The Leper's Return (28 page)

“Sir, since last night, I have been trying to understand Jack and the others, and I had almost forgiven them, for any man might make a fool of himself after too much ale, but it is hard, so hard, after what they did…” Her eyes brimmed once more, and she had to sit quietly to bring herself under control. “Sir, my father wasn’t home when I arrived. He often visits the inn at night. I was sitting with my mother when he returned. He had been accosted in the street by this man Jack and others, and they had told him that I was no better than a slut. They said I wasn’t wanted in the town any more, and they would make me leave, and my family too.”

“They dared to do this?” Baldwin growled, glancing at the monk.

“They said they would burn my parents out of the house unless I left, with us all inside it; they said there was no place in Crediton for a woman who consorted with lepers.” She lifted her eyes to meet the knight’s. “So all I have is here. I have left my home so that my parents and brothers and sisters can live in peace. What else could I do?”

“Enough, Mary,” Baldwin said, and stood. His face was composed, but there was a tightness in his voice as he spoke. “This Jack will answer to me for what he has threatened. You need fear no more from him or from his friends. I will see to them—now!”

He swept from the room, pushing past Simon in his urgency, and it was not until he had reached the chapel’s main door that the hurrying monk managed to catch up with him. “Sir Baldwin? Please, wait one minute.”

“What, Brother Ralph?”

“Don’t go and persecute one man for his stupidity! Wait until you can consider his case more calmly. There’s no point in creating even more bad feeling in the town than already exists.”

“I think there is. If a young woman like Mary can be forced from her home with nowhere to go, there’s every need for these cretins to realize their fault!”

“I agree that she must be cared for, but don’t go rushing at them like a bull at a gate. For one thing, I have to ask myself whether it would be sensible for her to stay in the town after this.”

“Meaning?”

“All I mean is, she is so good a nurse, and so devoted to her new calling, that it might be better for her to leave the town anyway. If she remains here, she can only ever be a cause of strife. Wouldn’t it be preferable that she should go somewhere else where she would be appreciated? I think she would be ideally suited for a life of prayer.”

“You think she might go to a convent?”

“I think she might be happier there. She would be safe from further comment from the uneducated, safe from slanders and lies, and could dedicate her life to helping others in a hospital.”

“And the town would have its boil lanced.” Baldwin threw a wrathful glower eastward, back toward the columns of smoke over the hill. “And bigots would have succeeded in driving away a poor girl to no purpose.”

“Better that than a hothead should fire her house and burn her and all her family.”

“Better that one innocent should suffer than many?” Baldwin muttered, his lip curled, but he gave a short nod. “I despise your argument, Brother, but I find it compelling. Yet I will still visit the smith and make my views known. I’ll not have him poisoning this town. And I won’t have lepers beaten in the streets, either.”

19

A
s the sun climbed higher, and cast its rays into his yard, John had to close his eyes against the glare. It was too painful, with his head throbbing and pulsing in time with his shattered leg.

After struggling for what felt like an age, he had finally got himself into some kind of shape. It had been hard, for to tie the old walking stick and besom handle to his leg, he had needed to bend, and each time he did so, a fresh wave of nausea washed over him. Each time he was forced to snap his eyes shut and keep absolutely still for a few minutes, until the sensation passed, and each time he must open his eyes and continue.

One bandage he had reserved for his head. Where the club had struck the right of his skull, there was a growing lump, and there was a smaller one on the opposite side as well. He had to give a twisted grin as he tightened the band round his forehead, thinking that at least the constriction hurt both sides of his skull equally; he wouldn’t be unbalanced when he tried to move.

He had found a staff, a good elm branch which he had been saving to axe into kindling, and gripped it hard. Gritting his teeth, he cautiously eased himself upward, the sweat breaking out at his forehead and chilling his back under his shirt. It was cool enough without his coat, and this moisture made him shudder as if he had the ague, but with set expression and firmly locked jaw, he set the staff to the ground and took a step.

The grating of smashed bone almost made him faint. His headache returned, thudding as hard as if a man was beating him again; his stomach roiled. The world swirled before his eyes, and he had to shut them, but then all his concentration could focus on the exquisite agony, and that was unendurable; he had to open them again.

Now his see-sawing vision steadied a little, and he could swallow heavily. Before he could lose his determination, he moved another step. This time he let out a shout of anguish as his foot caught on a stone and the feeling shot up his leg and into his heart. Eyes wide, he tottered, the breath sobbing in his throat.

And he took another step.

Baldwin set their pace back into town, and it was an angry canter. He had given Simon and Edgar no time to talk to him, but had climbed onto his steed and moved off as soon as they had come to the gate, and the others had needed to hurry to keep him in view.

The knight was no fool, and had no intention of intervening in the normal hurly-burly of Crediton’s life, but this was something different. The town was generally among the quietest in the kingdom, and he knew that other officials of the King looked upon him with a certain degree of jealousy for having not much to do; but if something like this wasn’t nipped in the bud quickly it could grow an evil fruit whose harvest would be death. It was a miracle that the two lepers hadn’t been killed the night before, and still more that the girl hadn’t received more than verbal abuse. If such behavior was permitted to go unchecked, it could only result in violent disturbance, and it was Baldwin’s duty to see to it that no such thing happened.

They rode fast along the street scattering the people, until they came to the hall where Godfrey had died, and here Baldwin slowed. He had a strange presentiment, and he turned his head to look at the hall. There were a few people in the garden, tending to the vegetables, and behind them he saw Putthe standing in the doorway, no longer wearing a bandage, but leaning against a doorpost as if he had a headache while in the broad daylight.

As Baldwin watched, he saw Putthe’s mistress appear. The servant moved aside respectfully, and the knight noticed his slow and careful movement. His head was clearly still giving him pain. Then Baldwin found his attention taken by the woman at Putthe’s side.

She stood happily, tugging on gloves while she kept her eye on the gardeners. In the bright sunlight her hair sparkled as if an ethereal fire was upon it. She noticed the knight and gave him a curt nod of her head, then spun around and stalked back inside.

“Looks like she’s on her way off for a ride, eh, Baldwin?” Simon said from his side.

“Yes. It does, doesn’t it?” said Baldwin. “Simon, we have been taken in by that woman.”

“Taken in? What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you see her behavior just then?”

“She was haughty, no question, but so what?”

“I think you missed the most important issue. We shall need to speak to her again.”

And with that the knight clapped spurs to his horse and rode off; if possible, in Simon’s opinion, more angrily than before. The mystified bailiff glanced at Edgar, who gave a shrug as if to indicate that there were times when he gave up trying to understand his master, and chased after.

Cecily was in no good mood when she stalked out to the stables. Her mare, which she had ordered to be ready half an hour before, was not yet saddled, nor was the stallion for her companion and chaperone, one of the grooms.

Of course, she accepted that it would take time for the normal routines to reassert themselves, but that was no reason for simple tasks not to be carried out. It was as though the servants were trying to be—she could think of no other way to put it—willfully incompetent. She made her feelings clear to the head groom and struck the stableboy holding her mare with her crop to make him hurry. The only way, she knew, was to make sure that the staff all knew who was paying their wages from now on. Cecily was no longer the darling little child of the master, the pretty ornament who suffered so much from her bullying father. She was the mistress of the estates and all the money Godfrey had amassed.

The mare was led to her, the lad sullen as she climbed up the stone blocks and mounted. Looking coldly at the boy rubbing his shoulder, she set off through the gates and into the road.

It wasn’t that she was hard—she wasn’t—but my Lady Cecily of London was no fool. From now on she must shift for herself. She was of age, so she was safe enough from interfering cretins who wanted to protect her from the world by uniting her to any man who might show an interest, but Cecily knew that she was about to become known as the most eligible woman in middle Devon, and confidently expected to receive calls from various well- or less well-intentioned buffoons in tight hose and smart tunics, all of them displaying qualities such as a lady should require: money, horses, dogs, farms, and access to the best society. Cecily’s trouble was, she wanted none of them.

She was a shrewd woman. Brought up a pampered young girl in London, she knew the value of polite circles, and didn’t esteem them highly. To her, a pretty husband with a good-looking leg in hose was as handy as a bucket with no base. She had no use for either.

No, Cecily knew her own worth, and she knew full well that she would soon become the source of intense speculation, but she must reject all offers. And to do that she must show an ability to see to her own affairs. Only by seeming strong could she remain free. She must make sure that the staff were all kept on their toes. That was the way to guarantee that she had a free hand to continue with her scheme. She couldn’t fail to meet the requirements of the oath she had made to the stern-faced leper from the north country.

That thought made her eyes glisten, and her companion, noticing her wiping at them, called out anxiously, “Mistress? Are you well?”

He was used to her fluctuating moods, and had been warned by old Putthe that she could change her temper more swiftly than a coursed hare could change direction, but he was unprepared for her fury.

“Of course I’m all right! Do you think I’m some weakly slut who can’t cope with a little dust in her eye?”

He had thought she was thinking about her father. Until his death she had been so quiet always, so meek and obedient to the tyrant who was Godfrey, the stableman had assumed the tear was a sign of feminine sadness. Her biting contempt was as unexpected as it was cruel, when he had only been trying to offer his sympathy. He resolved to keep silent for the rest of their journey.

She rode out every day for her exercise, no matter what the weather, and her routine had only been changed on the day after her father’s death. Now she insisted that she must carry on as before. The usual route was to avoid the town itself, and today the groom saw she was intending to keep to it. She led the way, turning right from the hall’s entrance, and leading up the hill toward the woods at the top. This was the road that went past John of Irelaunde’s place, and she glanced at it in some surprise. The gates were open.

Having ridden this way since before John had built his little place, she knew that he always kept his gates shut against the inquisitive. Not so today. As her mare took her closer, she saw that they stood wide open, and she stared in with interest. It was the first time she had been able to. She had almost gone past, when with a gasp she recognized what she had seen.

Wrenching her mare’s head around, she rode in, and hurtled herself from the saddle, throwing herself at the little bundle of rags the stableman had already noticed and disregarded.

“Quick!” she screamed. “To the church! Ride as though the Devil’s wish-hounds were at your heels! Bring a monk trained in nursing. Don’t sit there gaping, fool! Go!”

They rode into the smith’s yard at full tilt, and Baldwin’s horse reared as he came to a halt. “Smith? Come out here, I want to talk to you!”

Simon, who knew most of the knight’s moods, was surprised to hear him bellow in so strident a tone. To the bailiff, lepers were a source of disgust and loathing, and although they deserved sympathy, perhaps, and compassion as well, their repulsive appearance was reason enough, he felt, for them to be victimized. It wasn’t due to any cruelty on his part. Simon was generally an easygoing man, comfortable with himself and his life, and he was happy to see others enjoy their own lives as best they might. He was not driven by an inane compulsion to bully those he didn’t understand, but he was fearful of leprosy; not only because it might clutch him in its hideous grip, taking away his freedom and his health, but because it could similarly strike down his wife, or his precious daughter. That another might attack lepers as dangerous, he could not condone, but neither could he find it in his heart to condemn. Their feelings were simply a little more guided by hatred than his, which leaned rather toward pity.

The matter was not so difficult for Baldwin. He had an enduring revulsion of anything that smacked of victimization. His friends, the members of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon—the Knights Templar—had been accused of heinous crimes by an avaricious French King who lusted after their property and money, and were hounded throughout France. Arrested, jailed, and convicted without an opportunity of defense, they had been guilty only of believing the word of the King and the Pope. Their faith and integrity led to their death in the fires.

That, Baldwin knew, was the result of intolerance mixed with the twin spices of repression and propaganda. He had seen it before. He was determined not to see it here.