Leper's Return

by Michael Jecks

  “Baldwin, you shouldn’t hurt him,” said Simon quietly. He had got to his feet, and now stood a short way from the two men.

  The knight slowly released the smith, who lay still, his eyes glittering with rage. “You say you are ”God-fearing,“ so go to Peter Clifford and ask him what God thinks of those who spread lies about others and incite the mob to murder. I will speak to him and tell him to expect you. But for now, don’t forget I’ll be listening to every rumor with a view to hearing what you’ve been saying, and if there’s anything malicious about lepers, you’ll suffer for it.”

  He shoved his dagger back in its sheath and left the room. Edgar hurried after him, but Simon paused a moment, staring down at the smith.

  “He’s mad,” said Jack with disgust, bringing himself up to a sitting position and brushing dirt from his shirt.

  Simon kicked his elbow, and the smith fell back, striking his head on the ground, and cursing.

  “Mad he may be, but so help me, if I hear you’ve been slandering that sweet girl Mary,” said Simon pleasantly, “I shall come back here and roast you over your own forge.”

  “You couldn’t. You’re an officer of the law yourself, Bailiff.”

  Simon gave him a lazy smile. “Don’t try me, Jack. The Keeper always sticks within the law. Me, I’m used to issuing my own justice. So listen carefully. If I hear that Mary has been insulted or hurt by anything you do, I’ll be back here, and I’ll impose my own vengeance on you. You are to be congratulated. In a matter of a few short hours, you’ve managed to make two new enemies, and both are officers, one of the King, one of the Warden of the Stannaries. Don’t make us have to return.”

  20

  Cecily mopped the sweat from John’s brow. He was deathly pale, and his breathing was irregular, panting one moment and taking long, slow breaths the next. His rudimentary first aid was unravelling. She had removed his headband already, and the splints he had so carefully constructed and bound to his leg were loose, and coming free.

  Hearing the mad rattle of hooves and iron on the stones of the roadway, she was tempted to leave him and rush to the gate to urge the men on faster, but she swallowed hard and remained. The hand clutching at her own was enough to convince her that she was of more use here, holding onto the injured man, than outside getting in the way of the riders.

  First through the gateway was her stableman, and he was off his mount as soon as he was through it, leaping to her side. Then the wagon came in at a gallop, and the driver had to haul on the reins to stop the two beasts before they compounded John’s hurts.

  “Mistress, let me help you up.”

  Cecily shook her head. She had no intention of letting go of the man’s hand while John gripped it. A monk came to her side, and gently felt John’s head before studying his posture and coloring. “The diagnosis isn’t difficult, at any rate,” he murmured. “It’s the prognosis that will be more complicated.”

  “How is he?”

  “How?” He was an older monk, with a fringe of whitening hair all round his head that only served to emphasize the lines of worry and confusion on his brow. “Why, with a beating like this, it’s hard to say. I should think he’s concussed, which means he would have been better employed lying in his bed, rather than getting up to these antics. The only effect of his moving around will be a severe headache.”

  “But his leg!”

  “Yes. It’s obvious he had to try to fetch help. The leg is in a dreadful state, but at least his pulse seems stable. Sometimes you find that a man will slide away quickly when he has had a bad accident. The pneuma, the life force which is manufactured in the heart from the air collected in the lungs, and carried about the body with the blood until it—”

  “Can you cure him?” snapped Cecily.

  “Why yes—I suppose so. I think that—”

  “Where will you cure him?”

  “At the hospital attached to the church, of course, so—”

  “So you should hold your lectures until he’s installed there, shouldn’t you?”

  She quickly had the men take John’s door off its hinges, and they carefully lifted him onto it, suffering the lash of Cecily’s tongue when she thought they might have failed in any way or made him uncomfortable. Soon John was on the back of the wagon, and Cecily rode in it with him, still holding his hand.

  They set off down the hill, the driver standing warily, talking to his two charges as they began the descent, for this was a steep hill in places, and he didn’t want to be called to Cecily’s attention for careless driving. As they went, Cecily was surprised to feel her hand squeezed by the injured Irishman. She looked down and smiled at him.

  At that moment, with the sun above lighting her head like a halo, John of Irelaunde was blinded. “Have I died? Are you an angel?” he asked querulously. Before she could answer, the cart hit a stone and jolted, beating his bruised skull against the boarded walls. “Jesus’ Blood!” he swore, and when he glanced upward again and saw her smile, he gave a pale grin in return. “Ah, Mistress Cecily. You must be an angel—almost the best angel I could have hoped to meet this morning. I hope you won’t mind taking a message to my sweet girl?”

  “Poor John. Was this all because of me?”

  “Well now, I think it was, but don’t speak of it to anyone, or he might be taken—and then all this would have been in vain. Just keep quiet!”

  Simon rode slumped on his horse, grinning. “You must be losing your touch, Baldwin. This town used to be quite a calm and quiet place, and now you’ve got a nutter of a smith trying to rouse the rabble.”

  “You think it is because of me?”

  Simon smiled at the knight and Baldwin gradually relaxed, even giving a self-conscious grin. “All right, so I am a little prickly. But that idiot got under my skin.”

  “It’s not just him, it’s the murder. We still appear to have little to go on.”

  “No. We know so much, but none of it makes any sense. For example, I am not sure why the smith was at Godfrey’s house.”

  “You want to go back and ask him?”

  “Thank you for the thought, Simon, but I don’t think it would be productive. Still, I wonder if there is anything that could link the smith to Godfrey.”

  “He was ugly enough—do you think he might be the killer?”

  “Who, Jack?” Baldwin laughed. “Oh, who knows? He’s repellent, certainly, but I don’t like to judge everyone by their outer appearance. That is what people like Jack are guilty of when they look at lepers. I don’t want to commit the same crime as them.” Baldwin mused quietly a moment. “The difficulty I have is, Godfrey used him on the afternoon he died…”

  “Yes. For a horse that had cast a shoe.”

  “And they had kept the shoe so it could be refitted.”

  “A sign of real tightfistedness.”

  “True,” said Baldwin, but there was a faraway look in his eye. “Many would have thrown the old shoe away, surely, and had a new one made.”

  Simon put his head to one side, considering. “And then come to the smithy to get a new one the right size.”

  “Precisely what I was thinking. If they had asked for a fresh one, it would have meant they would have had to bring the horse here. But they kept the old one, and that meant they could have the smith go to the house. All he needed was a rasp, some nails and a hammer.”

  “But why should they want him there?”

  “Let me finish: taking a horseshoe off is easy enough. All you have to do is lever it. It could well be that someone wanted the smith out of here, so they took off the shoe and pretended that it had fallen off just so that Jack would go to the house.”

  “That’s one explanation, Baldwin, but don’t forget there’s another possibility. What if someone wanted the smith there, at the house? It could easily have been done to make sure that he was in Godfrey’s hall.”

  “True, but why? Why would they want Jack there? And again I come back to Putthe: he could have levered off the old horseshoe in
order to give an excuse for Jack’s presence at Godfrey’s.”

  “You’re thinking that they could both have been involved in the killing? But that doesn’t make sense! All they achieved in having Jack at the house was to make him a suspect. There was no witness to his departure, no witness to his return, no gain for him whatever. Effectively all he did was point to himself with a large sign saying, ”Look at me! I was there on the night Godfrey died!“ It only served to bring him to our attention.”

  “Perhaps it also tied him to his accomplice? If he and Putthe were partners in this felony, perhaps Putthe didn’t trust his confederate enough, and wanted to ensure that equal risk was enjoyed by both?” He threw his hands in the air with disgust. “It’s no good, it’s all guesswork. All we really know is that this man was at the hall for some reason. Whether he was there for his own purposes or for someone else’s entirely we may never know.”

  “There’s another factor, though. What if the victimization of the lepers has something to do with it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure, but it seems an odd coincidence that Jack should start fomenting trouble so soon after the murder. I assume this was new to you? You’re not aware that there’s been a load of trouble brewing over lepers recently?”

  Baldwin scratched his beard. “No, it was a complete shock to me. But before we go worrying at that idea, let’s go and speak to Putthe again. I’m not convinced he’s told us all he knows. And while we’re there, I want to talk to Mistress Cecily, too.”

  “You can’t suspect her of killing her own father!”

  “She’s not told us the truth,” Baldwin said. “I am certain she’s lied.”

  “What about?”

  “About being unconscious until she was woken in her room. I don’t believe her.”

  “Sir Baldwin! Sir Baldwin, sir!”

  The knight glanced up. Running toward them, his habit trailing, was a young novice monk. He came to a halt before them, panting and red-faced from his exertion.

  “Well? Do you have a message for me?”

  “Sir, someone’s tried to kill the Irishman, and my Dean asks you to join him as soon as you can.”

  Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance, and without a word the two men set spurs to their horses and galloped to Peter Clifford’s hall.

  Waking from a short and troubled sleep, Rodde grunted as he rolled over. Immediately a cool, damp cloth was at his forehead, and he smiled through his pain. “Thank you.”

  “It is nothing.”

  His eyes snapping open, Rodde stared up at Mary. “What are you doing in here? What if the people in the town hear?”

  Rodde knew as well as she that it was forbidden for any women other than wives or other relations to visit lepers in their cabins. “Women of easy fame” were supposed to be excluded from the camp, because it was too easy for gossip to start.

  “It’s all right. I’m here too,” said Ralph. He was sitting near the door, gazing out over the lawned space. “Mary refused to let me continue to minister to you.”

  “You’ve done enough, Brother. You were here all night, and got little sleep. Rest now, and I’ll see to these men.”

  “Sister, you have a great heart,” said Ralph, and rested his head against the doorpost. Soon he was asleep, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Rodde could hear Quivil snoring in his corner. He spoke quietly. “You should still be careful, Mary.”

  “It’s too late for that,” she said, and while her hand soothed his brow with water, she told him what had happened.

  “You mean they will make you leave your home?”

  “They want me from the town, not just my home.” He could feel her hand tremble, even though her voice was calm and steady. “But nobody will get hurt. I’ll go.”

  Rodde’s face hardened. “So they’ve won? The Keeper and the others will allow this to happen and won’t do anything to stop it?”

  “The Keeper was furious, but it’s not his decision, it’s mine. I want to help people who suffer, so I’ll go to a convent. There I can do more good than I can here.”

  “Mary, you were named well, you are as good and kind as Christ’s own mother. But this is unfair! That you should be driven from your home for caring for other people is an outrage.”

  “No, because it means I’ll be going to do something worthwhile,” she said serenely, dipping the cloth in the bowl once more.

  Rodde rose to his feet. Setting his hat on his head, he took up his staff.

  “You are leaving the camp?” she asked.

  “Yes. I have something to see to in town. But remember this, Mary: while I live, you will not have to leave here. Trust me! The smith will not trouble you again, that I promise, and no matter what you decide to do, the people of the town will not force you to leave or do anything you don’t want to. This I swear!”

  When Baldwin and Simon entered the room, Clifford was standing by the fire, warming his hands. “I wondered how long it would take for you to get here.”

  “Peter, where is he?”

  “In the infirmary. It was lucky he was brought here so promptly. Ah, Cecily, how is the patient?”

  She walked to his side and stood warming her back. “He is well enough for now, although I hate to think what would have happened to him if I hadn’t ridden past. To see him like that, lying in the mess of his yard—it was dreadful!”

  Baldwin studied her carefully. When she noticed his attention, she lifted her chin defiantly.

  “You seem very affected by the Irishman’s pain.”

  “Isn’t it a Christian duty to feel sympathy for a poor fellow-creature?”

  “One would have said the same about your father, surely?”

  “I was very sad at his death,” she protested.

  “But you chose not to tell us the truth about what happened. And you pretended to have been worse hurt than was the case.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. When we spoke to you, you said you were knocked out by a man who was hiding near the window, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And at the time you were wearing your blue tunic.”

  “What of it?”

  “Why did you lie to us?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Who were you speaking to?”

  She stopped, her mouth open a short way. There was something in her face which the knight couldn’t recognize, but it wasn’t guilt, nor was it sadness. It was more a kind of wariness, as if she was trying to evaluate which near-truth would be most palatable.

  “We know you were talking to somebody. Who was it?”

  “Who says I was?” she demanded.

  “That is not your concern! What is, however, is who might have killed your father.”

  She tried one last denial. “I told you what happened. As I was about to go to the window, the man leaped out at me.”

  “That is not what happened! You were at the window—I know that. Your tunic tore on a splinter.” Her eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “You must tell us the truth. Otherwise the wrong man could be punished for your father’s death. Already some are thinking it could have been John.”

  “But John had nothing to do with it! He didn’t come in until later.”

  “And what did you say to him?”

  She hesitated—only a moment, but noticeably. “I was unconscious.”

  “I don’t believe you. You are lying.”

  She tossed her head angrily. “I hope you have some justification for that assertion! It’s a disgrace that a knight should thus berate a woman who’s just lost her father.”

  “She is right, Sir Baldwin,” chided the mystified Clifford. “What possible cause do you have for making that allegation?”

  “Look at her, Peter!” Baldwin threw out a hand emphatically. “Look at her! How many men have you seen knocked unconscious? And how many of them can move their heads so easily a couple of days later? This girl would hav
e you believe she was out cold for a good few hours, and in that time her father was killed, her servant Putthe was struck down, and she was carried upstairs and placed in her bed, not waking until the following morning—yet look at her! She can fling her head back like that without even a twinge of pain. Is it credible?”

  Simon and Clifford stared. The bailiff realized at last what had been troubling the knight since passing her house. He remembered the scene with perfect clarity: Putthe standing and wincing with the pain as he moved his head, while she gave him a sharp nod of recognition. And yet she was supposed to have been unconscious for longer than he!

  Cecily avoided their gaze. This meddlesome knight was ruining things. It was ridiculous that he should have spotted her little deception because of such a trifle! Quite composed, she asked, “And what do you intend to do?”

  “All I want is the truth, Mistress. What really happened? Who were you speaking to?”

  “Child, you must tell the knight all you know, for how else can the murderer be captured?”

  “It is not my secret, Father. I can tell the knight nothing.”

  “Cecily,” said Baldwin, “it was your father who died. Your father! How can you protect his killer?”

  She looked up at him then, and Baldwin saw the naked fury in her eyes. “You dare to talk to me of my father? The man who made my mother die, the man who broke up my family and kept me under so tight a rein that I could do nothing without his approval?” She swallowed hard, and forced herself to calm, unmaking the fists she had unknowingly formed in her passion. “If I could help you, I would, but I will not tell you any more than I already have.”

  “Did he often beat you?”

  “Beat me?” she repeated, staring at the knight. “How did you guess?”

  Baldwin took his seat at a stool near her. “Was it he who punched you that night?”