Read Online The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Jecks
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middle of the city, at the house of Vincent le Berwe. In a vain attempt to distract herself from the discomfort of the journey, Jeanne brought the powerful merchant to mind. Luckily Baldwin trusted her and valued her judgement, so he often discussed the men he must deal with, seeking her comments and advice.
Vincent was a successful merchant, a rich man who was well regarded among the ruling group who controlled the city of Exeter. It had not always been so. He had married foolishly when younger, a pretty, vivacious girl who was only some fourteen years old. She died giving birth to their first child, and many of the city-folk looked at him askance after that. They were religious in Exeter, and unimpressed with a man who took so young a wife. Her early death heralded dark mutterings about Vincent himself and many of his clients had left him. It had almost ruined him, although now he had been able to renew his fortunes, helped with the diplomatic skills of his new wife, Hawisia.
She was reputed to be a clever young woman: intelligent, cultured, well-reared and courteous. Since marrying her, Vincent’s wealth had increased greatly. Baldwin thought she had given him the stability and comfort which he craved. Baldwin had said this with an expression of pensive understanding, which had made Jeanne smile and put her arm through his. She knew he was considering the parallel between his own life and Vincent’s: Jeanne had filled a void in his life just as Hawisia had in Vincent’s. Secretly Jeanne was convinced that he would have been perfectly capable of continuing his existence without ever meeting her, provided he had his hounds, hawks and horses. That was not the case for her. If she had not met Baldwin, Jeanne would have become a crusty, embittered old widow, always regretting the fact that she had never given life to a child. And now she was pregnant.
It was with an inner feeling of relief that she noticed the Guildhall ahead. She had no wish to contemplate how much her life was about to be altered with a baby in her house, nor how truly maternal she would turn out to be when a squalling child was placed in her arms by the midwife.
The wagon stopped and Baldwin nodded to Edgar. ‘Go and tell Sir Vincent that we are here,’ he said, but before his servant could obey, the door opened and the man himself appeared.
‘Sir Baldwin – and Lady Jeanne, too! God’s blessings upon you both!’
The lookout dropped from his tree and picked up his axe which rested against the tree’s trunk. ‘He’s coming,’ he said.
All at once there was a general movement. Two men at Hob’s side hurried back past him and went out to their positions nearer the entrance to the clearing, while another lifted a leather bucket to douse the fire, but Sir Thomas of Exmouth shook his head and barked, ‘Stop that! There’s no point. We don’t want to freeze when he’s gone. Leave it.’
They didn’t have to wait for long. The dark figure, cloaked and hooded, appeared in the shadows among the trees, walking slowly, muttering as the dragging cloak snagged on brambles and twigs.
To him the clearing was a scene of fearsome danger, and not only from the outlaws themselves; if he was found here, he could easily be accused of conspiring with felons. Conversely, if the outlaws decided he posed a threat they might execute him no matter what their leader told them.
He stepped out boldly enough. If they had wanted to kill him, they could have done so – perhaps still would do so – and there was no point in his waiting and skulking anxiously. An arrow to the throat, a knife to the heart – there were many ways of killing a man, and these vicious bastards knew most of them.
The clearing was a rough oval carved out of the old woods. It did not appear to be a regularly used base, for there were no huts or tents, only a single log fire burning with a clean, smokeless flame. Above it dangled a large metal cauldron, in which bubbled a thick pottage.
Vincent was a successful merchant, a rich man who was well regarded among the ruling group who controlled the city of Exeter. It had not always been so. He had married foolishly when younger, a pretty, vivacious girl who was only some fourteen years old. She died giving birth to their first child, and many of the city-folk looked at him askance after that. They were religious in Exeter, and unimpressed with a man who took so young a wife. Her early death heralded dark mutterings about Vincent himself and many of his clients had left him. It had almost ruined him, although now he had been able to renew his fortunes, helped with the diplomatic skills of his new wife, Hawisia.
She was reputed to be a clever young woman: intelligent, cultured, well-reared and courteous. Since marrying her, Vincent’s wealth had increased greatly. Baldwin thought she had given him the stability and comfort which he craved. Baldwin had said this with an expression of pensive understanding, which had made Jeanne smile and put her arm through his. She knew he was considering the parallel between his own life and Vincent’s: Jeanne had filled a void in his life just as Hawisia had in Vincent’s. Secretly Jeanne was convinced that he would have been perfectly capable of continuing his existence without ever meeting her, provided he had his hounds, hawks and horses. That was not the case for her. If she had not met Baldwin, Jeanne would have become a crusty, embittered old widow, always regretting the fact that she had never given life to a child. And now she was pregnant.
It was with an inner feeling of relief that she noticed the Guildhall ahead. She had no wish to contemplate how much her life was about to be altered with a baby in her house, nor how truly maternal she would turn out to be when a squalling child was placed in her arms by the midwife.
The wagon stopped and Baldwin nodded to Edgar. ‘Go and tell Sir Vincent that we are here,’ he said, but before his servant could obey, the door opened and the man himself appeared.
‘Sir Baldwin – and Lady Jeanne, too! God’s blessings upon you both!’
The lookout dropped from his tree and picked up his axe which rested against the tree’s trunk. ‘He’s coming,’ he said.
All at once there was a general movement. Two men at Hob’s side hurried back past him and went out to their positions nearer the entrance to the clearing, while another lifted a leather bucket to douse the fire, but Sir Thomas of Exmouth shook his head and barked, ‘Stop that! There’s no point. We don’t want to freeze when he’s gone. Leave it.’
They didn’t have to wait for long. The dark figure, cloaked and hooded, appeared in the shadows among the trees, walking slowly, muttering as the dragging cloak snagged on brambles and twigs.
To him the clearing was a scene of fearsome danger, and not only from the outlaws themselves; if he was found here, he could easily be accused of conspiring with felons. Conversely, if the outlaws decided he posed a threat they might execute him no matter what their leader told them.
He stepped out boldly enough. If they had wanted to kill him, they could have done so – perhaps still would do so – and there was no point in his waiting and skulking anxiously. An arrow to the throat, a knife to the heart – there were many ways of killing a man, and these vicious bastards knew most of them.
The clearing was a rough oval carved out of the old woods. It did not appear to be a regularly used base, for there were no huts or tents, only a single log fire burning with a clean, smokeless flame. Above it dangled a large metal cauldron, in which bubbled a thick pottage.
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