The Leper's Return (12 page)

Whenever he thought about the winter, it was the desolate plains of the northern marches which sprang into his mind. The misery—of being constantly damp; of having the rain driven into his face by a wind that felt so cold it froze the blood in his veins; of walking through puddles and rivulets that might have been composed of pure, liquid ice, that penetrated his cheap shoes in an instant; the pain while his feet at first went cold, then became vessels of pure fire before losing all sensation, followed by the torture of recovery. It often seemed to him that he would be better off staying out and allowing the life to leave his freezing body. Once he had attempted this, remaining in the open air as the ground around him hardened and his breath misted before his eyes. But his will to live was too deeply ingrained in his soul, and he had returned, half-unwillingly, to the protection of the fire at the leper camp.

That was all he could recall of the bleak wasteland of Northumbria. He had loathed the climate, the country, and the people. It had been a refuge of sorts, somewhere for him to escape to, far from the disgust he saw in the eyes of his friends and family, but, like any place of sanctuary, it was no substitute for home, especially when his mild antipathy to the area developed into fierce repugnance.

This was partly due to the apparent slowness of his disease. The suddenness of his affliction had been hard to accept, but if he had continued to slide steadily toward death, he would have been able to cope with his burden. It wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. For some reason, while he had remained in the north, he had enjoyed a period of remission, and it had left him nursing a perverse, bitter fury against God. Thomas could have borne the trials of death, but knowing that he must stay away from contact with society, was excluded from all the pursuits and pleasures which made life bearable, while remaining fit enough in body and mind, was unendurable.

He had stayed there for six years, six long, intolerable years, living in the closed community of lepers, watching others suffering, becoming hideously disfigured, dying. And at last he was forced to leave. The Scots poured over the border in one of their periodic raids, and his little refuge was wasted. There was nothing to keep him there. To him the very air was foul, the climate worse, and he had made his way by easy stages down to the south.

And now it was almost possible to forget some of the pain and hardship. He opened his eyes and gazed up into the cornflower-blue sky, enjoying a moment’s serenity. The tree above him stood solid and unmoving, there was a scent of thyme and wild garlic in the air, and his contentment was enhanced by a small bird high overhead, which sang with a clear, liquid tone. Closing his eyes again, he could imagine himself back in the fields of his old country home in the flat lands of Stepney in the county of Middlesex.

His mental meanderings were called to an abrupt halt. “Thomas? Are you awake?”

Sighing, Rodde slowly eased himself upright. “Hello, Edmund.”

Quivil was tired, Rodde saw. His face was pale from lack of sleep, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Rodde had heard him at night cursing and muttering to himself. It was irritating. Since the abortive initiation ceremony, Rodde and he had shared a hut, so when Quivil couldn’t sleep, often Rodde couldn’t either. But it was impossible for Rodde to snap at him. Perhaps it was that Quivil’s incomprehension of the injustice of his illness was so similar to his own. Whatever the reason, Rodde found himself warming to the farmer’s son, and in return Quivil appeared to look on him with near slavish devotion.

“You look like you need a rest more than me,” Rodde observed.

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“No.” Further comment was unnecessary. All the lepers knew how the depression came on with increased force at night, especially for those most recently consigned to the human midden that was the hospital. Rodde’s voice was sympathetic. “What do you want?”

“I’m going into town to collect food from the church,” Edmund said, waving toward his little handcart. “Will you help?”

Rodde stood. Although Quivil hadn’t said as much, Rodde knew that the lad would be desperate for company. “I’ll come.”

The street was quieter now, as the townspeople sat in their homes and ate their midday meals from good bread trenchers or wooden bowls. In his mind’s eye, Rodde could picture them: comfortable, prosperous traders with their wives and servants all around them, children running and playing among the rushes, the fires glowing and adding to the thick atmosphere as servants ladled stews, panters cut hunks of bread, bottlers topped up mugs and cups, and all about dogs sat and scratched or waited, watching hopefully. Even poor homes would have a good quart of ale and loaf for the master of the house, he knew.

And he was going with Quivil to the church to collect what gracious charity the almoner thought fit for them. It made Thomas’ anger rise again, and it was only with an effort that he could force it down, reminding himself that it was not the fault of the people of Crediton that he was struck down with this disease—it was merely a twist of fate: luck.

They were at the top of the main street in a few moments, and could gaze down the wide thoroughfare. As soon as they appeared, walking slowly with the little cart, Rodde’s bell sounding its doleful tone, the area before them cleared. It was so shocking, Quivil halted for a minute.

He had himself abhorred lepers all his life, but now that he was afflicted, he found the urgency of other people to avoid him to be terrible, as if he was damned. Feeling Rodde take hold of his upper arm, he moved off again, his head hanging with self-disgust and loathing of the people around him.

A child stood watching them approach with horror-filled eyes, only to be scooped up by its mother at the last minute before they came too close; a little group of youngsters ran ahead of them, chanting, “Le-pers! Lepers! Stinking, rotting le-pers!”

Quivil shuffled on, avoiding the eyes of any who might be watching him. These were the people he had grown up with, and now he hated to think that anyone he knew could see him.

He wasn’t sure which he feared most: expressions of revulsion from those whom he had called friends, or looks of sympathy from them. If he had any choice, he would have turned tail and fled back to the lazar house, but Rodde’s hand remained gripping his upper arm, and there was enough strength in that hold to firm his resolve. He had promised Ralph that he would fetch the alms from the church, and with Rodde’s help, he would do so.

Rodde was a support to him—the only one he had. The tall, quiet stranger exuded a calm self-confidence which was proof against any brats’ taunts, and stiffened Quivil’s own nerve. He seemed to be saying, I am stronger than you. Look upon me if you dare. The steady tap…tap…tap of his staff on the cobbles was proof against the contempt and disgust of the whole world. He walked as if he was sneering at all about him.

Quivil was soothed by the presence of his companion. With Rodde beside him, he knew he need fear no one—his rescue from the attack on his first night had been proof of that. Quivil had been raised in the simple environment of a peasant, knowing that he must obey his father’s wishes, and his lord’s, and the commands of the Church. In the space of a few moments all that had been reversed, and now he knew loyalty only to his new friend.

It wouldn’t have been so difficult for him if there had been any stable friendships he could have relied upon, but there were none. His friends now shunned him. He had tried to talk to the butcher’s apprentice, a lad he had known since his childhood, whose face he had pushed into puddles, who had brought him to the ground when they had played camp-ball and forced him into a muddy ditch, who had vied with him for the love of the local girls as they grew, and with whom he had drunk many hundreds of pints of ale—and Quivil had been distraught when his old friend had shied away from him. The last girl for whose charms they had competed was Mary Cordwainer; that victory, which at the time had been so vital, so crucial to his well-being, which seemed to have guaranteed his life’s pleasure, was now hollow. He could never touch her, never kiss her, never know her body. All his future was barren, his life utterly meaningless. It might as well have ended.

He could have wept with the thought. Oh, for only a kiss—even a smile or a grin of acknowledgment from her. Just the simple touch of the girl’s hand would ease his soul. And his curse was, he knew it was impossible.

As they came level with the inn, Edmund heard horses. Looking up, he saw a couple of men riding toward them, and automatically drew to one side. He saw that it was Sir Baldwin and his servant, and waited for them to pass, when he heard the knight rein in his horse and speak.

“Friends, if you ever want for anything at the hospital, tell Brother Ralph to send for me, and I will try to help. Edmund Quivil, I am sorry this has happened to you. Let me know if there is anything you need.”

“Thank you, sir. What could a poor leper ask for?”

Baldwin ignored the petulance in his voice. “I will be making sure that your parents do not want for help on their land, Quivil. They will be under my protection now.”

Quivil nodded ungraciously, and began to move away again. After a short pause, he heard the clatter of hooves as the knight and his man carried on. In some way he felt easier in his mind that Sir Baldwin was gone. His sympathy was all too plain, and Quivil wanted no one’s sympathy. He wanted cure.

“Who was that?” Rodde asked quietly.

“He’s the Keeper of the King’s Peace for this town.”

Rodde glanced at his friend. For someone who had just received a warm expression of kindness from a knight, his shortness was at best ungrateful. “Why was he so willing to offer his help?”

“I used to be one of his men. My father is one of his bondmen, as I would have been, had I not…”

There was no need for him to continue, and soon they had other matters to distract them.

The wheel of the cart squeaked, an irritating, insistent little noise that came and went, and drew more attention to them; and yet there was one group which didn’t turn and stare as they came closer. It was the men and women huddled round Godfrey’s gate. They were all staring fixedly at Godfrey’s house, ignoring all about them, and even the banal jeering of the boys, who kept their distance up ahead, went unnoticed.

“What are they all staring at?” Quivil heard Rodde mutter.

“Lepers!”

This came from a young maiden who, about to enter the street, narrowly avoided walking straight into Rodde. She winced and drew her apron over her mouth to protect her from the foul vapors that everyone knew lepers exhaled. Anyone who breathed in their noxious fumes could become infected. She drew away. The call was enough to make the crowd pull back, and one man jerked his head at them. “Off with you, scum! Keep away from good healthy folk.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Quivil said. “We meant no harm.”

“Edmund?” asked the man. He was a pompous little fellow who had always reminded Quivil of a gamecock, strutting and preening himself in the vicinity of any women, and invariably lambasting anybody weaker than himself. Now he peered, and blew out his breath in an expression of disgust. “Come on, walk round! You don’t want your sins to infect others, do you? That would be as good as murder, and we don’t need another.”

“Another what?” asked Rodde.

“Murder, leper. Haven’t you heard? A man was killed here last night.”

Quivil felt his friend’s grasp on his arm tighten. Rodde snapped, “Here? You mean Godfrey of London is dead?”

Baldwin couldn’t help staring back down the street once he had dropped from his horse. An ostler scurried forward to take the reins from him and lead the rounsey to the back of the inn, where it could be fed and watered, and he handed them over absentmindedly.

Seeing Quivil again was a shock. It was some weeks now since that dreadful service in the church where the poor man had been outcast from society, and with so many other things to take up his time, Baldwin had not spared many thoughts for the peasant’s son from his estate. The sight of the lad looking so crushed while the people of the town avoided him tore at Baldwin’s breast. Even as he stood, shaking his head, he heard a catcall, and then a group of gutter-urchins dashed past, all shouting abuse at the lepers. Caught with a quick anger, Baldwin bellowed at them to be silent, and they hurried off, some gaping with dismay, but others grinning. It was only fun to them, Baldwin reminded himself. Only those who were fit, healthy, and strong were safe in this country. The thought made him sigh, and he turned into the inn with a heavy heart, which was not eased by the reflection that he had not decided how to progress with his investigation.

But as he entered the hall, and heard the laughter, his mood altered.

“Jeanne!—Er…and Margaret and Simon! Welcome, all of you, I am delighted to see you here!”

John of Irelaunde eased the gate shut and clambered onto his cart, grunting with relief once he was safely seated on his plank. Thrusting his bad leg out before him to rest atop the footboard, he clucked his tongue and snapped the reins.

That at least was one less problem for him to consider, he thought as the wagon rattled and clattered down the track toward the main thoroughfare from Crediton to Tedburn. The sack was safely hidden at the mill’s outhouse. Old Sam the miller had rented it out to John some months before, and now it appeared in the Irishman’s eyes as God-sent, perfect for the purpose of concealing those things that the Keeper of the King’s Peace should not be troubling himself over.

As the horse leaned forward in the traces to drag the cart up the hill toward the town center, John winced with every jolt and thud. There were too many ruts and holes in this road; it was always so busy with traffic from Exeter. Each and every one of them made his ankle bang against the wooden footboard. He was glad it was beginning to mend. Now it felt only as if it was badly bruised.

In the town, he soon saw the crowd waiting at Godfrey’s gate. Some men were arguing with Tanner, no doubt trying to gain access to the hall to see the body, but Tanner was resolute. No one would enter until the Keeper had told him they could, and it didn’t matter how much money they offered. John averted his eyes so as to avoid being brought into any discussion, but he did wonder whether there could be potential in this latest twist: perhaps he could offer people the chance of getting in over Godfrey’s wall from his yard—for a small fee, of course. This delightful prospect kept him speculating as he carried on up the hill.