Which is why he wasn’t looking where he was going and accidentally got in the path of a cleric who was running full pelt towards him.
‘Oh, I’m…’ There was a squeak of shock, and the cleric fled.
The collision was so forceful, Ralph was winded. He staggered backwards into a man behind him, and had to grasp the stranger’s shoulder to save himself from falling.
‘Clumsy damned fool,’ the man growled in a deep voice as the figure in clerical garb hared off towards the Fissand Gate and darted into the Close.
‘The enthusiasm of youth, I fear, friend,’ Ralph gasped. He stood a while with a hand on his heart and caught his breath. ‘I am easy to stumble into, I’m afraid,’ he continued with a better humour. ‘It’d be different if I were a young maiden with tits out to here and a saucy smile, but I’m just an old fat man with a belly like a hog’s. Let me release you, I must be straining your shoulder. I assure you I’m better now.’
‘Are you sure, Master Glover? You lost all the air in your lungs for a while there.’
Ralph recognised the voice and squinted at the man. Years of careful, close work had made it difficult for him to focus, but he was sure that he knew him. ‘My lord?’
‘Don’t fear, Ralph. It is I, Canon Stephen. My Heavens, he must have hit you hard! Did you see who it was?’
‘No,’ Ralph lied, smiling. He had no intention of having a youthful cleric like poor Peter the Secondary reprimanded for a minor accident – especially when it was largely Ralph’s own fault for not looking where he was going. In addition, Ralph knew that even the lowest groups of clerics lived within the Cathedral’s grounds, and yet here was Peter outside before full light: he had probably been tempted by a girl with a pleasing smile, or maybe had fallen asleep before a fire with a belly full of ale. Whatever the reason, Ralph had no wish to see the lad punished. With a polite bow and a smiling ‘Godspeed,’ Ralph left the unsettling Canon to continue on his way. Ralph himself turned back so that he need not enter with the Canon.
The Bear Gate was open as always and Ralph passed beneath the great gatehouse into the large triangular yard beyond, slowly plodding up the shallow gradient until he stood in front of the huge western doors of the Cathedral.
Ralph knew he was a simple man. Many of his friends and competitors in the city thought him almost idiotic in his straightforward belief, but he didn’t care about their sniggers. To Ralph, the proof of his faith was here, in the massive building still being rebuilt, where the Canons, Vicars, Annuellars and Choristers gathered each day to sing the praises of the Lord God.
Inside, the silence assailed his ears; it was a great void into which any sound was swallowed. This early in the morning there were only a few Secondaries around, for the most part ex-Choristers whose voices had broken and were hoping to find some new occupation. They were often to be found performing minor tasks about the place and today Ralph could see three of them lighting candles up near the altar as he walked in. Apart from them there were few people in the nave this early in the morning. Ralph didn’t spot his own murderer, who had watched his entrance and now stood in the shadow of one of the huge pillars.
It was wonderfuclass="underline" the broad, spacious area before the door was empty as if to remind the viewer how minuscule he was in God’s creation, while beyond columns towered up on either side. It was larger than any great hall Ralph had ever seen, a glorious space lighted by the coloured glass in the windows. Later this place would be filled with men talking, making deals, praying or gossiping, carrying on the daily round of hard work and business which kept the city of Exeter profitable. Soon Master Thomas of Witney, the architect, would be heard fussily ordering his workmen outside and up at the eastern end.
The fact that the Cathedral was being rebuilt detracted somewhat from its magnificence, but Ralph absorbed the sanctity of the place, gazing at the painted walls with their pictures representing God’s works on earth, showing how men could prepare themselves for the afterlife and help to save the souls already passed on. No amount of builder’s rubble and dust could detract from these, he thought.
Soon others entered, and a little crowd of the city’s most devout people gathered to witness the first Mass celebrated by two chantry priests. These Annuellars were paid by a bequest to celebrate Mass for the soul of its founder, Henry Bratton, at St Mary’s altar. While the two went through their daily ritual, the crowd tried desperately not to shuffle or make too much noise, but the cold was biting. Their breath steamed in the air, adding to the smoke left by the censer and creating a grey misty dampness.
Ralph didn’t care. He swayed in time to the music as he listened to the cadences of the priests, but then his expression hardened a little. It was difficult to imagine someone defrauding the Cathedral. By so doing they were defrauding God Himself. Looking about him, Ralph tried to understand how anyone could dare risk the wrath of God for money. It was beyond him. And yet he was sure that he had evidence of just that; he had seen it with his own eyes in the Guildhall on the day Karvinel was robbed. He prayed for advice, but his course of action was already decided. The Bailiff of the City would be at his house later, and Ralph would tell him all he knew. If the Bailiff refused to act, Ralph had no alternative: he must go to the Dean and inform him.
At the end of the Mass he joined the other members of the early-morning congregation trooping out from the Cathedral, but while the others moved towards one of the seven gates which gave on to the city outside the Cathedral precinct, Ralph loitered.
The sun was in the sky now, dangling over the roofs of the buildings surrounding the Cathedral. Eastwards was the row of houses owned by the Canons themselves, and Ralph stood contemplating them for a short while, admiring their limewashed walls and timbers. Smoke rose like columns in the clear, still air and from the breadhouse next to the north tower came the odour of baking bread, a delicious scent that set Ralph’s mouth watering, especially when he caught a whiff of spiced wine. Outside the bakery were several Annuellars and Secondaries, all collecting their daily loaf. Others wandered among them: beggars and the poor who depended upon the Cathedral for their food, but there was also a sprinkling of richer folk who gave good donations to the Cathedral and in payment were occasionally permitted to buy some of the Cathedral’s better quality breads.
Ralph saw the Receiver’s wife at the side of a Secondary, the young lad called Adam; he smiled and bowed to her. She acknowledged his courtesy ungraciously, but then, as Ralph knew, he was her husband’s greatest enemy and competitor for advancement. Nick Karvinel was someone else she openly despised. In a way, he could sympathise, Ralph thought. There were few people in the city whom he actively disliked, but Nick Karvinel the glovemaker and dealmaker was one.
But enough of such sour topics. ‘Time to break my fast,’ he grunted, and turned to make his way up to St Martin’s Gate. About to pass the conduit, he stopped to watch two Choristers running up from the Street of the Canons. One appeared to be chasing the other; they leaped the low fence to the cemetery, one straining ahead while the other panted curses and stretched out a hand to grab his victim.
The two hared off around the charnel chapel, then over the roadway and out of sight behind the Church of St Mary Major, and Ralph followed them with his eyes, grinning and shaking his head. There had once been a time when he too could have chased a friend around a churchyard – but that time was long gone, he told himself ruefully as he stomped heavily through the cemetery and out via the gate to the High Street, a genial fellow in faded and shabby clothing.