The Leper's Return (4 page)

He had heard a lot about the northern marches from older monks at his convent. There, he understood, raiders and thieves were continually attacking from the Scottish side, and it was impossible to live in peace. Carlisle had to be protected by massive curtain walls and a prominent castle, behind whose gates civilians could shelter when the Scottish barbarians came burning and looting on their little ponies. Here at Crediton there wasn’t any kind of a wall, yet the people didn’t appear to feel its lack.

Further into the town the atmosphere altered. Here was the business center. There were regular squeals from one yard where a pigsticker plied his trade, a butcher standing outside in his leather apron shaving carcasses, while others nearby stoically carved and jointed. One apprentice voided entrails into a little stream, while another knelt downriver rinsing lights and offal ready for sausages. The stench was that of the tanners, an unwholesome odor, and as they walked on, Ralph found himself passing cobblers and cordwainers, fullers and weavers. The town had an enviable busyness.

But the almoner was not taking Ralph to see workers about their business; he was leading the monk to his new post, and they passed through the crowds thronging the streets and out to the other side of the town. As if apologetically, the almoner began to speak of the leper house and the various inmates.

“We have space for twelve, but we rarely have that number. We’re not as large as Tavistock, there they always have their places filled.” He almost sounded regretful, as if it was an insult to Crediton that the town didn’t manage to have a full complement. “Mind, I suppose it means our expenses are lower than theirs.”

“It must be costly to keep the lepers.”

“Well, yes, it can be. The church looks to the upkeep of the buildings, and not only the Chapel of St. Lawrence’s and your lodgings, but the lepers’ own rooms—and then there are the pensions as well. We provide two pennies per person per week. That’s without thinking of the other charitable works we have to undertake on their behalf—finding cloth for them, extra rations of food during fairs and festivals and so on.”

“It must be a drain on your resources,” Ralph said. He knew full well that almoners often looked on the money they handed out as their own.

“It is, but not so bad as you might think,” the almoner responded, and touched the side of his nose. “The good Bishop has been very generous, and increased our revenues. He’s granted the town two more fairs, and we get one-tenth of all tolls, so that makes our finances easier to manage.”

“That was good of him.”

“I think the Bishop has always had a soft spot for us here. The collegiate church has benefited since our precentor agreed to annually commemorate Bishop Stapledon’s birthday. That’s on February the first. And when the good Bishop dies, we will solemnize the anniversary of his death each year.”

Ralph nodded. “It’s only right that a great man like him should have the comfort of the prayers of the canons to assure his entry into heaven.”

“Of course. And the Bishop has done so much good work, he surely deserves to be remembered. More than some of our chivalry.”

The cold tone of voice warned Ralph that the almoner was one of those who disapproved of modern knights. Too many members of the knightly classes disregarded their duties these days and spent their time in slavish adherence to foppish modern fashions. It had been a shock to many in the country, after the years of austere dress under King Edward I, to find that the new King’s courtiers preferred to spend their fortunes on fripperies rather than on more sober items of clothing. Now parti-colored tunics and hose were common, and it was hard to tell a man’s position from his apparel. Even peasants could be seen dressing in furs like a lord. Ralph observed quietly, “There should be laws to stop people wearing things that are above their station.”

“I agree. Even among our own ranks there are some who go about as if they were simply merchants. I have heard of men in the cities—brother monks!—who put on velvet and cloth of gold, and sometimes even go abroad bearded! Only last week I was told that in Bristol, monks have been seen without the tonsure!”

Ralph let his companion’s scandalized voice carry on. He too had spoken to travellers who talked of strange goings-on in other parts of the kingdom, but for the most part he was unmoved by the rumors. He had travelled all the way from Houndeslow, and everywhere he had paused he heard tell of other monks or friars who behaved badly, but had seen no evidence of it himself. In any case, he had more important things on his mind. He wanted to see the state of his new chapel.

When they left the town behind the almoner was at last quiet. As they rounded a little hillock, he stopped and pointed. “There it is.”

Ralph followed his finger. Ahead of them was a small chapel, a simple rectangle, with no frills or decoration. Nearby was a low terrace of cottages. Like the chapel, they were of simple construction: the monk could see the stones that formed the foundation, while above was smooth cob, limewashed like most other homes in the area, although it was some years since these walls had been painted. The thatch, too, was worn. Ralph could see large holes where birds had nested, and there was little overhang past the walls. As the straw started to rot, the mass of thatch would shrink, and after thirty or forty years the eaves would retreat. That would put the walls in danger: rain trickling down the roof could wash away the top of the wall or soak into it, at best rendering the building uninhabitable, at worst causing its collapse. It was a common problem.

But for all the aura of neglect, the plot given to the lepers covered almost an acre, and was surrounded by a thick hedge, well layered to serve as a defense against wild animals, while a sturdy gate blocked the only entrance. It looked safe enough for the suffering inmates, while giving them space to cultivate their own peas and beans.

The almoner was a kindly man. When he glanced at Ralph, he saw the fixed expression, the intent gaze and tightly pursed lips, and felt a rush of compassion. “It’s a hard task, but you’ll find you’re not short of friends. I’m only a short walk away, and I’ll visit often enough to see how you’re doing, so if you need any advice…”

His well-meaning words trailed off as the younger man looked at him. Ralph felt only irritation that the older monk was keeping him from his duties. He forced a smile to his face. “I’m sure I will be fine, but thank you for your help.”

The almoner nodded, said he would drop by to see that Ralph was not in need of anything, and a short while later Ralph was alone. He was about to enter the enclosure when a horse came cantering down the lane to his right, and he waited rather than crossing in front of it.

It was a great black rounsey, gleaming as if oiled. The harness was of the richest, made of well-tooled black leather with silver bells dangling from the reins and harnesses to ease the rider’s journey with their music.

The man himself was dressed gorgeously, with a bright blue tunic and hose under a thick woollen jacket, and with a heavy cloak of purple velvet trimmed with fur. From his soft felt hat with its jaunty feathers and trailing liripipe, to the fine supple leather of his riding boots, everything about him proclaimed him a wealthy man.

“Good day, Brother!”

Ralph ducked his head in acknowledgment as the man drew to a standstill in front of him and took off his splendid hat to scratch his head. “A pleasant day for a ride, sir,” he replied politely.

The man was middle-aged, with graying hair that had fallen away in imitation of a tonsure. It had retreated from his forehead as well, which only served to emphasize the height of his brow. Shrewd brown eyes smiled down at Ralph, but the monk had the impression that the man would find it as easy to glower. There was a harshness in the little puckering between his eyebrows, and the lips were thin and bloodless. “Aye, Brother. It’s good weather for a gallop.”

“Have you been far?”

“Over to Bow and back.” He appeared a little distracted, and Ralph noticed his attention wavering. Every moment or two his eyes would flit toward the chapel’s gates.

“You live here, sir?” Ralph asked, feeling the need to fill the silence.

“Eh? Yes, back your way.”

“My way?”

“Back there, near the collegiate church,” he said, jerking his head. “I have a house in the street nearby.”

“Ah, I see. And you are a merchant?”

“Me? No, I used to be a goldsmith, but that was a long time ago, long before I came here to Crediton. Now I help others…”

It was rude to push a man, but Ralph felt sure that the rider wanted to unburden himself of something. For all his evident prosperity, he looked uneasy, as if he had a confession to make. His mien was all too familiar to the monk; men and women would often accost a monk or priest to talk, and the reason was usually some banal misdemeanor which could be dismissed with a minor penance. On such occasions it was always tempting to avoid offering any solace, or to advise a visit to the church rather than waste time listening to foolish stories. He had only met Peter Clifford the once, but Ralph had formed a high opinion of him. The Dean was the vicar of the parishioners, and Ralph was sure that if this stranger needed absolution, Peter Clifford was well able to ease his mind. Yet he must know who his vicar was, so why was he so apparently keen to waylay an unknown monk in the street and engage him in conversation?

“Sir, if you have a need to speak to someone, I am sure the Dean will be pleased to offer you solace, but if you would prefer to discuss things with me…?” He let his voice trail off questioningly.

At his words the man shot him a quick look. “I should like to speak with you, if you can spare me a little time, yes, Brother.”

Ralph sighed inwardly. The man must be more than twice his age, and here he was, searching for answers. The monk was all too aware of his own unfitness for the task, but he nodded as if content. “You should tell me your name first, then. I am called Ralph.”

“My apologies, Brother. My enthusiasm got the better of me. My name is Godfrey—Godfrey of London.”

“Good. Well, master, why do you not come into my chapel and I will listen to your problem.”

“Your chapel?” Godfrey asked, brows raised in surprise.

Ralph nodded to the little building. “St. Lawrence’s.”

“You’re the leper master?”

“Yes, but you have nothing to fear, I—”

“What do you know of fear, little monk? You know nothing—nothing! You’re hardly old enough to grow a beard, for God’s sake! You can’t know what it’s like to have a daughter who…Oh, what’s the point!” Whipping his mount and digging in his spurs, Godfrey suddenly jerked his horse’s head round, and made off along the street, scattering hawkers from his path.

Ralph stood gaping for a long time. It wasn’t the rudeness that made him stare along the road; it was the restless passion in Godfrey’s outburst. It had not been directed at Ralph—of that the monk was quite convinced. It was the explosion of a man pushed to despair, as if he had seen in Ralph someone who might be able to help him, only to have his hopes dashed.

That made Ralph pause thoughtfully, but he had little time to waste worrying about wealthy burgesses; he had work to begin. He walked to the gate and made himself known to the old leper who guarded it.

Ralph was torn with sympathy for the old man. His face was rotted, the palate gone, and with it his upper teeth, giving him the look more of a brutish animal than a human. In his two-fingered, rough gloves and the coarse material of his hose, jerkin and cloak, he seemed subhuman, just a thing. And that, Ralph knew, was how he would be treated by the people of the town, like a cur to be cursed and kicked, reviled by adults and children alike.

He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. The old leper pointed him to his little room, and Ralph set off, nodding and greeting those of his flock that he met on his way. All were quiet, shuffling their feet and staring down, fearful of meeting his eye until they knew him better, nervous in the presence of their new master, and Ralph had to blink away tears of sympathy at the sight of their deformities: many had stumps where their hands or feet should have been; most had faces disfigured and twisted into nightmarish masks.

Yet when he had opened his door and taken possession of his room, when he stood leaning against the doorpost, arms crossed as he surveyed his estate, he could not help a small frown worrying at his brow. It was not the men around him; his thoughts were not now with the misshapen creatures of the camp.

Ralph was only young, but he had looked after enough ill and dying men in his time to recognize the expression he had seen on Godfrey’s face, and that face kept coming back to him: it held a wary sadness—as if Godfrey had been nursing an infinity of despair.

3

S
tepping out of the butcher’s, John of Irelaunde stood a while leaning against the wall, watching the people pass by. As a young woman caught his eye, he would grin, whether or not she noticed him, and keep his attention fixed on her until she was swallowed up by the crowd. Every so often a girl would realize she was being observed, and it was in order to see how she might react that he stood glancing over the crowd.

There were some, the youngest, who ducked their heads in embarrassment as though seeking sanctuary behind another anonymous person. A few were fetching young women who knew nothing of how to cope with a man’s interest, and these he would gaze at longingly—not to offend, but because he wanted to recall their innocence. He knew well that such shy maidenly blushes wouldn’t last; all too soon they would inevitably be replaced by knowing smiles.

Then there were the older women who reddened with anger. Often they were married ladies of some status in the town—which was why John assaulted them with his gaze. When he found a woman who haughtily stared back while going crimson with irritation, he would give her a deliberate leer. It was delightful to fan her anger. Women like this had made his life harder, or had tried to, and their impotence in the face of his insultingly lecherous grin was balm to his soul.