Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

Instead, he marched to the logpile. Dropping an armful carelessly on the floor, he fetched the sack of kindling. Soon he was kneeling, flint and his dagger scritching and clattering together as he tried to bring a spark to the tinder. Blowing, he managed to produce a tiny whisp of smoke, and fed it with dried leaves and grasses before adding small twigs left over from the clearances of the previous summer. Each year as trees were felled for firewood or coppiced for fencing, furniture and charcoal, the smaller, useless branches were saved for this function.

When he had produced a healthy flame, and had set two logs side-by-side over it, he settled back on his heels to watch it suspiciously for a while.

“You could have been quieter, if you’d wanted.”

Edgar grinned at Hugh’s sullen tone. “True!”

Hugh was lying on a heavy bench, like two or three other guests of Baldwin’s from the night before, and he groaned to himself as he hauled himself upright to rest on an elbow, scowling at Edgar. He grabbed at his rough blanket before it could slip off. “Where’s Wat? I thought he had to make up the fire.”

“Someone got him drunk last night. I think he’ll be late to rise today.”

Hugh chuckled quietly. “He seemed to enjoy his beer.”

“You shouldn’t have kept feeding him that strong ale, though. He doesn’t know how much he can take.”

“It happened to us all when we were young. I thought he coped well.”

“Until he got outside,” Edgar agreed. As soon as the wobbling boy had got to the back door and taken in his first deep breath of cool night air, he had hiccuped once, then started walking up and down the yard with increasing speed. Edgar and another had gone to watch and make sure he was safe, for it was all too common for a youngster to fall asleep and drown in his own vomit, but Wat had seemed fine – except he had refused to acknowledge any of the pleasantries hurled in his direction. And then he had been sick. Edgar had been quite surprised at the volume emanating from such a slight figure.

Wat had been carried to the trough and forced to swill his mouth and wash before being sent off to his bed. There was a maid who usually slept by the fire in the kitchen, and she took it upon herself to watch over him for the night.

“He’ll have to clear up all his puke before anything else,” Edgar noted. “But he slept all right. He looks very pale, though. I thought it would be kinder to him to let him rest a little longer. Anyway, he looked as though he was liable to throw up again when I looked in on him just now. I didn’t fancy getting him to try to blow the fire into light, not if he was going to spew all over it.”

“I suppose we’d better wake our masters,” Hugh grunted, stretching luxuriously. He set his feet on the ground, then winced at the pain in his head.

Cocking an eyebrow at him, Edgar grinned. “Wat wasn’t the only one had too much last night.”

He set the pan, ready filled with water, over the flames, and wandered through to the solar where Baldwin lay sleeping. Opening the door quietly, he was welcomed by a low grumbling. When he clicked his tongue, the noise stopped and the tawny dog padded over the floor on his massive paws, his tail wagging berserkly. It caught at the top of a chest as he passed, and swept a dagger, Baldwin’s purse, and a goblet clattering onto the floor.

“Christ’s Blood!”

“Good morning, Sir Baldwin,” said Edgar suavely. “I am glad Chops managed to waken you so quickly.”

Baldwin peered at him wearily. “There are times, Edgar, when I wonder why I don’t look for a new steward of my household.”

“It’s morning, sir, and you asked to be woken early so that you could get back to Crediton.”

“Oh!” Baldwin clutched at his head as he sat up. He closed his eyes, then daringly opened one into a slit. “I think I drank more wine than usual last night.”

“I think that is a fair comment, sir.”

“I remember now why I prefer not to drink too much,” Baldwin muttered as he came to his feet.

“But the evening went very well,” said Edgar, spreading out the knight’s tunic and inspecting it doubtfully. “This is torn.”

“The dog caught it last night.”

Edgar left his master to dress himself. Out in the hall once more, he saw that the fire was blossoming flames, and set more logs alongside to dry thoroughly. Returning from the log store, he met Hugh coming through after waking his own master, and the pair of them entered the hall to find Emma leaving it.

She glowered at them. There was no proof, but she was convinced that these men were responsible for her confinement the previous night. That dog had been left outside her room to prevent her protecting her mistress.

Emma was not interested in her mistress’ attraction to Sir Baldwin. To the maid, one man was pretty much the same as any other, although she had respected and felt sympathy for Sir Ralph de Liddinstone. It was the comparison between the two that made her feel such disgust for the knight of Furnshill. Ralph would never have invited all his bondsmen and freeholders to a feast such as Baldwin had held the night before; the idea was laughable. No, Sir Ralph was a real nobleman, in Emma’s eye. He was strong, and demonstrated his strength by imposing his will on his tenants, whereas the feeble Furnshill knight thought it better to pander to them.

In truth, the virulence of her loathing for Baldwin was based on the simple conviction that once her mistress had enjoyed a true, honorable, powerful knight, she would demean the memory of the man by wedding herself to a weakly article like Baldwin. That was why Emma was determined to prevent any possibility of a match between the two; and why she was seized with rage at having been effectively locked in her room the night before, with that slavering hound wandering outside her door. It had stopped her from walking with her mistress and protecting her from Sir Baldwin’s pathetic attempts at courtly lovemaking.

It was the first time in a long while that Emma had been so effectively thwarted, and she was furious that these two uncultured, common peasants could have succeeded. And now she had to bring the reward to the knight. It made her gorge rise.

Hugh quailed under her piercing gaze, and dropped back so that Edgar was a little in front and shielding him. She looked Edgar up and down contemptuously. In her hand was a rough bundle. After a moment’s silence, she thrust it into his hands.

He looked at it with some surprise. “What’s this?”

“It’s for your master. From my lady. She asked me to tell you to give it to him.”

Edgar took the light package straight to his master. Baldwin was about to leave his room, and gave his servant a surprised glance when he appeared.

“What?”

“This, sir. It’s for you, apparently.”

Baldwin frowned at it, then motioned Edgar into his room. The servant took it to the bed and untied the cord that bound it. Inside, he found a bright crimson cloth. Shaking it out, he stared.

“A new tunic?”

Baldwin felt the fine woollen cloth. “Do you remember? She said she would make me a new tunic last year at Tavistock.” He glanced down ruefully at his old white, stained and worn robe. “I think I had better get changed,” he sighed.

His head felt as if it was about to fall from his shoulders. When he opened his eyes, everything was misted and befogged, as if he was looking through a badly finished glass window. Movement of any sort was agony; even blinking brought a stab of pain to his temples.

Gradually, as he recovered his senses, John realized where he was. He was lying on the floor of his room, beside the fire he had been trying to build. He reached out a hand, and slowly, with infinite care, eased himself onto his belly. As he tried to lever himself up, simultaneous bolts like white-hot brands seared his head and leg. Gasping, he had to let himself flop to the ground, and passed out.