Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

Stapledon knew that the same thoughts were diverting the monks as they made their way along the road. Leaning over, he patted Ralph’s back. “Don’t worry, my son, we can set aside all fears for the future of the country while we are here in Devon.”

“If war comes, it will reach to every corner of the kingdom.”

“True, but it will come here last of all, and there is no need to anticipate it at present. Perhaps there are enough men of good will and good sense to avert it.”

“I pray to God that we might be saved from it.”

Stapledon peered at Ralph. It was irritating that his sight was so poor now at shorter distances; he could observe things with clarity ten feet away or more, but anything nearer was indistinct, as if seen through a misted glass. “You will find that Crediton will help you forget your fears. It is a happy, bustling town, and the Dean, Peter Clifford, is a good man – and an excellent host.”

Ralph of Houndeslow gave a faint smile. Peter Clifford’s hospitality was immaterial to him. There were vastly more important things to consider than a dean’s generosity to travelling monks and an important prelate – but this was hardly the time for him to raise such matters. He was relieved to see the Bishop revert to silent contemplation of the way ahead.

There was little to see. The rolling hills rose on either side, smothered in ancient trees – oaks, elms, beeches and chestnuts – and here and there a thin column of smoke lifted over the branches until caught by the faint breeze, whereupon it was whipped away like magic. It was good to see that the peasants were industrious here; in so many other places the villeins were surly and lazy. Since the famine, many appeared to resent working for their masters. Here at least the wood was being cut, the coppiced boughs taken for firewood and furniture-making, or being stacked to make charcoal.

But Ralph had heard about this land and couldn’t like it. He knew that the further he travelled toward Crediton, the further he was going from civilization. Few desired to go as far to the west as Dartmoor or Cornwall. They were wild lands, with a population that was unchanged, so it was said, from the earliest times when the first men came to these islands. Devon and Cornish men were hard and lawless, as rough and untameable as the moors themselves. Exeter was more or less a haven, a lonely fort on the outskirts of the kingdom, much like the castles of the Welsh or Scottish Marches, an isolated beacon of hope in the wasteland all round.

Just as he thought this, Ralph saw a cart. The sight of so mundane a vehicle made him feel a little foolish after his sour consideration of the land. It was as if God Himself was rebuking him for falling prey to such somber reflections.

Stapledon was still concentrating on the hills ahead. “Look,” he said, pointing. “That smoke – that’s Crediton.”

Ralph followed the direction of his finger. They were descending into a broad valley, the river lying on their left, while on their right the woods were thinning. Beyond them he could see a series of strip fields lying roughly perpendicular to the road. A litter of broken branches and mud bore witness to the flooding of a month before when the rain had swollen every watercourse and the plains had filled with water. Much had been cleared from the road here, but silt remained on the side nearest the water. In front of him he caught a glimpse of a limewashed wall through the trees. He could see that the road curved round to the right and disappeared as it climbed up between two hills, above which he could make out the light haze of woodsmoke. Faintly on the wind came the scent of burning wood from the town’s fires.

“Not far now,” said the Bishop, wriggling uncomfortably in his saddle.

“No, my Lord,” Ralph agreed. He had been told that the Bishop was victim to hemorrhoids, which made any journey on horseback an ordeal. Ralph had never been afflicted with them, but the eye-watering description of the symptoms, which likened the pain to that of sitting upon a sharpened dagger, made him sympathetic, no matter how much some of his servants might snigger behind the Bishop’s back.

They were almost upon the cart now. Ralph could see that the driver was a little, hunched figure, elbows resting on his knees, his torso bent, the reins held slackly, as if the driver himself was content to leave the destination to his old pony. Ralph felt his mood lighten at the sight. This was a local peddlar, someone who would buy stocks of bread and beer to trade with households in the near vicinity; hardly the representative of a brutal and ancient race such as the monk had anticipated only a few minutes before. The cleric made a mental note to admit to his foolishness at his next Confession.

“Good morning,” he called as he overhauled the carter.

The man idly raised a hand to his old felt hat, lifting the edge of its flopping brim, and Ralph caught a glimpse of shrewd brown eyes, which immediately narrowed in a cheerful grin, and then the hat was swept off with what the priest thought was a counterfeit respect, as if the man was laughing – although not at Ralph himself. It was as though the tranter was sharing a secret joke with Ralph, against the whole world. “Your servant, Lord.”

“I’m no lord – but you know that well enough!” Ralph retorted, but chuckled when the fellow shrugged good-naturedly. He had seen enough of these wandering salesmen to know that they lived on their wits, persuading dubious farmers or tinminers to part with their hard-earned and jealously guarded money. This man looked capable of selling a broken nag to the King’s own grooms, with his frank and honest appearance, easy smile and strong, square face. He gave Ralph a conspiratorial wink, and the cleric felt absurdly honored, as if he had undergone some form of trial and had exceeded the salesman’s wildest expectations.

But then Ralph heard the Bishop give a swift intake of breath, and saw him stiffen in his saddle. The monk’s pleasure was suddenly shattered as he heard the Bishop gasp: “My God! You!”

Sir Baldwin Furnshill took another mug of apple juice and sipped. It had taken some years, but Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton Church, had finally accepted the fact that Baldwin preferred not to drink alcohol throughout the day, and now, whenever the knight came to visit him, there was usually some form of refreshment on offer which did not threaten him with intoxication.

It was rare for a man to avoid ale and wine, but Baldwin had spent his youth as a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – a Knight Templar. While he had remained a member of the Order he had rigorously avoided strong drink; now he was in his mid-forties, he knew he wasn’t capable of consuming the same quantity as others of his age, and thus saved himself embarrassment by sticking to those drinks he knew would not leave him inebriated.

“That must be them,” Peter Clifford said as voices were heard in the courtyard. Shortly afterward there was a jingling of harnesses, rumbling of cartwheels and the hollow, metallic clatter of hooves on the cobbles. The Dean stood, emptying his goblet and handing it to the waiting servant. Baldwin set his mug by the fire and trailed after his friend, walking out to welcome the Bishop.

Baldwin had met Stapledon on a few occasions, and had always found him to be an urbane, refined gentleman. Today the knight was somewhat surprised to see the Bishop standing scowling while Peter’s stablemen held the horses. The Bishop’s men were milling, some pulling chests and boxes from the back of the wagon, others collecting the smaller packages from individual mounts. Their frenetic activity was proof of their own nervousness in the face of their master’s anger.