‘Nonetheless, it will soon be Christmas, and a short while thereafter we shall be celebrating Holy Innocents again. And for that we need the gloves.’
‘I am sure you have them in hand,’ the Dean muttered, smiling gently at the pun. He was peering from the window out over the cloisters, his hands clasped behind his back. Why wouldn’t Brother Stephen leave him alone, he thought. Always had his nose in other people’s affairs as if he was trying to conceal his own failings. And he did have much to hide from other Brothers. That was why Stephen kept himself aloof. But it was also his value and importance. His shame had ensured that he was among the most committed of all the Chapter, which was why the Dean had entrusted Adam, to his care.
The Brother’s next words made him forget his musings about the Canon.
‘Dean, I speak of the gloves which shall be given to the leading folk of the city. Those for the Burgesses are already prepared, but there are others…?’ He let his voice trail away on a vague note of enquiry.
‘Others?’ Dean Alfred repeated, but then he slowly turned to face the Canon. ‘You mean that the other gloves are not ready?’
‘Dean, I do not know!’
The Dean snapped his fingers in annoyance. ‘Hmm. My dear fellow, you are usually so full of bright ideas. Why not go and enquire?’
‘I am a competent manager of money, Dean; I am not a Bailiff!’
‘Hmm. Um. I did not mean to imply that you were. Yet we must have someone search for the gloves. Ahmm – were they all finished? Perhaps they are waiting at the glover’s house?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Perhaps you could speak to the City Bailiff? He should know.’
‘I think you should go yourself. This is Chapter business, after all.’
‘Oh, ha! No, I don’t think so,’ said the Dean, smiling quickly. He ducked his head, then stuck a finger in his ear and dug around, while Brother Stephen sat fuming. ‘No, you go and enquire and we shall soon find out what’s happened, I am sure. I have complete faith in you.’
Brother Stephen drew breath to argue against the Dean’s proposal, but the Dean nodded encouragingly, backing away towards the door, and before the angry Canon could rally his thoughts Dean Alfred had passed into the next room, his private chamber.
Brother Gervase walked back to his hall with a sour smile catching at his lips. Little sods! They’d really done it this time.
The election was supposed to be a formality. Gervase knew as well as any cleric in the Cathedral that the freedom granted to the Choristers was so risk-filled that the boys needed direction… guidance. They had to be advised to select the one from within their ranks who would be best able to conduct services, who could act as a suitable ambassador for the Cathedral and who could be relied upon not to cause too much upset in the city when he proceeded along the roads with his retinue. Luke had the carriage, the education, the courteous manners, the suave accent. He was perfect.
Gervase reached his hall and entered, pushing the door shut and leaning against the worn timbers.
But the monsters had picked Henry. It was no surprise really, not if, like Gervase, you knew the boys. As he often told himself, boys of this age could be contrary little brutes at the best of times. Perhaps that was why they had elected Henry. The Choristers had ignored the clear and obvious wishes of the Canons; they wanted a leader who could make their day of freedom fun.
It was also possible that Henry had offered them bribes. Gervase recalled whispered conversations between Henry and others over the last few weeks. However, Gervase was more persuaded by the argument that his charges had selected a candidate with the sole intention of putting the collective noses of the Canons out of joint.
Children today just weren’t as well-behaved as they had been in his youth, he told himself sadly. God alone knew what horrors they would get up to on Holy Innocents’ Day. He pictured Henry: tousled, scruffy, trying to look innocent while holding his hands behind his back to conceal a sling, a beetle, or something equally repellent. Gervase tried to put that grubby figure into the silk robes of the boy-Bishop. It wasn’t easy. The child would ruin the fine clothes. And as for what he could get up to as the Bishop, well! Gervase’s mind boggled.
And then, unaccountably, he felt himself start to chuckle.
Chapter Four
It was two days later, on twenty-third December, that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill drew near to the city. Sitting on his favourite rounsey, he gave his wife a twisted smile and then returned to surveying the River Exe on their left side and warily eyeing the trees on their right. He was always looking for danger. Outlaws were everywhere nowadays.
‘I know, my love. And I am glad, too, that we shall not be forced to remain here overly long,’ he said.
His wife gave a longsuffering sigh. ‘All I said was, I am glad it was not my fault we were invited, Baldwin. It should be enjoyable – I don’t understand why you are so glum.’
‘I do not like to have to travel. Especially over the feast of Christmas. It is a time to be at home, to celebrate in our own church.’
The knight had travelled extensively when he was one of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – a Knight Templar – but since settling once more in his family’s estate at Furnshill near Cadbury and marrying Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, the tall, grave man had thought that he would no longer be forced nor expected to journey far and wide.
Sir Baldwin was Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, a job with some responsibility, but which required limited effort since few crimes plagued the small country town, nor were they generally violent in nature. He rarely suffered the difficulties of enquiring after murders and when there was such a case, it could normally be speedily resolved since the perpetrator was commonly still standing over the victim with a knife or rope in his hand when the Hue and Cry arrived. Many criminals surrendered themselves quietly, accepting that they had done wrong and must pay. Since becoming the King’s Keeper of the Peace five years ago, Baldwin had only been forced to seek four murderers in Crediton itself.
But this was not Crediton, Sir Baldwin told himself, looking past the weir towards the stonework of the city of Exeter.
The small city was a pretty red sandstone marker in the green of the fields all about. There were few solid buildings outside the walls, for all those who could afford to would buy a small house within their safety. Only a few timber buildings leaned against the outside of the walls. Looming over all was the castle, a solid-looking fortress built on the highest ground. Beneath it Baldwin could see the great mass of St Peter’s, the Cathedral, with its pair of tall spires marking the two towers of the crossing.
Away from the city were a few sparse settlements which stood out in this smoothly rolling countryside. There were any number of church spires and towers: to the north lay St David’s, ahead of him, over beyond the South Gate was the small leper hospital of St Magdalen, while he knew that St Thomas’s was almost dead ahead on the Cowick Street, not that the church could be seen from here. There were too many trees blocking the view.
Still, Sir Baldwin confessed to himself that it was a pretty enough little city; not so busy and hectic as London or Paris, not so scruffy as York, nor so unbearably humid and noisome as Limassol. It lay sheltered above a great sweep of the River Exe, quiet and serene in the clear wintry light.
The trouble was, he had another reason to wish to be at home. He did not want to travel all the way to Exeter for Christmas – especially not with his wife.