The Leper's Return

The Leper’s Return

A Knights Templar Mystery

MICHAEL JECKS

For Marjorie,
a very special friend

But…

it has to be dedicated to
Chopsie as well!

Author’s Note

It is often difficult to conduct research.

The problem starts with a small area which seems easy enough to resolve, such as: “Did houses in the early fourteenth century have glass in their windows?” but all too often, this start point brings up lots more questions and no answers. As an author, I often find myself becoming so involved in ensuring absolute accuracy that the search widens to an alarming extent. For instance, how did they melt glass? How did they mold it? Was it clear or opaque? How expensive was it? Could anyone under the level of a baron or burgess afford it? It is all very well knowing that deep in the bowels of the new British Library there is a book that tells all, but first one must locate the thing. Sadly, the researcher will probably find that it is hidden in something totally unrelated, such as Medieval Alchemy and the Search for the Philosopher’s Stone, a Feminist View by Ms. F. Bloggs—and it will take three or four trips to London, spending hours reading irrelevant material, to find that the volume that is needed…was destroyed in the Blitz.

However, this is as nothing compared with the problems of editing.

After spending weeks on end living in the British Library, one finally comes upon tons of fascinating data, all rich and absorbing to anyone who is remotely intrigued by how people used to live. If one is fascinated by history, as I am, it is tempting to put it all into a story, but it is a depressing truth that readers are not keen on novels of over 1000 pages. Thus much detail has to be discarded. But then, if one cheats, one can put it into an Author’s Note!

There are many works which look at lepers and their disease through history. Unfortunate sufferers were looked down upon for centuries as being hideously deformed because God sought to mark them out. The view was, if God felt the need to make them so repellent, he must have had his reasons. Naturally that led to the idea that lepers should be excluded from society—for if God chose to punish them, who could doubt that He was right?

The act of declaring someone a leper was probably quite simple: it seems clear they were often denounced by their neighbors. After the allegation had been made, it would have been difficult for someone to offer any defense, because the evidence was all too clear. Any deformity could be interpreted as leprosy by superstitious and uneducated villagers.

The miserable victim would be hauled off before a board of worthy citizens. Not doctors or surgeons necessarily, because not every village could afford one, but people who were thought honest and religious enough for the task. In some places, over in Lorraine, for example, the suspected leper would have been examined by emissaries of the Bishop and one or two known lepers, presumably on the basis that a leper would know what to look for. The man or woman’s blood would be examined and tested with grains of salt, vinegar, and the urine of a young boy, although exactly how this was done I haven’t had the courage to find out. If the person was found to be clear, letters of absolution would be given to them and read out by the local priests so that no one could be in any doubt as to their being safe.

But sometimes mistakes were made. Several people had to fight their cases vigorously. For example, there was a well-documented case in Britain where a man was accused of having the disease, and he had to go all the way to London to be examined. The learned doctors signed a legal document stating they thought he was safe to live in the community, which the fellow showed to all and sundry. It is also important to note that the doctors could be most assiduous in proving whether someone did or did not have the disease. In a case in Brentwood in Essex in 1468, the doctors looked for more than forty separate distinguishing symptoms before declaring the poor woman in question fit to stay at home.

Taking the example of a male, a medieval man who had been declared leprous would find life instantly changing for the worse. The priest would console him, before making him swear to tell the truth on a number of questions. Was there leprosy in his family? Had he ever had intercourse with lepers? Had he ever eaten with lepers?

There was a long-standing belief that leprosy was in some way related to sex. Either it was sexually transmitted, especially when sleeping with a menstruating woman, or the sins of the father or mother at the time of conception were so great that the child was born with the disease.

After this interrogation, the leper would be hauled off to church to be put through the “Office for the Seclusion of a Leper.” Then the poor devil would be given a pep talk, which would go along these lines:

“While you are diseased, you’ll not go into any house, inn, forge, mill, bakehouse, or brewery; you’ll not drink or wash your hands or laundry at any communal well, fountain, spring, or trough; you’ll eat alone or with lepers; you’ll enter no church during a service, mingle with no crowd, walk down no small streets or narrow alleys; you’ll always stand to leeward of anyone you talk to; you’ll always sound your bell or clapper when begging. You’ll not go out without your cloak; you’ll always wear your gloves; you’ll only drink from your own fountain, or from your own stoup, filled from your own fountain; you’ll touch no child but your own; you’ll always return to your cabin at night.”

The leper was then given a box in which to collect alms, and the priest would make the first donation, standing nearby with his eye on all his parishioners to ensure they followed his example.

Others were fortunate enough to find themselves a place in a hospital.

Leper camps, or “lazar” houses, were charitable institutions set up by the wealthy or by the Church. Usually these places provided for twelve or thirteen of the afflicted, and they would live as religious brethren, accepting the same responsibility of looking after the souls of the living and the dead. The brothers would have to pray for themselves, and also for their patrons. Thus at matins the lepers might say twenty-six paternosters; at prime another fourteen; at nones fourteen; at vespers eighteen; at compline fourteen again. In addition each brother would say twenty-five paternosters for his own sins, and as many again for the souls of the benefactors of the hospital.

One must realize that these people weren’t in quarantine, but were taking the positive action of caring for souls. Although it may seem strange to us, to say the least, these brothers could be punished by being evicted from their hospital. Usually punishments took the form of a day in the pillory or stocks, but for those who were unusually mischievous, the leper master could order that he be thrown out. The miserable, and obviously lonely, fellow would then be forced to beg his own food and find his own drink. Not easy, when a leper was discouraged from approaching other citizens, and couldn’t touch food in the presence of others.

Although all the foregoing refers solely to men, the same comments are, of course, equally applicable to women, but there appear to have been fewer leprous women than men. Whatever the reason for this, convents were available for women, and my researches show that occasionally leper hospitals were designed for both sexes: I understand that the “Maudlin” at Tavistock had spaces for six men and six women.

A leper was defiled, and by touching something else would defile that too. That was why the Church refused to allow lepers to enter enclosed areas, to drink from fountains, or even be buried with ordinary folk. This behavior would have been reasonably effective in preventing the spread of an infectious disease, but ironically it now seems that leprosy is not very contagious.

As usual I have tried to be as historically accurate as is possible within the confines of a work of fiction. In 1320 the canonical church of Crediton was only recently completed, and Bishop Stapledon was very generous to it, giving the church two more fairs. Churches liked having fairs: roughly one-tenth of all profits went straight back to the priests, creating a pleasant windfall. In return the precentor of the church, together with his canons and vicars, was bound to celebrate Stapledon’s birthday throughout his life, and must solemnize the anniversary of his death. The Bishop also appointed four more young clerks to make sure the services were performed with suitable dignity. Likewise St. Lawrence’s Hospital in Crediton did exist, and it was serviced by a monk appointed from the convent at Houndeslow.

However, it is difficult to be accurate when describing real people. The Bishop himself was a highly important man in England. He contributed large sums to Exeter Cathedral, was involved with the Ordainers and helped create the Middle Party, founded Stapledon Hall in Oxford (now Exeter College), and began a grammar school in Exeter. Later he was to become Lord High Treasurer to the King, until murdered by the London mob in 1326. Yet as he appears in these pages his nature and character are entirely my own invention.

One other man in The Leper’s Return has the advantage of existing, and of being documented. He is Mr. Thomas Orey, a fuller by trade, who was present at one of Bishop Stapledon’s services on the Wednesday before August 1 in 1315. The sudden recovery of his sight in the middle of the service led to the events described, although his chance meeting with John of Irelaunde was again the result of my overheated imagination. As for what actually happened to Thomas, I am afraid you must read on…

Michael Jecks
South Godstone,
February 1998

Preface

Walter Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter, watched the sky with a sense of foreboding, trying not to wince as his horse rocked gently beneath him.

“It looks like rain, doesn’t it, my Lord?”

The Bishop grunted non-committally. Those few words summed up the animosity with which people viewed the weather. During the disastrous years of 1315 and 1316, the crops had drowned in torrential rain and thousands had died in the ensuing famines. Few families across Europe had been untouched by the misery and even now, in autumn 1320, all feared a repeat of the disaster. Stapledon glanced sympathetically at his companion. “At least this year’s harvest was collected safely,” he said gravely. “God gave us a respite, whatever He may hold in store for the future.”

His companion nodded, but as he surveyed the pewter-colored clouds bunching overhead, his eyes held the expression of one who can see the arrow flying toward him and waits only to see where it will strike. “I pray that God will preserve us in the coming year as well.”

Stapledon forbore to comment. God’s will was beyond the understanding of ordinary men, and the Bishop was content to wait and see what He planned. At least this visit should be restful, he thought—away from the circle of devious, mendacious tricksters who surrounded King Edward.

The monk at his side, Ralph of Houndeslow, had arrived in Exeter only a few days before, asking for a room to rest for the night. When he had heard that the Bishop himself was about to depart for the large town of Crediton, northwest of Exeter, he had been delighted to accept Stapledon’s offer of a place in his retinue. It was safer to undertake a journey with company in these troubled times, even for a man wearing the tonsure.

Stapledon had found Ralph to be quite unlike previous visitors. Most who asked for hospitality at the Bishop’s gates were garrulous, for they were used to travelling, and delighted in talking about their adventures on the road, but Ralph was quiet. He appeared to be holding himself back, as though he was aware of the weighty responsibility that was about to fall upon his shoulders. Stapledon found him reserved and rather dull, a little too introspective, but that was hardly surprising. Ralph’s words about the weather demonstrated one line his thoughts were taking, but the prelate knew other things were giving him concern. It was as if a foul atmosphere had polluted the air in this benighted kingdom, and no one was unaware of the poison at work in their midst: treachery!

Stapledon turned in his saddle to survey the men behind. There were fifteen all told: five men-at-arms, four servants and the rest clerics. The troops were all hardened types recently hired to the Bishop’s service, and he viewed them askance. Since accepting his high office from the King and Parliament, it had been deemed prudent that he should have some protection, and after persuasion he had agreed to take on a bodyguard. He knew they were necessary for his safety, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy their company. His only satisfaction was that when he studied them he could see they weren’t prey to fears for their future. They each knew that a mug of warmed, spiced ale waited for them at the end of their journey, and that was enough to assure their contentment. They were uneducated ruffians, and higher considerations were irrelevant to them. When he cast an eye over his servants, he saw that they weren’t plagued with doubts either, for they knew their jobs, and would blindly obey their master. No, it was only when he looked at his monks that he saw the weary anxiety.

Stapledon knew what lay at the bottom of it, and it wasn’t only the weather: the clerics, like himself, were aware that civil war was looming.

It was many years since the King’s grandfather, Henry III, had engaged Simon de Montfort in battles up and down the kingdom, but the horror of it was known to those who were educated and could read the chronicles. Their trepidation reflected that of all the King’s subjects as stories spread of the increasing tension between two of the most powerful men in the land. The Bishop paid no heed to such rumors—he had no need to. He had witnessed at first hand how relations between the King, Edward II, and the Earl of Lancaster had soured.

Earlier in the year, Sir Walter had become the Lord High Treasurer, the man who controlled the kingdom’s purse. In theory, the position was one of strength, but it made him feel as safe as a kitten dropped unprotected between two packs of loosed hunting dogs. No matter how he stood, he was constantly having to look to his back. There were many, in both the King’s party and the Earl’s, who would have liked to see him ruined. Men who had shunned him before now pretended to be his friend so that they could try to destroy him—or subvert him to their cause. Stapledon was used to the twisted and corrupt ways of politics and politicians, for he had been a key mover in the group which had tried to bring King Edward and the Earl of Lancaster to some sort of understanding, but the deceit and falseness of men who were well-born and supposedly chivalrous repelled him.

He had hoped that the Treaty of Leake would end the bitterness, but the underlying rivalries still existed. Stapledon was not the only man in the kingdom to be unpleasantly aware of the rising enmity. Lancaster was behaving with brazen insolence; not attending Parliament when summoned, and recklessly pursuing his own interests at the expense of the King’s. Stapledon had no doubt that if the Earl continued to flaunt his contempt for his liege, there would be war. And if that happened, the Bishop knew that the Scots would once more pour over the border. They had agreed to a truce last year, in 1319, but more recently there had been rumblings from the north. Since their success at Bannockburn and their capture of Berwick, the Scots had become more confident. Stapledon was glumly convinced that if the northern devils saw a means of dividing the English, they would seize it.

Stapledon knew that the same thoughts were diverting the monks as they made their way along the road. Leaning over, he patted Ralph’s back. “Don’t worry, my son, we can set aside all fears for the future of the country while we are here in Devon.”

“If war comes, it will reach to every corner of the kingdom.”

“True, but it will come here last of all, and there is no need to anticipate it at present. Perhaps there are enough men of good will and good sense to avert it.”

“I pray to God that we might be saved from it.”

Stapledon peered at Ralph. It was irritating that his sight was so poor now at shorter distances; he could observe things with clarity ten feet away or more, but anything nearer was indistinct, as if seen through a misted glass. “You will find that Crediton will help you forget your fears. It is a happy, bustling town, and the Dean, Peter Clifford, is a good man—and an excellent host.”

Ralph of Houndeslow gave a faint smile. Peter Clifford’s hospitality was immaterial to him. There were vastly more important things to consider than a dean’s generosity to travelling monks and an important prelate—but this was hardly the time for him to raise such matters. He was relieved to see the Bishop revert to silent contemplation of the way ahead.

There was little to see. The rolling hills rose on either side, smothered in ancient trees—oaks, elms, beeches and chestnuts—and here and there a thin column of smoke lifted over the branches until caught by the faint breeze, whereupon it was whipped away like magic. It was good to see that the peasants were industrious here; in so many other places the villeins were surly and lazy. Since the famine, many appeared to resent working for their masters. Here at least the wood was being cut, the coppiced boughs taken for firewood and furniture-making, or being stacked to make charcoal.

But Ralph had heard about this land and couldn’t like it. He knew that the further he travelled toward Crediton, the further he was going from civilization. Few desired to go as far to the west as Dartmoor or Cornwall. They were wild lands, with a population that was unchanged, so it was said, from the earliest times when the first men came to these islands. Devon and Cornish men were hard and lawless, as rough and untameable as the moors themselves. Exeter was more or less a haven, a lonely fort on the outskirts of the kingdom, much like the castles of the Welsh or Scottish Marches, an isolated beacon of hope in the wasteland all round.

Just as he thought this, Ralph saw a cart. The sight of so mundane a vehicle made him feel a little foolish after his sour consideration of the land. It was as if God Himself was rebuking him for falling prey to such somber reflections.

Stapledon was still concentrating on the hills ahead. “Look,” he said, pointing. “That smoke—that’s Crediton.”

Ralph followed the direction of his finger. They were descending into a broad valley, the river lying on their left, while on their right the woods were thinning. Beyond them he could see a series of strip fields lying roughly perpendicular to the road. A litter of broken branches and mud bore witness to the flooding of a month before when the rain had swollen every watercourse and the plains had filled with water. Much had been cleared from the road here, but silt remained on the side nearest the water. In front of him he caught a glimpse of a limewashed wall through the trees. He could see that the road curved round to the right and disappeared as it climbed up between two hills, above which he could make out the light haze of woodsmoke. Faintly on the wind came the scent of burning wood from the town’s fires.

“Not far now,” said the Bishop, wriggling uncomfortably in his saddle.

“No, my Lord,” Ralph agreed. He had been told that the Bishop was victim to hemorrhoids, which made any journey on horseback an ordeal. Ralph had never been afflicted with them, but the eye-watering description of the symptoms, which likened the pain to that of sitting upon a sharpened dagger, made him sympathetic, no matter how much some of his servants might snigger behind the Bishop’s back.

They were almost upon the cart now. Ralph could see that the driver was a little, hunched figure, elbows resting on his knees, his torso bent, the reins held slackly, as if the driver himself was content to leave the destination to his old pony. Ralph felt his mood lighten at the sight. This was a local peddlar, someone who would buy stocks of bread and beer to trade with households in the near vicinity; hardly the representative of a brutal and ancient race such as the monk had anticipated only a few minutes before. The cleric made a mental note to admit to his foolishness at his next Confession.

“Good morning,” he called as he overhauled the carter.

The man idly raised a hand to his old felt hat, lifting the edge of its flopping brim, and Ralph caught a glimpse of shrewd brown eyes, which immediately narrowed in a cheerful grin, and then the hat was swept off with what the priest thought was a counterfeit respect, as if the man was laughing—although not at Ralph himself. It was as though the tranter was sharing a secret joke with Ralph, against the whole world. “Your servant, Lord.”

“I’m no lord—but you know that well enough!” Ralph retorted, but chuckled when the fellow shrugged good-naturedly. He had seen enough of these wandering salesmen to know that they lived on their wits, persuading dubious farmers or tinminers to part with their hard-earned and jealously guarded money. This man looked capable of selling a broken nag to the King’s own grooms, with his frank and honest appearance, easy smile and strong, square face. He gave Ralph a conspiratorial wink, and the cleric felt absurdly honored, as if he had undergone some form of trial and had exceeded the salesman’s wildest expectations.

But then Ralph heard the Bishop give a swift intake of breath, and saw him stiffen in his saddle. The monk’s pleasure was suddenly shattered as he heard the Bishop gasp: “My God! You!”

1

S
ir Baldwin Furnshill took another mug of apple juice and sipped. It had taken some years, but Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton Church, had finally accepted the fact that Baldwin preferred not to drink alcohol throughout the day, and now, whenever the knight came to visit him, there was usually some form of refreshment on offer which did not threaten him with intoxication.

It was rare for a man to avoid ale and wine, but Baldwin had spent his youth as a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon—a Knight Templar. While he had remained a member of the Order he had rigorously avoided strong drink; now he was in his mid-forties, he knew he wasn’t capable of consuming the same quantity as others of his age, and thus saved himself embarrassment by sticking to those drinks he knew would not leave him inebriated.

“That must be them,” Peter Clifford said as voices were heard in the courtyard. Shortly afterward there was a jingling of harnesses, rumbling of cartwheels and the hollow, metallic clatter of hooves on the cobbles. The Dean stood, emptying his goblet and handing it to the waiting servant. Baldwin set his mug by the fire and trailed after his friend, walking out to welcome the Bishop.

Baldwin had met Stapledon on a few occasions, and had always found him to be an urbane, refined gentleman. Today the knight was somewhat surprised to see the Bishop standing scowling while Peter’s stablemen held the horses. The Bishop’s men were milling, some pulling chests and boxes from the back of the wagon, others collecting the smaller packages from individual mounts. Their frenetic activity was proof of their own nervousness in the face of their master’s anger.

“My Lord Bishop, you are very welcome,” Peter said, and Baldwin could hear the doubt in his voice. Peter must also have seen the Bishop’s mood. “My Lord, would you like some spiced wine to take the chill off after your journey?”

“My friend, it’s good to be here again once more,” the Bishop said automatically, though a trifle curtly. “Meet the new master of St. Lawrence’s Chapel, Ralph of Houndeslow.”

Baldwin had noticed the cleric before he was introduced. To the knight, most young monks looked as if they would benefit from early exercise every morning for several weeks; they invariably had skin that displayed an unhealthy pallor. This one was different. He stood tall and straight, not bent at the shoulder, and from his ruddy color he might have been a laborer. His face was thin, but not weakly. He had a solid, pugnacious-looking chin, and his blue eyes were intelligent, glittering with a prideful confidence beneath a thatch of tawny hair. The monk put Baldwin in mind of some of his dead friends from the Templars.