Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

Crediton wasn’t so bad, she’d grudgingly agreed that yesterday when Jeanne had asked. But that was when they had only just entered the town, and soon Emma’s attitude had changed. In its favor, at least Crediton had some cobbles, and there were walkways so that ladies and gentlemen did not have to trail their finery in the filth of the sewer, or in the horse dung that lay all over… or in the feces from dogs and cats, goats and sheep, steers and heifers. In real towns, she had reminded her mistress scathingly, such wastes were found only in the market area where butchers and tanners plied their trade, but Crediton was such a one-road place that the animals got everywhere.

This farm, where the “noble” knight lived, was hardly good reason to want to live here. Emma could only gaze around her with scorn. There were no fine paintings on the walls, no elaborate carvings; it was just somewhere where a wealthy peasant wouldn’t have looked out of place. She glanced around the hall. A large table for Sir Baldwin and his guests lay at the far end, and the rest of the rush-strewn floor held other benches and tables – for the most part trestles that could easily be cleared away. There was no grace or elegance about it whatever.

And then there was the dog.

“Killed?” Baldwin repeated with horror. “But why? Uther’s always so gentle.”

“Gentle? I suppose you think when the monster knocks you flat on your back and stands slavering at your throat, he’s being playful?” Emma’s lip curled into a sneer. Her logic was unanswerable, she knew. She had always had a detestation for dogs of all sorts. Their slavish obedience, their fawning displays of affection and the filth they would eat, made her stomach churn. As if that wasn’t enough, she had a horror of the huge teeth. They looked too much like those of a wolf. “That dog should be killed,” she said again, with emphasis on the last word.

“But my dear woman, I really must say that I think Uther was only…”

“Why you should think my mistress would consider living in a hovel running with flea-bitten, mangy runts like that, I don’t know. As if it wasn’t enough that she should be killed by your hounds while she’s asleep, I expect she’ll scarcely get any rest, what with the fleas and other things. A fine place! The only way to get this household fit for a lady like her is to have the dogs out where they belong, in their kennels.”

With that, having confirmed that Baldwin’s face was as shocked as she had hoped, Emma rotated her massive bulk and steered a course through the door and out.

Baldwin passed a hand weakly over his forehead. “Is it true that she really has gone?” he asked. “I swear, if I’d had a javelin here, I would have hurled it at her, whatever the consequences!”

“Don’t worry, Baldwin,” Margaret said sympathetically. “I’m sure she’s not as bad as all that once you get to know her. Maybe it’s just that she’s some way from home and feels a little uncertain.”

“I rather think she has too many certainties for my liking,” Baldwin pointed out acidly. “And what in the name of God has got into you, Wat my lad?”

For answer, the boy began to weep, and covered his face with his hands.

“God’s Blood!” muttered the knight. “I really believe this household has gone mad in the last day. Wat, calm yourself – and if you can’t, go out to the buttery and fill yourself with strong ale. Ah! Hugh – what the hell has been going on in here? What’s the matter with him?”

Hugh watched the lad shuffle out, and set his jaw. “It was her,” he said contemptuously. “She said the fire in her lady’s room wasn’t hot enough, and when Wat tried to make it burn better, he dropped an ember on her cloak and burned a hole. She clouted his ear for it.”

“He’ll have to learn to be more careful,” said Baldwin.

To Hugh he looked very pensive, and it wasn’t due to the murder, Hugh thought. Simon’s servant had known the knight for several years now, and Hugh had seen him investigating enough other crimes to know some of his moods, but he had never yet seen Baldwin in so irascible a temper.

No, the trouble was that Baldwin was so keen on this woman, Jeanne. It was as plain as a black sheep in a white flock that he wanted her. But he was terrified of the woman’s servant.

That was a position that Hugh could understand. As far as he was concerned, the bitch was mad. She had slapped Hugh’s mug from his hand at the inn, wasting over a pint of ale, just because she thought he’d had enough – as if she could tell. He’d only drunk two quarts, and that was nothing for him. Especially after a long ride like the one they’d had to get to Crediton. She’d come up, slapped his wrist and sent the lot flying. It had shocked him so much, he’d not been able to make any complaint, not even when she grabbed him by the nape of his tunic and hurled him out into the hall. Landing on the floor like that had been humiliating. And Hugh didn’t like being humiliated.

He also didn’t like people who disliked dogs. Hugh was a farmer’s son from the old moor hamlet of Drewsteignton, and had grown up on the open land around there, spending much of his time as a youth protecting the flocks. He knew dogs as well as any who spent their life with only a pair of sheepdogs as companions: he knew their strengths and their few weaknesses, and anybody who could want to condemn a dog to death for no reason was no friend to Hugh.

A moorman learns early on to value self-reliance. When a man lives out in the moors, he has to shift for himself. But a shepherd develops other skills: how to be devious, how to trap and destroy many wild things by stealth. Hugh stood grim and silent as Edgar walked in, holding Uther by the collar, watched as Baldwin laid a hand on his head and stared the dog full in the face contemplatively. Hugh’s expression darkened, and the room was quiet as they all waited expectantly.

“Baldwin, you can’t,” said Margaret quietly.

The knight held his mastiff’s head in both hands and stared into his eyes. “Uther, old friend, I don’t know what to do.”

“Sir, surely you should just lock him away in the stable or something,” said Edgar.

“What? You don’t want him put to the sword straight away?”

Edgar shifted from one foot to another, almost embarrassed. “It would be a great pity to kill the brute just because a maid doesn’t choose to like him. Poor old Chopsie isn’t vicious. I’d stake my life on it!”

“Chopsie?” asked Margaret.

“Don’t ask! Lock him up, then,” said Baldwin, and stood. “And now I am going to change out of these clothes. Excuse me, Margaret.”

He left the room without a backward glance, which looked to Hugh like a determined effort to appear blase. But Hugh knew how much Baldwin’s dog meant to him, and at that moment his mind began to scheme and invent methods of avenging Uther.

William waited while the hoof was cleaned and rasped into shape, and while the new shoe was forged and fitted. Only when the new one was nailed in place, did he offer to buy the smith an ale.

It took more than William had expected. The smith appeared to have an insatiable thirst, and yet managed to remain upright. It was not long before William found himself having to pretend to drink in order to prevent himself getting too drunk to continue with his careful prompting.

His task was made the easier by the presence of a man, Arthur, whom William had noticed about the street but to whom he had never spoken. Arthur, he learned, was a fishmonger, and Arthur was possibly even more bigoted than Jack. For some reason, Arthur was convinced that the sole reason for his sales having fallen off was that lepers were allowed into the town.

“I mean, why should they be let in, eh? What good do they do? And all the time they’re leching after our wives and daughters.”