Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Jasper joined the aged infirmarian on the bench. It was cool in the shade, and the air seemed sweet in the garden, yet Wulfstan’s breath was laboured and sweat stood out once more on his face. The boy was worried about his friend. ‘Mistress Lucie says you are taking too much on yourself, going out among the sick in the city.’

Wulfstan patted Jasper’s arm, then stretched his wrinkled, age-spotted hand out beside the lad’s. ‘I am old, Jasper. Nothing that I do will change that fact. I have been infirmarian at St Mary’s since long before God first purged His children with the pestilence. Always before I respected my abbot’s wishes, stayed within to be at hand if any of my brethren succumbed. During the first visitation, I was wise to do so. Many fell, many died. During the second I was not so necessary, and I felt a guilt that has stayed with me these eight years. Now I must go forth. Who better than I? Our Lord cannot mean for me to stay in this mortal shell much longer. And Brother Henry is skilled in healing. Why not let him have the experience that will stand him in good stead when I am gone? Still, I thank you for your concern. And Mistress Lucie, too.’

‘But what about me? Should I go to the country or stay here where I might help?’

‘Has your mistress ordered you to go?’

Jasper shook his head. ‘She says she will not order me.’

‘Then she is leaving it to your conscience. What does your conscience tell you?’

Turning on the bench so he might face Wulfstan, Jasper took the old monk’s hands in his. ‘How do I know whether it is my conscience or my pride speaking?’

Wulfstan’s eyes twinkled. ‘You worry that pride drives you to stay? So that you might brag of your courage to your friends?’

Did Wulfstan intentionally misunderstand? ‘I don’t mean to brag. They are all in danger, too.’

The reminder dulled Wulfstan’s eyes. He dropped his head, murmured, ‘God watch over all of you’ and crossed himself. Jasper followed suit, and was quiet until Wulfstan spoke again. Which was a long time. Time enough for Jasper to wonder whether the old monk had fallen asleep. But at last Wulfstan lifted his head, his eyes pools of sorrow. ‘I have seen such suffering these past weeks, Jasper, such unbearable suffering. I speak not only of the scourge of the flesh. So many are abandoned in their suffering and weakness. Their families flee, hoping to save themselves. They flee from children, Jasper. I sat last night with a boy of no more than five who had been left for dead near the King’s Fishpond. God knows what his parents thought, exposing him to the night, dead or no. But he lived, he knew of my presence, he heard my prayers for him. He did not die alone, thanks be to God.’

‘My mother did not abandon my sister.’

‘Nor did Lucie Wilton her son. But not all have such courage, Jasper. And I am there to help those they leave behind.’ Wulfstan mopped his forehead, his eyes, blew his nose. ‘Now. You fear that pride leads you rather than conscience. I do not think pride stands up against the pestilence, Jasper. You might find other things to brag about. But what is in your heart?’

‘I am not a child.’

‘You prove that in your work, my son.’

‘I do not wish to worry Mistress Lucie. But she needs me in the shop.’

‘What do you judge to be worse for her — the worry or the lack of help?’

‘How can I know that?’

‘What of Owen? Can he not work in the shop?’

‘He is steward of Bishopthorpe and captain of the archbishop’s retainers, so he is busy.’

Wulfstan pressed Jasper’s hands, let them go, pushed himself off the bench and stood. ‘Let God guide you.’

‘How do I do that?’

The white eyebrows lifted. ‘How? Through prayer, of course, my son. Come. We shall kneel before Our Lady’s altar and pray for her advice. And then I must go out again into the city.’

The sun had appeared in mid-afternoon and by evening the city was warmed and humid. Sweat trickled down Bess’s neck as she made her way among the tables. The York Tavern was far from bustling, but not empty. Though many stayed out of crowds for fear that someone’s breath or clothes might carry plague, there were those who believed that ale and wine fortified them. A group of the determined souls was huddled close at a long table, speaking in low voices of the latest plague victim, William Franklin. But their voices were not so low that Bess could not hear.

‘They say he brought it from St Leonard’s,’ Jack Crum said.

‘Aye. He should have stayed there.’ Old Bede slumped in his chair, his greasy white hair sticking out in all directions from running his hands through it in his agitation.

‘Why should he die at the spital? A man wants to die at home. Will’s house was in the city, not in the liberty of St Leonard’s,’ said another.

‘Aye. He sickened at home,’ said a third. ‘But he did come and go from spital, all the same. And when he fell sick, two lay sisters from spital stayed at his bedside.’

‘With the pestilence upon us the corrodians should stay put. Or give up their allotment till it passes,’ Old Bede growled. ‘They carry it with them.’

‘You’re daft,’ John Cooper said, rising. His face was flushed with ale and emotion. ‘We have lost seventy-odd folk to the pestilence in the city and only ten of those at St Leonard’s. How can you say the folk from the spital carry it?’

‘We’d have none of it without them,’ Bede insisted.

‘It was a child in the city died first, you ignorant old man. A tanner’s daughter.’

‘Watch your tongue, Cooper,’ one of Bede’s elderly supporters growled.

John Cooper shoved past Old Bede, paused for a parting shot. ‘You hate the corrodians for their comfortable situations, old man, but mayhap you should thank God you could not find the coin to buy a corrody — though pestilence be not the danger.’

Old Bede spat on the floor at Cooper’s feet. ‘You’ve a mouth on you, John Cooper. I’ll thank you to keep it shut.’

Cooper sneered and made his way towards the door.

Bess Merchet hurried after him. Cooper’s last comment intrigued her. She caught his elbow as he reached the door. He shrugged her off roughly. ‘Have a care, John,’ Bess murmured, ‘’tis the hand that pours your ale.’

He glanced round, shamefaced. ‘I thought you were one of Old Bede’s fellows, aching for trouble. Did I hurt you?’

‘Whist! It takes more than a nudge to knock me down. But to make amends you might tell me what you meant when you said the old man should thank God.’

Cooper hesitated, glanced round, obviously wishing to make a quick escape. But he motioned for Bess to step outside with him. Cooper stood beneath the lantern beside the door. He was a solemn, quiet man, with a face that Bess had often thought might be pleasant if ever lit by a smile.

‘You are thinking of your uncle,’ Cooper said.

‘I am.’

‘I heard he was burned trying to save Laurence de Warrene.’

‘He is healing. Why should Old Bede be thankful?’

‘I am not one to listen to rumours — or spread them, Mistress Merchet. But that old man put me in mind of something I heard. There’s talk that too many corrodians are dying of a sudden. Just when the spital is short of funds …’

‘I have heard those rumours, and more. Old Bede is fond of them. But there is no question three of the corrodians died of pestilence.’ Still, Bess shivered. The night had grown chilly and the river mist was damp on her skin.

‘Matilda de Warrene, mayhap, too many saw her suffering, though she was a frail one. But Will Franklin and John Rudby’ — Cooper cocked his head to one side — ‘who saw them but lay sisters and brothers from St Leonard’s? And Laurence de Warrene — now there’s something passing strange about his accident. How many times in a man’s life does he light a fire and not even singe a hair on his head? Why did that fire take him? That’s what folk are wondering. And poor, stumbling Walter de Hotter. He did not die of pestilence.’