The Leper's Return (31 page)

“You remember all this?” Baldwin probed. From his experience of combat, he knew how often memories could become confused or imagined after a vicious blow to the head.

John was definite. “Oh yes, Sir Baldwin. Make no mistake, I saw it! I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live.”

“Is there anything you can think of which might explain why this was done to you?”

“No, Sir Baldwin. I’ve got no idea at all.” The sunken eyes, rimmed with agony, turned to him with disingenuous conviction. “Why should anybody want to hurt me?”

“I was wondering, after some of the rumors about you and—um…” Baldwin glanced thoughtfully at Peter. It was not the kind of question he felt the Dean would be happy to hear. The Dean caught his glance and grinned before tactfully muttering about his duties and walking from the room. Relieved, Baldwin continued, “What about a man? Someone who was married to a pretty young wife?”

“Sir Baldwin, there are many rumors about me, I know, but I can assure you that this has nothing to do with any woman—at least, not that I know of.”

“In that case, who could want to do this to you?”

“As to why they should want to, I have absolutely no idea.”

“Come on, be honest with us. You say you saw the weapon clearly enough—you must have seen the man.”

“Ah, but if I tell you, what’s to stop the fellow coming back and having another game of bat-and-ball with my head?”

There was an anxious look to him that the knight could understand. “As for that, what is to stop him doing so as soon as he hears you’re not dead? From the look of your wounds, one would assume he was trying to kill. He may well return.”

“You do have a point there,” John said, trying to grin. He winced as another bolt of pain shot up from his knee.

“Why didn’t you want to talk in front of the Dean?”

“Well, now—it’s like you say: there are lots of rumors about me, and I don’t want to see the good Dean being made to believe in them. The gossip about me isn’t true.”

“So who was it?”

“Matthew Coffyn.”

“So it was because of your adultery with Martha Coffyn,” said Baldwin sternly. “I have warned you before about your lechery. It’s only surprising that no one got to you before this.”

John sighed with unfeigned disgust. “I told you before, I have never committed adultery with Martha Coffyn.”

“You enjoyed her favors whenever her husband was away,” Baldwin accused roughly. “The whole town is full of gossip about it.”

Slowly at first but soon with a kind of helpless despair, John began to laugh. “Jesus, Mary and all the angels, it’s so daft. It’s funny! Sir Knight, I’ve never touched Martha Coffyn. I don’t like Martha Coffyn, and Martha Coffyn wouldn’t so much as look at a fellow like me. She thinks herself as far above me as a beech tree above a daisy. Oh, Christ’s Teeth!” And he burst out laughing again, moaning with pain between gales of mirth as his ribs and head complained. Calming himself, he at last gave a soft sigh. “No, Sir Baldwin. I never had anything to do with the lady. But I suppose if you believe it at least that explains why Coffyn decided to beat me like this.”

“If you haven’t why were you in Godfrey’s yard the night he died?” demanded Simon.

His reply was a twisted grin. “I wouldn’t lie, Bailiff. I never touched the lady. No, I was off seeing another girl.”

“Who?” Baldwin pressed him.

“I can’t tell you that, sir. Like I said, I can’t betray her honor. Would you betray your own lady? Of course not. If I was to tell you, it could hurt her reputation, and I won’t do that, but believe me when I swear that I’ve never committed adultery with Martha.”

“Then who has?”

“It’s not my secret, but if you want to know, go and ask Putthe.”

Peter was waiting in his hall, surrounded by piles of paper. Since the arrival of the Bishop, who was now with the Dean’s master, the precentor of the collegiate church, Clifford had been forced to dig out all of the accounts of the different outlying chapels and churches to help the Treasurer with his report to Stapledon. It was a relief to him to have another interruption when Baldwin and Simon walked in. “Did you get anywhere?”

The knight gave a distracted shrug. “He has given us a hint, but once more we are told to go and see someone else. Each time something happens here, we appear to be driven back to Godfrey’s household. It’s possible John is telling the truth, but that depends on how much another man has himself been deceived.”

“I would find it hard to trust too much that John tells you,” Clifford observed judicially. “We all know his background.”

“I fear you might be doing him a disservice,” Baldwin commented.

“So I may, but I have heard some stories about him…”

The bailiff grinned. “So have we all, but John just denied them most convincingly, and won’t tell us who it is that he has been seeing.”

“Yet he was in Godfrey’s yard and saw the bodies, I understand?” Clifford was perplexed. He had also heard the rumors about John and Martha, but didn’t want to prejudice Baldwin’s investigation.

“That’s right,” Simon nodded. “And disappeared when Matthew Coffyn arrived.”

“Well, that would be no surprise, if he knew that Coffyn could be searching for him.” He sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. “It all seems so confused. And while we speculate, a murderer is loose. He might strike again.”

“I would hope not,” Baldwin said dryly. “It’s my job to see he doesn’t—and in any case, I have to believe that Godfrey was killed for some logical, comprehensible reason. In England people don’t kill for no purpose; there is always a motive if one can only see it. But I have to win over Cecily and get her cooperation. I am sure she somehow holds the key to this whole mess.”

“Why should someone attack John?” Peter wondered.

“I think we already know the answer to that question,” said the knight. “Many of your congregation think that John has been carrying on an affair with Martha.”

Peter blinked, then gave a sheepish grin. He should have realized that the knight would already have discovered something that was so readily discussed in the town. “So you had heard that? I must confess, I always thought it extremely unlikely. She thinks herself a great lady—that she might get involved with a tranter seems somehow incredible.”

“John is certain that it was Coffyn who beat him.”

Peter Clifford screwed up his face as he considered this. “Because Coffyn thought John had been committing adultery with his wife?”

Baldwin gave a shrug that showed his own confusion. “That is the logical conclusion. It’s possible, but why should Coffyn think John was toying with his wife if he wasn’t? He must surely have had some convincing evidence to make him take such drastic action.”

“I would certainly hope so!” said the Dean faintly. He poured himself a large goblet of wine and drank it straight off. “We cannot have our town disturbed in this way—men wandering the streets at night, breaking into private homes and beating the occupants.”

Baldwin shook his head. “There is nothing random in it, Peter. John was thoroughly thrashed for a reason, whether the reason was justified or not. In the same way Godfrey was not the victim of a wild and unthinking attack. He was murdered deliberately. This mystery has a simple explanation, if only we can find it.”

“Yes,” offered Simon gloomily. “And if we can get Cecily to tell us the truth.”

At that moment the object of their thoughts was walking quickly up and down her hall, her hands clasped firmly at her breast as if in prayer.

It was ludicrous! There was no reason for anyone to attack John! Nobody had wanted to steal from him, and there was little to take if they had wanted to. No, she was sure that whoever had committed this hideous crime was motivated by some kind of desire for revenge, but for what? Had he unknowingly insulted someone? Or was it simply that someone in the town hated the Irish?

That was mad, though. Nobody could hate John. All who met him were forced to laugh at him, or with him. He was too inoffensive to make enemies. Yet her mind kept coming back to the fact that John’s injuries were inflicted not to kill but to cause maximum pain, as if they were intended solely to punish him.

There was a scratching sound, and she spun around, startled.

In the garden, Thomas smiled dryly. She looked so like a fawn scared by the breaking twig under a hunter’s foot. “It’s all right, Cecily. I haven’t come to rob you.”

“Thomas! Oh, dear, dear Thomas! I wasn’t sure you’d still come. Oh, your poor face! How are you?”

He leaned uncomfortably on his old ash staff. “A little the worse for wear,” he admitted.

“I heard about what happened to you. The whole town seems to have gone mad.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

Quickly she told him about John, finishing, “And now the Keeper of the King’s Peace realizes I’ve been lying. I think he guesses I know what happened to Father.”

“But he can’t! No one else saw anything.”

“Sir Baldwin is very shrewd. He has eyes that are hard to fool. They seem to see right through any deceit.”

Rodde sneered contemptuously and tilted his hat back on his head. “Let him try to convict a leper. A leper doesn’t exist under the law.”

“A leper can still burn. That’s what they do to lepers found guilty in other parts, Thomas,” she pointed out helplessly. “And they say that this knight is very determined once he’s on the track of a felon.”

He shrugged. “He must be very determined indeed if he intends to catch Godfrey’s killer. He won’t find it easy.”

“Oh, why did we have to come here!” she burst out, and covered her face in her hands. “If we’d only stayed in London, you’d still be settled and resigned, and Father would be alive. Instead he’s dead, and it’s all my fault. If only I hadn’t seen you and—”

“Hush, Cecily,” he said more gently. Watching her through the window, he was tempted to pull off his rough, clumsy glove and give her the comfort she needed. But he couldn’t. “It’s not your fault. If anyone is to blame, I suppose it’s me for trying to see you again. If I hadn’t come here, if I hadn’t brought my friend, if I hadn’t spoken to you so often, then he might still be alive—but none of that is your responsibility.”

“You cannot know how much I have missed you, Thomas.”

“Nor you I, Cecily.”

“How many years is it?”

He considered, as if the memory was difficult to trace. “Is it seven years? Or eight?”

“It’s nine years since you left London. You always pretended not to remember dates!”

“What makes you think it’s a pretense?”

She laughed then, not the constrained, miserable laugh he had heard so often recently, but the old belly-laugh she had used when he joked with her.

“It’s good to hear you laugh again like that.”

She smiled at the softness in his voice. “We have not so very much to laugh about, do we?”

“No,” he agreed quietly. “We have very little to laugh about.”

Jack drained his mug and belched, wincing at the sour taste. When he moved toward his barrel of ale, he knocked a hammer from his bench, and the iron rang on the flagstone, making him wince and groan.

It was the wine, he told himself. If it wasn’t for that, he’d be fine. The inn’s ale was of good quality, and never gave him a head like this. No, it was the fact that he had mixed his drinks: the ale at the smithy in the afternoon; wine at the inn, until William had left them; more ale at the inn; then ale at home after seeing Mary’s father. His mouth tasted like the bottom of the forge’s grate. There was a gritty texture on his teeth that he longed to sluice away with ale, and a bitter, near-vomiting taste at the back of his throat. His head was pounding so hard it felt like someone was using one of his own hammers on him.

He tilted the barrel to fill his mug and glowered when there wasn’t enough, kicking the barrel from him. Sitting on a low stool, he closed his eyes a moment, keeping the bright sunlight from them.

The knight was a fool. Why should Jack listen to someone who couldn’t even see the danger? Knights thought they were better than everyone else, just because they were born with money in their purses, but money didn’t buy brains. Jack knew that he was fortunate. He had been born poor, and he’d had to learn how to make his own path in life the hard way, learning about people and his trade as he struggled to earn a living. That was something you’d never find a knight succeeding at, he thought as he grimly took a pull of his ale.

If he had enjoyed an easier life, Jack might have turned out very differently. He wasn’t cruel by nature, and neither was he dim, but he had been marked out for a hard life, breathing in foul smoke from his charcoal all day, slaving bare-chested over red-hot bolts of steel and iron, pausing only long enough to slake his thirst with his barrel of ale. If he had been educated, if he had enjoyed intellectual debate with men who reasoned and appreciated his logic, he might have grown to understand that those who wore a different appearance were not necessarily different in their motivations.

But Jack had only the companionship of the tavern or inn, where his prejudices were reinforced by others who believed the same as him, and who were prone to embellish their tales to make them more easily swallowed when mixed with ale. And his brain was fogged by the fumes that rose each day from the glowing coals.

The heat of the smithy made him toss back the last of his ale; he peered into the empty mug, then across at the barrel, which lay gently rocking. There was nothing for it, he would have to buy a fresh one. He picked up the barrel and set it on his little handcart, pushing it before him as he made his way to the inn.

When he set off, he had no intention of going against the knight’s instructions. The damn thug had appeared and threatened him, but that was the sort of behavior one expected from a metal-clad meat-head. All they were good for was beating up the innocent as they went about their daily business. Jack knew that, just as he knew that a foreigner, someone from a place five or six miles away, for example, was likely to be a troublemaker. Most of them only wanted to come to Crediton to steal or live off other men’s work.

Yet while he walked, he found his bitter thoughts turning more and more toward the evil represented by the lepers. Why should the knight wish to protect them? As he mused, he was coming level with Godfrey’s hall. There he saw a dark figure slip from the gate, and he gaped. It was that leper, the stranger from outside town, the one who had decided to come here to Crediton.

His two favorite grudges were linked by this single, hated figure. Not only was he a leper, he was also foreign, begging money from the good people of the parish when he had done nothing to deserve it—he hadn’t even been born in the town!

Jack was filled with a sudden hatred. This was the sort of scum that knight and his friend had tried to protect. A man completely undeserving of any charity, someone who should be hounded from the place. Unconsciously, Jack had slowed his pace to match that of the limping man before him, and now he consciously followed him.

22

“I
t feels as if I am coming here every other hour at present,” Baldwin muttered as he dropped from his horse.

“You are,” Simon laughed.

They had collected Edgar from the Dean’s buttery, and now stood together outside Godfrey’s hall. Baldwin glanced at the door, but musingly. Then, jerking his head for the others to follow, he led the way round the corner of the house to the back.

It was all quiet, though Baldwin could hear noises from without the yard, and he strode quickly over the cobbled area to the low building where the horses lived. Going down the row, he could find only two mares, the others were all stallions, geldings and other males. The first of them, a pleasant roan, stood quietly while he lifted each hoof, but there was no sign of one that had been recently reshod. The second was a calm bay. This too was happy to let him investigate her, and he paused at the second hoof. “Look!”

Simon bent to see. The hoof had new, almost undamaged nail heads, but the shoe itself was badly worn at the inside and front. “That should have been replaced with a new one,” he said.

The knight nodded, thoughtfully setting the hoof down and patting the mare. Then he walked from the place toward the large gates.

Standing just outside were a pair of carts, and as Baldwin watched, a servant arrived with a bucket and began wiping the clotted red mud from its wheels.

“Why do you do this out here and not in the yard?”

The man turned and gave him a disinterested glance. “My lady has a bad headache. She said she wanted no noise out in the yard, but she wants these things cleaned. Where would you do them?”

“Are you a stableman?” Baldwin asked, but this time he had the man’s undivided attention. In his hand he spun a coin.

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know all about your mistress’ mare which threw a shoe on the day your master died?”

The man nodded, his bucket and cloth forgotten as he watched the little silver coin spin and curve in the air so prettily. He could almost hear it calling to him, demanding a comfortable resting place in his purse.

“Was Godfrey mean with his horses?”

“No, he was always careful to make sure they were well looked after, sir.”

“Yet on this occasion he had a shoe replaced on his mare’s hoof. Why didn’t he send the mare to the smithy for a new one?”

“Well, the mistress saw her mare had cast a shoe—she pointed it out to me when she was back from her ride—and said it seemed a pity to have a new one made when the old one was fine.”

“You mean she saw the shoe come off and went to fetch it?” Simon asked disbelievingly. “Do you think that’s normal?”

The servant gave him a long-suffering look, as if nothing much that happened in his household would surprise him. “Her father could have an evil temper. Maybe she was nervous about causing extra expense.”

“But you said he always saw his horses were well looked after?”

“That doesn’t mean he’d appreciate seeing others frittering away his money on their own.”

Baldwin nodded. “And your mistress might have been nervous about his response? Do you have good reason to suppose he’d treat her badly?”

“I haven’t seen her being beaten, but we’ve all heard her weeping. Especially over the last few weeks.”

“Had Godfrey been different, then, over that period? Had he treated everyone more harshly?”

“No, sir. Generally, he was better to us all.” The servant was frowning, as if he was himself surprised by the recollection. “But the mistress has certainly been very upset. I assumed she was being beaten by her father. He could have a violent turn of mood on occasion.”

“So you said. Very well, so Cecily asked you to go to the smith?”

“Yes, sir. Her mare lost the shoe on the morning that the master was killed. As soon as the mistress came home she asked me to fetch the smith, and tell him to get here for the afternoon. He said that was fine, but if the shoe needed replacing he’d have to take the mare back to the forge to make one. As it was, Mistress persuaded him not to bother and just to refit the old one, and told him he could join Putthe in the buttery when he was done.”

“You heard all this?” Baldwin pressed.

“Yes, I was there while they were looking at the mare. Mistress said he could carry on, and she went back inside.”

“And this was early afternoon?”

“Yes, I guess so, by the time the smith got here.”

“One thing,” Simon asked frowningly. “Was the smith an especial friend of the bottler? Did Jack often drop in to meet with Putthe over a jar or two of ale?”

“Him?” the servant guffawed, dropping his cloth into the bucket and holding his chest with mirth. “You must be mad! Putthe friends with a smith? Look, Putthe is the bottler in a good hall. He gave his vow to the master for life—and a man like Putthe takes that kind of oath seriously. You honestly think a fellow like him would be the comrade of a peasant who’s managed to learn a trade? No, Putthe and Jack aren’t friends. At best they’ll pass the time of day, but no more than that.”

“So why should Putthe be expected to entertain Jack in the buttery with him?”

“You know how it is—the master or mistress tells the servant who to meet and talk to. I daresay Putthe was not pleased to be told to have a boorish fool like Jack in the room with him, but once he was told, what was he supposed to do?”

“I think it’s time we went to speak to Putthe again,” said Simon.

Rodde was unaware of the steps behind him. He had other things to consider. Apart from anything else, his hip hurt as though the bone was chipped—a rock had struck him there the night before, and it burned as if he had been branded. It was so painful, it overwhelmed all the other bruises and scrapes of his body, and caused his slow, limping gait.

It was not the pain that made him pensive and furrowed his brow, it was Cecily’s words. He had refused her, as he should, but she had been very determined, and he wasn’t sure she had listened to his condemnation of her idea. It would be mad for her to try to win a place in the leper camp—he couldn’t permit it. He knew some women, especially the insanely religious, sometimes copied Christ and tended to the sick. The most fanatical would kiss a leper’s sores, demonstrating their faith by their devotion to those whom God had chosen, but for Thomas Rodde the thought that Cecily should join the lepers was intolerable.

There was only one route for him, he felt, and he was now determined to take it. He must go from Crediton and find somewhere else to end his days. This place was no longer safe or peaceful. Since first seeing Cecily, it had become a place of horror—especially now her father had died because of him. Yet it was impossible while his leg was so painful. He couldn’t run away when running was impossible.

That night was branded on his soul. The way that Godfrey had rushed in, hauling his daughter from the window, punching her and sending her flying, before turning to Rodde himself and holding up his hand to order him not to flee. Hearing his agonized shout, seeing the man’s eyes turn upward until the white showed, and slowly toppling forward like a felled tree.

And behind him, holding the heavy staff, the man who had only wanted to protect Rodde, his friend Edmund Quivil.

Edgar pounded on the sun-darkened oak. There was a call from within, and soon footsteps could be heard approaching. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

It opened wide, and Putthe stood on the threshold. His face, grim at the best of times, fell into a scowl when he saw who waited on the doorstep.

“May we come in?” asked Baldwin smoothly as he walked into the screens. “I think we can speak easiest in your buttery, don’t you?”

Putthe gave a non-committal grunt and the knight led the way inside.

“Your head looks as if it’s a bit better, Putthe,” commented Simon.

“Wish it felt it.”

“Still giving you grief? I know head wounds can take time.”

“It hurts,” he conceded with an ill grace.

“We aren’t here to talk about your wound, however,” said Baldwin, sitting at Putthe’s own stool and watching him speculatively. “We’re here because of the odd way that Jack happened to come along here on the afternoon Godfrey died.”

Putthe was not made of such strong material as his mistress; he gave a start and shot a look at the knight. He hadn’t expected the blasted Keeper to have realized how odd that little event was. When he spoke, his tone was wary. “What do I know of that, Master? I’m the bottler, I don’t know what goes on in the stableyard.”

“So you know something was wrong, too. Either that or you suspect something—or someone. What was strange about calling Jack out like that?”

“How should I know?”

“I don’t know how you should know, but you are about to tell us. What struck you about having Jack called up here that day? Was it the fact that Godfrey would never normally stint on looking after his horses, and the mare might just as well have been sent to the smithy? Or was it that Cecily herself appeared to have some ulterior motive in it?”

“What sort of motive could my lady have had in asking the smith to come up here?” the bottler asked scornfully.

“That,” said Simon, who had moved behind the bottler, “is what we wish to find out from you. What advantage was there, having the smith up here?”

“Because,” Baldwin added smoothly, “there is always the other possibility: that it was you who arranged matters such that the smith came up here.”

“Me?” the bottler squeaked. “What possible reason would I have to ask a slovenly fool like him to come up here?”

“To establish your alibi.”

Putthe gaped. It felt as if a fist of ice had clenched around his bowels and he was aware of all the flesh on his back suddenly chilling with a frozen expectation. He was no fool. If a man could be accused of aiding or abetting in a murder, the justice was likely to be swift and predictable. The bottler considered his position quickly while the knight rested his chin on his cupped hand. Putthe had done all he could, but loyalty was one thing: the certainty of a noose was another.

“Sir,” and now his tone had a persuasive certainty to it, “I swear before God and as I believe in the life to come, I had nothing to do with the death of my master. I didn’t even know anything was going on. My Lady Cecily did ask that the smith should come here, but it was not with any malicious intent.”