Read Online The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Jecks
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anxiety was wearing. Other women gave birth naturally. It was a normal event in any woman’s life, as natural as breathing or making love or dying.
Earlier in the year Jeanne had seen one of Baldwin’s peasants going out to harvest turnips, a short woman with a massive belly. In one hand she carried a wicker basket. Later that afternoon, the woman returned, a basket full of vegetables on her hip with, on the top, a contented baby swaddled expertly against the cold. When Jeanne asked her how she had coped, the woman shrugged evasively, unsure how to answer her mistress. Eventually, when pressed, she muttered that she had given birth to seven others, all in the field while she worked. There was nothing special about this one, she said.
And yet here Jeanne was, forced to ride in an open coach like royalty, because her husband was concerned that she might strain something riding on her mare. ‘More risk of straining something in this damned wagon,’ she spat as the coach thudded heavily into another rut.
At least here the route was downhill. Up was worse because then the wagon lumbered more heavily. Going down was easier, faster and more comfortable. As she thought that, another deep hole made the wagon rattle and creak and Jeanne struck her head on a stanchion supporting the roof. Cursing quietly to herself, a hand at her bruised temple, she tottered to the front of the coach and sat on the board beside the driver, Edgar, Baldwin’s steward and loyal servant for many years.
Peering ahead she could see the city, its great bridge reaching out over Exe Island, where a growing number of houses were springing up, most on the island where there were many businesses, but quite a few on the bridge itself.
‘It’s pretty enough, isn’t it?’ she commented, shading her eyes against the morning’s sun which lay low in the sky so late in the year.
Edgar nodded, hunched in his seat and staring at the road ahead. He grunted his agreement as Baldwin rode up to their side, a troubled expression on his face. ‘Shouldn’t you be resting, my Lady?’
Jeanne looked at him coldly without comment.
The bridge led to the great western gate of the city, which gave onto a broad roadway running up the hill towards Carfoix, where the northern, southern, eastern and western roads all met in the city centre.
Soon Baldwin and his small entourage were rattling slowly up the incline. Gardens, orchards and fields lay on either side between or behind houses; pigs squealed and rootled among piles of leaves and rubbish while dogs snapped at each other as they scavenged. A cock crowed and horses neighed or whinnied on all sides. It was not as noisy and unpleasant as some places, Baldwin told himself, but there was still proof that crime occurred. A man lolled in the pillory, blood dripping from a gash in his forehead where a rock had been hurled. Nearby, a man’s body hung from a beam lashed between two trees, his hands bound behind his back, his madly staring eyes gazing all about him as his corpse swung gently, turning from left to right as the breeze blew up the hill.
Jeanne peered at them. ‘I wonder what his crime was?’ she murmured.
‘God Himself knows,’ Baldwin said with a shrug. Perhaps he was a murderer. In a city the size of Exeter with many thousands of citizens, there would be several murders each month. ‘None of my concern anyway,’ he added airily and, as he would soon learn, inaccurately.
‘Someone should make sure he’s all right,’ Jeanne said. She saw her husband give a quick smile. ‘What is it?’
‘I assumed you were talking about the corpse. It never occurred to me that you meant the man in the pillory.’
She glanced back at the dangling man. ‘I think it’s a little late for anyone to worry about
him
.’ As she said these words, she shivered and pulled the furs up to her neck. Later she would remember those words and realise she had been wrong.
Their destination was near the Guildhall in the
Earlier in the year Jeanne had seen one of Baldwin’s peasants going out to harvest turnips, a short woman with a massive belly. In one hand she carried a wicker basket. Later that afternoon, the woman returned, a basket full of vegetables on her hip with, on the top, a contented baby swaddled expertly against the cold. When Jeanne asked her how she had coped, the woman shrugged evasively, unsure how to answer her mistress. Eventually, when pressed, she muttered that she had given birth to seven others, all in the field while she worked. There was nothing special about this one, she said.
And yet here Jeanne was, forced to ride in an open coach like royalty, because her husband was concerned that she might strain something riding on her mare. ‘More risk of straining something in this damned wagon,’ she spat as the coach thudded heavily into another rut.
At least here the route was downhill. Up was worse because then the wagon lumbered more heavily. Going down was easier, faster and more comfortable. As she thought that, another deep hole made the wagon rattle and creak and Jeanne struck her head on a stanchion supporting the roof. Cursing quietly to herself, a hand at her bruised temple, she tottered to the front of the coach and sat on the board beside the driver, Edgar, Baldwin’s steward and loyal servant for many years.
Peering ahead she could see the city, its great bridge reaching out over Exe Island, where a growing number of houses were springing up, most on the island where there were many businesses, but quite a few on the bridge itself.
‘It’s pretty enough, isn’t it?’ she commented, shading her eyes against the morning’s sun which lay low in the sky so late in the year.
Edgar nodded, hunched in his seat and staring at the road ahead. He grunted his agreement as Baldwin rode up to their side, a troubled expression on his face. ‘Shouldn’t you be resting, my Lady?’
Jeanne looked at him coldly without comment.
The bridge led to the great western gate of the city, which gave onto a broad roadway running up the hill towards Carfoix, where the northern, southern, eastern and western roads all met in the city centre.
Soon Baldwin and his small entourage were rattling slowly up the incline. Gardens, orchards and fields lay on either side between or behind houses; pigs squealed and rootled among piles of leaves and rubbish while dogs snapped at each other as they scavenged. A cock crowed and horses neighed or whinnied on all sides. It was not as noisy and unpleasant as some places, Baldwin told himself, but there was still proof that crime occurred. A man lolled in the pillory, blood dripping from a gash in his forehead where a rock had been hurled. Nearby, a man’s body hung from a beam lashed between two trees, his hands bound behind his back, his madly staring eyes gazing all about him as his corpse swung gently, turning from left to right as the breeze blew up the hill.
Jeanne peered at them. ‘I wonder what his crime was?’ she murmured.
‘God Himself knows,’ Baldwin said with a shrug. Perhaps he was a murderer. In a city the size of Exeter with many thousands of citizens, there would be several murders each month. ‘None of my concern anyway,’ he added airily and, as he would soon learn, inaccurately.
‘Someone should make sure he’s all right,’ Jeanne said. She saw her husband give a quick smile. ‘What is it?’
‘I assumed you were talking about the corpse. It never occurred to me that you meant the man in the pillory.’
She glanced back at the dangling man. ‘I think it’s a little late for anyone to worry about
him
.’ As she said these words, she shivered and pulled the furs up to her neck. Later she would remember those words and realise she had been wrong.
Their destination was near the Guildhall in the
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