The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker Read Free Page B

invariably fixed in a wide grin. Even in the foulest of weather he could be seen striding through the city, his great staff in one hand, clad in a cheap tunic of tatty wool, scratched and torn hose covering his legs, a heavy black cloak to exclude the worst of the weather, a simple felt hat to keep the rain from his face and scuffed, stained boots on his feet.
    Despite his shabby appearance, Ralph often gave money to the poor and needy; he was rich enough from the proceeds of his glovemaking and mercantile ventures, but as a pious man he disliked flaunting his wealth. That seemed to him disgraceful. If God gave a man skills and abilities to make money, that was God’s benevolence. There was nothing for the recipient of His kindness to brag about. To some extent that was why Ralph tended not to mix with other members of the Freedom of the City. He privately thought most of them were too irreligious for their own good. There were too many who sought all their rewards here on earth and Ralph felt faintly uneasy in their presence – worried that by associating with such people he might himself become tainted. The new Receiver of the City, Vincent le Berwe, was one such. Ralph couldn’t like him. He was too greedy, quite prepared to tread upon those who were weaker in his quest for personal wealth. Nick Karvinel, another glovemaker, used to be the same, until he fell on hard times. Nick had shown almost intolerable greed until recently; strangely, once his fortunes were lost he hardly appeared to care.
    As a member of the Freedom, Ralph was one of the most senior men in the city now he had won the Wardenship of the Bridge, but that didn’t make him feel differently and he still had no desire to mix with rich people. He harboured a suspicion that a certain member of the Freedom was guilty of corruption, and he wanted as little to do with such people as possible.
    Ralph was happier mingling with ordinary folk; like a friar he often went among the poor. On this, his last day, he behaved as he did on every other: walking up the High Street towards Cook Row he exchanged quips and jokes with the whores touting for business near the Fissand Gate, gave money to the poor at St Martin’s Lane, silently dropped a few coins into a leper’s bowl near St Petrock’s Church. He always asserted that it was the duty of every man to help his fellow, and he demonstrated his conviction by liberality on a level that in others would have been called foolhardiness – or, more probably, lunacy.
    He knew how people spoke about him, but didn’t care. Ralph’s outlook was as simple as his clothing: Christ told men to give away their money to help those poorer than themselves; the poor would most easily find the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, and Ralph intended to do the Good Lord’s bidding. That was why he held feasts through the year to which he invited the indigent, giving them food and drink and gifts of clothing. There was little else for him to spend his money on. He had no family to worry him, only his apprentice Elias, who was old enough to leave Ralph’s service now; he was certainly qualified.
    Ralph slipped and almost fell on a patch of ice, but he only chuckled at his clumsiness and continued past St Petrock’s Church and down Cook Row. He stopped at a stall and took a pie for a few pennies, chewing slowly as he returned up the road to enter the Close via the Fissand Gate.
    He adored this season: he loved to see frost liming the trees, icicles dangling dangerously from roofs and upper storeys. In his cheap clothing the cold could penetrate and chill his skin, but he didn’t care. Wherever he went there were fires, in houses and in the streets. And even as the flesh of his belly was chilled, his chortle of delight remained unabated. Everyone was happy at this time of year, laughing and joking, for it was almost Christmas, and all would celebrate.
    It wasn’t only the religious connotation of the season that gave him pleasure; he took