The Dean stood. Stephen idly considered the importance of Mass. In a normal day a priest was allowed to say only one Mass. All others were given by different priests. There were few exceptions to this rule. On Good Friday no Masses were permitted, because of the Agony of the Crucifixion, so on Easter Day two Masses were allowed, as they were on special occasions such as marriages or funerals. On Christmas Day three Masses were needed.
Funerals. Stephen thought again about the death of the Secondary. It was a shame that a man so young should have his life ended, but the fellow shouldn’t have tried to commit theft. Stephen would have to consider raising the matter in Chapter. The Secondary had committed the heinous crime of theft from the Cathedral; he couldn’t be given a funeral within these sacred grounds. Although many would argue that he deserved kindness, that he should be buried like any other cleric, that there was no proof of his guilt, Stephen had no such qualms.
Peter Golloc had deserved to die, the liar!
Nicholas Karvinel went home with his wife as soon as the service was over. They must prepare for the feast at Vincent le Berwe’s, making themselves look presentable, clean and grateful, Nick thought savagely.
Gratitude was to be his lot in future, so far as Vincent was concerned. The latter obviously thought that Nick would be thankful for whatever morsels fell from his plate. If there was something that he could give to his poor friend, Vincent’s smug attitude seemed to imply, then he would be glad to help. It was like receiving charity, and all the more frustrating and humiliating because Nicholas couldn’t complain to anyone about it.
At his door he handed Juliana inside, but then a spirit of rebellion rose in his breast and he walked out to John Renebaud’s tavern. It was near his house, a haven to which he often repaired. Vincent patronised it too, but he would be busy at home. He needed a few moments’ peace, a quart of ale or a pint of good strong wine to set him up so that he could tolerate the graciousness of the good Receiver of the City, Vincent le Berwe. For although Karvinel was out of the woods now, thanks to his little windfall, courtesy of the Cathedral, he couldn’t let anyone know. The theft was too recent. Were they to hear of his sudden wealth, they might guess at the source of it – and that would be catastrophic. No, better keep his mouth shut. He would continue paying cash from his meagre supply of coins, waiting until he saw a suitable opportunity to declare his wealth. A ship with goods for him, something that would explain the appearance of his new money. After all, any man could speculate; a glover could double his income with a lucky gamble on a shipload of spices.
If Vincent became insistent, Karvinel thought, he would definitely ask what the other man had been doing outside Ralph’s house on the day he died. That would shut the bugger up! So taken up was he with his thoughts, Nick never saw the cloaked man pausing at his door, glancing up at the sign and picture of gloves which hung above it, then smiling coldly, following Karvinel to the inn.
Hob waited after the service, confused when his master didn’t return. He left Coppe to make his own way back to his seat by the gate, then walked outside to look for Sir Thomas, but there was no sign of him. The cold began to eat into Hob’s bones.
Eventually he gave up and left for the camp, walking carefully along the road to the South Gate in the city wall, then out past the terraced fields which led down to the Shittebrook and on to Bull Meadow. He skirted past the Maudlin, where the lepers congregated, watching the gates of the colony with a superstitious dread, recalling the stories of how they could grab passers-by to rape them or eat them, but he was lucky: no one was keen on taking him and he could continue unmolested.
The trees here were much thinner. Many had been cleared for the use of the citizens, whether for building or for firewood, and there was more coppicing than old woodland.
He soon heard the sharp whistle as he hurried along the rough track. The weather wasn’t cold enough for the ruts and hoofprints to solidify, and the mud was awful. His feet were sodden as he stepped into deeper puddles which filled his boots and made him grimace with revulsion as the chilly water slopped about, squelching with every step he took.
The band was waiting near a large oak, one of only a very few which had survived the demands of construction in Exeter. About it tents had been erected, enough for the fourteen men who followed Sir Thomas. A charcoal fire was smoking in the middle, over which were spitted two ducks, a goose and a small pig.
‘So, Hob, you came back when the hunger got to you, did you?’ Jen called lightly. ‘Where’s Sir Thomas?’
‘I thought h-he’d be back already. Isn’t he here?’
Jen had been stirring at a pot but now she stopped and stood upright. ‘You lost him?’
‘He was in the crowd, but he went off to see the…’
‘He saw the merchant?’ Jen asked.
Hob was worried by her expression. Jen looked angry with him, very angry. ‘He asked me to take him there, to the big Church.’
‘That was so he could see his other son.’
‘That was last night. Today he said he wanted me to point out the merchant.’
‘You idiot! Are you mad?’
‘He told me, he told me!’ Hob asserted, his head retreating into his shoulder, gazing down at his feet. He hated upsetting his sister; she was all he had in the world, but he couldn’t help it. Sir Thomas scared him, and Sir Thomas had told him to point out the merchant if he saw the man. He couldn’t disobey Sir Thomas. He scuffed his boot in the dirt, doodling with a toe.
‘Stop that! Don’t you realise anything? Jesus! You’re so thick on occasion,’ Jen said scathingly. She threw the wooden spoon into the pot and went into the tent she shared with Sir Thomas, returning with a bonnet and thick coat. ‘You’ll have to stay here, Hob. Look after that food and don’t let it burn!’
One of the lookouts had witnessed Hob’s discomfiture from his vantage point. Now he called down, ‘Where are you going, Jen?’
‘You heard. Your leader has gone to seek the man who says he was robbed.’
‘The one that got Hamond killed?’
She looked up as she shrugged into her coat. ‘Yes. The one who had Hamond hanged.’
Luke the Chorister sat sedately as he should, waiting until the cup of wine arrived before him. He sipped slowly, holding it carefully with both hands, and even when Adam, at his side, nudged him viciously in the ribs with an elbow, Luke didn’t spill a drop.
The food was good, but not too rich. Stephen didn’t enjoy overly spiced foodstuffs, and refused to spend large sums to obtain them. Thriftiness was his watchword, as it should be for a Treasurer. He looked upon all the money spent within the Cathedral as his own, and when he spent his own, he measured his expenditure against what it could acquire for the Cathedral itself.
It was an irritation, but Luke ate politely and with silent determination. Stephen did not like disruption at his table, and Choristers who chattered were as obtrusive and annoying as a guest who rudely denounced the quality of his wine. Neither were to be borne.
Not that Luke wanted to talk. Since the shock of the night before, he had wandered about feeling quite dazed, as if someone had struck the back of his head with a club.