Ralph leaned forward, barely controlling his excitement. “But I’d never heard of this! Was he telling the truth?”
Baldwin gave a crooked smile. “Ah, now that is the question. How could the Bishop tell?”
“I couldn’t. I wanted to believe—of course I did!—but I am too old to take a peasant’s word as Gospel truth when he swears to a miracle like that.”
“What did you do?”
“I had Orey and his wife questioned. They both deposed that on the Thursday before Easter he had gone to bed perfectly well, and had awoken blind. Orey came from Keynesham, he was the local fuller, and we sent to hear from his neighbors. There were plenty prepared to support his story.”
“So the Bishop was left with little choice,” Baldwin said.
“No,” said Stapledon. “I had to accept their word, especially since all swore on the Gospels. If there had been a shred of doubt I would have had Orey in jail for deception, but as it was, everyone supported his story—even the local priest, although he was hardly better educated than Orey himself and spent most of his spare time investigating the mysteries held inside ale barrels rather than those in the Bible. No, I had to order the bells to be rung, and held a thanksgiving service for God’s mercy in manifesting the illness on Orey, and for giving him his cure.”
“And this man Orey is now known as John of Irelaunde?” asked Ralph with confusion.
“No!” laughed Baldwin. “Orey was the man who persuaded John the trickster to come here.”
“Orey returned to his business the next January,” Stapledon noted drily, glaring at the knight. “It so happened that on his way he met this tranter, John of Irelaunde, and told him of his miraculous cure. Orey was determined to praise God after what he was sure was a miracle, and wherever he went he told people what had happened to him. His wife, I understand, was a most willing witness. But this tranter, this John, then changed his direction and came to Crediton. He covered his eyes like a blind man, walked with a stick, and asked everyone he met whether they could lead him to the church. He said he had suddenly been struck blind, but had been sent a dream from God which showed him that he could be cured if he would only come to Crediton and attend a mass.”
“He was so transparent,” Peter Clifford chortled. “Turning up like that, just a short time after Orey had gone, and all alone on his cart—as if he could have travelled so many miles blind and without a guide! I suppose he never considered how suspicious he would look.”
“But why would he bother?” Ralph asked.
Stapledon threw him a patronizing glance. “Ralph, when you have lived as long as I have, you’ll realize how gullible people can be. The populace here had showered Orey with money, hoping that by their charity a little of his good fortune would redound to them. No doubt he mentioned this to John. The people wanted to associate themselves with Orey, for after all, God had marked him out as favored. What Irelaunde intended was to visit the church, demonstrate his own marvellous recovery, and be similarly favored by the good burgesses of the town.”
“But how can you be certain he wasn’t truly blind?”
“In the first place because he could bring forward no witnesses; in the second because his story was too unlikely. God doesn’t send miraculous cures by the gross or even the pair; He provides them occasionally as proof of His kindness and power. And then, of course, the fool was seen lifting the bandage from his eyes.”
“Our constable has good eyes himself,” Baldwin laughed, giving up all attempts to restrain his mirth, “and a deeply suspicious soul. When he sees an apparently blind man lifting one edge of the cloth binding his eyes in order to survey his path before making his way straight to the inn at which, upon arriving, he gives every sign of being quite incapable of seeing anything—the good constable begins to wonder what kind of ocular incapacity he is witness to. The constable kept his own eyes on John, and the next day when John made his entrance in the church, the constable was able to offer some words to the Bishop.”
“I doubted the man from the first,” Stapledon muttered. “It was too much having a second man with a sudden blindness turn up; miracles aren’t that common. No, I had Irelaunde put in the jail, and when he couldn’t produce a single witness to support his defense, I said he should be held until he could be tried in court.”
“There was no point, my Lord,” said Clifford. “He was too obvious. I asked the burgesses what they would do, and relayed your suggestion, but they all seemed to think he was a joke, and only made him spend a morning in the stocks.”
“A morning? A whole morning? My God, what cruelty!” the Bishop said witheringly.
Baldwin laughed. “Don’t be too hard on the town for such generosity. You can imagine how the burgesses would have looked at it: on the one hand they had a fabulous proof of the holiness of their church, an event that had been witnessed by the Bishop himself, and something that would be bound to bring in pilgrims from all over the country—and on the other a simple crook, someone who might, if his case came to be known, ruin the town’s reputation. If one man was proven to be a fraud, wouldn’t that automatically reflect upon the first miracle? If John of Irelaunde was false, people would wonder whether Orey was as well.”
“It hardly demonstrates the correct desire to punish a wrongdoer.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Bishop. Surely it is better to punish one man leniently than potentially the whole town unfairly,” Baldwin said teasingly. “Especially since it might demean a genuine miracle: that of Orey.”
Stapledon snorted. “So what has he been up to since? I assume you must be well acquainted with him for you to be able to call him to mind so easily, especially since, as you point out, you didn’t even live here when all this took place.”
The knight sipped at his juice. “It is true that I have seen something of him.” He decided that the most recent rumors he had heard should be withheld. Peter Clifford might know something of them, but there was no need to inform the Bishop when it could only serve to irritate the prelate. “He has been brought before me in my capacity as Keeper of the King’s Peace, but never over anything serious: selling underweight loaves of bread, that kind of thing.”
“That’s bad enough!” exclaimed Ralph. Many poor people depended on their bread for their daily sustenance, and those who short-changed their customers were guilty of trying to starve them, in his view.
“True, but it’s not something a man should be hanged for,” Baldwin stated easily. He knew how hard some found it to make any kind of a living, and didn’t believe in excessive severity against those who only committed offenses to prevent their own starvation.
“So he’s hardly a model citizen,” the Bishop commented.
“No—but he adds a certain color to the town’s life,” Baldwin suggested. “He has a bold nerve. I believe he could sell sulfur to the devil—and profit from the exchange!”
“Hardly the sort of comment to endear him to me,” Stapledon snapped coldly, but even as Ralph gave a sharp intake of breath at his irreverence, Baldwin could see that Stapledon was concealing his own amusement.
“But it’s true enough,” Clifford said, with a kind of weary resignation. “Irelaunde has some kind of natural gift with language. Only last week he persuaded me to take some of his cloth. I know what he’s like, and although I’m quite certain there’s no malice in him, I should’ve known better than to buy from him.”
“If there’s no malice … ” Ralph interrupted, confused.
“There doesn’t have to be evil intent,” Baldwin explained. “John only thinks of the next minute or two, and what he can make. If there’s an opportunity for profit, he’ll take it. He will trade in anything. It usually won’t be something that could hurt—but it wouldn’t necessarily match the high expectation the customer had.”
“And then,” Clifford added gloomily, “he always has a ready explanation, which on the face of it is reasonable, and which inevitably shows that you are somehow at fault. Take my cloth: he let me hav
e it for half the going price—purely, he said, because he had picked up a sizeable quantity cheaply from a retiring weaver, and he’d prefer to see the Church get a bargain than make more money himself or give the benefit to an already fat merchant.”
“That should have warned you, Peter,” said Baldwin, mock-reprovingly. “He actually implied that he would sooner see you gain the advantage of the deal than he himself? What more warning could he have given?”
“He was most convincing.”
“He always is! Go on, what was the matter with the cloth? Did it dissolve in the rain? Or perhaps it evaporated in the sun?”
Peter Clifford pursed his lips. “The cloth was for tunics for some of the lay brothers and servants,” he admitted after a moment. “Some of them had such threadbare stuff that they were hardly better off than going about naked. But as soon as John’s material was washed, it shrank. It had already been made up into clothes by then, and it was all useless.”
“And he said it was your fault?”
“He was most apologetic, but he said we should have washed it before cutting and stitching it. I suppose he’s right, but you don’t expect it to contract to that extent! The shirts were only good for children once they were washed.”
“It goes to prove that I was right,” the Bishop stated. “He should have been thrown out of the town after his attempted deception.”
Baldwin could see that this topic was embarrassing his friend, and changed the subject. “So, Ralph, you are to become the new master of St. Lawrence’s? Let me see. That means you come from the Trinity Convent, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. From Houndeslow, some few miles from Westminster.”
“A good thriving monastery, I hear,” Peter Clifford observed approvingly.
Baldwin watched the young monk as he answered the Dean’s questions about his House. The knight had known that the little chapel of St. Lawrence’s was served by monks from Houndeslow, but he had not realized that old Nicholas, who had died during the previous summer, was to be replaced by someone so young. Baldwin was sure that the lad was no more than twenty, and although that was surely old enough for any man to take up his life’s duties, it was disturbing to think that the fellow was taking up such a hazardous role. Ralph had the self-assurance of a much older man, Baldwin noted; perhaps he would be capable of managing the affairs of his little chapel. Observing him, Baldwin was impressed by his stillness; the monk held himself with an almost detached serenity. Unlike so many young men Baldwin saw, Ralph didn’t fidget, but sat composedly, his hands resting in his lap.
Baldwin picked up his goblet and took a sip. It was good to see a young man who was determined to serve his God by protecting his charges, but Baldwin was fascinated by what could motivate someone to take on such a job. The inmates of St. Lawrence’s Hospital were not ill of broken limbs or cuts. They were not run-of-the-mill patients such as monks commonly looked after. Those who lived in St. Lawrence’s were a far more gruesome group.
St. Lawrence’s was the leper hospital.
2
Only 200 yards away from where they sat, John of Irelaunde was rattling his way over the unmade road toward his home.
It was rare for him not to smile or wave to those he saw by the side of the road, though it was less common for his greetings to be returned. A young maid at one house glanced at him coolly when he called to her; a little farther along the road a woman hurrying by with her two children reddened and looked away when he whistled and winked. Still, he felt he was adequately compensated for these responses when he came near a group of maids chatting at the corner to an alley. He stood on his board, doffing his scruffy hat and bowing from the waist, and the girls giggled. One met his eye boldly, and he grinned and waved his hat to her.
As he retook his seat, thoughts of the women were rudely cast from his mind. He had caught a glimpse of a man riding toward him. The rider was in his early to middle thirties, with a face overly fleshy from too much rich food and drink, and a thick belly that seemed to rest on his horse’s withers. John set his lips and gave a tuneless whistle, letting his head drop so that his face was hidden beneath the brim of his hat. Peering from under this barrier, he saw the legs of the horse approach, then pass by. The carter chortled quietly to himself. “And a good day to you, Master Matthew Coffyn. Glad to see you’re on your way. I hope you’ve left all your valuables safe!”
Soon he was passing Coffyn’s house. It was a good-sized place, as befitted the man’s status in the town, with fresh paint on the wood, and limewash that was unstained by the weathering that marred a property’s appearance. John kept his head down and watched from below his brim as he passed the gates, but he couldn’t see Martha Coffyn. The place was quiet, and he nodded to himself. While the master was away, his servants would relax. No doubt most were in the buttery enjoying their master’s absence while they simultaneously enjoyed his strongest ale.
After that was a newer building. This one, Godfrey’s, was a massive hall, with good moorstone rendered and painted, surrounded by a wall strong enough to deter a mob. John glanced in. A gardener was clearing leaves from the thick clump of cabbages while another spread straw over a patch of vegetables to protect them from frost. They would soon retire as the light faded, John thought to himself contentedly.
As he came level with the gates, his attention was taken by a pair of young women. One was of middle height, with bright blue eyes that held a reserved calmness, as if she had confronted pain and found herself able to cope. Her face was oval, with a tall, wide brow under her little coif. She had the well-rounded body of a mature woman. John knew she was almost twenty-seven, and that was old for a single woman, especially one who was so attractive. When he saw her glance in his direction, he gave her a happy smile, and nodded his head respectfully. She ignored him, turning on her heel.
“By God, Cecily, you know how to hurt a fellow’s pride,” he muttered to himself, but then chuckled as he caught the eye of the other woman in the garden, the young maid. She met his gaze unswervingly, with a condescendingly raised eyebrow. It was enough to lift his heart as he rode past the house.
Beyond was a new street. He turned into it and up a steep incline, his pony slowing and hunching in the traces, hauling determinedly. “Come on, girl!”
On his right was the sandstone wall surrounding Godfrey’s plot. It had been an expensive undertaking, constructing this barrier, for John knew it enclosed no less than three acres, inside which cows and pigs browsed on the food given to them until they should in their turn feed the household.
John’s pony paused a few yards before the next crossroads, at the furthest extremity of Godfrey’s wall. Looping the reins loosely around the board that stood by his knee, John sprang down. Crediton was behind him, in front was common land, and on his left stood a wood, but to the right, backing on to Godfrey of London’s place, was his own yard.
His small court was hidden behind the fence. Even the wooden gates were covered with boards. John valued privacy in his domain. He unlocked the padlock and released the chain, shoving the gates wide open, the hinges screeching in protest. The noise made him wince, and he made a mental note to grease them again. He led his horse in and slammed the gates, unlimbering her and removing her harness, hanging it from a nail while he wiped her down and brushed her. Leaving her at a newly-filled manger, he went to see to his merchandise. Once that was stored in the lean-to shed at the back of his cottage, he fetched himself a jug of ale and stood at his doorpost, whistling reflectively. He was facing east, but now, as the sun set, he could see the last rays gleaming red and gold on the leaves of the trees opposite.
He was comfortable here. The house was tiny, but then so was the place he had left in Ireland. At least here there were plenty of trees plainly visible. He could sit out here for hours with a quart of ale, just watching the birds and the golden squirrels leaping and playing in and amongst the branches. For most of the year he could tell the season by simply looking over his fence. In the springtime
the trees were clad in light green, fresh young leaves; the summer meant a duller verdant tone. Now it was autumn, and the oaks had been licked with a drab ochre as the leaves prepared to fall.
These trees gave him all the wood he needed for heating, and at this time of year he could gather his own food as well. Through the autumn he would store up boxes of nuts: mainly cobs and chestnuts. These last were his favorites. He liked them roasted, eating their fluffy white flesh while still hot, or cooking them in milk and mashing them to make a thick, creamy stew.
John sighed happily. It had been the wish of the townspeople that he should be made to feel excluded from the life of Crediton—and they had been disgusted when they realized he intended staying. The town was united against him; he must be forced to understand how his actions were deplored. That was why they had refused to let him acquire a plot of land nearer Crediton town center. The intention was to punish him for his attempted fraud, but he was grateful that they wanted to alienate him. It had left him with this view up the hill and over the trees—and ensured that he could go about his business without being observed.
And that was sometimes important to him. He stirred himself as the light faded, stretching both arms high over his head. Crossing his yard, he made sure the pony was settled before taking a length of rope from the stable door. Where his plot met Godfrey’s, he had not bothered to put up a fence. Godfrey’s wall was eight feet high here, enough to deter most unwanted visitors. Now John studied it, sucking his teeth thoughtfully while he fashioned a loop. Ready, he weighed the coil in his hand. A few short feet above him the broken branch of an oak protruded over to his side. He hurled the rope; it encircled the limb, and he tested it a moment before using it to help him clamber to the top. Once there, he unhitched the loop from the branch, whistling absent-mindedly as he cautiously looked out for any watching gardener, then dropped to the ground.
Matthew Coffyn was away again; he often was. And when left to her own devices, his wife, Martha, was prey to boredom.
The Leper's Return Page 3
