‘Bugger off, lad,’ Coppe said curtly. ‘I don’t have to go nowheres I don’t want. You carry on, just do as you want.’
The lad had the brains of a fool. Probably he’d been told to help cripples; perhaps his village priest had told him to give any service he could to a beggar – knowing what hypocritical bastards some village priests could be. Half the time the village idiot was born to one of the priests’ own mounts. Never mind that they were supposed to be chaste; Coppe had seen them, out in the streets, small dogs on leads to tempt the women. As soon as a woman expressed delight in the priest’s toy dog, he knew he had her halfway to his bed. Coppe understood much. That was how he spent his life: observing. He was no fool, he could make connections, could pursue ideas until he explained things to himself.
He wasn’t unique. It was how all the beggars with brains spent their lives. Not that there weren’t plenty of cretins amongst the alms-takers at the Cathedral gates, but Coppe knew several who had brains beyond the brute intelligence of an animal. They saw and noted much, and for the most part were ignored by the rest of humanity because they were no one. They were nothing. As important as a gatepost.
The idiot’s hand-wringing grew more pronounced and his brow wrinkled as if he was tortured by the thought that Coppe might be left behind. He glanced fretfully towards the Cathedral doors.
Coppe followed his gaze. There, to the side of the door, was the hooded man. When he glanced back at the boy’s face he saw the fear on it, and gave an inward sigh. The lad was touched, but Coppe was convinced that his present anxiety was due more to the cloaked man at the door.
The cloaked man had been there the night before. He had joined Coppe and the idiot as they entered the Cathedral, although he had slipped out during the service. Others had too. Many needed to piss halfway through the Mass. But now he thought about it, Coppe couldn’t remember the man returning. Perhaps he, like others, had been bored by the length of the celebration. Now he stood like a man trying to sink into the walls, as if he would crawl under a shadow if he could. Coppe had a feeling that he was trying to remain concealed from someone – but that was madness! Even if he was a felon, he was safe within the sanctuary of the Cathedral grounds. Perhaps he was as daft as the boy at Coppe’s side.
All the beggar knew was that this poor idiot child was suffering the torments of the damned purely because Coppe wouldn’t let him pull him into the Cathedral with him.
‘Oh, damn me! All right, I’ll go with you. But afterwards you’ll have to let me get out and buy a pot of strong ale,’ he grumbled. Only later did he wonder whether the two wanted him with them because two men helping a cripple were almost invisible. People’s eyes went to the cripple and then away; if a cripple was of no note, of how much less importance were his attendants?
Jolinde was detailed to assist Adam with replenishing the candles, and he was in the main nave of the Cathedral as people began to arrive. He saw Sir Baldwin and Lady Jeanne in the crush, the Bailiff at their side. It would be a relief when the building work was complete, he thought. Everyone was so cramped up in the nave, pressed together like sheep in a pen. When the new eastern half was opened, the choir could move into their stalls beyond the towers, leaving all the nave to the congregation.
He saw the City Bailiff and the Coroner arrive together. They were talking in low voices, both frowning seriously as if their conversation was not pleasing to either. The Coroner’s gaze passed over Jolinde, and with a shudder of guilt Jolinde saw Roger de Gidleigh’s eyes return to him, studying him unblinkingly.
The knowledge of his crime made Jolinde stumble as he hurried to keep up with young Adam. The Secondary tutted irritably as Jolinde almost tripped, and took the box from him. ‘Watch your step!’ he growled. ‘And mind out for clumsy bastards knocking you over. Last night it was the merchant, le Berwe, and half the folks today have already been at the wine.’
Joline nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. If anyone here had seen him abroad on the night that Peter died, or worse, if they knew he had been about in the city on the morning that Ralph had died, they would have many questions for him. Especially if someone had guessed at his theft as well.
He was relieved when the bells stopped ringing, and he and Adam could collect their boxes and tapers and make their way to the other side of the screen and into the choir.
When he felt the man shove at his back Nick Karvinel snapped his head round ready to curse whoever it might be, but he held his tongue when he recognised the clerical garb. A candle cleric, he thought to himself with a sneer. Pathetic fool! The best he can manage is to fill empty candle-holders for a living.
His wife was at his side, glancing openly about the nave, eyeing up the men present, the bitch. Juliana had been happy enough with him when he’d been a success, delighted when he made his big deals, getting a name for himself, making it into the Freedom of the City with all the big merchants. If things had gone right for him this year, she’d still be content.
He kept a surreptitious eye on her as the crowd moved forward, jockeying for the best position to hear what was going on beyond the screen, or perhaps find a point from which they could peer through a section to where the Canons were singing their praises to God.
She wasn’t watching the priest up at the altar, she was still ogling the men, he saw. Especially that Bailiff, Puttock, who’d been at her side the night before at le Berwe’s feast. Karvinel peered over the heads of the people nearest. The Bailiff was up to the right side of the nave, following the service attentively. At his side was his friend the knight, whose lips moved in time with the singing as if he knew the words. His wife Jeanne made a show of her piety, keeping her eyes downcast like a bloody virgin.
People like that made him sick. As he returned his gaze to the altar, occasionally glancing at his wife, Karvinel couldn’t help a sneer distorting his features. Knights and their ladies had no idea what life was all about – just like the merchants in Vincent’s league. They hadn’t a clue what a man had to do to survive, to succeed. It was hard enough when times were good, when competition undercut your prices and forced you to find cheaper suppliers, but when times were bad and you couldn’t persuade anyone to buy what you had, that was really tough. And then you got troubles like Karvinel’s, when some bastard broke into your house and nicked everything. And later torched it.
Sometimes the only way a man could survive was by betraying his own soul. Occasionally a man must steal and risk damnation just to be able to live. Karvinel knew that now. Had known it two days ago when he went down to shout at his bottler for not waking him, and had found the man’s bed unslept in. The last of his servants, bar the cretinous urchin who swept the hall, had left.
Juliana had shrugged carelessly, saying it was lucky. It would be a relief to be rid of so expensive a mouth to feed, and he wasn’t really necessary now.
‘What do you mean, not necessary?’ he had shouted.
‘You don’t have that much business to conduct, do you, my dear?’ she had returned coldly
‘There are the gloves to finish for the Cathedral, the wine for–’
‘Precisely. There really is very little for you to do, husband. Perhaps there will be more soon, for if your creditors all appear and ask for your money, I suppose we shall be forced to sell the house and all our belongings. But until then, there is little to be done that you can’t do alone, is there?’
Her spiteful manner had made him see red. He could have hit her, punched her, and the release would have given him immense satisfaction… except he knew what the end result would be. She would simply look at him contemptuously and go quiet, perhaps silently walk away from him – and from that moment she would be entirely lost to him.