The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker Read Online Free Page A

before the door was empty as if to remind the viewer how minuscule he was in God’s creation, while beyond columns towered up on either side. It was larger than any great hall Ralph had ever seen, a glorious space lighted by the coloured glass in the windows. Later this place would be filled with men talking, making deals, praying or gossiping, carrying on the daily round of hard work and business which kept the city of Exeter profitable. Soon Master Thomas of Witney, the architect, would be heard fussily ordering his workmen outside and up at the eastern end.
    The fact that the Cathedral was being rebuilt detracted somewhat from its magnificence, but Ralph absorbed the sanctity of the place, gazing at the painted walls with their pictures representing God’s works on earth, showing how men could prepare themselves for the afterlife and help to save the souls already passed on. No amount of builder’s rubble and dust could detract from these, he thought.
    Soon others entered, and a little crowd of the city’s most devout people gathered to witness the first Mass celebrated by two chantry priests. These Annuellars were paid by a bequest to celebrate Mass for the soul of its founder, Henry Bratton, at St Mary’s altar. While the two went through their daily ritual, the crowd tried desperately not to shuffle or make too much noise, but the cold was biting. Their breath steamed in the air, adding to the smoke left by the censer and creating a grey misty dampness.
    Ralph didn’t care. He swayed in time to the music as he listened to the cadences of the priests, but then his expression hardened a little. It was difficult to imagine someone defrauding the Cathedral. By so doing they were defrauding God Himself. Looking about him, Ralph tried to understand how anyone could dare risk the wrath of God for money. It was beyond him. And yet he was sure that he had evidence of just that; he had seen it with his own eyes in the Guildhall on the day Karvinel was robbed. He prayed for advice, but his course of action was already decided. The Bailiff of the City would be at his house later, and Ralph would tell him all he knew. If the Bailiff refused to act, Ralph had no alternative: he must go to the Dean and inform him.
    At the end of the Mass he joined the other members of the early-morning congregation trooping out from the Cathedral, but while the others moved towards one of the seven gates which gave on to the city outside the Cathedral precinct, Ralph loitered.
    The sun was in the sky now, dangling over the roofs of the buildings surrounding the Cathedral. Eastwards was the row of houses owned by the Canons themselves, and Ralph stood contemplating them for a short while, admiring their limewashed walls and timbers. Smoke rose like columns in the clear, still air and from the breadhouse next to the north tower came the odour of baking bread, a delicious scent that set Ralph’s mouth watering, especially when he caught a whiff of spiced wine. Outside the bakery were several Annuellars and Secondaries, all collecting their daily loaf. Others wandered among them: beggars and the poor who depended upon the Cathedral for their food, but there was also a sprinkling of richer folk who gave good donations to the Cathedral and in payment were occasionally permitted to buy some of the Cathedral’s better quality breads.
    Ralph saw the Receiver’s wife at the side of a Secondary, the young lad called Adam; he smiled and bowed to her. She acknowledged his courtesy ungraciously, but then, as Ralph knew, he was her husband’s greatest enemy and competitor for advancement. Nick Karvinel was someone else she openly despised. In a way, he could sympathise, Ralph thought. There were few people in the city whom he actively disliked, but Nick Karvinel the glovemaker and dealmaker was one.
    But enough of such sour topics. ‘Time to break my fast,’ he grunted, and turned to make his way up to St Martin’s Gate. About to pass the conduit, he