She returned to observing her guests. All were important people in their own way; she had been careful about whom she should invite. It was quite a coup to have succeeded in getting Sir Baldwin to attend. The way people spoke of him, he was respected highly in the city. His was just the sort of friendship her husband must foster. Friends of influence and power were necessary to a man.
The Bailiff, Puttock, she was less sure of. He was important over on Dartmoor, but Vincent had no interests so far to the west. It was such wild, dangerous land out there, not the sort of place that Hawisia had any desire to visit. But it was said that Simon Puttock was a rising star, well looked upon by the Abbot of Tavistock. She would have to be careful to listen out for any comments which passed down to her about the Bailiff. If he was soon to be in the ascendant, she wanted her husband to make his further acquaintance.
He was talking to that foolish wench Juliana. Hawisia maintained her smile but couldn’t help it becoming more than a little brittle. Juliana Karvinel was still an important woman in the city, someone with whom she, Hawisia, must deal, but that didn’t mean Hawisia had to like her. Vincent’s henchman had overheard women in the city whispering about Juliana, saying that she was tempting all the men hereabouts. Perhaps the stupid woman thought she could tempt Puttock with her doltish wit, or more likely with her heaving breast, Hawisia sniffed. The way the woman was thrusting her tits at the Bailiff was outrageous.
Not that Nick Karvinel, right at her side, seemed to care much, she thought. Nicholas was roaring loudly with laughter, his nasty little piggy eyes narrowed with amusement, his mouth wide to bellow his pleasure, pounding the table with his fist. Yet it was not genuine. His face never quite lost its haunted aspect. While he laughed, his eyes flitted over the other people in the room. Assessing who would and who wouldn’t be a threat to him. He knew that his future was uncertain. If his luck didn’t change, he would be ruined before long. It was bad enough that he had been robbed, his house burgled, his status within the city reduced, but Hawisia knew that Karvinel had more concerns. Men to whom he owed money were asking for it back, including her own Vincent. If he couldn’t find enough to cover his debts, he would be utterly destroyed.
It was an important consideration, Hawisia acknowledged. If everyone went to Karvinel and simultaneously demanded that their loans be repaid, the money he owed to her husband might never be recovered.
She suddenly caught a glimpse of Juliana’s hand patting Simon Puttock’s thigh before lifting his cup and pressing it into his hand. It was no accident, Hawisia was convinced of that. And of course she knew full well that Juliana was as aware as any other of the serious nature of her husband’s finances. How could she not be, with such a series of terrible disasters? Juliana almost looked as if she was practising her flirting, reminding herself how to win a man, preparing to find a lover to run away with.
The concept was an idle one, not a rational thought at all, but it snagged on a barb in Hawisia’s mind and made her catch her breath with delight. It would be the final embarrassment for Karvinel. If his wife were to run away with a different man – especially a younger man like the Bailiff here – he would be distraught. He might even decide to throw himself upon the adulterer.
What would be in it for Juliana? Hawisia recalled the shame heaped upon Earl Thomas of Lancaster when his wife Alice left him. He had been the butt of jokes up and down the kingdom. Surely if he had been a mere gentleman like Karvinel, he would have been shattered by the discovery of his wife’s unfaithfulness.
Karvinel was almost wrecked as a threat to Vincent now, but Hawisia could not forget that he had until recently been Vincent’s leading competitor for all positions of importance in the city, and he could return to take up that rôle once more. But if his wife should leave him, he would be finished. It could be desirable, even if it meant Vincent didn’t recover the money he was owed. Perhaps Hawisia should warn him, advise him to collect Nick Karvinel’s debt sooner rather than later?
There was a speculative look in Hawisia’s eye when she next glanced in the direction of Simon and Juliana and it was with an almost absent-minded gentleness that she rested her hand once more upon her husband’s and softly stroked it.
Chapter Fourteen
Gervase the Succentor closed the door behind him and crossed the grassed pathway to the cobbled street that led up to the western door. He had need of peace and an opportunity for thought, now that poor Peter was dead. The lad’s horrific demise in the Cathedral had appalled all the Canons and Chapter. It was as if a demon had intruded upon their devotions and mocked them all – and God. It was deeply unsettling. Some had murmured that the place should be reconsecrated, although others pointed out that it would be, since the Cathedral was being rebuilt. It was good to find some peace and quiet where he could think without the pall of gloom sinking into his bones.
Peter had been a good fellow, a companionable sort, but that wasn’t the reason why Gervase had valued him. Peter was no great scholar, and his memory was poor – the two main reasons why he had not progressed beyond his position as a Secondary. He had a great skill with numbers, which was always useful, but for Gervase Peter had an infinitely more important rôle. Peter was one of his Rulers, or Rectors, a special clerk who knew the music and orders of service for all special events. While his memory regularly failed him when he tried to recall Biblical events or the correct services to hold on specific Feast Days, he could be entirely relied upon to carry a full sequence of songs and prayers, leading the choir in all the more fiddly ones. Gervase wasn’t sure how he could fill the place left by Peter. He had wondered about using young Jolinde, but it wouldn’t do. He had no interest in the music or services.
Peter had been a capable singer, if no better than that, but in terms of arranging the services, he was more talented than Gervase himself. He would have been an ideal replacement for Gervase – in fact the Succentor had been going to suggest that he should be allowed to go to University. It might have helped him develop. Everyone needed education.
Gervase himself had been to Oxford. Some years ago Bishop Walter had generously sent him away to study, and he had not only enjoyed his theological and astronomical studies, he had also been fortunate enough to meet and later be tutored by a man who had known the great ‘Doctor Mirabilis’, Roger Bacon. From this teacher Gervase had acquired some Arabic, and he had looked over many of the same Saracen documents which Bacon himself had read.
There he had learned about poisons which could be used to kill a man. Some were rare, curious mixtures of strange roots and leaves, which could gradually make a man fade without his knowing why. Others were more simple and crude. Putrefying flesh from a long-dead animal smeared upon a knife or arrow could be effective, but as Gervase knew, the more common a powder or liquid, the better for a poisoner.
Gervase shook his head and frowned. Peter’s death had affected the whole Cathedral. It was a dreadful thing to happen at Christmas. But there was no need for people to assume that Peter had been poisoned. So many died from food poisoning of one form or another – surely the young man’s death was the same, a tragic accident.
In years to come, Gervase might have a suitable replacement in Luke, he thought, not that he honestly believed he would be able to claim Luke for the next Succentor.
Luke and Henry were very different from Jolinde and Peter. Neither was so capable with music yet, and both were competent enough at their studies, a great deal more so than Peter had been. Gervase occasionally risked a small wager, and he would gamble a tenth of his annual £2 stipend in support of his view that both Luke and Henry would be Deacons before they were twenty years old. Both spoke and wrote Latin clearly and intelligibly, both sang well, and both had a good feel for the ritual of their jobs, although Luke was undoubtedly the better at each accomplishment.
Their rivalry was an irritation, certainly, but boys would be boys. As far as Gervase could recall, Jolinde and Peter had fought in much the same way when they were young Choristers.
Fortunately they had patched up their differences.
Entering the Cathedral, he bowed to the altar. Rising, he saw Adam lighting candles near the Bishop’s throne. Poor Adam, he thought. The boy would never be allowed to rise through the ranks, no matter what his friends wished. It was odd that the Dean should have so taken to Adam, giving him his post as a Secondary and supporting him at every turn. Most others couldn’t stand the boy. Too uncouth and bullying. Still, Gervase reflected, walking to Adam’s side, there was hope even for the roughest boy.
‘Adam, could I have a word, please?’
‘I am very busy, Brother.’
‘Not too busy to hear that if I see you tipping wax down the necks of the Choristers again, I shall personally report you to the Bishop myself. You understand me?’
Abashed, Adam ducked his head sulkily. ‘Yes, Brother.’
‘Good. Now, may I help with these candles?’
The lad stood aside and allowed the Succentor to take a handful of candles. With them he set off to the nearest sconce and removed the old ones, replacing all with new. It was the way on Christmas Eve.
Gervase allowed thoughts of the dead Secondary to fall from his mind like rain dripping from a damp cloak. This was no time to be filling his mind with such macabre things. Infinitely more important was the service tonight, preparing the church, ensuring that the choir was ready and understood the order of songs and prayers. It was essential to perform the Opus Dei to the very best of their mediocre abilities.
The Cathedral had been decorated suitably and the candles reflected the bright green holly which adorned the window-ledges and filled any convenient gaps. Berries gleamed among the leaves like rubies. Ivy had been carefully twined about pillars as if it had grown there. The floor was well swept, displaying the old tiles and slabs, all the metalwork was polished, reflecting the light in sharp, clean bursts, making the woodwork glow as though it were illuminated from within. The whole church was as perfect as human hands could make it, Gervase sighed happily. That was, after all, the point, as the Dean had reminded them all that morning immediately after Chapter.
It was more gloomy than previous Chapter meetings. The Canons and Vicars walked in after Prime, taking the doorway in the southern wall of the Cathedral which led out to the Chapter House on the eastern side of the cloisters. Here the Dean gave a short prayer before sitting down, and Luke read out the calendar information for the services to celebrate Christmas while the Canons listened carefully, sitting on the stone seats that were fitted into the walls.
The calendar laid down the rules for every day: first the date, as if anyone wasn’t already aware of it; the age of the moon; the name of the man to be celebrated. Usually the name to be revered was that of a saint, but today, knowing that they were to honour Jesus Christ Himself, the Chapter was strangely quiet and thoughtful. Normally a Canon would be bound to be thinking of something else and there would be occasional bursts of humour, but on the eve of Christ’s birth no one felt the urge for levity. Especially after the horror of Peter’s death.
And Jolinde had felt it keenly, Gervase reckoned from the look of him. When Jolinde stood to read the rota of the duties, his face was pale and strained, but that was only to be expected after witnessing the death of his friend. Again a nagging doubt reminded Gervase that Jolinde and Peter had not been the closest of friends when they were younger, but he thrust the uncharitable idea from him. Such thoughts were not to be borne, not on Christmas Eve.
Once Jolinde had finished and had sat down again, the Dean stood and began the prayers. But today he had additional prayers for Peter.
‘Let us ahm, begin as usual with our prayers for our King, King Edward the Second, God bless him and keep him and send him good advisers . . . and for the Queen and her father the King of France hmm and for our own Bishop, Walter hmm and his family, especially his brother, Sir Richard Stapledon, buried here in our Cathedral hmm and we remember our own parents . . . And last, we should all think of poor Peter, who died so tragically this morning. It is a sad duty to remember one of our own who has passed away, but we can reflect on the joy his soul no doubt hmm feels, sitting now in the presence of God. Please, Lord, hear our prayers.’
On a normal morning, that would have been an end to it, but today there was much more, all to do with the Mass. Holding a Mass at night was complex, and tonight’s, the Christmas Eve Mass, was the only one of the year which was conducted by candlelight.
All in all, Gervase was convinced that the Angel’s Mass on Christmas Eve was the most beautiful and touching of any. But it did involve a lot more work, and what with the early beginning of the Mass, the early rising for the daily prayers and rituals afterwards, at which all Canons, Vicars, and their Secondaries were supposed to be present, every man in the Cathedral would be exhausted by the end of Christmas Day.
That was why at the end of Chapter the Dean had admonished all of them to, ‘Perform your service with absolute devotion and edifying recollection. This is the most important service in our year, and we must all do honour to the miracle and mystery of Our Saviour’s Nativity. Ahm I expect to see all of you in the choir for the service.’
Baldwin and the guests remained seated while the chaplain stood and said Grace after the meal, but when he was done and the bread for the poor had been collected in one large bowl, at least one quarter of all that which had been served, as well as the remains of the other dishes, the party rose and left space for the servants to clear the room. With the steward standing over them all and watching, the place was cleared in short order, the dishes all carried out to the scullery to be washed, the tablecloths folded and removed, the trestle tables taken apart, the benches moved against the wall.
The host and his wife stood and chatted to their guests and several times Baldwin felt Vincent or Hawisia’s eyes upon him, but he declined their unspoken offers to introduce him to still more citizens. He was convinced that his presence at this feast was less for Vincent le Berwe to honour him, more to reflect a little of his own honour upon Vincent, and Baldwin was happy to repay a good meal by being polite to the man, but saw no need to be ingratiating.
It was quite some little while before they all heard the Cathedral bells tolling. Luckily the miserable weather which had threatened had held off and they only had to contend with the mud-filled streets and malodorous contents of the gutters. One man stepped into something so foul that he had to seek a patch of grass to wipe off the worst of the offending muck, but for the most part they reached the Fissand Gate none the worse for wear.
Jeanne was relieved to have arrived without besmirching her clean dress and tunic with horse manure or dog’s turds, and she was congratulating herself when she caught the eye of a man at the gate’s hinge.
He squatted with a stout staff at his side, which he used as a crutch. There was a dreadful scar that clove his jawbone and had left a large dint in his face. But for all that he smiled when he saw her watching him, and his eyes were kind and gentle as he ducked his head in an admiring half-bow. She smiled in her turn, feeling an urge to curtsey. A man who had suffered as he clearly had deserved the honour more than many she gave it to, she thought rebelliously as she was swept along by the flow of the crowd.
The grounds before the Cathedral demonstrated the popularity of the service. Above them, the bells were still sounding out their command to all Christians to come and perform their duty and honour their Saviour. All the folk of the city would be here or in the parish churches which were dotted all about: some from pure devotion, some from compulsion because the Cathedral could refuse to buy goods from merchants who didn’t attend their services, and some from insurance, making certain of their places in the life to come.
Inside the great church Baldwin could feel the power and majesty of the building. It soared high overhead, the ceiling a dim pattern almost out of sight, supported by the magnificent stone columns. At his side he heard Jeanne gasp. She gripped his arm. ‘This is wonderful, isn’t it? What a fabulous building!’ s
he exclaimed.
‘It shall be even longer when they have finished the eastern end.’
‘But it’s already vast!’ She was awed. This place was daunting in its size. How it could remain standing, she did not understand, but although it was staggering in its dimensions, she was soothed by the familiar scent of incense and the sight of the small portable altar which stood before the screen. Obviously the choir itself was concealed from the general population. The Cathedral was here for the congregation of Canons to honour God, not only for the edification of the general public.
Yet it was good to see that the Cathedral allowed even the poorer folk to enter. From the corner of her eye she saw a squatting figure being helped inside. It was the beggar she had noticed at the Fissand Gate. He grinned widely at her, but in an instant he was bowing his head in a prayer. At his side she saw a black-clad man, while in the shadows next to him a lad was grinning foolishly. This gave Jeanne a pang. She always felt sorry for the witless, and now, knowing she bore a child in her womb, she was struck by a quick anxiety, worried that she could give birth to a fool, but then she forced her mind to empty.
This was no time to be entertaining morbid thoughts.
Chapter Fifteen
As the Canons assembled in their stalls, Brother Stephen looked about him beaming with pleasure. This service was, he felt, the most meaningful of all through the year. For some reason the simple fact that it was the only full Mass celebrated during the night made it more symbolic, more important – and certainly more beautiful.
The candle-flames fluttered gently in the sconces and candelabra, making the whole place alive with warm light and dancing shadows. There were more candles than at any other service: seven on the high altar, three before the Cross, hundreds in the ambulatories. Occasional gusts of wind from the works at the eastern end of the crossing, where the new choir was being constructed, twitched the flames, making them dance in unison, bringing the stench of burning tallow with it.
The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker Page 16