Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

“They’re an offense in the sight of God,” William offered sanctimoniously.

“Of course they are. Just look at the way they go around whining and begging. If they really wanted to get better, they’d go to their chapel and pray – that’s what I’d do! I wouldn’t sit around whinging, demanding money from strangers all the time. No, I’d get off my arse and pray to God, that’s what I’d do.”

“But you hear stories about them,” said William, dropping his voice to a low whisper.

Arthur nodded emphatically. “That’s right. The bastards. They’re in league with heretics and Jews. They’ve all agreed to attack us, and take all our property.”

“And our women,” added Jack, taking another swig of ale. “And what then? That’s what I’d like to know. They’re all such dirty bastards. God knows what they’re doing to poor Mary Cordwainer. She’s going up there every day. Helping them, she says. Cleaning up and such. Who believes her? I don’t, I can tell you. No, they have her doing something else for them, that’s what I reckon,” he said, and made an emphatic gesture.

“You think so?” asked Arthur. “That’s disgusting, that is! I’ve known little Mary all my life, and I’d never have thought…”

“Well, she was going to get engaged to Edmund, wasn’t she? It’s no surprise she went up there at first, but to be still going there every day? No, she’s been perverted into their ways, that’s what’s happened. Poor girl.”

Jack stared angrily at his jug. William almost said something to prompt him on, but then decided against it. The smith had the look of a man who took time to come to his conclusions, but with the inevitability of molten metal slowly pouring from a clay vessel into a channel, once he had started on a theme, he would follow along the track until he came to a solution which satisfied him.

When William left the inn, tugging his thick green velvet cloak about him against the frosty air, he felt well pleased with himself.

In the leper camp, Ralph finished his work and leaned back on his stool, his eyes shut as he allowed them a moment’s rest before packing up for the night. Day had ended long ago, and he was writing with the help of a small candle, whose flame was almost unequal to the task of shedding a little light on his parchment. Yet he was grateful for the meager amount it gave. He knew that it was provided by the kindness of others who had no need to supply him with anything.

It was frustrating to write up his accounts in this way, late at night when he was already exhausted, but there was so much to do during the day. He had the small garden to help cultivate, the chapel to keep spotless, the services to hold in order to protect his little flock, and the never-ending round of helping the inmates to change their bandages and apply ointments.

Many of them were showing the onset of the more serious symptoms, and their pain was all too evident. It was a hard cross to bear for Ralph, but he had no idea what he could do, other than clean their sores, wrap up the worst of the weeping wounds, and try, by his own example, to show how they might each hope to gain entrance into Heaven.

Three were showing no signs of accepting their fate. It was a cause of constant worry to Ralph, for his most urgent and pressing duty was to ensure that they all reached that state of grace whereby they might die at peace with God and the world. Alleviation of their pain was, when all was said and done, only a short-term issue. Their souls were the important thing.

And of them, one was most pressing of all. The other two, Thomas Rodde and Edmund Quivil, had plenty of time to learn the error of their ways and come to thank God. No, the real problem lay with old Bernard.

His speech was difficult for the monk to understand, but Ralph had learned that his life had been full of hardship, for he had once been an important soldier in the service of the King, fighting away on the Welsh Marches, before he had caught this evil canker. Now the body that had been strong and vital, which had held its own in a hundred bloody campaigns, was falling apart, eaten away from within.

Bernard had been struggling against his fate for long enough now, and he was almost ready to surrender, but not easily, and not willingly. To Bernard, life itself was the sacred essential – he simply couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand Ralph’s insistence that he should give himself up to God with enthusiasm. The old warrior wanted to contest every step, as if taking part in a rearguard action. But his enemy was as implacable as himself, with greater resources and powers. As Bernard failed and gradually sank, Ralph was ever more aware of Death waiting at the side of the mattress.

If only Ralph could have persuaded him to confess his sins, he would have felt that he had achieved something, but the hunched, wretched figure refused. It had now come to pass that he permitted the cleric to dress his wounds, but made it clear that he preferred the company of Rodde and Quivil at his bedside. The three of them had some kind of compact in which they all accepted their status as outcast. It was as if their very difference from the society that shunned them was itself a badge to be worn with pride.

He found it profoundly hard to talk to them and explain how dangerous their actions were. If they wanted to enjoy any peace in the afterlife, they must reject their fixation with the secular world, and prepare for Heaven. Only the week before he had suggested it to Rodde. The stranger had laughed, with a quiet, distracted air. “Look at me, Brother. Look at these sores and wounds. Do you really think that me saying to God, ”I am sorry for whatever I might have done,“ will win me a place in Heaven? I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done to offend Him!”

“My son, His will is not for us to understand,” Ralph had answered, but he knew he was fighting the wrong battle, for he didn’t believe it himself. He wanted to; he wanted to think that the passport to Heaven was the simple acceptance of guilt, but his logical, educated brain couldn’t quite adopt it as a principle. If God Himself had chosen to cause this disease, and had selected these men to make this cruel example, Ralph had a sneaking suspicion that it was not they who should be demanding forgiveness.

Even without the certainty of conviction, Ralph carried on: “Look at all the good people around here. They all pray for you, so that you may save yourself, for they all know that a single soul saved is an unending delight to God and the angels. They want you to admit your sins to God so you can be taken to Him. They are all willing you on, for your own good. They pray for you. Can’t you confess? It would make you a great deal more comfortable.”

“You think these people are all keen to see me saved?” At that, Rodde began to laugh. “I hope, Brother, that you manage to keep your naivety. But don’t be too depressed when you’re let down, will you?”

Ralph bit the end of his quill at the memory. He stared into the distance with a wrinkled brow before throwing the feather down with a gesture of impatience. The sad, hurt and vulnerable expression on Rodde’s face had made him want to fall at his feet and pray for him on the spot. More than other lepers, Rodde seemed to feel the hideous reality of his doom. Ralph had noticed before the signs of education, the marks of a man brought up in a higher station, and he was given to reflect how much more terrible it must be for a man who had a bright future to accept God’s judgment in this way, rather than a dull serf who could only expect hard work and a short life. It made Ralph even more sympathetic.

And Rodde’s difference was what attracted others to him. It was his learning that made Bernard ask for him. The two would whisper together about strange lands and peoples that Ralph had never heard of. They were a curious pair, the old dying man on his mattress, the younger one kneeling, gripping his ever-present staff.