And the frowning Baldwin would say no more.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Stephen sat at his table and waited patiently while his servant brought in a large platter with the pies and dishes. Another man bowed and placed the salt at his side, and then the trencher was before him, a small loaf at his side, which he methodically broke into four precise pieces. One quarter went straight into his alms dish for the poor, the rest was for himself.
He began to eat, his eyes on his guests. Adam looked as scruffy as usual. Stephen watched him fixedly until he took his own loaf of bread and dropped an offering into the alms dish. Gervase had told Stephen about the attack on Luke, so he was not surprised to see that Luke looked tired and pale. Stephen wondered whether he was feeling unwell. ‘Luke?’
In answer to his Canon’s kindly enquiry Luke assured him that he was fine, thanking him for his concern while, from the corner of his eye, he saw Adam smugly grinning to himself.
‘Thanks for the bread,’ Adam muttered a short while later.
‘What?’
‘The bread you left for me yesterday. It was lovely… Mmm.’
Luke stared, then glanced down at Adam’s plate. The bread didn’t look the same as the one he had carried yesterday, not at all. Adam was surely only trying to upset him. It was Henry who had thrown him into the shit.
‘Shame Henry came out a moment or two afterwards. I was going to roll your face in the crap and stuff it down your shirt. I think,’ Adam considered judicially, ‘I think I’ll do that later.’
Adam pulled off another piece of bread and studied it with a satisfied grin, but Luke hardly noticed. It had never occurred to him that it could have been Adam all the time – Henry’s presence had made his guilt so apparent. As he watched, Adam turned, shoved the bread into his mouth and chewed with a smile.
It wasn’t the half-loaf he’d dropped, but that was probably too old and stale for him. Or he’d eaten it earlier. Maybe he had, just so he could gloatingly tell Luke that he’d eaten it. Adam didn’t need it himself, not with his access to the bakery, for he often delivered loaves to Canons, and he could select his own, picking the largest when he wanted to. And now Adam was taunting him with the knowledge that he had stolen Luke’s own dried-up bit of bread. Adam had attacked him last night, and Luke had seen to it that Henry was punished.
Luke felt a simmering anger beginning to rise in him. He felt his face flush, his belly tighten and the muscles of his throat contract. It was hard to swallow. Somehow, he didn’t know how, he would have his revenge.
Stephen reached for the salt and glanced about the quiet table. Seeing Luke’s expression, he hesitated. It looked as though Luke was remembering his attack, he thought. Children like Henry could be horrible little beasts if they weren’t controlled. He hoped the matter hadn’t upset Luke too much. The boy did look rather peaky, he thought.
As Stephen was considering asking Luke whether he had thought of visiting the infirmarer, Adam hiccuped. He went a little pale as he burped again and glanced apologetically at Stephen. He felt rather appalled that he might have offended his Canon. All knew how Stephen hated noise at his dining table. He was the precise opposite of a courtly noble: there was no place at his table for frivolity or merriment. Dancers and musicians were unwanted. It was like living with a saint, but a saint with a streak of cruelty, Adam thought. Stephen could be unkind when he wanted. Sometimes he would use his tongue to pull a man apart, reducing even a strong fellow to a quivering wreck in a short time. Adam looked up warily and saw that Stephen’s gaze had moved on. That was a relief.
In reality Stephen’s mind was hardly on Adam at all. He had scarcely registered his Secondary’s lapse. Stephen’s attention was fixed upon the problems with the Cathedral. Even today, which was theoretically one of rest, his mind whirled with numbers and expenses. There was so much to be done.
It was ridiculous that when the Dean and Chapter had a crucial task to perform, which was to finish the Cathedral that they had begun, they should relax for over a week. The workmen should be back now, creating the fittings for the new Lady Chapel, the new High Altar and the screens for the choir. Instead, they were probably rutting on their sluts, stuffing their faces with strong ales and rich foods, or lying moaning after the event.
Stephen felt very strongly about it, knowing that if there was a temptation, he could easily fall prey to it. It was many years since he had enjoyed an encounter with a woman, longer still since he had realised the danger that lurked in too much strong ale or wine, but he always had the fearsome example of his brother before him. If he should lapse, he could become a sinner. Better by far that he should divorce himself from all temptations. Only that way could he guarantee himself a place in Heaven.
The Cathedral would be a magnificent building, he considered. In his mind’s eye he could see the place rising up. The two towers, each with its tall steeple, the massive western doorway with its profusion of carved figures, all painted to make them the more lifelike: Kings, Queens, Bishops, Saints; all honouring the great work that had gone on in the Cathedral. And inside the magnificence of the gold and scarlet paintwork and the long, sweeping ceiling. It made his heart beat faster just to think of it. And, inside, the multiple chapels. To the Virgin, to St John the Evangelist, to St Gabriel and St George among others. It would be a wonderful place for any man to enter. Tall, wide, with beautiful voices rising in the clean air while the sun streamed in through the marvellous, coloured eastern window at dawn, or the equally impressive western window at sunset, it was a dream to make a man’s blood rush!
And Peter had threatened it all.
Stephen had seen him that last day before he died, the twenty-third. It was the first opportunity he had found to speak to Peter alone. He had gone to Jolinde and Peter’s hovel and questioned Peter closely. He had to, for his brother’s words had burned into him after he had visited Sir Thomas in the woods that morning.
Aye, he had watched and listened to Peter’s answers, and the lad had lied to him. He knew it, for Peter was not a good liar, and his deceit rang discordantly in the Canon’s ears. Eventually, worn down by Stephen’s questions, Peter had confessed. He had told Stephen all, under the promise of secrecy. He had not been with Karvinel when Karvinel swore he had been attacked; he had not witnessed Hamond attacking anyone. He had been in his hall all that day until Karvinel came and claimed to him that he had been attacked, said that one of the outlaws was even now sitting in a tavern. Peter had urged him to call the Hue and Cry, but Karvinel protested with tears in his eyes that no one would believe him.
To Stephen, Peter had begged forgiveness, had declared that he would do anything to atone for his crime, but he had been urged to lie in order to support the law. It was only after Hamond had hanged that he had learned that Hamond had been innocent. And that knowledge tore at him.
It was no excuse. Stephen could give him no hope for absolution. Peter had sent an innocent man to his death by swearing a false oath. By his perjury, he was a murderer. He deserved his own end.
Stephen sighed, then glanced down to see that a fresh course was already before him. It was a steaming dish of mussels, the whole served with a piquant wine sauce. The steam rose, giving off a wonderful smell.
The steward passed along the table setting the bowls before each diner. Using his knife to take a little salt from the silver pot, the Canon sprinkled it over his bowl. His cook never used enough salt. With a little sigh of contentment he dipped his spoon into the dish and extracted the first of the succulent creatures.