Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

Thomas Rodde hesitated. It was tempting to go after the two men and try to listen to what they were saying, but that kind of spying was easier for the able-bodied. In his leper’s clothes it was impossible to be discreet, and if he was to approach too close, especially now that the wind had changed direction, he would be shouted at. He knew the law: lepers must always stay downwind of other people so that their contagion couldn’t be passed on the corrupt air that emanated from their leprous flesh.

The crowd had all left the gate, and there was only the constable left. Making a quick decision, Rodde left Quivil, stepping forward, his clapper sounding its knell as he walked. “Constable, sir,” he called.

Tanner turned sharply on hearing himself hailed, but seeing who it was, he curled his lip. “Keep away, sinner.”

“I’m sorry, constable, if I alarmed you,” Rodde said, standing at a decent distance. “But I’ve been watching, and I wondered whether there was any idea who was the murderer of poor Master Godfrey?”

“If we knew that we’d have arrested him,” Tanner said shortly. He was not a cruel man by nature, but he detested the sight of lepers. They reminded him that no matter how strong he himself was, one day he would also suffer illness and perish. He shivered at the thought.

“Sir, it’s only that I wondered who could want to kill a man like him.”

“You’re right there,” Tanner said, glancing over his shoulder at the great dark building behind him. “I mean, he was rich, respected, and didn’t have any enemies that I know of.”

“So there is no obvious suspect?”

Tanner stirred himself and gave the leper a sharp look. “Why, do you know anything about all this?”

“No, sir, nothing. I’m not even a local man. But when you have to wear this dress and toll your clapper to warn others to keep away, any news is interesting.”

The constable watched as the leper made his way off along the street, collecting the other on his way, their little wooden bells sounding at regular intervals. Tanner leaned back against the wall. It was a relief to see them go: it was unsettling having them nearby, their hungry eyes fixed on him as if needing not only food but something more simple: mere human company.

And that thought made him shiver again as it gave him a glimpse of the worst punishment that leprosy inflicted upon its victims: that of utter loneliness. He looked up the street, tempted to offer the two men a drink at his expense, or the price of a loaf of bread, but they had disappeared.

Bugger them, he thought. But he crossed himself nonetheless as he offered up a short prayer for a speedy death, and no lingering anguish such as he had seen in Rodde’s eyes.

All the way home, Baldwin was curiously silent. Simon had expected passing comments about the murder, or perhaps words reflecting his nervousness about seeing Jeanne again, but the knight said nothing.

Unknown to the bailiff, his friend was repeating certain phrases in his mind, then editing them with cold brutality. They were none of them very imaginative, for Baldwin had never before felt the need to try out expressions of love. It took him five miles of riding to give up the attempt and erase from his memory all the hard effort. All he could do was pray that she would be content with his obvious devotion. It was all he felt capable of relying on – he certainly couldn’t trust to his tongue.

The house was quiet – ominously so – when Simon and Baldwin arrived. Their horses left with the groom, they made their way to the front door. Simon almost laughed out loud to see how Baldwin dawdled.

Baldwin sensed impending doom. The glimpse of Jeanne at the inn had been as refreshing as he had hoped. She was as attractive as he remembered, and his decision to try to win her hand was strongly reinforced – but such a decision was hard to put into action. From all he had heard from others, it was a simple case of asking the question, gaining the required acquiescence after a moderate show of unwillingness, and then “hey for the priest.” But with Jeanne it was not so straightforward. He had already asked her once, the year before, and although she had not firmly rejected him, neither had she promised that a repetition of his offer would receive a different response. The only favorable sign she had given was her suggestion that she should visit him here; in effect, as he had so often told himself, viewing her prospective husband’s resources before committing herself.

“Come on, Baldwin! Anyone’d think you were nervous!”

“Most amusing! I was just thinking about this murder, that is all.”

“Of course, Baldwin. Naturally. But won’t your guests be wondering why their host is lurking out here in the cold as darkness falls?”

The knight gave him a look of such pained confusion that the bailiff was tempted to suggest he should immediately resaddle his horse and make for the Cornish border. Instead Simon clapped him on the back.

“Let’s get inside. You look as if you need a good hot mug of wine.”

“You know I don’t like too much alcohol, Simon.”

“Remember your lady’s maidservant?”

“Perhaps tonight could be an exception!”

At the door, Baldwin steeled himself and crossed over his threshold resolutely. He was about to enter his hall when he heard a strange noise. Frowning, he crossed to the opposite door, and peered out. In the yard, stacking logs with determined stoicism, was Wat.

“What is that noise for?” Baldwin demanded.

Wat wiped his eyes, clearing them of tears, and incidentally wiping green muck from the logs all over his face. This was his master, the man he held in the highest esteem. “Sir, I’m sorry.”

“What is it? What have you done?” demanded the mystified knight. It was odd enough to see young Wat crying, without hearing him apologizing as well. Neither was in character for the tough youngster.

“It was Chops, sir. I had him with me in the hall like normal, and then this woman walks straight in. I tried to hold him, sir, but I couldn’t, and she hit me so hard, sir…”

As his voice trailed off into snivels, Baldwin held up his hands helplessly. “Well, I’m sure you couldn’t help it, Wat. Now stop your sniffing and finish tidying up those logs, all right?”

Leaving his servant, Baldwin wandered back into the screens, where Simon waited, and thence into the hall.

“We were wondering where you could have got to.”

It was Margaret, and as Baldwin walked in, she set aside some needlework which she had been using to while away the time, and rose to greet him. The knight nodded edgily, his attention wavering from Margaret even as he welcomed her once more to his home.

And the source of his unease stood gravely. “Good day again, Sir Baldwin.”

“I… er. You are most welcome, my lady. I hope my servant has seen to your comfort?”

“Oh, he has been most attentive. However, I fear my servant is out of temper with your dog!”

Baldwin threw a glance at Edgar, who stood near the fire, a large jug of wine held in his hands. “Hippocras, Sir Baldwin?”

The knight blinked. “Er… yes, thank you.” It was many years since his man had bothered to behave so formally with him, even in public. Simon nudged his elbow as if accidentally as he passed, muttering under his breath, “Go on, man!” and he nodded dumbly.

“Simon, could you come and help me? I need to prepare for our meal,” said Margaret sweetly.

Jeanne watched them leave the room with a faint smile. “Edgar, I think I would like a little more wine. This tastes a little too watery. Could you fetch me some more?”

“My lady, of course,” the servant said suavely, and bowed himself from the room.

Watching him leave from lowered brows, Baldwin was almost jealous. He had been waiting for a year to be alone with Jeanne, and now he was, he was numb with shyness.