For years he had been told that his father was dead. His father, a knight from the Soth family, the last to live in the small manor at Exmouth, had been killed when a neighbour had attacked him, or so Stephen had told him. Why should the Canon have deceived him? His father had become an outlaw, a felon, and Luke had not even been told.
Luke moved in time to prevent another nudge from Adam forcing him to knock over the salt. He had to bite back the angry words which rose to his lips. It wasn’t fair that Adam should keep pushing him, for ever trying to make him look a fool, when Luke had never done anything to upset him. It wasn’t his fault Adam was a failure.
That was the problem, though. Luke knew it well enough. He’d even been warned about such things when he first showed promise. It was Stephen himself who drew him aside and told him that other Choristers might pick on him because of his abilities. In fact, at the time Luke was quite sure the Treasurer was letting him know that Henry would probably make his life difficult, but now Luke knew the Treasurer had meant people like Adam.
Adam wasn’t the only one. There were quite a few like him in the Cathedral precinct: fellows who had expected to move up the church’s hierarchy until they themselves ran their own See as Bishop, or perhaps became a Precentor or a Dean. So few ever seemed to appreciate that for every Precentor there were some hundred or more who were of a lower level even within his own church. No, few realised that there was every likelihood that, if there were fourteen Choristers, none of them would become a dignitary within that church. Luke himself had already seen how many boys fell by the wayside.
He broke off another piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. It wasn’t only because of bad behaviour or manners that the boys were thrown out of the choir. There had been two in Luke’s first year who simply couldn’t make head nor tail of Latin, spoken or written. Another fellow had taken to weeping each night before sleep. Lonely and miserable, he had come from a lord’s household, and suddenly being dropped into Exeter had been too much for the eight-year-old. He had been sent home before six months had passed.
But when the Choristers’ voices broke, their troubles multiplied. Then they had little genuine reason for remaining within the cloister, apart from trying to better themselves, learning as much about writing and reading as they could so that they might prove their value as clerics. If they were successful, they would be able to continue in this manner, as Secondaries, before they gradually received enough attention to be promoted. Some would then remain at the lowest levels, perhaps after many years of striving achieving the status of a Chaplain, while those who were lucky might progress from Deacon to the exalted heights of Vicar or Annuellar.
Being a Vicar was probably best, Luke judged reflectively. A Vicar had all his food and lodging provided by the Canon he served, and when there was a gap in the number of Canons, there was the possibility of promotion. There was also much to be said for being an Annuellar, a chantry priest. These men were appointed by the Dean and Chapter and lived in rented chambers in the Close, but were free for much of their lives. They did not have to go to their Canon to obtain food or lodging, they were given an annual stipend, and from that they could buy what they needed. Nor were they forced to turn up at all services in the way that Secondaries and Vicars were. The only people free of compulsion to attend were the Canons, who could ignore the bells’ summons if they wished, and the Annuellars. The latter had the one duty, performing a Mass every day at a specific time and at a specific altar.
Luke rather liked the idea of becoming an Annuellar. It might not offer so much potential for advancement, but with his ability to read and write, it would be an easy life.
Many Secondaries failed; usually because of laziness on their part, Luke reminded himself. He had heard that sage comment passed by another Secondary talking about Jolinde, and was privately convinced that the same applied to Adam. He was not suited to the Canonical life, anyway. He was a bully and a cheat.
With a wash of cold anguish, Luke recalled his father’s face from the night before. Now he had his own notoriety: he was the son of a felon, related to an outlaw. Perhaps Stephen’s deliberate concealment of his father’s survival had been intended as a kindness, Luke realised. The Canon might have considered it preferable that other Choristers couldn’t discover what had truly happened to Sir Thomas. If so, perhaps he was right. Luke shuddered as he thought how Henry would torment him, should he learn that Luke’s father had become an outlaw. It would reverse all the insults Luke had hurled at him for being lower-born. Henry could at least assert that his parents had never broken the King’s Peace.
It was a relief when Adam kicked his shin beneath the table. The cruel pain took Luke’s mind off his father.
If the stories were true, Adam had been a good Chorister, with a fine voice, but when his voice shattered during a long Psalm one Easter Day, it had destroyed his confidence. His whole existence up until that point had been built upon the solid foundation of his ability to sing, and as soon as that was taken from him, he appeared to lose all motivation. He failed in his studies and proved himself incompetent at figures. Now the strong rumour in the Close asserted that he would be lucky if he was permitted to remain in the Cathedral as an acolyte.
Some did. They stayed, hanging about the place like sad and mournful hounds who had lost their master, getting in the way of the choir as they hurried from cloister to choir to Chapter to dormitory. Many simply left while in their early twenties. There was no point haunting a place where you weren’t wanted, Luke thought, but Adam seemed to have no idea where else he could go. Pathetic.
Luke reached down to pick up his bread, but there was nothing there. Staring at the table where it had been, he was astonished to see it had disappeared. Then he saw Adam smiling derisively as he crammed the last piece into his mouth and chewed slowly, with evident relish.
The meal was finished. Arthur, Stephen’s Vicar, stood and said the Grace, and the small group left the table to go and watch the plays in the Cathedral. Luke couldn’t help but cast a regretful eye back at the table as he rose. There had not been enough food. His stomach was calling for more. Perhaps if Peter’s half-loaf hadn’t hardened to a rock-like consistency, he could eat a little of that later. He could toast it beside a fire – make it more edible.
With that decided, he was about to head for the door when he felt a foot lash out around his leg, making him stumble. He tripped, felt himself falling and grabbed at the first thing he could. It was the tablecloth. Pulling it with him, he fell to the ground, ducking as trenchers and the salt showered down on top of him.
‘Luke!’ he heard Stephen gasp.
‘I’m sorry, but I–’
‘You clumsy cretin! What in God’s name… Go! And do not return for food today. You will get nothing more from here!’
Luke turned away and averted his head as tears threatened to flood his face. He ignored the grinning face of his tormentor and left.
Simon smiled broadly as the boar’s head was carried in. This was more to his taste than a whole mix of fish dishes. Vincent le Berwe had done his best yesterday, but no matter how you arranged the dishes, fish didn’t appeal to a man with a strong carnivorous appetite like Simon. He preferred red meat every time.
And this was the way to feast, he thought. Plenty of good venison: a haunch or two of doe, one fresh, one salted, two hares and a boar that Vincent said a grateful friend had provided as the result of a little favour he had been able to perform. Simon felt his mouth water as he stared at the dishes piling up in front of them. He only wished he could do someone a similar ‘little favour’.