“She’s old enough to love her God,” he returned piously.
“But I should still like to come into the house to see Thomas.”
“Mistress…”
“My name is Cecily.”
“Well, Mistress Cecily, I am afraid you may not. It is not permitted.”
“I know the rules well enough. Relations can go through your doors.”
“Yes, mothers and sisters may.” Ralph saw with relief that they had almost returned to the gate of the hospital. Soon he would be able to leave this woman behind and return to his work. Her next words halted him in his tracks.
“What about wives?”
He gaped. She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head.
“I…but this is quite impossible!” he stammered.
“Am I so undesirable, Brother?” she murmured.
“You intentionally misinterpret my thoughts, Mistress! It is still not possible for you to enter.”
“But why? I thought that the wife of a man could not be separated from him.”
He sighed. That was the drift of the law as it related to normal men and women, it was true, but a leper’s wife was different. The leper, once consigned to his doom, had been declared dead. His will had been executed on his entrance to the leper house.
“If you were married to him,” he tried to explain, “you are now legally his widow. You can have no claim on him, just as he can have no hold on you. You should find yourself a new man, someone who’s untainted.”
“Brother, I love him. Who are you to tell me I should leave him alone now? He is sick, and I can comfort him better than any other.”
“But you have no rights with him any more. He is no longer your husband.”
“Brother,” she said coldly, and turned to face him. He could see the anger bubbling beneath her calm exterior. “He is my husband. Your church married us before God, and here, before God, I affirm my love for him. If he is to be nursed until his death, I, his wife, shall be at his side. I demand the right to join him in your hospital.”
Jack watched the two argue with disgust. It was appalling! That a young woman, perfectly healthy and attractive, and wealthy enough as well, could actually want to go and stay with the perverts and sinners in the hospital was grossly offensive. A good, normal girl like Cecily should want to spend her time with strong, rich men. The smith couldn’t quite consider himself a suitable mate for her, as the gulf in their status was too broad, but he was clear in his own mind that he was significantly better for her than any leper.
He marched back to the town. His abhorrence of what he had heard lent speed to his feet. It was only as he came to the eastern outskirts that he slowed, an idea striking him with sudden force.
It was impossible that any woman could want to sleep with a leper. Such a thing was ridiculous, and yet here in Crediton, two women, both of them attractive enough, appeared to want to do just that. Jack knew he wasn’t stupid: there must be some reason why these two wanted to go into the hospital. Love he could discount. He couldn’t believe that any woman could of her own free will choose a diseased and defiled creature like a leper as the focus of her love. There must be another reason.
The lepers themselves must be practicing some form of black art on the women of the town.
24
Simon took the hill from Crediton at a canter, Baldwin and Edgar at his side. It was a relief to be leaving the town behind them, and this was the first time in his life Simon had ever been glad to leave the town he knew so well.
He found himself considering this. The town itself hadn’t changed that much, he thought. He had left it some four years ago when he was given the job of bailiff of Lydford Castle, and before then he had always looked on Crediton as a bustling large town, infinitely bigger than Sandford, the small village where he was born, but still somehow comforting. Yet now he was pleased to be leaving it.
In part, he thought, it had something to do with his growing used to the space of Dartmoor. The rolling moorland held a fascination for him. It looked as though it had been blighted in some powerful battle between God and the Devil, with its withered bushes, the curious trees by the stream called Wistman’s Wood, where the oaks grew stunted, none of them reaching a height of more than a few feet. And then there were the swamplands, from where issued the awful cries of ponies and sheep as they struggled to free themselves from being sucked into the mire. It gave an impression of strength, of barren power, such as he had never felt before.
In contrast, Crediton now made him feel a little claustrophobic. It was so busy always, with people rushing about trying to make a living. On the moors, a few men fought with the ground to make it yield up its riches, digging and smelting the tin and the lead, or cutting the peat, but their numbers were so small compared with Crediton that when he rode out he could imagine himself alone, with no other man for miles around. On the moors it was possible to ride for hours and see no one. In Crediton a man could not avoid other people.
But it was more than simply this, he told himself. Crediton felt as if it had changed. The senseless murder of Godfrey had poisoned his feelings about the town more than he would have expected.
Simon Puttock had seen enough dead men to know that he was not simply struck by the unfairness of a man losing his life, nor by the apparent pointlessness of Godfrey’s end. No, it was more the fact that no one appeared to mourn Godfrey. His daughter, although she demonstrated the dutiful sadness of a child for her father’s death, was withholding things—of that Simon now had no doubt. The man’s servant, Putthe, who should have been loyal even to death, had also kept things to himself. In fact, the only person who appeared to regret his loss was that strange woman Martha Coffyn, and she was only the man’s mistress in an adulterous relationship.
“Thinking it all through again?” Baldwin asked.
“Was it that obvious?”
“Only when you sighed so loud! Godfrey’s passing would not seem to have caused anyone a great deal of pain, would it?”
“That’s just what I was thinking. The only real affection for him came from Coffyn’s wife, and that’s hardly a suitable love. I suppose it’s hard to say it, but would anyone be happy to know that the only mourner at his funeral would be a slut?”
Baldwin threw him a curious look. “Probably not, but I suppose I’d be more glad to have even one whore regret my passing than no one at all.”
“I expect you’re right,” Simon agreed. “All I can say is, I thank God that I have a wife and daughter to mourn me when I pass.”
“Yes, you are lucky.”
“Baldwin, I’m sorry. I know you crave the company of a wife.”
The knight gave a dry grin. “There is no harm in being proud of your wife, Simon. Any man could be proud of a woman like Margaret. And the same is true for Edith. She is a daughter any man would be pleased to call his own.”
“Yes. I am fortunate,” said Simon complacently. Then he pursed his lips and whistled, low and mournfully.
“All right, Simon. What is it?”
“What do you mean?” the bailiff asked.
“Why have you adopted that innocent demeanor? Why are you whistling like a slow wind soughing through the trees? In short, spit it out, whatever it is!”
“Baldwin, I really don’t know what you’re on about. All I was thinking was, what a pleasant woman Jeanne de Liddinstone is.”
“Oh, good God!”
“She’s good at sewing, too,” Simon mused, casting an approving eye over the knight’s new tunic.
“Hmm. Yes, she was most kind to make it for me,” said Baldwin, unconsciously fingering the embroidery at his neck.
“In fact, I should think you are a very lucky man,” Simon said judiciously.
“Simon…” Baldwin paused. It was hard to broach such a topic even with his closest friend, especially when he knew his servant was listening to every word. But Edgar had been his servant for so many years, it would have been unthinkable to send him away, and he knew in his
heart of hearts he could trust Simon completely. “Simon, what would you do in my position?”
“Me? I’d marry her tomorrow. If you really love her, I mean, and certainly your expression when she appears seems to bear out that construction. Anyway, her lands are good, she’s beautiful, and her needlework is excellent.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Oh well, if you’re asking the best way to propose…”
“Simon, do you intend to be the most exasperating man alive, or is it just a skill you were born with? I mean, how in God’s name can I get rid of that damned gorgon who masquerades as a maid? What can I do about Emma?”
“Ah, now there you have me. I’ve never had that specific problem before myself. I’ll tell you who you should ask about her, though, and that is Meg.”
“Your wife?”
“She has thrown out more useless staff than anyone else I know of. If she can’t help you, no one can.”
“I shall speak to her.” With this determination, Baldwin settled to staring at the road ahead. They had hardly come halfway yet, and he shook his shoulders to settle his cloak more evenly, pulling at the trailing end until it came over his chest and kept the wind out.
“Baldwin, who do you think might have done this murder?”
The knight sat silently for some while, and Simon almost thought he hadn’t heard. He was about to ask the question again when the knight began speaking quietly and ruminatively.
“I know who I don’t think it is: Cecily. To me it seems highly improbable that she committed the crime, even though I am quite convinced she lied to us about the events of the evening. That makes me wonder why she should want to lie. The only logical assumption has to be that she is trying to protect someone—but we don’t know whom.
“Then again there is that dreadful little tranter. John could have tried to rob the place—in fact, that was my first thought, that he might be a drawlatch, and the robbery went sadly wrong when he was found—but that is not the case. The goods are back, so there was no theft.”
“Isn’t it possible that someone broke in to steal the plate and was found out? Maybe that’s why. It’s all back, because someone went to fetch it back?”
“If that was the case, why keep it secret? They’d call the constable to fetch it for them, and to see that the drawlatch was arrested.”
“Unless they wanted to take their own revenge. They might have thought it more suitable.”
Baldwin considered this. “You mean that John was the thief, and was beaten for his felony, rather than for his assumed adultery? If Coffyn hadn’t admitted his attack, I’d be tempted by that as a theory. But the fact is, Coffyn confessed to having him beaten. Thus we are left with why someone should steal the plate only to return it. In which case, why was it removed at all? Why do people move their plate?”
“They’ll take it out if there’s a fire,” Simon mused.
“There was no fire,” pointed out the knight.
“Well, people pack it up when they are going to travel.”
“There was no sign that Godfrey was about to leave, was there?” Baldwin frowned suddenly. “Unless…”
Simon waited, but the knight sat silently, and at last the bailiff burst out, “You had the nerve to accuse me of being frustrating! ”Unless’ what?“
“I was thinking—people take their most valuable things with them when they travel, and leave anything that they can’t take with them in safekeeping.”
“So?”
“So—perhaps someone took Godfrey’s silver and looked after it. There was no theft because it is all back there now. Godfrey wasn’t going away, there was no fire, but perhaps someone felt the plate could be at risk if it was allowed to stay where it was, so it was put in a safe place.”
“Why should it be safe now, when it wasn’t before?” Simon demanded, mystified.
“Clearly it was unsafe when the whole household was unconscious. Now members of the house are fine once more, it is safe to return it.”
Simon shook his head, “What of the other suspects, then? You’ve only considered Cecily and John.”
“Who else? Putthe I cannot understand. I would be more suspicious of him if he had not been struck down himself. Since he was, I can’t see how he could have been involved.”
“There’s his friend, Jack the smith.”
“Except even the stablelad said Putthe couldn’t stand the smith. I would need to see some kind of proof that they regularly met before I could see them as conspirators. No, I find it hard to accept that Putthe could have killed his master and then Jack knocked him out. What would be the point? Jack can’t even have robbed the place—the stuffs all back on the sideboard now.”
“Coffyn said he came in from the front, too, so he should have seen Jack running away if he’d been there.”
“Whoever was there obviously made off through the garden at the back. That in itself tells us nothing. Jack could have come back, committed his acts, and then run off through the back.”
“True enough. And we still have the question of this mysterious stranger at the window. Someone with whom Cecily spoke, and presumably a man since Jack heard a man and a woman.”
“Yes, and since his identity is being kept from us, he is naturally very suspicious.” Baldwin nodded. “I should like to question Cecily more about him—or them, if we believe John. Surely the two he saw must be the same. That is something we shall have to do tomorrow.”
“Fine. In the meantime, let’s hurry back to your house. This wind is cutting through to my bones!”
Baldwin laughed, and glanced about him. “Another mile or so, not more. Come on!”
Moving at a fast trot, they soon warmed themselves. The land was peaceful as they passed. Smoke rose from cottage fires, only to be dissipated by the gentle breeze. As night fell, Simon found himself looking up at the stars more—his horse would follow Baldwin’s without needing guidance. Already the sky was blue-black, with a sprinkling of white stars standing out distinctly, like flour shaken finely over a dark cloth. A solitary cloud floated above him, as fine as a feather of silver. Would a feather float on the air if it was made of silver? he wondered. Could any other metals float if they were carefully constructed to the same dimensions as a feather?
The thought made him give a wry grin at his own foolishness. Metal was metal! Metal was heavy, and couldn’t float, neither on air nor water. The idea was ridiculous. Just because you made something look like something else, just because you changed its outward appearance, didn’t mean you changed its essence…
He jolted along for some moments lost in thought. Appearances, he thought, could be deceptive.
Inevitably his thoughts turned to Coffyn. The man had thought his wife was enjoying an affair with the Irishman, and all because the evidence appeared to support that view. Yet in reality the culprit was his neighbor, an unscrupulous character who was prepared not only to cuckold him, but was also quite possibly willing to spread the rumor that it was John who was guilty, which had at last led to John’s brutal beating at the hands of the jealous husband.
And suddenly Simon had a strange idea.
In the leper camp, Ralph saw to the wounded Quivil. The man was shaken, but his injuries from the stoning were mending nicely, and Ralph was confident that he would be up and about, perfectly well, within a few days. Getting up from the leper’s bedside, he forced his fists into the small of his back and stretched. He was finding that seeing to the needs of his inmates was becoming painful. It was easy to see why those of his colleagues who spent their days tending to the sick were prone to aches and pains in their backs, he felt. It came from constantly bending over their charges.
Edmund Quivil was snoring peacefully enough, and Ralph could hear the church bells tolling from the other side of the town. He moved to the door and wrapped his robe about him more tightly as he saw how cold it was. Shivering, he threw more logs on the fire before pulling the thick curtain over the doorway and walking quic
kly to the chapel.
Inside he found a couple of the more devout lepers waiting, and with them he went through the mass. There was always so much to be done, but this was the office he most enjoyed. The candles flickered as they cast their soft light, glinting on metal and paintwork, reminding him of his duties: to tend to those souls whom most had already assumed to be consigned to damnation.
It was with a light heart that he left the little chapel. He was always more contented leaving than going in; the small chamber was filled with the love of God. Its pictures of Christ and His mother seemed almost to glow with adoration. The very walls were constructed of kindness and generosity. Its atmosphere of incense and dirty clothing was to Ralph the very essence of worship, for the two smells demonstrated the love of man for God, and Christ’s love of the sick and the dying. There couldn’t be a better place to worship God, he felt, than from inside the chapel of a lazar house.
The ground crunched underfoot. Since he had walked inside the chapel, the frost had dusted the grass, and he inhaled the crisp air with satisfaction. It tasted clean in his mouth, like a fresh mountain spring. Outside his own door, he snuffed the air happily and sighed with pleasure.
He knew many of his friends and fellow-brothers thought he was insane to want to look after the lepers; that was partly why he was here, because at the election for the post there was no one else who wanted the job. But Ralph was convinced it was the best way for him to serve God. This was surely the best way too to save souls, and that was the sacred duty of all who wore the tonsure. They were God’s own army, whose only task was to save mankind in the eternal battle.
Something caught his attention, but he was only aware of it as a niggling irritation at first, something which interrupted the flow of his thoughts. It was like a piece of carpentry where the workman has been forced to leave off his task when he has all but finished. The last little unfinished part is an annoyance. This was similar; it was a tiny part of his normal scenery that was wrong. He looked over the whole encampment, but nothing appeared out of place. Toward the town he could see nothing wrong—until he realized that there was a glow, just over the brow of the hill, where he had never seen one before. It appeared to waver in the night air, and the sight made him frown.
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