“But, Sir Baldwin, surely you wouldn’t pursue her now, not when you’ve already freed her?”
The knight turned slowly and studied him, and suddenly John wanted very much to be somewhere else. Baldwin was known to be kindly and generous, a man who treated all men with respect and courtesy, but now the knight’s eye was cold, his voice scornful. “John of Irelaunde, I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace. It is impossible for me to condone deliberate flouting of the law-by anyone. How would it look if I were to allow Isabella to commit this crime without punishment? Other criminals might think me an easy touch. Oh no, John. I have my office to consider in her case-and in others.”
“Well, Sir Baldwin, I’m glad I’ve never been guilty of such a crime,” John said lightly, but he avoided Baldwin’s gaze.
“You’ve never given birth to a child, you mean? Or do you mean you’ve never tasted the pleasures of illicit love? Are you so innocent, I wonder?”
John grinned weakly. The knight’s words were hitting too close to the mark, and there was a terrible certainty building in him that Baldwin had guessed about his nightly trysts. The direction of this conversation was not to John’s liking, especially when another thought struck him: if news had already come to Baldwin, the gossip in the town must have reached a level which could put him-and her-in some little danger.
It was getting late. John made some apology and scurried off homeward, all the way conscious of the knight’s stare on his back. It was a relief to slam his gate shut behind him. He rested for a moment with his back to it as if bracing himself against a sudden attack. The knight had unsettled him, that was a fact. “Sodding bastard! He was winding me up!”
And back down the hill, as soon as Baldwin saw the little man dart inside his yard, for all the world like a rabbit pelting into its warren at the sound of the hunter and his dogs, the knight’s face broke into a smile. He gave a loud guffaw, and had to lean on a fence while he laughed until the tears came.
“And now take the hint and leave the good wives of Crediton alone, you lecherous little git!”
Sitting before the door to the inn, idly watching the traffic in the street, Jack the smith raised another quart of ale and gulped.
With the slight breeze, he felt refreshingly cool after the searing heat of his smithy, and it was a relief to be able to sit and drink away his thirst, nodding affably to the townspeople as they passed. Few would ignore the smith, for he was an essential part of the town. When tools snapped, he mended them; when horses needed reshoeing, he made them; when cartwheels broke, he had to fit the new steel rims to protect the wood. In all aspects of life, there was little that didn’t require his skills at one point or another.
He finished his drink and collected his small barrel, newly refilled with ale, which he installed on his little handcart, and set off home. There were two chains he must repair, taking out links and replacing them with new ones, an old knife that needed a fresh rivet in its hilt, and he must forge a new axehead. It would take time to finish all that, and he hoped his apprentice was stoking the fires and getting the temperature up.
It was when he had only travelled a few yards, while he was reviewing these jobs, that he saw the man sitting huddled at the side of the road, clapper in hand and bowl before him, calling out to all passers-by. “God bless you, lady!” and “God save you, sir!” as the coins were hurriedly tossed to him, while the donors averted their gaze and hurried by.
Jack strode on, his face fixed firmly forward, prognathous features unmoving.
“Sir? Can you spare something for-”
“Not for you, pervert!”
“But we need food and drink, same as any man, sir. Couldn’t you-”
“Leave me alone! You sickening bastard, you should never have been born. You make me want to vomit-aye, and all others who are normal!”
The leper stared at him, and opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so, the smith reached down and picked up a large cobblestone, weighing it in his hand. The light of a kind of madness was in Jack’s eye, and the leper was suddenly afraid. He looked away nervously, certain that at any moment the heavy stone would crack against his head. There came a loud thud, and when he looked to his side, he saw the dent on the wall where the cobble had struck.
“Don’t ever talk to me again, or next time I’ll smash your skull!” Jack hissed malevolently, and walked on.
Neither he nor the leper noticed the man leaning against the wall of the inn. Neither of them knew he was a guard at Matthew Coffyn’s house-nor that he had overheard their argument. At the moment he wasn’t greatly interested in what had passed between the leper and the bigot, but if the guard, William, had one conviction, it was that any piece of information might become useful. He had docketed and stored the exchange in his mind before the smith was swallowed up in the crowds. 4
T homas Rodde leaned on his staff and rested while he waited. The old man at the gate had refused to let him enter until his master had agreed. It made Rodde give a fleeting smile. As if anyone who was healthy would want to walk into a leper hospital!
The sun was warm on his tattered tunic and robe. It was good to feel the heat. For so many months now he had been living in the north, where the sun was insipid compared to the south.
Thomas could remember hot, balmy days in the southern lands. He had gone there with his father several times when he was apprenticed to the craft, visiting places of pilgrimage in far-flung countries like Castile and Rome. But that was before he had become leprous: that life was over. Sometimes he recalled it with a kind of wonder, like a magical dream in which reality could be suspended for a while, but he tried to avoid thinking about how he had lived. There was no point: he was determined not to torment himself with wondering how things might have been, or how he might have developed. After all, he could easily have died in a foolish accident at any time. It was as likely as his managing to live to a ripe old age.
“There they are.”
The old leper pointed along the road. Thomas turned to see Ralph and Quivil approaching. The man with the monk was staggering as if drunk. His eyes held a frantic terror. Thomas had once seen a horse fall after jumping a wall. It had put a fetlock into a rabbit hole. Afterward it had stood shaking, the leg shattered, with eyes rolling in shock and fear. Thomas clenched his teeth. He had seen the same panicked horror in too many eyes over the last years.
Brother Ralph noticed Thomas Rodde, a bowed figure clad in the tattered clothing that denoted another leper, but he had no time to think about him yet, for at the gate Quivil halted, eyes wide, like a horse refusing a jump. The monk spoke gently. “Quivil, come inside. You know you-”
“No! No, I can’t! This is all a mistake.” He shook his head emphatically, his feet planted firmly.
“You have to come in. You know that.”
“I…I can’t. I’m all right now. It’s all an accident. I have to go home.”
“Edmund!”
Ralph spun to see the same young woman who had summoned him from the chapel. She stood behind them in the road, and the monk realized she had been waiting for them.
“Mary?” Quivil cried, and was about to go to her, when Ralph gripped his arm urgently.
“You mustn’t! Quivil, think, man. You’re a leper: you are defiled-you’re already condemned, do you want to ruin her life too?”
“No, it’s a mistake, I’m not ill,” the leper groaned, but the insistence was gone from his voice.
Mary Cordwainer covered her face with her hands. Her body was racked with tortured sobs. “I didn’t believe it, I thought you’d be all right.”
Quivil stood still, as if turned to purest marble. His fists clenched in his despair. When he spoke, he heard his voice rasping with the hurt he had to give her, his woman. “Mary, I’m dead. I’m nothing. You must look after yourself.”
Ralph slowly released his grip. Quivil stood shaking, his eyes screwed tightly shut, then they opened with an almost audible snap, and he lurched through the gate and into the
grounds of the leper hospital. The girl gave a small cry, and sank to her knees, head bowed, face hidden in her hands. Ralph wanted to go to her and comfort her, but he thought better of it. There was nothing for him to say; no words of sympathy could compensate her. He shook his head, and was about to follow Quivil, when Rodde stepped forward.
“You are the master of the hospital?”
Ralph hesitated, then gave a nod. He already had one extra mouth to feed, and didn’t need another.
Thomas Rodde saw the wariness in his eyes and smiled. “I have need of a place to stay, Brother, and would be grateful if I could make use of your hospitality, but I won’t be a burden to you. I can pay for what I eat.”
“Where are you from?”
Rodde saw the doubt in the man’s face and grinned. “I used to live at a hospital in the north, but it was sacked by the Scots. I have a letter here, though.” He held out a note. The brother took it warily. It was rare for a leper to move far from his birthplace, and Ralph wasn’t sure about this confident man. The letter was from the brother of a small lazar house near Carlisle, and confirmed that his hospital had been destroyed by marauding Scots. It also mentioned Thomas Rodde by name and stated that he was not expelled.
Ralph handed the note back with relief. All too often wandering lepers were those who had been evicted from their old hospitals for disobedience. Their sins had to be extensive for them to suffer the punishment of homelessness and loneliness. “Of course you’re welcome. Christ Himself orders us to aid travellers.” It wasn’t the money that made Ralph make up his mind, it was the edge to the calm voice, as if the stranger was close to the end of his tether. Ralph motioned toward the hospital. Thomas picked up his bundle, swinging it over his shoulder in a practiced movement and walked slowly inside.
“Brother, may I speak with you?”
Ralph was surprised to see that the girl had recovered her composure. The tears still marked her cheeks, but she stood resolutely at his side. He managed to raise a wan smile. “Yes, my sister, of course.”
At his home, Matthew Coffyn grunted as he swung down from the saddle. It had been a long journey, and his back and legs ached as if he had walked the whole way. He led his horse to the thatched stables that leaned against the side of his hall, running from the door to the solar block. The window of his bedchamber gave out over the stable roof, and he glanced up hoping to see his wife, or at least the glow of a candle, but there was nothing visible. He watched while his grooms fetched the large trunk from the back of his cart. The light was fading, and he was glad to be back before it was fully dark.
His servants lifted the great box and staggered with it over the threshold and into the hall. They waited while he unlocked the door to his storeroom, then half-dragged, half-carried it inside. Coffyn relocked the door once they were out again, and sent his bottler for a pint of wine.
It had been a good trip. Coffyn disliked travelling, he was happier running his affairs here in Crediton, but for the last four months, through the summer, he had left his home and his wife to sell his cloth at fairs; it was a relief that this was the last of the year. There wouldn’t be any more during the winter months.
His business was profitable at long last, and he was determined to make as much gold as he could, and not only to repay his ruinous debts. Rumors were growing of the prospects of war both at home and abroad. Matthew needed the protection that money could provide; money was power, and power was safety. What with the French and the Scots, he found it hard to understand why people wanted to fight each other, but all he heard at the fairs and markets pointed to a battle between the King and Lancaster, and when the soldiers started marching, he wanted to have as large a fund as possible. Sometimes the only defense lay in buying off raiders.
Not that it should come so far south and west, he mused, swallowing a gulp of wine and sitting on the bench before the fire. The two English protagonists would probably slug it out round London and York. They were the wealthy areas, the places where the richest pickings could be had, and any captain of men knew that the best way to ensure loyalty among his army was to pick a field where the best profits were available.
Even if the English themselves didn’t go to war, there was always the risk of French pirates or an invasion. The thought was one he had considered several times recently, and once more he resolved to hire some men-at-arms. His eyes went to the locked door. There were dangers inherent in hiring itinerant soldiers, but the advantages outweighed them. He wouldn’t be happy until he had some better defense. There were always men at Exeter. He resolved to hire some at the first opportunity.
He wondered where his wife was, and bellowed for his bottler. “Where is my lady?”
“Sir, she went to her bed this afternoon with an upset.”
He waved away his bottler impatiently. The bitch was always ill. He slurped wine and belched, and his glower left his face for a moment to be replaced by a hopeful smirk. What if she was pregnant?
Matthew Coffyn was not a particularly cruel or even unkind man. He had been brought up on a farm north and east of Exeter, and had been apprenticed to a cloth merchant at seven because his father was desperate that his son would be able to keep him when he became old. The scheme had failed, though, because his father had died before he completed his apprenticeship.
But Coffyn had thrived, and when he was almost in his twenty-ninth year, he had wooed and wed. Now he was almost thirty-four, and his wife, his beautiful Martha, was just twenty. Yet he had not managed to sire a son, and the lack of children was aggravating. It wasn’t right that he should be childless: it wasn’t good for a man to go through life without an heir to leave his work to.
He sighed and drained his cup again. It was hard to blame his wife, for as she always pointed out, he was away so much through the summer that it would be a miracle for her to conceive. The optimism that was never far from his cheerful nature rose to the surface: winter was here, and offered unrivalled opportunities for early nights in bed.
The house was silent, and the hiss and crackle of the fire sounded almost deafening in the absence of all other noise. As Coffyn smiled at his happy thought, he heard a door bang upstairs, and the unmistakable sound of Martha’s footsteps in the passage from the solar. He filled his mug quickly and stood, but as the door opened and his wife entered the hall, he was convinced for a second that he heard something else. It was a rustling and a thump, as if someone had cautiously made his way along the thatch of the roof of the stable and down into the yard.
Coffyn’s blood ran cold. The pin of jealousy pricked the balloon of his pleasure and suddenly all his trust in his wife exploded in his face.
His cuckold’s face.
“Jesus!” John muttered under his breath. He had gained the safety of the tree where his rope was stored, and paused only long enough to throw the coil over his neck before quietly making his way toward the wall and his home.
His ankle was throbbing slowly with a dull intensity. It augured badly for the morning. Nothing was broken, he reckoned, for he could put his weight on it, but he wouldn’t forget the sudden stab of pure agony as he climbed silently from the window into the cobbled yard behind. That must be what had done it, he thought, his jaw clenched against the pain. A loose cobble must have moved under his foot.
What a night! That shite Coffyn wasn’t supposed to be back yet; he’d told his wife he’d either be late tonight, or more likely wouldn’t be home until tomorrow. Why had the stupid sod turned up now? John had been forced to scramble ignominiously from the hall before he could be discovered. The Irishman rested a moment against an apple tree while he enjoyed his bitterness. Then his good temper got the better of him and he grinned to himself.
John wasn’t given to introspection: he knew his place in the world, knew what gave him pleasure, and didn’t reason or rationalize why things were as they were. But he also had the gift of seeing the ridiculous side of any situation, and at this moment it was tempting to give a guffaw at his own position. Here
he was, after a summer of enjoying his woman, complaining because her master had come home early for once. And instead of lying with her in her bed, John was here, in the dark, with a sprained ankle and a damn great wall to surmount.
“Should’ve taken the knight’s advice,” he muttered.
Shaking his head at the capricious nature of fate, he haltingly made his way round the wall to his oak. Here he unwound his rope and drew back his arm to catch the broken limb. But as his arm went back, it was suddenly gripped. John stiffened in silent terror as the blade of a long knife shimmered in an arc before him, gleaming evilly in the light of the stars before coming to rest on his Adam’s apple.
He swallowed. Carefully. “Ah-it’s a fine night for a walk, isn’t it, sir?”
It was no surprise that the leper camp was so dark, for there was no need of lighting for the inmates. Their day began with the dawn, and when the darkness stole over the land they went to their beds.
Quivil was used to the dark. In his home, so few miles away, the days were gauged by whether the animals were awake, and at this time of night, all were asleep. Now, he knew, his father would be sitting at his old stool before the fire, occasionally casting an eye at the sheep as they grumbled to themselves, huddled in the corner farthest from him. He would be whittling a stick, sometimes breaking off to whet his blade against the stone by the fire, spitting to lubricate the metal as he honed it to sharpness.
For his whole life Quivil had assumed he would take his place there by the fire. He had thought he would replace his father when the old man died, and then he would sit at the stool and fashion walking sticks and furniture by the firelight until the days grew longer and his every waking hour was filled with other forms of work. He had seen himself growing old and bent, just as his father was, knowing what his responsibilities were, knowing what jobs needed to be done daily. And where his mother sat, near her man, there would Mary sit, her eyes on him, looking to ensure that he was content, just as his mother had always watched his father so lovingly. And now he had nothing to look forward to. His life was over.
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