“Good. Well, master, why do you not come into my chapel and I will listen to your problem.”
“Your chapel?” Godfrey asked, brows raised in surprise.
Ralph nodded to the little building. “St. Lawrence’s.”
“You’re the leper master?”
“Yes, but you have nothing to fear, I-”
“What do you know of fear, little monk? You know nothing-nothing! You’re hardly old enough to grow a beard, for God’s sake! You can’t know what it’s like to have a daughter who…Oh, what’s the point!” Whipping his mount and digging in his spurs, Godfrey suddenly jerked his horse’s head round, and made off along the street, scattering hawkers from his path.
Ralph stood gaping for a long time. It wasn’t the rudeness that made him stare along the road; it was the restless passion in Godfrey’s outburst. It had not been directed at Ralph-of that the monk was quite convinced. It was the explosion of a man pushed to despair, as if he had seen in Ralph someone who might be able to help him, only to have his hopes dashed.
That made Ralph pause thoughtfully, but he had little time to waste worrying about wealthy burgesses; he had work to begin. He walked to the gate and made himself known to the old leper who guarded it.
Ralph was torn with sympathy for the old man. His face was rotted, the palate gone, and with it his upper teeth, giving him the look more of a brutish animal than a human. In his two-fingered, rough gloves and the coarse material of his hose, jerkin and cloak, he seemed subhuman, just a thing. And that, Ralph knew, was how he would be treated by the people of the town, like a cur to be cursed and kicked, reviled by adults and children alike.
He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. The old leper pointed him to his little room, and Ralph set off, nodding and greeting those of his flock that he met on his way. All were quiet, shuffling their feet and staring down, fearful of meeting his eye until they knew him better, nervous in the presence of their new master, and Ralph had to blink away tears of sympathy at the sight of their deformities: many had stumps where their hands or feet should have been; most had faces disfigured and twisted into nightmarish masks.
Yet when he had opened his door and taken possession of his room, when he stood leaning against the doorpost, arms crossed as he surveyed his estate, he could not help a small frown worrying at his brow. It was not the men around him; his thoughts were not now with the misshapen creatures of the camp.
Ralph was only young, but he had looked after enough ill and dying men in his time to recognize the expression he had seen on Godfrey’s face, and that face kept coming back to him: it held a wary sadness-as if Godfrey had been nursing an infinity of despair. 3
S tepping out of the butcher’s, John of Irelaunde stood a while leaning against the wall, watching the people pass by. As a young woman caught his eye, he would grin, whether or not she noticed him, and keep his attention fixed on her until she was swallowed up by the crowd. Every so often a girl would realize she was being observed, and it was in order to see how she might react that he stood glancing over the crowd.
There were some, the youngest, who ducked their heads in embarrassment as though seeking sanctuary behind another anonymous person. A few were fetching young women who knew nothing of how to cope with a man’s interest, and these he would gaze at longingly-not to offend, but because he wanted to recall their innocence. He knew well that such shy maidenly blushes wouldn’t last; all too soon they would inevitably be replaced by knowing smiles.
Then there were the older women who reddened with anger. Often they were married ladies of some status in the town-which was why John assaulted them with his gaze. When he found a woman who haughtily stared back while going crimson with irritation, he would give her a deliberate leer. It was delightful to fan her anger. Women like this had made his life harder, or had tried to, and their impotence in the face of his insultingly lecherous grin was balm to his soul.
He liked the pretty girls, the fresh young women who met his look boldly. They were worth searching for. It was always a delight to assess how much of their confidence was bravado. They offered the potential for delightful speculation, not that he would dare try his luck with them. Even if he didn’t already have a woman who had stolen his affection, these were too hazardous; he would be tempting fate, dallying with young women who might have a wealthy father or brother who could wish to seek him out for revenge. Young girls could imagine themselves in love too easily, and were prone to seek satisfaction at the point of a sibling’s sword when rejected.
The last category was the other wives-the ones who didn’t toss their heads haughtily or purse their lips on seeing him. They were the pretty ladies wedded to older men, women who wanted excitement without risk to their social standing. In a place like Crediton there wasn’t an inexhaustible supply of them, but there were enough for those who knew how to look. He monitored them as he surveyed the street, noting them with the eye of an expert cattleman checking stock. These women would meet his glance bravely, brazening him out, whether with their husbands or alone; they wouldn’t flush with shame or rage, but would return his pensive stare, and sometimes their eyes made unspoken offers.
That had always been the delight for him, he reflected as he at last pushed away from the wall and made his slow progress to his house, scanning the street for familiar or new faces. It was the thrill of the chase. He knew that the women would have heard of him; it wasn’t as if he had hidden himself. John of Irelaunde liked women. He enjoyed their company, liked giving them gifts-nothing too expensive, but something that involved thought-and he loved loving them without the risk of financial involvement. That was his reputation.
And that was why so many of them had sought his company. John was safe. He was known to be no threat for a woman who wanted the chance of a fling without her husband finding out. And in an age when many cuckolded men would grab for a sword first and ask questions only once limbs and certain members had been irretrievably lost, that was an important consideration.
At the thought, John’s grin widened. He had always been careful; he had never let himself get caught. It wasn’t arrogance, but the cautious evaluation of dangers that prevented his capture. He always made sure that there was no chance that a husband could catch him. And the benefits had been there for him to take. Women had appreciated him for providing them with the affection they missed in their boring marriages, together with the thrill of the illicit. But no more.
No, for John-the man who had enjoyed the favors of many ladies, the man who was free of the taint of falling in love, who avoided the wily snares of those girls who flaunted themselves at him and laughed at the very notion that he should ever remarry-was smitten. And he knew it must be serious, for he couldn’t regret the fact.
When he glanced up, he saw that the sun was sinking. It would soon be getting dark. He paused to smile to himself before hurrying his steps. Coffyn was away again tonight, and that meant John’s path was clear once more.
A week after Ralph’s arrival in Crediton, he was told he had a new inmate.
Later he was to remember it as one of those crystal-clear autumn mornings that held the promise of a warm sun and no rain. When he opened the door of his little home, the hospital’s grounds lay under a fine coating of frost. He had to pause and inhale deeply, drinking in the view like wine.
The small community was out at the western edge of the town, away from the busy center, and although he could see the smoke rising like columns in the still air, the houses and shops were invisible from here, hidden from view by the sweep of the hill and the trees which covered its side. The only proof of habitation was the clangor of the waking population as they rattled over the roads on wagons, or banged pots and pans together ready for the new day. Doors and shutters slammed, voices were raised as apprentices were called, or cursed for being late.
Ralph smiled. The noise from Crediton was rarely so raucous, but when the morning was as still as this, the sounds drifted down the road so distin
ctly he could imagine the people were only a few feet away instead of over a quarter of a mile. It removed the sense of isolation that was the occupational hazard of his career.
From the door to his house he could see the whole of his domain. Directly ahead was the gate to the outside world which his inmates simultaneously loathed for its rejection of them, and adored for the freedom-and health-it represented. On his right was the squat little chapel, with its sorry collection of wooden crosses to remember the men who had died here. The lepers themselves lived opposite it. A few, he knew, the most godly, would even now be readying themselves for the first service of the day. Their only possibility of freedom would come from the chapel: either they would enjoy the miracle of returned health through God’s kindness, or they would be released. He would mercifully grant them death, and an end to their suffering.
But others would not join him in St. Lawrence’s to attend his masses. These were the incorrigible ones, the ones who had already given up. They had succumbed to grief, or had become angry with their God for their living death. Ralph felt he could understand their misery, but could not forgive their loss of faith. They should, he felt, put their trust in Him. It was with a kind of abstract disinterest that he wondered how he himself would react if he became a leper. It was always possible that he might succumb to the malign disease. He only prayed that he could be like the first group, and would relish the opportunity for praising God that its onset would provide-but he wasn’t sure.
The message came late in the morning, while he was sweeping the floor in the chapel. Mud and rubbish accumulated in the corners of the old building, and it was a daily task to ensure that God’s house was clean. He had almost finished, when Joseph, an old leper much disfigured, caught his attention.
One of the early symptoms of the disease was that the victim found breathing difficult and the voice became hoarse. Poor Joseph had endured his illness for over four years, Ralph had been told, and the monk usually found his speech difficult to understand, but today he quickly understood that he was needed.
At the main gate he found a young woman waiting. She was in her early twenties, plain of face, but with an inner strength that showed in her grave, solemn features. Ralph could see that she was no gentlewoman. Her clothing was clean, but certainly not expensive; the fabric had torn in several places, and had been carefully mended.
As he approached her, Ralph’s attention was on her face. The woman was paying him no heed: she was watching Joseph. And unlike everyone else whom he had seen observing a leper, her face held no fear, no horror or disgust, but only an expression of compassion and utter sadness. It made him want to stop and memorize every detail of her as she stood there, radiating kindness like a modern Magdalen. When he came close, he saw that her cheeks were streaked with tears.
“You asked for me?”
“Yes, Brother. I have been sent by the Dean to tell you that another man has got the disease.”
“Oh, I see.” Ralph closed his eyes briefly. He had five inmates already. Another would be a strain on his resources. The almoner had already hinted that the harvest had not been as good as had been hoped, and that it would be best if the lepers could reduce their demands on the church. He dismissed the thought with a shrug. “I shall come immediately.”
Inside Crediton’s collegiate church, the candles and sconces threw a dim light compared with the bright sunshine streaming in through the windows. There weren’t many people there. It looked as if monks and lay-brothers were almost alone; only a few of the local people were attending. That was no surprise, for nobody wanted to be reminded of the illness. One woman sobbed, and a man at her side held her protectively by the shoulders. Ralph felt certain they were the parents; their grief was so obvious. Not far from them, Ralph was surprised to see the knight, Sir Baldwin, his head bowed in prayer.
The Dean, in his capacity as vicar of the parish, was holding the service as the monk entered. Ralph walked to the altar and knelt, making the sign of the cross and bowing his head in prayer before looking over at this latest victim.
Edmund Quivil felt like a twig that had fallen into a rushing torrent; he was being swept along by a course of procedures he couldn’t comprehend. Wrapped in a shroud, he’d been carried in here on a bier as if he was already dead. His movements were mechanical as he obeyed the Dean’s instructions. Canons brought forward a pall as he lay down on the ground, and it was draped over him while the requiem mass was chanted. Then Clifford’s sonorous voice continued, droning on in the curious international language of the Church.
And then Quivil remembered the significance of the rite.
He almost cried out. It was an effort not to leap up. This was the end of his life. From now on he was dead, to the Church and to the Law.
It had been explained to him the night before, when the Dean had visited him to confirm that he did indeed have leprosy. That was hard enough to accept. Quivil was not yet twenty. He had been courting Mary Cordwainer for six months now, and their banns were to have been read in the little church at Sandford when he had developed the fever. It had come quickly, leaving all his bones aching, and then it was gone. But it had returned, and this time it had brought with it a dull headache that made movement torture, and his nose started bleeding profusely.
The herbarer had been very helpful. When the second attack had struck, the monk had kindly come to visit him, and had given him a powder which had reduced the pains a little, but when this second fever had somewhat abated, the monk had become noticeably anxious. He had seen the little discoloration on Quivil’s hand. And soon it was not one, but many. The yellow-brownish lumps multiplied over his face and hands. That was when Quivil had been brought to the town on a cart and subjected to a detailed examination.
He shuddered, squeezing his eyes tight shut. It was only yesterday, and now his life was ended.
Edmund felt the silent tears trickling down his cheeks. He opened his hands once, to study with disbelief the little nodes on the skin of his wrists; he reached up to touch his face, feeling the faint lumps. It was impossible that he should be a leper! He was young and fit, not a mutilated cripple with only a few years to live. It must be a mistake! The brother herbarer would come in and rescue him from this living nightmare: it couldn’t go on.
But the solemn voice continued its message of doom. No hurrying brother came to rescue him. He lay uncomfortably until the mass was ended, and then there was silence. It was as if his heart had in truth stopped beating.
Ralph rose to his feet. The Dean was kneeling and praying, and as he finished and stood, Ralph could see the tears glistening. The two men stared at each other for a moment, sharing the pain and sadness of the occasion, as if they were accomplices in Quivil’s destruction, and then Clifford gave a rasping sigh and walked to the door. Ralph put his hand on the leper’s shoulder, and the young man gave a start, looking up at him with desperation. The monk tried to give him an encouraging smile, but Ralph’s face felt as if it was going to crack. Uttering a prayer to God for strength, he helped Quivil up, and walked with him to the door.
Outside, Clifford waited with the other brothers near a newly dug grave. The last stage of the rite had to be completed. Quivil found himself being laid down again, and while he stared up at the priest, Clifford sprinkled dust on his head three times. “Edmund Quivil, you are dead to the world. Be alive again to God.”
Now Ralph took him by the shoulder once more, and while the monks chanted the Libera me, led the leper away to his living purgatory: unalive, though not yet dead.
John saw the pair walking away, and he shook his head sympathetically. Everyone in the town had heard the news about poor Quivil. Gossip of that kind spread quickly.
But the little Irishman didn’t have time to dawdle in the street, he had things to do. He walked back toward the church, and was about to turn up his own road when he heard his name being called.
“Yes? Sir Baldwin, how are you this fine day?”
“Well enough, John,” Ba
ldwin said. He pulled off his gloves and stuck them in his belt. Truth be told, he wasn’t at all content. Witnessing one of his villeins being put through the Office for the Seclusion of a Leper had blunted the pleasure he had felt earlier on seeing what good weather the day promised. “What are you up to, though?”
“Me, Sir Baldwin?”
The knight studied his innocent face. “Yes, John, you! I have been hearing rumors about you.”
“Ah, surely you’d not listen to villainous talk about me, sir?”
“That would depend on how untrue the talk was, wouldn’t it, John?”
“But you know I’m an honest trader, sir. I’d never break the town’s laws.”
“Really? By the way, did you hear about Isabella Gilbard?”
John forced his voice to sound casual, as if he had not only not heard of her, he was sure he wouldn’t want to either. “Isabella? No, I don’t think so.”
“I let her buy her freedom from my manor so she could marry. She was wed in June, but now I hear she has given birth to a bouncing boy-only three months later.”
“It’s a terrible thing when people behave like that,” said John, nodding his head sagely. “Young churls today don’t have the manners their grandparents had.”
“Quite. It means she was fornicating before she was married; before she bought her freedom. I suppose I shall have to impose the lairwite on her.”
John pursed his lips. The lairwite was the fine imposed on bondwomen who proved to have weaker morals than they should, and who gave birth without first going through the formal and necessary process of marrying. The fine could be enforced when the woman subsequently married in an attempt to conceal her incontinence. And John knew as well as the knight that there was another fine, the childwite, for the man who had made her pregnant.
But the fine was imposed on women who were unfree-serfs. It existed to prevent villeins from breeding large numbers of bastards who would then become a drain on an estate. And John was not involved with an unfree woman. He smiled up at the knight confidently. Baldwin seemed to have forgotten his presence for a moment, and was lost in thought, staring over the road at the new church. John was interested despite himself.
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