The leper's return ktm-6

by Michael Jecks

  He found it profoundly hard to talk to them and explain how dangerous their actions were. If they wanted to enjoy any peace in the afterlife, they must reject their fixation with the secular world, and prepare for Heaven. Only the week before he had suggested it to Rodde. The stranger had laughed, with a quiet, distracted air. “Look at me, Brother. Look at these sores and wounds. Do you really think that me saying to God, ”I am sorry for whatever I might have done,“ will win me a place in Heaven? I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done to offend Him!”

  “My son, His will is not for us to understand,” Ralph had answered, but he knew he was fighting the wrong battle, for he didn’t believe it himself. He wanted to; he wanted to think that the passport to Heaven was the simple acceptance of guilt, but his logical, educated brain couldn’t quite adopt it as a principle. If God Himself had chosen to cause this disease, and had selected these men to make this cruel example, Ralph had a sneaking suspicion that it was not they who should be demanding forgiveness.

  Even without the certainty of conviction, Ralph carried on: “Look at all the good people around here. They all pray for you, so that you may save yourself, for they all know that a single soul saved is an unending delight to God and the angels. They want you to admit your sins to God so you can be taken to Him. They are all willing you on, for your own good. They pray for you. Can’t you confess? It would make you a great deal more comfortable.”

  “You think these people are all keen to see me saved?” At that, Rodde began to laugh. “I hope, Brother, that you manage to keep your naivety. But don’t be too depressed when you’re let down, will you?”

  Ralph bit the end of his quill at the memory. He stared into the distance with a wrinkled brow before throwing the feather down with a gesture of impatience. The sad, hurt and vulnerable expression on Rodde’s face had made him want to fall at his feet and pray for him on the spot. More than other lepers, Rodde seemed to feel the hideous reality of his doom. Ralph had noticed before the signs of education, the marks of a man brought up in a higher station, and he was given to reflect how much more terrible it must be for a man who had a bright future to accept God’s judgment in this way, rather than a dull serf who could only expect hard work and a short life. It made Ralph even more sympathetic.

  And Rodde’s difference was what attracted others to him. It was his learning that made Bernard ask for him. The two would whisper together about strange lands and peoples that Ralph had never heard of. They were a curious pair, the old dying man on his mattress, the younger one kneeling, gripping his ever-present staff.

  Edmund Quivil was similar, in that he too couldn’t believe that he would soon be gone. He too stood apart from the other lepers in the camp, and feeling himself a rebel, naturally attached himself to Rodde and Bernard. These three comprised the incorrigibles-the ones who would never conform. Except there were only the two now. Poor Bernard had died as night fell, and soon Ralph must go and prepare the body.

  He sighed. Next, he knew, it would be Joseph’s turn.

  There was some kind of commotion outside, and it was intruding on his thoughts. Muttering to himself, Ralph carefully snuffed the candle-such lights were too valuable to waste-and made his way to the door.

  As soon as he opened it he realized it was more serious than he had thought. Torches burned, and by their light he saw little groups of lepers standing fearfully, staring toward the gate. As Ralph gaped, he saw Rodde stumble in, falling to his knees just inside the compound. What Ralph had taken to be some kind of sack, rolled from Rodde’s back, and grunted as it hit the ground. Only then did he recognize it as Edmund Quivil.

  Running over, he knelt beside the two. Touching Rodde’s shoulder, he murmured softly, “Who did this to you, my son? Who would dare?”

  The eyes opened, and Rodde gave a twisted grin. “Our friends the townspeople. You remember-the ones who pray for us, and will us to find peace with God. It was them, Ralph. They found us in the street, and chose to welcome us by throwing cobbles at us. They are good friends, Brother. No doubt they will pray for us at the next mass they attend.” 16

  M argaret entered the hall at her husband’s side, and as soon as she was through the door she peered at the main table, seeking Jeanne. There was no sign of her, and Margaret hesitated when she realized Jeanne had not yet come. She was half-tempted to go and fetch the guest of honor. Simon’s grip reminded her that she couldn’t. Not in front of all these people.

  Baldwin had arranged a feast to celebrate Jeanne’s visit, and had insisted on having his servants and retainers in his hall to dine with him. The place was filled. Baldwin’s table at the top, on the low dais he had recently installed, was set out, and Baldwin had his seat in the middle, his sideboard with its two shelves filled with his most elegant and costly plate. It was all of pewter, and Margaret was sure that none of it would be of a superior enough quality to impress Jeanne, but the fact that he had set it out made a statement. Jeanne already knew that Baldwin lived the life of a rural gentleman, and the fact that he had ordered his best and most costly goods to be displayed could only impress her with the importance he attributed to her.

  However, Margaret was worried. She knew all too well how much Baldwin had looked forward to the young widow’s arrival. Although he had spent but a short time with Jeanne, when all of them had been staying with the Abbot of Tavistock, he had soon become smitten with the elegant lady from Liddinstone; Margaret had quickly agreed with Baldwin’s early opinion that she would make a suitable wife for him. It was saddening for her to see how this visit, which Baldwin had arranged with the intention of asking Jeanne for her hand, was so quickly becoming a disaster. If she could, she would have counselled Jeanne to send her maid away immediately, for Emma was the problem.

  But for now, Margaret had thoughts only for the knight. He sat at his old table, waving her and her husband on with every indication of pleasure. The servants were waiting, one with the bowl of water and towel, the panter with his loaves of good white bread, Edgar with his jugs and bottles, Wat waiting anxiously to run to the kitchen and tell them to bring the food to table as soon as the last of the guests should appear. But there was no sign of Jeanne.

  “Margaret, my dear, please sit here. Simon, you take your place at her side.” Baldwin peered toward the door, and noticed Hugh sidling in and seating himself beside one of Baldwin’s cattlemen. That was all, then, apart from Jeanne.

  Then he heard a whispered comment, and a light step, and suddenly the door behind him that led to his solar opened, and in came Jeanne.

  He had never seen her look more lovely. Her face was framed by her red-gold hair, which was plaited and coiled under a light veil, setting off her regular, if slightly round features. She had a pale complexion, and this was perfectly complemented by the fine scarlet tunic she wore, with simple white embroidery at the neck and hem. Her face, with its mouth looking wide and stubborn, the upper lip more prominent, was at first glance grim, and Baldwin felt a quick tug at his heart, as if at a premonition, but then, when her clear blue eyes met his, and she recognized his appreciative wonder, her face broke into a smile.

  Margaret, watching them closely, felt a rush of elation at the way that Baldwin quietly led his guest to her chair and sat her down. It was as if he was walking in a dream, entranced by his guest’s loveliness, and she almost wished there were musicians to play some light, airy and above all cheery tunes. It would be a fitting accompaniment.

  But the scene was ruined as Emma came out and glowered at the assembly. She took in the seated men at their benches with a sneer, before studying the upper table. All at once the light of battle shone in her eye.

  Edgar went to her side and was about to escort her to a seat near the dais, when she froze him with a look. Instead, she went to her mistress and stood at her side, where she could not be ignored. “My lady, I understand I am to be seated at the common mess there. Was this your wish?”

  Jeanne threw a harassed glance at the indicated seat.
“What is the matter with it, Emma? It is near me here in case I need-”

  “It is not for me to sit with common farmers and serfs!” she whispered furiously, bringing her mouth close to Jeanne’s.

  “I do not see any threat to you by sitting there, Emma. Go to your place and eat!”

  “Very well. But no good can come from it. Remember, Mistress, that I warned you and it was you yourself who insisted I should sit there,” the woman said, and swept down off the dais to her seat.

  Baldwin noticed that the exchange and her common neighbors didn’t affect her appetite. Emma set to with gusto, carefully selecting the best lumps of meat from the stew, the best slices from the cuts presented. Such behavior showed an appalling lack of manners and would have been frowned upon in the meanest household. To his way of thinking, Jeanne was perfect in every way-she was his ideal woman-but now he found that while he wanted a marriage contract with her, when he conjured up in his mind the scene of domestic bliss that she represented, he couldn’t leave out of the delightful prospect the human contagion that was Emma. Where there was peace, she would bring enmity; where there was calm, she would bring strife; where there was comfort and ease, she would inevitably poison it.

  Baldwin wanted Jeanne, but he most categorically did not want Emma into the bargain.

  Edgar had done well, he saw. The best available meats and fowls were laid out and steadily consumed. And yet Baldwin found he didn’t have an appetite.

  In the town, William arrived at the hall wearing a pensive frown. He had done the best he could, and he was reasonably satisfied. It hadn’t taken much to wind up the smith into a vindictive rage against lepers in general, and as William had walked home, he had seen two of them limping and shuffling back toward their lazar house. He had felt agreeably confident that they would meet Jack and his friend and had halted, listening. Sure enough, soon he heard the sneers and taunts, then the cries as stones were hurled.

  Now, leaning at the door and staring back the way he had come, he could see that there were few fires or candles burning. It was late enough, and most people were already in their beds, but here and there a stray beam lightened the gloom. His own master was not yet abed, or if he was, wasn’t asleep, for the shutters of the bedchamber in the private block were showing clearly, outlined by the yellow glow, and William could hear voices: his a low rumble; hers a malevolent whisper. A door slammed, and William heard Coffyn stride through the hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his master at the screens. Matthew ignored his guard and walked out to the garden.

  William shook his head. It was not good to see a couple so bitter toward each other. God knew it happened often enough, but that didn’t make it any better. His master couldn’t control his wife, and that was wrong.

  Turning, he walked through the screens to the hall and peered inside. Two of his men were drinking and playing dice, while another was rolled in a heavy cloak and lay asleep on a bench. Glancing at the dice players, William guessed they must be playing Raffle. It was the only game the heavily bearded Welshman, who was even now groaning as he counted his score, knew the rules for.

  Grinning at the curses hurled at the dice, William walked on along the passage and out into the yard after his master. Something, he didn’t know what, was setting his nerves on edge. Standing on the threshold, he leaned against the doorpost.

  There was another light, this one from the house next door. It was broad, like a partly opened window, and as he watched, he saw it darken and become smothered, then blaze again. It looked as if someone was standing before an open shutter-or climbing through the window, hiding for a moment the bright candlelight inside. Intrigued, he stepped quietly along the path until he came to the stone wall that separated the two properties.

  Godfrey had built his wall highest at the road. Here, at the boundary of his own and Matthew’s properties, it was only some five feet high, and William could just peep over. At first he could see nothing, but William was experienced in warfare, and a man who has mounted guard over encampments learns how to watch and listen. He stood, his mouth slightly open, staring at nothing, but waiting for a sound or movement to catch his attention. Soon he heard it.

  It was a faint rustle, then the snap of a twig. A man was stealthily making his way round from Godfrey’s hall toward the kitchen. As William concentrated, he could just make out the muffled and cloaked shape of someone crouched low, someone stepping cautiously along near the hall’s wall. As soon as he was away from the yard area, which, although it was dark and unlighted, must have felt threatening by virtue of its being a large, open space, the figure came upright, apparently staring back the way he had come. As William watched, he saw the man-for he was sure it was a man-raise one hand and hold it to his face for a moment before letting it fall.

  That was when William decided to make his presence known, and he pursed his lips to give a piercing whistle.

  The man dropped his hand, gave a short bleat as if of terror and bolted away, behind the kitchen, up over the enclosing yard wall, and off.

  William was still laughing as he shut the door behind him and returned to the hall.

  The food all done, Baldwin washed his hands again in the bowl of warm, scented water, and dried them.

  Jeanne watched him with renewed interest. She had begun her meal feeling irritable with her maid, but once Emma had been removed, and the food began to arrive, she had lost her annoyance, and with the knight beside her trying so hard to make sure she was at ease, she had found herself succumbing to that warm, pleasurable sensation of being desired and pampered.

  There were conventions, of course, and Baldwin was scrupulously polite and charming, although at certain moments she caught a gleam in his eye, as if he was maintaining the outward aspect of gentility with difficulty, and would prefer to take her outside, away from all these eager eyes, to a place where they might talk and laugh together without restraint.

  It was like that first meal they had eaten, a year ago in Tavistock: on that occasion they had been placed together, and then observed closely by the Abbot as well as Simon’s wife, Jeanne recalled. The whole time she had felt Margaret’s gaze on her, as if watching for the slightest indication that Baldwin and she might be prepared to pledge their vows. It had been aggravating, and had caused the same reaction in both, that neither wanted to speak to the other. It was only later, as they were leaving the room, that Baldwin had tentatively asked her to join him in a quiet walk, away from the view of people whose sole desire was to see them engaged, and whose enthusiasm for the alliance was so overwhelming that it threatened to prevent it.

  Servants and bondsmen were rising from the tables and standing talking, but she saw that their attention was focused on her and their master. There was a measuring quality in their looks, as if they were assessing what sort of a mistress she might be to them: whether she would be harsh and might order them whipped for being late with her food or logs for her fire; or whether she would be kindly, a gentle lady who would show them compassion, who would tend to their wants, who would see to it that those who were in need would get help.

  They could not know that Jeanne herself had not had an easy life. Her first husband was dead, God be praised! When he died of that sudden fever which had struck him down, she had sworn that she would be careful in her selection of a new husband if she was ever to remarry, and she had vowed never to show a servant needless cruelty.

  There was nothing she could do that would convince any of these people as to the quality of her temperament; she would only win them over once she was mistress here-if she ever was, she added to herself.

  “Jeanne…”

  She turned to face him, and was surprised to see that his expression was quite blank, as if he was keeping his own feelings hidden behind an emotionless mask. “Yes, Sir Baldwin?”

  “Some people can be fearful about dogs, I know. In fact, I know some ladies hate them.”

  “I cannot understand why.”

  “But some hounds…like my
mastiff, for example…can be rather fierce-looking. And some ladies, even those who are well-bred and noble, can feel revolted by such ugly brutes.”

  “Sir Baldwin,” she said softly, trying to suppress a smile, “if you are asking whether I am scared of your dog, I am not; if you feel that I think him ugly, I do not; if you fear that I would not have such a hound in my house, all I can say is, I would feel safer with a dog such as he in my house than with ten men-at-arms, because Uther is loyal by nature, not by purchase.”

  The knight gave a heartfelt smile of relief and gratitude. They had all eaten their fill, and the last of the wine and ale had been consumed. At length he stood, and all those remaining at the tables rose to their feet. Baldwin was about to leave the room when he realized that Jeanne hadn’t moved. She was watching him with a raised eyebrow, and on catching her glance, he gave an apologetic smile and held out his hand to help her up. “Would you like me to have the fire remade, Lady? I would be happy to sit with you. There is much I would like to talk to you about.”

  Jeanne seemed pensive. “You remember that walk we took last year?”

  “Of course! That was where we saw the monk running from the girl.”

  “I was thinking,” she said caustically, “of the pleasantness of walking with you. Not of the fact that it led you to finding a murderer.”

  “I know,” he chuckled. “In fact, so was I. Would you like to walk around my grounds tonight?”

  “Why, Sir Baldwin, I fear I would feel the cold.”

  It was with those same words that she had refused him at first a year ago. Then he had been devastated, thinking that she was refusing him any opportunity of speaking with her in private. Now he bowed, mock-seriously, and inclined his head toward the door. “But if you were to have your cloak brought down, you would be fine, wouldn’t you?”

  Her face was transformed. To Baldwin it looked as wonderful as watching the sunlight flooding over the land on a clear summer’s morning. The reserved, almost cold expression she had worn through the meal became a bright, delighted smile. She jerked her head to Emma, and the maid, glowering, slammed through the door to the solar. Within a few minutes she was back, a heavy woollen cloak trimmed with fur over her arm. And a thick jacket on her back. Out of the corner of his eye, Baldwin noticed Hugh quietly leave the room.