Henry was of the latter type. Wilful for his ten years, he had an insolent manner and invariably questioned the validity of any command. More often than any other he had felt the full force of Gervase’s rope, but still he remained unruly, disputatious and a disruptive influence on his peers.
Gervase sighed as he leaned back against the small shelf of the misericorde. It was many years since he himself had been ten years old, but through living with so many youngsters he could recall his own feelings with alarming clarity: the rebellious determination to behave as he wished, the desire to kick out at an unheeding remote and aloof Authority. In his heart of hearts, Gervase had a fear that Henry might be behaving as badly as Gervase himself would have liked to, had he dared, when he was younger.
Yes; when Gervase considered the other children at the Cathedral he had to reflect that it was fortunate that Luke would become the Bishop.
John Coppe would not have disagreed with his choice. Coppe sat at the side of Fissand Gate, plaintively calling out to passers-by, his bowl in his hand. He had been a sailor for most of his life, working for merchants in the city, convinced in his nautical optimism that he would one day return home rich. Instead his sanguine nature had led to him spending all his money in taverns and whore-houses before his final disaster when he was crippled. During a vicious attack at the hands of French pirates, he had had a leg cut from under him and received an axe-stroke full in his face. Now he was a beggar.
Coppe was not like the other beggars. Many – indeed most – were bitter, tortured men and women who wheedled and pleaded, then resorted to hurling abuse at the backs of passers-by who ignored them. They thought that God had marked them out for special punishment because of the sins of their parents or some appalling offence of their own, and the knowledge gnawed at them, turning them either into whining, fawning wretches who craved the society of ordinary people or, more commonly, into crabbed, twisted souls who despised all other people.
Their avowed loathing for mankind while at the same time desiring above all things to be able to join in with ordinary life, Coppe found sad. And silly. As far as he was concerned, he had been marked out by God, it was true, but he retained the conviction that God would reward him in Heaven. When Coppe died, he knew he would be taken up before all the richest in the city, and would be fed and watered with as much ale as he could drink. That was what the friars told him, and he saw no reason to disbelieve them. As far as he was concerned, he was almost privileged.
He was given money regularly by folk who passed along the road, often by the women who averted their eyes from his dreadful, twisted visage with revulsion, but because Coppe was always polite, always ducked his head respectfully and smiled as best he could with his face so wrecked where the blade had smashed through jaw, cheekbone and eyesocket, he won their sympathy as well as their money.
And although it was cold, wet and miserable in the winter, Coppe knew that when the weather grew foul, Janekyn the porter would mutter and grumble, but would still drag a brazier out here for the beggars. Usually he would bring a small pot of spiced wine, or a tankard of ale for the old sailor. Coppe knew that Janekyn himself had been a fighter in the King’s host and didn’t grudge Coppe a sup, knowing that their rôles could so easily have been reversed.
No, Coppe wasn’t the kind of man to be introspective and question his place in the world. As far as he was concerned, he was harmed, but there was nothing he could do about it. Railing and complaining was pointless. It wouldn’t alter his position.
Coppe was content. He could talk to the people who passed by here – especially the priests. Most of them were happy to stop for a moment to talk to him. Of course, not everyone was like that. Lots turned from him. Some would meet his eye or chat, but more commonly folk would smile nervously, realising that what had so ruined Coppe’s life could affect any of them. He was a living reminder of the brutality men could show to each other. Some women would stop and talk to him gently.
He frowned a little at that thought. Usually she would stop to talk to him, but today she had run past with her head averted, as if ashamed.
Or scared.
Chapter Three
‘Master Ralph, are you there?’ Elias called hesitantly at the back door. There was no answer. He had been here for several minutes, jiggling the handle up and down as he tried to loosen the wooden peg that locked the latch, but it wouldn’t shift.
He stood there, the bread cooling in his arm as he stared up at the house in consternation. His master should be back by now, but if he wasn’t, the fire would be sure to have gone out after being left untended for so long. Elias felt the guilt lying upon him. Ralph was an old man now. In this weather he needed a warm hall and a good fire. Elias didn’t fear a beating from his master, but the idea that he should have let down the kindly gentleman was nearly as painful as a blow from a cudgel.
While he stood there undecided, he heard a movement indoors. Then there was the sound of a door slamming, and he felt himself relax a moment. His master was back! Almost immediately he felt the trepidation return. If his master was back, he would notice that Elias was not, and even the kindliest, most generous master would be sure to be irritable with an apprentice who had forgotten to take his keys with him. It wouldn’t have mattered normally: it was Ralph’s own lateness that had forced Elias to wait outside. Not that that was an excuse.
Hurriedly, Elias darted back down the long, narrow garden, past the raised beds filled with cabbages and kale, carrots and alexanders, past the herbs and the fruit trees that lay further down near the wall, then out of the gate, slamming it behind him and running round to the front of the house. Here, panting, he pushed at the door, kicking it shut behind him and walking down the corridor.
‘Master?’ he called. ‘I was locked out, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Master, but I have the bread for your breakfast.’
He entered the hall. The table was against the wall, with Ralph’s chair at one side, Elias’s stool at the other. The cupboard with Ralph’s small collection of pewter stood in one corner, the large chest with Ralph’s belongings was opposite, near the outer wall. Elias stared about him. The fire was crackling merrily in the middle of the floor, letting a thin, sweet-smelling smoke rise to the roof high overhead. A sudden spark glittered upwards, rising up to Elias’s eye-level before gradually fading out and falling away as ash. Elias walked through to the service room behind, but here again there was no one. He touched the backdoor latch gently. The peg had been thrust through the latch to lock it in place, and he pulled it free, opening the door with a frown of confusion. No one there.
‘Master?’
The only other place to look was the chamber, and he went to it, climbing up the ladder. There was still no sign of his master, however. He went to the small chest by Ralph’s bed and tentatively checked the lock. It was a relief to see that the chest was still there, but to his surprise the clasp yielded to his hand; it wasn’t locked. He began to lift the lid, but let it fall shut when he heard something. It sounded like someone downstairs, but not in the hall, in the shop. He listened and soon was rewarded with the squeaking of a cart with a bad wheel. He must have misheard things: it was just a fellow in the street.
Elias returned and lifted the lid once more and then his face went blank with dismay. It was empty; all Ralph’s money was gone. ‘Oh, oh!’ Elias wailed and bit at his lip. Somebody had robbed his master. What would Ralph say when he got back? Mostly that he had employed a fool, a cretin, as an apprentice.