Janekyn shrugged slightly, his eyes still on the passing folk, and then he pursed his lips, shot a glance at Coppe, and jerked his head to beckon his assistant. When the lad was standing in his place with a heavy ash staff in his hands, Janekyn went inside and came out with a couple of thick fustian blankets and a jug that steamed in the cool air. ‘Who needs cups when the weather’s like this?’ he grunted rhetorically, and took a swig before passing it to Coppe. It was heavily spiced and sweetened wine, and Coppe could feel the warmth soaking down from his belly to his toes — even to the toes of the leg that had gone so many years ago.
‘There was a murder, right enough. It was November, a week and two days after All Souls’ Day.’
Coppe nodded. That would be the ninth, then.
‘The trouble had been brewing for ages. I was only a lad, but I can remember it still. It cut up the city. The Bishop was a foreigner, a man called Quivil, who was arrogant. Wanted everything done his own way. Under him the Archbishop put in a Dean who was a local man, John Pycot — everyone called him John of Exeter. The Archbishop was determined to see Pycot grow in importance and fame. There were rumours spread about him — that he was greedy, took benefices wherever he could, and never did a stroke of work apart from what would benefit him — but they came from the Bishop. That was the sort of man Quivil was. Always putting down those he couldn’t get on with. All the city respected the Dean. We liked John Pycot. The Bishop refused to accept him, and never even acknowledged his position, but couldn’t get rid of him. So he put one of his own men in as Chaunter, to sort of keep Dean John at bay the whole time. The Dean was cross, and it led to a fight. The Chaunter got killed. And that’s about it.’
‘Why the coldness towards the friar, then?’
‘He was there; he helped protect that damned Chaunter against the good Dean’s men. That friar saw what the Bishop wanted him to. Useless. No, any man who knows this city would agree that the Dean was the better man.’
‘Is he dead now?’
‘Don’t know. He was gaoled for a long while in the Bishop’s cells, then forced to take up the vows and go into exile in some monastery or other. No one will hear from him again.’
‘Don’t you think that the friar has paid for his actions?’ Coppe said, thinking of the dreadful wound on his face that all but matched his own.
Janekyn gave him a steady look. ‘Sorry, John, I know you feel sympathy for a man like that, but I can’t. He fought on the side of the man who helped create a rift in the Chapter. For that I hope the Chaunter rots, and I don’t care to drink with those who tried to save him, neither.’
After William’s departure, Mabilla entered the counting room. ‘I saw him leaving,’ she said quietly, nervously fingering a thread on a tapestry.
‘He told me I mustn’t confess,’ Henry said heavily. His wife, he could see, was very scared. She seemed unable to meet his eyes, as though she feared his emotions might force her to break down in sympathy.
Sympathy was a commodity he could not summon up for others. He sat drained, his face twisted and his eyes moist; he could have wept. Both forearms lay on the table before him, and Mabilla felt that William had sucked the energy from him. Even the will to live was gone.
‘Oh, my love,’ she said. She went to his side and took his hand in her own, kneeling and gazing up at him. ‘My love, don’t look so upset. The man was only demanding that you protect him.’
‘He said he’d kill me. I think he threatened not just me, my darling, but you and Julia too. I need some wine!’
‘My love, no! Keep your head clear just for a little longer. Don’t think of me or of Julia. We are strong enough. Think of yourself. If you allow him to threaten you, it’s your soul he’ll harm. Don’t let him do that. We can always seek protection. There are men you can hire.’
‘Darling, he threatened …’
‘All he can do is perhaps try to hurt you, but we can stop that. We’ll get men to guard you, if you want. But his threats are nothing compared to the risk to your immortal soul, Henry. Think of that: your soul! If you feel you must confess your sin, then do so.’
Henry turned his head and looked at her. ‘I wish I knew what to do for the best.’
‘Look into your heart, my love.’
‘It’s not just my heart, darling. Peter, the acting Prior at St Nicholas’s said I should confess, too.’
‘Then you must do it, my love. It’s your eternal soul. Don’t let him risk that.’
‘But if I speak to any of the canons or vicars, they’ll be bound to tell someone else. The Cathedral is no repository for secrets. They gabble away all the time like old women. If only I …’
A face returned to him. A face he had seen in the streets, the ravaged features of the man he had last seen sprawled in the mud at the side of his master. Friars could hear confessions, he reminded himself.
‘Perhaps there is one man I could speak to,’ he said.
Sara was early at the gate to St Nicholas’s. She and Elias were waiting for the bread to be distributed, and she lifted and pushed her little son before her, trying to maintain their place among the people who crowded the narrow street.
It was a blessing that the good monks at St Nicholas’s Priory issued their alms. Without their generosity many of the poor of the city would die, Sara among them.
No! The boys were reason enough to continue the battle. She might have lost her man, but she wouldn’t lose her boys too. And if that meant queuing at the gate to St Nicholas’s, she’d be here all night if necessary.
Just then, the bell tolled out, and now she could hear the chain and latch being pulled. That meant the Almoner had brought food for the poor. She’d be able to get something into her belly, with luck. But there were so many people about, she realised, glancing from side to side. What if there wasn’t enough food for her, for Dan and Elias?
As she looked and felt the others pushing her forwards from behind, she noticed that the ring of people before the gate was contracting: men and women were forcing their way towards the gate from either side. The crush on all sides was so tight that it was impossible to move her arms, and then her breasts were bruised as she was shoved painfully into the backs of those in front. They retaliated with elbows and backward kicks, and her shins were barked by the boot-heels of the man in front of her as he shouted for people to stop their ‘infernal fucking shoving!’
It was alarming, most of all because she knew that Elias was at her side. He had her hand in his, and he was wailing already. She couldn’t pick him up, though. He was terrified, and so was she as the mass of people pulled her inexorably on. And then the fellow in front wasn’t there. He simply disappeared from sight, and as her mind tried to absorb this, her feet were trapped. She couldn’t lift or press them onwards, and the weight of hundreds was at her back. With a scream of dread, she felt herself topple; her son’s hand was ripped from her grasp, and she tumbled down with her ears seared by the sound of his screams.
Chapter Six
Henry Potell was sunk deep into thought as he walked from his house. He knew that he ought to confess his offences before God before he died — but he was concerned that he would be hastening his death, were he to try to speak to Nicholas Friar and William got to hear of it.
Mabilla was convinced that he must confess, and she seemed confident that William would pose no genuine threat. Henry had wondered at that for a moment. She had once known William very well, when she was younger … but there was no point doubting her. She was his wife; she’d been loyal to him for years.