery at the northernmost point of the Cathedral. He stopped and gestured at the Cathedral. ‘They keep everything hidden that they can. If they’d been able to, they’d never have told me about the lad’s death. Tchah! What can a man do?’ He turned and stalked off, but Baldwin and Simon followed more slowly.

‘What do you think?’ Baldwin asked his friend.

‘I don’t know what to make of it. We need more facts.’

‘Yes. It is intriguing, however. A robbery and this Secondary recognised the felon; a glover is killed and this lad was the one whom the Coroner suspects took the money – although the apprentice has been charged with the same crime – and now he himself dies. I find this all fascinating,’ Baldwin observed. He called after the Coroner, forcing him to slow his furious pace. ‘Coroner, were you serious when you implied that this lad Bolle could have killed Peter?’

The other man was still seething with frustration over the secretiveness of the Cathedral staff.

‘I’d suspect myself for that amount of jewels and cash!’ he snapped.

There was something about him that Baldwin rather liked. The Coroner was a thickset man, with a slightly flabby belly that showed his practise with his sword was not so regular as it should be, but whose solid posture revealed his strength. He had a square, kindly face, with warm, slightly bulging brown eyes, and a short, cropped hairstyle. His gaze was frank and honest, unlike so many corrupt officials Baldwin had met, and his brow was strangely unwrinkled for a man who must surely be no younger than Simon. His hair was frosted about the temples, but that was the only proof of his increasing years.