The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker
Page 6
And yet here Jeanne was, forced to ride in an open coach like royalty, because her husband was concerned that she might strain something riding on her mare. ‘More risk of straining something in this damned wagon,’ she spat as the coach thudded heavily into another rut.
At least here the route was downhill. Up was worse because then the wagon lumbered more heavily. Going down was easier, faster and more comfortable. As she thought that, another deep hole made the wagon rattle and creak and Jeanne struck her head on a stanchion supporting the roof. Cursing quietly to herself, a hand at her bruised temple, she tottered to the front of the coach and sat on the board beside the driver, Edgar, Baldwin’s steward and loyal servant for many years.
Peering ahead she could see the city, its great bridge reaching out over Exe Island, where a growing number of houses were springing up, most on the island where there were many businesses, but quite a few on the bridge itself.
‘It’s pretty enough, isn’t it?’ she commented, shading her eyes against the morning’s sun which lay low in the sky so late in the year.
Edgar nodded, hunched in his seat and staring at the road ahead. He grunted his agreement as Baldwin rode up to their side, a troubled expression on his face. ‘Shouldn’t you be resting, my Lady?’
Jeanne looked at him coldly without comment.
The bridge led to the great western gate of the city, which gave onto a broad roadway running up the hill towards Carfoix, where the northern, southern, eastern and western roads all met in the city centre.
Soon Baldwin and his small entourage were rattling slowly up the incline. Gardens, orchards and fields lay on either side between or behind houses; pigs squealed and rootled among piles of leaves and rubbish while dogs snapped at each other as they scavenged. A cock crowed and horses neighed or whinnied on all sides. It was not as noisy and unpleasant as some places, Baldwin told himself, but there was still proof that crime occurred. A man lolled in the pillory, blood dripping from a gash in his forehead where a rock had been hurled. Nearby, a man’s body hung from a beam lashed between two trees, his hands bound behind his back, his madly staring eyes gazing all about him as his corpse swung gently, turning from left to right as the breeze blew up the hill.
Jeanne peered at them. ‘I wonder what his crime was?’ she murmured.
‘God Himself knows,’ Baldwin said with a shrug. Perhaps he was a murderer. In a city the size of Exeter with many thousands of citizens, there would be several murders each month. ‘None of my concern anyway,’ he added airily and, as he would soon learn, inaccurately.
‘Someone should make sure he’s all right,’ Jeanne said. She saw her husband give a quick smile. ‘What is it?’
‘I assumed you were talking about the corpse. It never occurred to me that you meant the man in the pillory.’
She glanced back at the dangling man. ‘I think it’s a little late for anyone to worry about him.’ As she said these words, she shivered and pulled the furs up to her neck. Later she would remember those words and realise she had been wrong.
Their destination was near the Guildhall in the middle of the city, at the house of Vincent le Berwe. In a vain attempt to distract herself from the discomfort of the journey, Jeanne brought the powerful merchant to mind. Luckily Baldwin trusted her and valued her judgement, so he often discussed the men he must deal with, seeking her comments and advice.
Vincent was a successful merchant, a rich man who was well regarded among the ruling group who controlled the city of Exeter. It had not always been so. He had married foolishly when younger, a pretty, vivacious girl who was only some fourteen years old. She died giving birth to their first child, and many of the city-folk looked at him askance after that. They were religious in Exeter, and unimpressed with a man who took so young a wife. Her early death heralded dark mutterings about Vincent himself and many of his clients had left him. It had almost ruined him, although now he had been able to renew his fortunes, helped with the diplomatic skills of his new wife, Hawisia.
She was reputed to be a clever young woman: intelligent, cultured, well-reared and courteous. Since marrying her, Vincent’s wealth had increased greatly. Baldwin thought she had given him the stability and comfort which he craved. Baldwin had said this with an expression of pensive understanding, which had made Jeanne smile and put her arm through his. She knew he was considering the parallel between his own life and Vincent’s: Jeanne had filled a void in his life just as Hawisia had in Vincent’s. Secretly Jeanne was convinced that he would have been perfectly capable of continuing his existence without ever meeting her, provided he had his hounds, hawks and horses. That was not the case for her. If she had not met Baldwin, Jeanne would have become a crusty, embittered old widow, always regretting the fact that she had never given life to a child. And now she was pregnant.
It was with an inner feeling of relief that she noticed the Guildhall ahead. She had no wish to contemplate how much her life was about to be altered with a baby in her house, nor how truly maternal she would turn out to be when a squalling child was placed in her arms by the midwife.
The wagon stopped and Baldwin nodded to Edgar. ‘Go and tell Sir Vincent that we are here,’ he said, but before his servant could obey, the door opened and the man himself appeared.
‘Sir Baldwin – and Lady Jeanne, too! God’s blessings upon you both!’
The lookout dropped from his tree and picked up his axe which rested against the tree’s trunk. ‘He’s coming,’ he said.
All at once there was a general movement. Two men at Hob’s side hurried back past him and went out to their positions nearer the entrance to the clearing, while another lifted a leather bucket to douse the fire, but Sir Thomas of Exmouth shook his head and barked, ‘Stop that! There’s no point. We don’t want to freeze when he’s gone. Leave it.’
They didn’t have to wait for long. The dark figure, cloaked and hooded, appeared in the shadows among the trees, walking slowly, muttering as the dragging cloak snagged on brambles and twigs.
To him the clearing was a scene of fearsome danger, and not only from the outlaws themselves; if he was found here, he could easily be accused of conspiring with felons. Conversely, if the outlaws decided he posed a threat they might execute him no matter what their leader told them.
He stepped out boldly enough. If they had wanted to kill him, they could have done so – perhaps still would do so – and there was no point in his waiting and skulking anxiously. An arrow to the throat, a knife to the heart – there were many ways of killing a man, and these vicious bastards knew most of them.
The clearing was a rough oval carved out of the old woods. It did not appear to be a regularly used base, for there were no huts or tents, only a single log fire burning with a clean, smokeless flame. Above it dangled a large metal cauldron, in which bubbled a thick pottage. One man knelt at the side, stirring. He wore the innocent expression of the idiotic. His slack mouth dribbled and one corner twitched upwards into a smile, but without conviction. There was a nervousness in his features, as if he was used to being beaten and half-expected to be treated like a cur.
Behind him stood Sir Thomas of Exmouth, a more dangerous man by far. His face was swarthy and narrow, his eyes glittering under a low forehead. He wore russets and greens, a thick woollen cloak and hose, a leather jack and a dangling hood – nothing to betray his true background as a knight: no gilt spurs, no mail, no insignia of chivalry. He had rejected his past and was now a mere outlaw. The only incongruous feature was the knightly riding sword which dangled from a richly enamelled belt at his side.
‘Come on over here, please. Take a seat. Wine?’ he said, and his visitor gave him a humourless grin as he approached the fire.
‘I received your message. There’s no need to pretend that we are on friendly terms.’
‘But at least we do not need to be enemies.’ The outlaw beckoned. A young woman appeared between the trees and poured out wine for them, and when she was done he continued, ‘I thank you for y
our prompt appearance. It is better, I always think, to get these things resolved as quickly as possible.’
‘I don’t know what you want from me.’
‘I think you do. First, I want information. My friend Hamond, is he . . .?’
‘Hamond was hanged yesterday morning. If you want his body, the hangman will cut it loose tomorrow. Send someone for it.’
‘That is a shame, a great shame.’ The outlaw held his gaze for a moment, then turned his bitter, shining eyes to the fire. He was silent a while and then drained his goblet and held it out to the girl. She refilled it silently and held the jug up for the other, who shook his head.
‘He was captured after ambushing a merchant,’ the newcomer said heavily. ‘Not only did he not run from his offence, he had the foolishness to go ahead of the merchant into the city and drink a pot of ale at the Nobles Inn when the merchant passed.’
‘He was a good friend. Headstrong, but good,’ Sir Thomas growled. ‘Still, he will be with God now. That’s that.’ He motioned to the girl. ‘Enough, Jen. Leave us.’
As she walked back to the shade under the trees, he watched her go. Indeed, he was so intent upon her slender figure that he appeared to have forgotten his guest, who stirred and cleared his throat. Sir Thomas bowed apologetically. ‘Ah, yes. My apologies. I was forgetting. Now, Master, I think you can help me – and I may be able to help you as well.’
‘You help me?’
The outlaw stood more straight and his left hand rested upon the hilt of his sword as he raised an eyebrow. ‘You may live a privileged life in the city but any man at need would be grateful of the assistance of a knight.’
‘You think so?’ came the sneering reply. ‘What sort of assistance could an outlaw knight like you provide?’
‘Your sarcasm does you a disservice.’
‘How can I not be sarcastic when you have only ever sought favours from me?’ came the sharp rejoinder.
Sir Thomas looked away. After a moment, he said, ‘I agree that I have misused you, but perhaps I could offer money to . . .’
‘Money stolen from another church? Do you mean to insult me?’ the other snapped.
‘All I want is justice! Hamond has been hanged – but was he guilty of the crime?’
The other said impatiently, ‘He was with your gang, wasn’t he?’
‘Listen to me, you fool! Hamond had nothing to do with it – he was with me in the city when the ambush was supposed to have happened. I sent him to the tavern myself to fetch some wine, and it was while he was there that he was pointed out and captured. So tell me – how did he commit this ambush, how did he get recognised by a merchant as an outlaw who had robbed him, when all the time he was with me?’
To which his brother, Canon Stephen Soth of Exeter Cathedral, had no answer.
Chapter Five
‘Come in and be seated, Lady Jeanne. Sir Baldwin, a cup of wine with you, sir?’ Vincent le Berwe was effusive as he waved Lady Jeanne inside and directed her to a large chair near a hearth of roaring logs while Baldwin sent Edgar off to the Talbot’s Inn in Paul Street where le Berwe had arranged a room for them.
It was a good-sized property, Jeanne thought, looking around. Situated on the High Street itself, with a shop at the front where Vincent sold his furs, it had a large undercroft, a basement area, in which Vincent stored his wines and cloths ready for selling. Here in the hall there was as much space as Baldwin had in his entire house. The hall was open all the way to the ceiling, where a thin haze of woodsmoke drifted from the fresh logs which had been thrown on the fire. Above the shop was a small chamber reached by a staircase in which Vincent and his wife slept. All was highly decorated, with ivy and holly dangling in readiness for Christmas. Red berries glistened and twinkled in the light of the guttering candles set about the room.
Vincent himself was the picture of a successful merchant. His face was florid and jowly, his belly so expansive that he must lean back to balance his weight like a pregnant woman; it billowed out voluminously above his belt, dragging it down. His hair was grizzled like Baldwin’s, but his eyebrows were of a paler colour. From looking at his face Jeanne felt sure that Vincent was considerably younger than Baldwin, but worry had prematurely aged him.
Jeanne had to remind herself that her husband and she were here not for pleasure, but because Sir Baldwin was to be rewarded with gloves. Baldwin’s friend Walter Stapledon, the present Bishop, had insisted that Baldwin should be rewarded for his work earlier in the year when he had helped save Belstone’s convent from shame. The knight had protested against it long and hard, pointing out that his friend Simon Puttock, Bailiff of Lydford Castle, had in fact solved the mystery such as it was, but the Bishop had replied that someone who suffered while serving his See deserved a reward. Thus Sir Baldwin had been summoned to the city against his wishes, and Jeanne had refused to remain at home while her husband was being so signally honoured.
She was surprised by Vincent’s wife, Hawisia. Where she had expected a sharp, strong-willed woman with a solid grasp of politics, she found a rather vapid blonde with pale, chubby features, and a dumpy frame. In her company Jeanne felt a sense of smug superiority, a feeling she was at pains to conceal.
Hawisia motioned to the bottler to pass drinks and ensured that Baldwin and Jeanne were given pots of wine. Then she tried to engage Jeanne in conversation. It was hard going, for Jeanne did not know any of those about whom Hawisia spoke, nor did she have any interest in the doings of the various dignitaries of the city. Hawisia, Jeanne decided, was one of those women whose experience, life and interest revolved about her husband. There was no time left for her to have developed her own character.
Vincent de Berwe had been elected as one of the four stewards of the city last Michaelmas, and Hawisia apparently went in awe of him and the men with whom he had dealings. It was a natural reaction in one reasonably young, but Jeanne found it annoying in a woman of some twenty-four summers like Hawisia, just as she was irritated by Hawisia’s fawning attitude towards Jeanne herself. The other woman appeared painfully aware of her duties as the wife of an important man: she complimented Jeanne on her dress, politely enquired after the manor and expressed her joy on hearing that Jeanne was pregnant. Hawisia told her that she had borne a daughter herself two years before, but the girl had died in the summer when the people of the city were affected by a strange affliction. Jeanne felt a little unsettled to hear about the baby’s death. Such things happened, she knew, but there was no need for Hawisia to remind her that the city was unhealthy. Jeanne glanced down uncomfortably at her belly.
After that, Jeanne found conversation difficult. These days, she found herself suffering foolishness with less patience than before. She wanted to talk to someone with more fire to them. The only times Hawisia showed any vivacity was when she discussed her dead child or her successful husband. Her pride in his achievements was at least unfeigned.
Jeanne told herself that the young woman must be very deeply in love and tried to like her, but she found herself speaking snappishly, as if to a child who would not be silent but insisted upon interrupting. To her relief, the two men had a short break in their conversation and she took the opportunity to turn to Vincent and ask, ‘Tell me, we saw a hanged man in the roadway. Was he guilty of a very terrible crime?’
‘Hamond?’ Vincent chuckled genially. He was feeling affable now, after two large pots of wine. He belched surreptitiously and made a sweeping gesture with his mazer, a silver-chased bowl of maple that gleamed as it caught the light. ‘They strung him up yesterday. It’s good to see a felon swing, isn’t it? Yes, the murderous sodomite was one of a small band of outlaws who robbed a merchant only a short distance from the city walls on the feast of the Conception of the Virgin, eighth December. When the man escaped and fled back to the city to raise the Hue and Cry, whom should he see but that very fellow, young Hamond, sitting in a tavern and lifting his ale in salute. Poor Nicholas . . .’
‘Nicholas?’ Jeanne enquired.
‘Well, Nick was angry to see the man flaunting himself like that, so he shouted out and raised the Hue and Cry, catching the fellow himself. It wasn’t only his money that was stolen, but a substantial sum from the Cathedral as well. In fact, that’s why Nick launched himself upon the felon, he told me. He was never the bravest man in the city, but seeing that scum sitting and drinking his own and the Cathedral’s money made him see red. The crook himself seemed so astonished to be caught that he didn’t even run. Brazen fool tried to convince everyone he hadn’t been near Nick all afternoon, not that it got him anywhere. All felons deny their crimes, of course, but he was persuasive. It wasn’t until Nick’s clerk Peter identified him that the jury was happy to indict him. He was hanged, although what happened to Nick’s money, God only knows. This Hamond only had a few coins on him. Probably it was left with the rest of his gang.’
‘Strange that he should have gone straight to the city after committing a robbery,’ Baldwin mused.
Vincent eyed him genially. Perhaps this Keeper wasn’t such a hot investigator after all. ‘In my experience, Sir Baldwin, it’s all too often the way such fools behave. They perform their evil acts, then think that they are immune to danger. If they can escape with their booty, they don’t consider the consequences, they simply head for the fleshpots.’