apprentice murdered him, Dean.’
‘But why?’ the Dean demanded earnestly. ‘Were all the apprentices to kill their masters, where should we be, hmm? In a world of madness, that is where.’
‘This is more important than you appreciate, Dean,’ Brother Stephen said, watching narrowly as Dean Alfred stood and walked to the window.
The other man waved a hand petulantly. ‘But what can be more important than this? That a youth, almost a boy, should murder his master? It is an outrage against the natural order. Why, one could expect to see a Canon’s own Vicar killing him if this kind of hideous incident were tolerated. It would be horrible. No one would be safe. My Heavens, what could be worse, hmm?’
His mannerisms, many and varied as they were, all grated on Brother Stephen, but this, the mild, enquiring clearing of the throat, was by far and away the worst. Brother Stephen gritted his teeth. ‘Dean, you will recall that we are shortly to celebrate Christmas,’ he murmured silkily.
‘Well naturally, Brother. It is December. In only . . . my Heavens! Can it really be only four days to Christmas? It seems only an instant ago that we were celebrating the Feast of Holy Innocents last year.’
‘Nonetheless, it will soon be Christmas, and a short while thereafter we shall be celebrating Holy Innocents again. And for that we need the gloves.’
‘I am sure you have them in hand,’ the Dean muttered, smiling gently at the pun. He was peering from the window out over the cloisters, his hands clasped behind his back. Why wouldn’t Brother Stephen leave him alone, he thought. Always had his nose in other people’s affairs as if he was trying to conceal his own failings. And he did have much to hide from other Brothers. That was why Stephen kept himself aloof. But it was also his value and importance. His shame had ensured that he was among the most committed of all the Chapter, which was why the Dean had entrusted Adam, to his care.
The Brother’s next words made him forget his musings about the Canon.
‘Dean, I speak of the gloves which shall be given to the leading folk of the city. Those for the Burgesses are already prepared, but there are others . . .?’ He let his voice trail away on a vague note of enquiry.
‘Others?’ Dean Alfred repeated, but then he slowly turned to face the Canon. ‘You mean that the
other
gloves are not ready?’
‘Dean, I do not know!’
The Dean snapped his fingers in annoyance. ‘Hmm. My dear fellow, you are usually so full of bright ideas. Why not go and enquire?’
‘I am a competent manager of money, Dean; I am not a Bailiff!’
‘Hmm. Um. I did not mean to imply that you were. Yet we must have someone search for the gloves. Ahmm – were they all finished? Perhaps they are waiting at the glover’s house?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Perhaps you could speak to the City Bailiff? He should know.’
‘I think you should go yourself. This is Chapter business, after all.’
‘Oh, ha! No, I don’t think so,’ said the Dean, smiling quickly. He ducked his head, then stuck a finger in his ear and dug around, while Brother Stephen sat fuming. ‘No, you go and enquire and we shall soon find out what’s happened, I am sure. I have complete faith in you.’
Brother Stephen drew breath to argue against the Dean’s proposal, but the Dean nodded encouragingly, backing away towards the door, and before the angry Canon could rally his thoughts Dean Alfred had passed into the next room, his private chamber.
Brother Gervase walked back to his hall with a sour smile catching at his lips. Little sods! They’d really done it this time.
The election was supposed to be a formality. Gervase knew as well as any cleric in the Cathedral that the freedom granted to the Choristers was so risk-filled that the boys needed direction . . . guidance. They had to be advised to select the one from within their ranks who would be best able to conduct services, who could act as a
‘But why?’ the Dean demanded earnestly. ‘Were all the apprentices to kill their masters, where should we be, hmm? In a world of madness, that is where.’
‘This is more important than you appreciate, Dean,’ Brother Stephen said, watching narrowly as Dean Alfred stood and walked to the window.
The other man waved a hand petulantly. ‘But what can be more important than this? That a youth, almost a boy, should murder his master? It is an outrage against the natural order. Why, one could expect to see a Canon’s own Vicar killing him if this kind of hideous incident were tolerated. It would be horrible. No one would be safe. My Heavens, what could be worse, hmm?’
His mannerisms, many and varied as they were, all grated on Brother Stephen, but this, the mild, enquiring clearing of the throat, was by far and away the worst. Brother Stephen gritted his teeth. ‘Dean, you will recall that we are shortly to celebrate Christmas,’ he murmured silkily.
‘Well naturally, Brother. It is December. In only . . . my Heavens! Can it really be only four days to Christmas? It seems only an instant ago that we were celebrating the Feast of Holy Innocents last year.’
‘Nonetheless, it will soon be Christmas, and a short while thereafter we shall be celebrating Holy Innocents again. And for that we need the gloves.’
‘I am sure you have them in hand,’ the Dean muttered, smiling gently at the pun. He was peering from the window out over the cloisters, his hands clasped behind his back. Why wouldn’t Brother Stephen leave him alone, he thought. Always had his nose in other people’s affairs as if he was trying to conceal his own failings. And he did have much to hide from other Brothers. That was why Stephen kept himself aloof. But it was also his value and importance. His shame had ensured that he was among the most committed of all the Chapter, which was why the Dean had entrusted Adam, to his care.
The Brother’s next words made him forget his musings about the Canon.
‘Dean, I speak of the gloves which shall be given to the leading folk of the city. Those for the Burgesses are already prepared, but there are others . . .?’ He let his voice trail away on a vague note of enquiry.
‘Others?’ Dean Alfred repeated, but then he slowly turned to face the Canon. ‘You mean that the
other
gloves are not ready?’
‘Dean, I do not know!’
The Dean snapped his fingers in annoyance. ‘Hmm. My dear fellow, you are usually so full of bright ideas. Why not go and enquire?’
‘I am a competent manager of money, Dean; I am not a Bailiff!’
‘Hmm. Um. I did not mean to imply that you were. Yet we must have someone search for the gloves. Ahmm – were they all finished? Perhaps they are waiting at the glover’s house?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Perhaps you could speak to the City Bailiff? He should know.’
‘I think you should go yourself. This is Chapter business, after all.’
‘Oh, ha! No, I don’t think so,’ said the Dean, smiling quickly. He ducked his head, then stuck a finger in his ear and dug around, while Brother Stephen sat fuming. ‘No, you go and enquire and we shall soon find out what’s happened, I am sure. I have complete faith in you.’
Brother Stephen drew breath to argue against the Dean’s proposal, but the Dean nodded encouragingly, backing away towards the door, and before the angry Canon could rally his thoughts Dean Alfred had passed into the next room, his private chamber.
Brother Gervase walked back to his hall with a sour smile catching at his lips. Little sods! They’d really done it this time.
The election was supposed to be a formality. Gervase knew as well as any cleric in the Cathedral that the freedom granted to the Choristers was so risk-filled that the boys needed direction . . . guidance. They had to be advised to select the one from within their ranks who would be best able to conduct services, who could act as a
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