The Leper's Return (30 page)

“Perhaps it also tied him to his accomplice? If he and Putthe were partners in this felony, perhaps Putthe didn’t trust his confederate enough, and wanted to ensure that equal risk was enjoyed by both?” He threw his hands in the air with disgust. “It’s no good, it’s all guesswork. All we really know is that this man was at the hall for some reason. Whether he was there for his own purposes or for someone else’s entirely we may never know.”

“There’s another factor, though. What if the victimization of the lepers has something to do with it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure, but it seems an odd coincidence that Jack should start fomenting trouble so soon after the murder. I assume this was new to you? You’re not aware that there’s been a load of trouble brewing over lepers recently?”

Baldwin scratched his beard. “No, it was a complete shock to me. But before we go worrying at that idea, let’s go and speak to Putthe again. I’m not convinced he’s told us all he knows. And while we’re there, I want to talk to Mistress Cecily, too.”

“You can’t suspect her of killing her own father!”

“She’s not told us the truth,” Baldwin said. “I am certain she’s lied.”

“What about?”

“About being unconscious until she was woken in her room. I don’t believe her.”

“Sir Baldwin! Sir Baldwin, sir!”

The knight glanced up. Running toward them, his habit trailing, was a young novice monk. He came to a halt before them, panting and red-faced from his exertion.

“Well? Do you have a message for me?”

“Sir, someone’s tried to kill the Irishman, and my Dean asks you to join him as soon as you can.”

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance, and without a word the two men set spurs to their horses and galloped to Peter Clifford’s hall.

Waking from a short and troubled sleep, Rodde grunted as he rolled over. Immediately a cool, damp cloth was at his forehead, and he smiled through his pain. “Thank you.”

“It is nothing.”

His eyes snapping open, Rodde stared up at Mary. “What are you doing in here? What if the people in the town hear?”

Rodde knew as well as she that it was forbidden for any women other than wives or other relations to visit lepers in their cabins. “Women of easy fame” were supposed to be excluded from the camp, because it was too easy for gossip to start.

“It’s all right. I’m here too,” said Ralph. He was sitting near the door, gazing out over the lawned space. “Mary refused to let me continue to minister to you.”

“You’ve done enough, Brother. You were here all night, and got little sleep. Rest now, and I’ll see to these men.”

“Sister, you have a great heart,” said Ralph, and rested his head against the doorpost. Soon he was asleep, his arms crossed over his chest.

Rodde could hear Quivil snoring in his corner. He spoke quietly. “You should still be careful, Mary.”

“It’s too late for that,” she said, and while her hand soothed his brow with water, she told him what had happened.

“You mean they will make you leave your home?”

“They want me from the town, not just my home.” He could feel her hand tremble, even though her voice was calm and steady. “But nobody will get hurt. I’ll go.”

Rodde’s face hardened. “So they’ve won? The Keeper and the others will allow this to happen and won’t do anything to stop it?”

“The Keeper was furious, but it’s not his decision, it’s mine. I want to help people who suffer, so I’ll go to a convent. There I can do more good than I can here.”

“Mary, you were named well, you are as good and kind as Christ’s own mother. But this is unfair! That you should be driven from your home for caring for other people is an outrage.”

“No, because it means I’ll be going to do something worthwhile,” she said serenely, dipping the cloth in the bowl once more.

Rodde rose to his feet. Setting his hat on his head, he took up his staff.

“You are leaving the camp?” she asked.

“Yes. I have something to see to in town. But remember this, Mary: while I live, you will not have to leave here. Trust me! The smith will not trouble you again, that I promise, and no matter what you decide to do, the people of the town will not force you to leave or do anything you don’t want to. This I swear!”

When Baldwin and Simon entered the room, Clifford was standing by the fire, warming his hands. “I wondered how long it would take for you to get here.”

“Peter, where is he?”

“In the infirmary. It was lucky he was brought here so promptly. Ah, Cecily, how is the patient?”

She walked to his side and stood warming her back. “He is well enough for now, although I hate to think what would have happened to him if I hadn’t ridden past. To see him like that, lying in the mess of his yard—it was dreadful!”

Baldwin studied her carefully. When she noticed his attention, she lifted her chin defiantly.

“You seem very affected by the Irishman’s pain.”

“Isn’t it a Christian duty to feel sympathy for a poor fellow-creature?”

“One would have said the same about your father, surely?”

“I was very sad at his death,” she protested.

“But you chose not to tell us the truth about what happened. And you pretended to have been worse hurt than was the case.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. When we spoke to you, you said you were knocked out by a man who was hiding near the window, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And at the time you were wearing your blue tunic.”

“What of it?”

“Why did you lie to us?”

“I didn’t!”

“Who were you speaking to?”

She stopped, her mouth open a short way. There was something in her face which the knight couldn’t recognize, but it wasn’t guilt, nor was it sadness. It was more a kind of wariness, as if she was trying to evaluate which near-truth would be most palatable.

“We know you were talking to somebody. Who was it?”

“Who says I was?” she demanded.

“That is not your concern! What is, however, is who might have killed your father.”

She tried one last denial. “I told you what happened. As I was about to go to the window, the man leaped out at me.”

“That is not what happened! You were at the window—I know that. Your tunic tore on a splinter.” Her eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “You must tell us the truth. Otherwise the wrong man could be punished for your father’s death. Already some are thinking it could have been John.”

“But John had nothing to do with it! He didn’t come in until later.”

“And what did you say to him?”

She hesitated—only a moment, but noticeably. “I was unconscious.”

“I don’t believe you. You are lying.”

She tossed her head angrily. “I hope you have some justification for that assertion! It’s a disgrace that a knight should thus berate a woman who’s just lost her father.”

“She is right, Sir Baldwin,” chided the mystified Clifford. “What possible cause do you have for making that allegation?”

“Look at her, Peter!” Baldwin threw out a hand emphatically. “Look at her! How many men have you seen knocked unconscious? And how many of them can move their heads so easily a couple of days later? This girl would have you believe she was out cold for a good few hours, and in that time her father was killed, her servant Putthe was struck down, and she was carried upstairs and placed in her bed, not waking until the following morning—yet look at her! She can fling her head back like that without even a twinge of pain. Is it credible?”

Simon and Clifford stared. The bailiff realized at last what had been troubling the knight since passing her house. He remembered the scene with perfect clarity: Putthe standing and wincing with the pain as he moved his head, while she gave him a sharp nod of recognition. And yet she was supposed to have been unconscious for longer than he!

Cecily avoided their gaze. This meddlesome knight was ruining things. It was ridiculous that he should have spotted her little deception because of such a trifle! Quite composed, she asked, “And what do you intend to do?”

“All I want is the truth, Mistress. What really happened? Who were you speaking to?”

“Child, you must tell the knight all you know, for how else can the murderer be captured?”

“It is not my secret, Father. I can tell the knight nothing.”

“Cecily,” said Baldwin, “it was your father who died. Your father! How can you protect his killer?”

She looked up at him then, and Baldwin saw the naked fury in her eyes. “You dare to talk to me of my father? The man who made my mother die, the man who broke up my family and kept me under so tight a rein that I could do nothing without his approval?” She swallowed hard, and forced herself to calm, unmaking the fists she had unknowingly formed in her passion. “If I could help you, I would, but I will not tell you any more than I already have.”

“Did he often beat you?”

“Beat me?” she repeated, staring at the knight. “How did you guess?”

Baldwin took his seat at a stool near her. “Was it he who punched you that night?”

Cecily stepped away from him. Her hand rose as if to ward him off, and she gave a short gasp. “I could believe you were the Devil himself!”

“So he did, then. And I believe it was because he saw who you were talking to at the window. He was so enraged that he dragged you from it and struck you down. Your friend did what? leaped inside in a murderous frenzy? Struck with all his might and killed Godfrey to protect you from any further attacks?”

“I’ll say no more.”

“Why? Because you love your suitor so much more than the father who had become hateful to you that you would happily see him escape justice?”

“There can be no justice for him,” she said, and Baldwin was concerned to see that her eyes appeared to be filling with tears.

He was careful to use a more gentle tone of voice. “But doesn’t your father deserve justice?”

“He’s gone. I have to think of the living.”

“You have a duty as a daughter!”

“And I don’t forget it!”

“Then who was it?” Simon demanded.

She ignored his outburst. “You have been dreaming, Keeper. There was no one. I went into the room, and as I came close to the window, someone sprang out and hit me. When I awoke, I was in my room, in my bed. That’s all I know. And now, if you don’t mind, I shall go home and change my clothes. I have some of that poor Irishman’s blood on my skirts.”

Peter Clifford stared after her as she drifted from the room, then at Baldwin. “I cannot understand this. She declares she doesn’t forget her duty as a daughter, but willfully continues in what you obviously think is a deception. Whom could she be protecting?”

“When we know that we’ll have the killer,” Baldwin said pensively. He was still gazing after the girl, a slight frown wrinkling his brow. Recalling why he was in the Dean’s hall, he faced Clifford. “Now, tell us what has happened to John. All we know is what your messenger told us—that he was found badly beaten up, and brought here in a cart.”

“That’s about it. He’s taken several blows to the head, and his leg was broken below the knee. I think he’ll be crippled for life, from the look of it. He complains that he didn’t see who did it, but then with his head so sorely bruised, I think he’d hardly remember if he had seen his attacker.”

“Let’s find out.”

21

T
he tranter lay on a low mattress in the infirmary, a cheap russet cloth covering him. A monk was helping him to a little wine as the three entered, and was about to stand back when the Dean gestured for him to carry on.

John had changed, Simon thought. Gone was the cheerful, happy-go-lucky salesman with the gift of easy patter and a winning smile. Now the fellow looked shrivelled. His face had an ashen pallor, his eyes an unhealthy glitter, and his lips were cracked and dry. Where the red wine dribbled, it looked like blood.

His voice was weak. “Good day, gentlemen. I’d stand and bow, but you can see, I’m not at my best today.”

“John, how are you feeling?”

“Well now, Keeper, not to put too fine a point on it, and saving the presence of the two gentlemen in holy orders here, I feel like shite. I don’t recommend letting people use your head for practicing their aim with clubs and sticks. It gives you the most unholy headache you can imagine.”

“And how’s the leg?” asked Simon.

For answer, John flicked back the corner of the rough blanket. Simon winced at the sight of the blood soaking the fresh linen bandages.

It was the infirmarer who spoke, talking in a soft, gentle voice. “It’s badly broken. The bones of the shin were shattered. He must keep still for at least three months, and then we might be lucky and find he hasn’t lost the use of it.”

“I hope not, Brother,” said John weakly. The brother gave him a smile, and John returned it. He was enormously grateful for the man’s care, although he was still feeling feeble. It was the first time John had needed to visit a surgery of any sort and he was not looking forward to the pain of having the bones reset. Just the thought of the man’s determined, probing fingers trying to poke shards of broken bone into place made him feel sick. Swallowing hard, he turned to the knight and spoke, his voice gruff with pain. He still had to wince and slit his eyes, even here in the relatively dark room.

“So are you here to ask me who did this? If so, I’m sorry to say I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“What actually happened, John?” prompted Baldwin. He had noticed that as John spoke, his eyes had gone to the Dean.

“I’d been out, and when I got back the fire was low, so I bent down to blow some life into it. I suppose it was when I’d just got a flame that I realized something was wrong. Maybe he couldn’t see enough in there to be able to make sure of me, so he waited until I had produced a little light for him, and then he struck. And how he struck! Christ Jesus! Oh, sorry, Dean; sorry, Brother…”

“I think I should allow you a certain latitude, my son,” said Clifford affably. “When you are well again I shall give you a penance.”

John shot him a suspicious look, and became more cautious in his speech. “I saw the club. It was just an ordinary hazel or ash stick. The sort which is made of a young sapling, where the stem grows a few feet. The grip was a large ball, and that was what he hit me with. I could see it coming, and…Well, there was no time to move. It struck me, and I was down. Then I saw it rise again.”