Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

It was not until the sun was already up and shining in through the open door that he could take any interest in his surroundings again. From the light coming in, he could survey the room. It was clear that someone had ransacked the place. All his belongings were all over the floor, his trunk was opened, and his chairs and tables upset. It made him give a wry grin. “Too late, lads!” he whispered.

At last he could make a second attempt to move. He gradually forced himself into a position from which he could crawl, and inched his way toward the door, sweat beading his brow. It took all his strength to do so without screaming. It was ironic, he thought, that the only thing he had brought with him from Ireland was this: his stoicism.

Outside the door was his little rainbutt, and beside that his stool. He stared at them, teeth gritted. It seemed an immense distance, but he was determined to get there; he needed water, and he had to get into the daylight to inspect his wounds. The ground was hard, and each time his leg dragged over a pebble or scraped over a rough patch of dried mud, he bit his lip to keep from swearing.

It took the very last atom of his energy to hoist himself on to the stool. Then, before he looked at his leg, he forced himself to thrust his head under the freezing water. Coming up blowing and panting, the liquid streaming from his face, he felt quickly nauseous, and had to swallow hard to keep the bile at bay, but the feeling soon passed, and he could sink back on the stool with a grunt and a gasp.

Only then did he look down at his leg. The foot was twisted, and he couldn’t bear to touch his knee, much less move it. When he gingerly touched his head, it felt as if someone had been beating it like a bolt of iron on an anvil. Both sides of his skull were bruised and swollen. Wincing and shaking with pain and reaction, he squinted at his gate: it hung open. Behind him was the storage shed where he kept his ale, and he felt his mouth water at the thought of a strong draft, but he rejected it as being beyond his power.

His leg was broken, near the knee. He stared at it grimly. His head felt as if it was being ruthlessly sawn in two, and the sensation wasn’t helped by the occasional impression that his vision was doubling. He wanted to throw up, but couldn’t afford the luxury; he must get help, go and see a surgeon or a monk, and get his leg mended. But to do that he must somehow get into town, and he couldn’t crawl the whole way. If he lived down toward the center of town, he could simply call from his door – but if he had lived in the town itself, he wouldn’t have been attacked: his screams would have been heard. Not that he’d managed to make much noise last night, he reminded himself glumly.

No, nobody was going to come up here. It wasn’t on the beaten track, and if it was, nobody would be likely to spot him in his yard so far from the path.

John had been a soldier. He knew a little about fixing broken bones, and he eyed his ruined leg sourly for a while. The only way he was going to get help was if he could get himself down to the church to demand it. He took out his knife, doffed his jacket, and began to hack the cloth into strips.

When Baldwin entered his hall, he felt more than a little self-conscious. His new tunic was of a bright red hue, more colorful than anything he had possessed before, and he could see that Simon was startled to see him so resplendent.

The knight ignored his friend, instead walking to the quiet woman near the fire. She was clothed in a new tunic of bright red velvet, and as he surveyed it, he recognized the cloth. It was that which he had bought for her in Tavistock.

“My lady, I am flattered and honored by your gift.”

If he sounded a littly stiffly formal, his face belied it. Jeanne smiled back at him, delighted to see how the color suited him. It was twelve months ago that she and Margaret had bought the cloth, and Jeanne had quickly made up the tunic when she returned home after that first meeting, but it had not seemed right, somehow, to merely send it to him with her compliments. She had wanted to see him wear it for the first time, and now, to be able to see how his face was softened by the color, and by his pleasure, she felt her heart swell with pride that she had achieved this on her own, with only her skill at needlework. “It is my pleasure, Sir Baldwin. I am delighted to see that it fits as well as I had hoped.”

Margaret smiled, and as she felt her husband prepare to offer a humorous sally, shoved a warning arm through his.

“Do you recognize this cloth?” Jeanne asked.

“It is the material I bought you in Tavistock,” he smiled.

She heard Emma cluck her tongue at her side, but ignored it. “Yes. I have not worn it until now. I wanted to put it on for the first time when you had your gift from me.”

“Perhaps when you have finished admiring each other’s attire, we can get down to Crediton and find this thief and murderer?” Simon suggested drily.

Baldwin threw him an irritated look, but Jeanne laughed out loud and pushed him toward the bailiff. “I think your other guest is keen to be off.”

“What about some food first?”

Simon indicated a small satchel and wineskin. “It’s ready! We can eat on our journey.”

With a bad grace, Baldwin submitted, and soon the two men, with Edgar in their train, were on their way, the knight taking the leading position.

As they began the long, shallow descent from Cadbury toward the town, Simon took a deep gulp of wine. “Where to first?”

“The leper house. I want to speak to Ralph.”

When they arrived at the chapel’s little gate, they found the monk already waiting, a stout cudgel in his hand.

“Sir Baldwin, I am so glad you could come, sir.”

“Why? Has something happened?”

“Hadn’t you heard? I assumed you must have. We had two men stoned last night – a recent inmate, and a travelling man. Both had rocks hurled at them; they could have been killed!”

Baldwin dropped from his horse and tied it to a branch. “Show me!” he instructed.

Behind him, Edgar sprang down easily enough, but Simon was less keen. He swung his leg over his rounsey’s rump, and knotted the reins over another branch, but he entered the compound unwillingly. He had never before been into a leper colony.

There were many laws to protect the public from lepers, and they all had one aim, to acknowledge God’s punishment. Lepers were defiled, and it was the duty of society to exclude them. Now, walking into the chapel’s grounds, Simon felt as if he was entering the very heart of pollution and decay. He could almost sense the vapor given off by the foul, diseased people as if it was reaching out to him, trying to grasp him in its chilly grip. It was perverse to go into a place of such hideous danger.

At his side he felt Edgar’s presence, and was grateful for it. The servant, still more than his master, seemed to exude confidence and strength, and Simon kept close to him, as though a little of it could rub off on him – and as if there might be some prophylactic merit in numbers. For his part, he was fearful to the point of feeling sick – not merely queasy, but genuinely close to vomiting.

Ralph led them at a smart pace past the church, along a patch of lawn, which was rimed with hoar-frost, and into one of the little buildings.

Baldwin glanced in, and almost drew back at the smell. It was not only the stench of disease, but of unwashed bodies, dirty clothes, and filth. He had to swallow hard before he could steel himself to cross the threshold.

The brother moved confidently to a shadowed corner, but the knight had to pause again, this time to accustom his eyes to the darkness. It was as if the disgusting fumes were clogging all his senses, even his eyes, and blinding him. It was impossible to see anything at first. Then, thankfully, the monk struck a flame from flint and steel, and Baldwin could look about him.