by Alys Clare
The leper watched her from steady light-grey eyes. He had lowered his scarf, and she saw that he was missing several teeth. ‘She is afraid,’ he said simply.
‘Needlessly,’ Helewise said with a frown.
‘You know about the sickness?’ he asked, a sudden note of interest in his harsh voice.
‘A little,’ she replied. Enough, she thought, that I am mortified by Cyrille’s ignorance and her brutal refusal to act as she should. ‘You should go down to the priory in the valley,’ she said briskly. ‘The monks there will help you.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Then, to her surprise, he gave a rueful laugh. ‘Nevertheless, I had hoped to avoid approaching them for a little while yet.’ He looked straight into her eyes. ‘They will help me, yes, but once I am under their care, I will never leave.’ He looked up, his face open to the wide sky, his expression anguished. ‘And, in truth, my lady, I am not quite ready to bid farewell to this harsh but beautiful world.’
Her heart was wrung with pity. ‘What would you have me do?’ she whispered.
He smiled. ‘What you must, and, despite what I just said, you have my gratitude.’ She did not move. His smile broadened. ‘I’m asking if you’ll help me down the road to the priory,’ he prompted.
‘Oh! Yes, of course.’ Flustered, she tried to think. He was thin, wasting away, but a man just the same, and clearly beyond the end of his strength. She doubted that she could support him alone. ‘Wait just a moment, and I’ll be back. I will try to find you some boots if I can, for the snow lies thick and you are barefoot.’
He gave her a resigned smile. ‘My lady, do not trouble. I cannot feel my feet.’
She ran back down the passage, skidding round its many corners, hoping the house was as deserted as it had been a short while ago. Where was he? She had to find him, quickly. She tried to recall the way to Hugh’s room – down there, was it? No, that was the wrong direction, surely …
‘Helewise? Whatever’s the matter?’
Josse stood in front of her, his face creased with concern. Grabbing his hand, she dragged him on with her to the big old chest just inside the entrance, where outdoor clothing was dumped, not pausing for any explanation other than, ‘Come with me. We’ll need our heavy cloaks and our boots. Oh, hurry up!’
Supporting the leper between them, and steadily bearing more and more of his weight as the last of his reserves finally ran out, Josse and Helewise got him down the long hill, along the valley path and up to the gates of the priory.
A big, broad-shouldered man, warmly wrapped in a thick woollen cloak, had been watching their approach from the shelter of a little booth that stood beside the gates. As they covered the final few yards, all three staggering now, he came out to meet them. Josse could have cheered with relief.
‘I guessed you were coming here,’ the big man said. With gentle hands, he detached the beggar’s grip on Josse and Helewise’s arms, taking over his full weight and supporting him, apparently as easily as if he had been a child. ‘One for us, is it?’ He looked down into the beggar’s face with a smile.
The beggar made no reply. He stood slumped in the big man’s arms, his head fallen on his chest and his face concealed by his hood. He was, it seemed, beyond speech.
‘He came to the house but we – er, it wasn’t possible to help him, so we have brought him here to you,’ Josse said. Helewise had managed to explain the bare facts of what had happened, and, although he was as revolted by Cyrille’s lack of charity as Helewise clearly was, he found himself reluctant to condemn his kinsmen’s household by going into detail.
The big man was staring at him. ‘Couldn’t even spare a pair of worn-out old boots?’ he asked softly, jerking his head in the direction of the beggar’s feet.
‘We are guests in the house,’ Josse said curtly. ‘It was not for us to criticize the ways of the household.’ The big man nodded, but made no comment. ‘Will you help him, Brother?’
‘He’s not a monk,’ Helewise whispered. ‘The Cluniac order spend their days in prayer and contemplation, and laymen perform all the work of the priory.’
The big man, overhearing, gave her a grin. ‘You are well informed, my lady. I am called Gregory, and I am gatekeeper, porter, puller of the plough on occasions and bearer of anything and everything too heavy for other men.’ He flung out his chest with a certain amount of pride. ‘In answer to your question, yes, we will help him.’ With the same gentleness, he handed the beggar back to Josse. ‘Hold him up while I open the gates, and then, if you have recovered a little strength, come with me, for I must leave you while I find the prior and the infirmarian.’
A short time later, Josse, Helewise, Gregory and the beggar approached the big limestone building where the sick of Lewes Priory were cared for. It stood to the south of the vast church, and beyond it were a series of stew ponds, now frozen over except for one or two places where the ice had been smashed, presumably for fishing holes. Gregory led the way under a low, arched doorway, and they found themselves in a long, wide room lined on either side with cots, most of them occupied. Gregory, now carrying the beggar in his thickly muscled arms, turned immediately to his left, and they followed him into a section of the infirmary that was segregated from the main ward. It seemed to be a place reserved for initial assessment, and was sparsely furnished with a pair of narrow beds and a table, on which there were several rush lamps. Gregory laid the beggar down on one of the beds. Josse heard him say reassuringly, ‘The infirmarian will be here directly. He’s a good man; have no fear.’
He stood back. They waited. Presently, a black-clad monk hurried into the room, two men dressed in plain brown robes at his heels. He muttered a cursory greeting to Josse and Helewise, murmured, ‘Leprosy, you say?’ to Gregory, who nodded, and then knelt down by the bed.
It seemed intrusive to watch the examination. Josse turned away, walking a few paces back along the corridor to the main ward, and Helewise followed. But the monk’s quiet voice still reached them. ‘Damage to your hands and feet,’ they heard him say, ‘and thickening of the skin. Can you feel that?’
‘No,’ came the soft reply.
‘Or that?’
‘No.’
There was a long silence. Then, a note of perplexity in his voice, the monk began, ‘It’s strange, but I don’t—’
‘I know what’s wrong with me,’ the beggar interrupted with surprising force. ‘There is no need to talk of it, and certainly not right now, for I am exhausted and only wish to sleep.’
‘Of course,’ the infirmarian said smoothly. ‘I will leave you in the capable hands of Luke and Philip here.’
He came bustling out into the passage, glanced at Helewise and Josse, then went on past them. They heard his footsteps steadily fading as he crossed the main ward and left the infirmary.
‘Brother Anselm’s off back to his devotions, then,’ Gregory said, emerging from the little room and staring after the departing infirmarian. ‘Still, those two laymen in there know pretty well as much as he does, and they’ll look after our new patient.’
He stood looking at them, and Josse realized he was waiting for them to leave. ‘Thank you,’ he said courteously, ‘I am happy to hear it. Come, Helewise – we should return to Southfire Hall before darkness falls.’
Gregory walked with them back to the gates. His attitude towards them had softened, Josse thought. Perhaps, having had the time for reflection, Gregory had concluded that it really wasn’t a man’s fault if one of the senior women in the house where he was a guest had commanded – in very relentless terms, according to Helewise – that the sick and the impoverished were not on any account to be helped.
As if Gregory’s thoughts had been running along the same lines, he said, ‘Southfire, you said? The place you’re staying?’
‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘My Uncle Hugh’s manor. We’ve come to visit because he’s not very well.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ Gregory murmured. ‘The monks are keeping him in their prayers.’
> ‘I’m grateful.’
Josse had the impression that Gregory had more to say, and after a few moments, he spoke again. ‘I’m surprised, I must admit, at a lack of charity from that house. The family has always been generous when it comes to alms-giving.’
Josse hesitated. Should he explain? He glanced at Helewise, and she shrugged as if to say, Why not?
So he did. ‘My cousin Isabelle’s son married last year,’ he said. ‘His wife has rather firm ideas about how things should be done, and she was quite vehement, apparently, on the subject of donations to the needy.’ He glanced at Helewise.
‘Indeed she was,’ Helewise agreed. ‘She is of the opinion that a beggar will be encouraged in his indolence if he is provided with sustenance, and that generosity undermines his efforts towards independence.’
Gregory’s eyebrows went up. ‘Indeed?’ Slowly he shook his head. ‘Well, it’s a point of view, I suppose. And what of the rest of the family?’
‘Nobody else was present when the beggar came to the door,’ Helewise said swiftly. ‘Had they been, I don’t believe he would have been turned away.’
Feeling the need to defend his kin, Josse said, ‘It seems to me that disagreeing with the lady leads to more trouble than it’s worth. The various members of the family have, I believe, fallen into the unfortunate habit of letting her have her way.’
Gregory nodded his understanding. ‘It happens in a place like this, too,’ he said, ‘even among the holy brethren, their servants and workers, who, you might say, ought to know better.’ He sighed, his pleasant face clouded; clearly he spoke from personal experience. ‘The kindly give way again and again in the face of the strong will of the conscienceless, and then one day you wake up and find you’ve backed yourself into a corner, and the one person’s rules have become the law that everyone else has to live by.’
‘Aye, that describes Cyrille exactly,’ Josse said.
Gregory looked up. ‘Cyrille?’ he queried.
‘Aye. She was Cyrille de Picus before she wed my cousin’s son Herbert.’
‘Herbert of Lewes was his great-grandfather?’
‘Aye, and my grandfather.’
Gregory smiled. ‘A great man. He died, of course, long before I was born, but his name is still honoured hereabouts. He lost his life on crusade, you know.’
Josse grinned. ‘Aye, indeed I do, since he died fighting beside my father.’
Gregory clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘I should have worked it out when you said you were Hugh’s nephew,’ he said. ‘You’re Josse d’Acquin.’
Josse bowed. ‘At your service.’
Gregory didn’t speak for a moment. Again, Josse sensed there was something on his mind. Then: ‘I probably wouldn’t have said this if I hadn’t just realized who you are, but, since I have, I feel obliged to.’ His eyes met Josse’s. ‘Not that I can be specific, mind, but something’s niggling me about the name Cyrille de Picus. There was some unpleasantness, although for the life of me I can’t recall exactly what it was.’
‘She was married before,’ Helewise supplied. ‘To a man named William Crowburgh, by whom she had a son. When he died – last year, or perhaps the year before – Herbert went to offer his condolences, having been a good friend of William Crowburgh’s in their youth, and he and Cyrille fell for each other.’
Gregory shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t that – it’s all news to me, and not as if there was anything amiss in the tale.’ His brow creased in a deep frown. ‘It was, however, something to do with a marriage; or perhaps a betrothal, and I have the feeling that something very bad happened …’ They waited. Gregory shook his head. ‘It’s no good. I can’t bring it to mind.’
Josse met Helewise’s eyes. He knew, just from that quick look, that she was thinking what he was thinking. ‘May we visit you again, Gregory?’ she said. ‘We would like to check on the health of the beggar, and, if possible, we will try to bring some warm garments for him.’
‘And you’d very much like it if I could scratch my head till I’ve remembered what it was about Cyrille de Picus that rang a bell when I heard her name,’ he added with a grin. ‘Of course, my lady. Come whenever you like, and I hope I’ll have news for you.’
They had reached the gates. Gregory glanced up into the sky. ‘Best get on up to Southfire Hall without delay,’ he advised. ‘Temperature’s dropping, and the clouds are building; it’ll fall dark early, tonight. You—’
Suddenly, as Helewise and Josse watched, a change came over Gregory. He stopped speaking, and all expression seemed to be smoothed off his face, leaving it bland and vacant. His eyes seemed to be focused on something far away.
‘Gregory?’ Josse asked anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’
Slowly the big head on the massive shoulders turned to Josse. ‘You must take care,’ said a chilly, distant voice that was barely recognizable as Gregory’s. ‘There is evil there, and the threat is perilous and imminent.’
‘What do you mean?’ Helewise asked, her voice shrill with fear. ‘Who is threatened?’
Gregory did not respond; it appeared he hadn’t heard her.
Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the brief fugue was gone. Turning back to his contemplation of the skies, Gregory said, in his normal tone, ‘There’s going to be more snow before moonrise, I’ll warrant, so best be quick and get safely within doors. Good evening to you!’
With a cheery wave, he stepped back inside the priory grounds and closed the gates.
NINE
It was a long, hard slog back up the hill. The temperature was falling fast, and the snow and the sloppy mud were steadily freezing into hard ruts and ridges that could turn an unwary ankle. At times they seemed to slip back one pace for every three they took forward. Josse had hold of Helewise’s arm, trying to help her, and both were tired and sore by the time they finally reached the house. Although they didn’t speak of it, Josse guessed that the events of the afternoon troubled her as much as they did him. For the hundredth time, he found himself wondering why his kinsmen were acting so feebly; why one of them – all of them – didn’t stand up to Cyrille and put her firmly in her place.
He looked at Helewise, struggling along beside him, her face red with effort and her breath coming in gasps. You didn’t either, my love, he thought. You allowed her to overrule your loving heart and your instinct to act with compassion, and you let that poor, sick, starving man leave Southfire Hall without so much as a sip of water or a heel of bread.
As, he added honestly, did I …
He thought again about Southfire and its protective spirit. He thought about the sinister, shadowy darkness that seemed to be stretching out its malicious fingers into every room and every corner. He thought about a happy, cheerful family who were tense with anxiety and at odds with one another. And he thought of a woman who seemed to have put them under an evil spell, so that they allowed her to order their days and impose her own poor judgement and bad decisions when surely every last one of them knew full well that she was utterly wrong and they should not allow it.
It was as if a dim mist was before his eyes, swirling darkly like a black veil being tossed and billowed by a soundless wind. Through the mist he seemed to see the short, sturdy figure of a woman, but then, even as he strained to see better, she changed. In the spot where she had stood he saw a looming shape, a long snout and thick forelegs that ended in sharp claws sensing the air before it, the great bulk of its body curled up as if poised to strike. He blinked several times, and the vision went away.
He saw in an instant what was wrong at Southfire Hall.
For a moment, out there in the deepening grip of the cold and under the lowering sky of approaching night, Josse’s thoughts were so terrible that they almost drove him to his knees.
Then he came back to himself. There he was, his Helewise beside him and leaning heavily against him, and they were out in the cold and almost at the summit of their long climb. In his mind there was the echo of something so disturbing tha
t it frightened him, but, try as he might, he could not recall what it was.
He tightened his hold on Helewise, putting his arm round her waist to help her along. ‘Not far now,’ he said bracingly as the snowflakes began once more to fall.
The family sat round the dying fire in the Old Hall, huddling close around the last of the warmth. The children had been sent to bed; again, there had been no sign of Olivar, who seemed once more to have been banished from the company. Or perhaps, Helewise reflected, glancing surreptitiously at Cyrille, he prefers to keep out of his mother’s way. How odd it was, for a mother of an only son to treat him so. Wasn’t the normal human instinct to want to be with one’s children? That surely applied to boy children in particular, for whom the years during which they were permitted to live at home with their parents were all too few.
As if sensing Helewise’s eyes on her, Cyrille turned to her. ‘The leper was accepted at the priory, I assume?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Helewise said shortly.
Cyrille nodded. ‘Yes, yes, just as I said, for I knew that was the right place for one such as he.’
Her smug self-righteousness stung Helewise like a hot brand. Before she could stop herself, she said, ‘He would have made the journey down to the priory a great deal more easily had he had a mug of hot soup in his belly and a pair of boots to walk in.’
Herbert looked up, a worried expression on his face. Isabelle did too; she shot an enquiring glance at Josse, as if to say, What’s all this?
‘Cyrille, dear,’ Herbert began.
She ignored him. The pale blue eyes fixed on Helewise, the plump cheeks quivering slightly, she said, ‘As I told you earlier, I understand people like our poor beggar, and I pride myself on knowing the way they must be handled. Had I allowed you to overrule my own good judgement, word would have got around, and before we knew it we would find ourselves being troubled incessantly by the sick, the poor, the destitute and the plain idle, for it is always easier, is it not, to beg one’s bread than to earn it honestly for oneself?’
