Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

“What is this? Who dares interrupt a holy meeting?” he demanded, but the crowd had begun to murmur, and he couldn’t hear the reply. Holding up his hand, he glowered around waiting for silence.

The man, Orey, had that kind of shabby gentility that was so common among tradesmen of poor birth. He was an unprepossessing fellow; short, grubby, ungainly, fat with too much ale, and flushed. Slack-jawed and apparently nervous, he barged forward and fell on his face on the floor before the altar, lying with his arms outstretched like a penitent imitating crucifixion. A stunned quietness overtook everyone, and Stapledon waited doubtfully, glancing from side to side at the church officials. He could see no help there. They were as confused as he himself.

“My Lord Bishop, I was blind – I came in here with my wife hoping and praying that God in His goodness would grant me a miracle and let me see again, and behold! I can see! It’s a miracle, I swear!”

Facing the ground as if scared of seeing the expression on the Bishop’s face, Orey’s voice was muffled, but enough of the people heard him. A thrill of excitement ran through the crowd. There was a pause, as if the whole congregation was drawing breath, and then the cries came out in a torrent: “Ring the bells!” “Praise God!” “Give thanks to God for a miracle!”

At Orey’s side was a woman, thin and careworn, her hair prematurely gray. She held out her hands to the Bishop in supplication. “It’s true, my Lord. My husband here went blind weeks ago, and he had a dream that if he could get here to your mass he’d be able to see again. We came as soon as we could, and now he’s no longer blind!”

Bishop Stapledon nodded to himself slowly, eyeing the crowd skeptically before turning to the astounded cleric at his side. “Arrest him.”

There had been outrage, the gullible protesting he should be honored, not held like a felon; others, seeing the direction of the Bishop’s thoughts, threatened to tear Orey limb from limb for heresy. Stapledon merely motioned the people away from the altar and imperturbably continued with the service.

But all through the rest of the ceremony, he had struggled to control the turbulence that shivered through his body. It was impossible to suppress the hope that this might truly be a miracle, the first he had ever witnessed.

Stapledon gave a heavy sigh as Baldwin finished his story.

Ralph leaned forward, barely controlling his excitement. “But I’d never heard of this! Was he telling the truth?”

Baldwin gave a crooked smile. “Ah, now that is the question. How could the Bishop tell?”

“I couldn’t. I wanted to believe – of course I did! – but I am too old to take a peasant’s word as Gospel truth when he swears to a miracle like that.”

“What did you do?”

“I had Orey and his wife questioned. They both deposed that on the Thursday before Easter he had gone to bed perfectly well, and had awoken blind. Orey came from Keynesham, he was the local fuller, and we sent to hear from his neighbors. There were plenty prepared to support his story.”

“So the Bishop was left with little choice,” Baldwin said.

“No,” said Stapledon. “I had to accept their word, especially since all swore on the Gospels. If there had been a shred of doubt I would have had Orey in jail for deception, but as it was, everyone supported his story – even the local priest, although he was hardly better educated than Orey himself and spent most of his spare time investigating the mysteries held inside ale barrels rather than those in the Bible. No, I had to order the bells to be rung, and held a thanksgiving service for God’s mercy in manifesting the illness on Orey, and for giving him his cure.”

“And this man Orey is now known as John of Irelaunde?” asked Ralph with confusion.

“No!” laughed Baldwin. “Orey was the man who persuaded John the trickster to come here.”

“Orey returned to his business the next January,” Stapledon noted drily, glaring at the knight. “It so happened that on his way he met this tranter, John of Irelaunde, and told him of his miraculous cure. Orey was determined to praise God after what he was sure was a miracle, and wherever he went he told people what had happened to him. His wife, I understand, was a most willing witness. But this tranter, this John, then changed his direction and came to Crediton. He covered his eyes like a blind man, walked with a stick, and asked everyone he met whether they could lead him to the church. He said he had suddenly been struck blind, but had been sent a dream from God which showed him that he could be cured if he would only come to Crediton and attend a mass.”

“He was so transparent,” Peter Clifford chortled. “Turning up like that, just a short time after Orey had gone, and all alone on his cart – as if he could have travelled so many miles blind and without a guide! I suppose he never considered how suspicious he would look.”

“But why would he bother?” Ralph asked.

Stapledon threw him a patronizing glance. “Ralph, when you have lived as long as I have, you’ll realize how gullible people can be. The populace here had showered Orey with money, hoping that by their charity a little of his good fortune would redound to them. No doubt he mentioned this to John. The people wanted to associate themselves with Orey, for after all, God had marked him out as favored. What Irelaunde intended was to visit the church, demonstrate his own marvellous recovery, and be similarly favored by the good burgesses of the town.”

“But how can you be certain he wasn’t truly blind?”

“In the first place because he could bring forward no witnesses; in the second because his story was too unlikely. God doesn’t send miraculous cures by the gross or even the pair; He provides them occasionally as proof of His kindness and power. And then, of course, the fool was seen lifting the bandage from his eyes.”

“Our constable has good eyes himself,” Baldwin laughed, giving up all attempts to restrain his mirth, “and a deeply suspicious soul. When he sees an apparently blind man lifting one edge of the cloth binding his eyes in order to survey his path before making his way straight to the inn at which, upon arriving, he gives every sign of being quite incapable of seeing anything – the good constable begins to wonder what kind of ocular incapacity he is witness to. The constable kept his own eyes on John, and the next day when John made his entrance in the church, the constable was able to offer some words to the Bishop.”

“I doubted the man from the first,” Stapledon muttered. “It was too much having a second man with a sudden blindness turn up; miracles aren’t that common. No, I had Irelaunde put in the jail, and when he couldn’t produce a single witness to support his defense, I said he should be held until he could be tried in court.”

“There was no point, my Lord,” said Clifford. “He was too obvious. I asked the burgesses what they would do, and relayed your suggestion, but they all seemed to think he was a joke, and only made him spend a morning in the stocks.”

“A morning? A whole morning? My God, what cruelty!” the Bishop said witheringly.

Baldwin laughed. “Don’t be too hard on the town for such generosity. You can imagine how the burgesses would have looked at it: on the one hand they had a fabulous proof of the holiness of their church, an event that had been witnessed by the Bishop himself, and something that would be bound to bring in pilgrims from all over the country – and on the other a simple crook, someone who might, if his case came to be known, ruin the town’s reputation. If one man was proven to be a fraud, wouldn’t that automatically reflect upon the first miracle? If John of Irelaunde was false, people would wonder whether Orey was as well.”