Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

“It would be heresy to throw them out of their own camp when God Himself caused them to be allowed to live here,” said the knight. “Do you think yourself above God? If they are marked out by God for His own divine justice, you can have no right to execute your justice on them. It is not for you to decide who should live here, and who should not.”

“I am a free man of Crediton. I have…”

“No right in this, smith!” Baldwin suddenly bellowed. He crossed the floor in a couple of steps and grabbed the smith by the neck of his linen shirt. Holding the man close to his face, the knight glared at him. “You have no right to decide on divine or secular justice, understand? I speak for the King in this town, and Peter Clifford speaks for God. We don’t need you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong! If you so much as speak to a leper in this town again, I will have you amerced for swearing; if I hear you have tried to harm them, I will have you thrown into jail; if a leper is harmed because of your vile and ridiculous slanders, I will have every ounce of pain reflected on your own body! Is that clear?”

The smith met his angry gaze resolutely. “And what if they kill us in the meantime? That’s what they want, you know, to kill us all off so that they can take over our town. They’re going to poison all the wells except their own.”

“What?” the knight expostulated. “Are you so moronic that you believe there is a conspiracy of lepers to kill you off?”

“It’s happening all over Europe, haven’t you heard? The Jews have put them up to it. When they’ve killed us all, they’ll be rewarded by the Jews, and then they’ll take our daughters and wives for their own. It’s down to the clean-living, God-fearing folk like us to stop them.”

Baldwin stared deep into the eyes before him. There was no reason there, and he suddenly felt a gut-churning disgust that was close to retching. “You cretin! You know nothing except what your bigotry wants to believe, no matter what the truth may be. You think they’ll poison the wells with something that’ll just kill off the menfolk but leave all the women all right? You’re too stupid to take seriously!” Contemptuously, he threw the man from him.

Jack tripped on a bolt of iron and collapsed. Before he could rise, Baldwin was kneeling on his chest. As the smith made to get up, he stopped, and his eyes for the first time registered fear.

“Yes,” hissed Baldwin quietly. “I have a dagger at your throat. It would take just a small push to shove it into your brain, if I could find something so small. You listen to me, you fool, and listen very carefully: you will not spread any more stories about lepers, and if you hear anybody else talking such rubbish, you’ll tell them to stop. Is that clear? I will not have them made even more miserable because of a moron like you.”

“Baldwin, you shouldn’t hurt him,” said Simon quietly. He had got to his feet, and now stood a short way from the two men.

The knight slowly released the smith, who lay still, his eyes glittering with rage. “You say you are ”God-fearing,“ so go to Peter Clifford and ask him what God thinks of those who spread lies about others and incite the mob to murder. I will speak to him and tell him to expect you. But for now, don’t forget I’ll be listening to every rumor with a view to hearing what you’ve been saying, and if there’s anything malicious about lepers, you’ll suffer for it.”

He shoved his dagger back in its sheath and left the room. Edgar hurried after him, but Simon paused a moment, staring down at the smith.

“He’s mad,” said Jack with disgust, bringing himself up to a sitting position and brushing dirt from his shirt.

Simon kicked his elbow, and the smith fell back, striking his head on the ground, and cursing.

“Mad he may be, but so help me, if I hear you’ve been slandering that sweet girl Mary,” said Simon pleasantly, “I shall come back here and roast you over your own forge.”

“You couldn’t. You’re an officer of the law yourself, Bailiff.”

Simon gave him a lazy smile. “Don’t try me, Jack. The Keeper always sticks within the law. Me, I’m used to issuing my own justice. So listen carefully. If I hear that Mary has been insulted or hurt by anything you do, I’ll be back here, and I’ll impose my own vengeance on you. You are to be congratulated. In a matter of a few short hours, you’ve managed to make two new enemies, and both are officers, one of the King, one of the Warden of the Stannaries. Don’t make us have to return.”

Cecily mopped the sweat from John’s brow. He was deathly pale, and his breathing was irregular, panting one moment and taking long, slow breaths the next. His rudimentary first aid was unravelling. She had removed his headband already, and the splints he had so carefully constructed and bound to his leg were loose, and coming free.

Hearing the mad rattle of hooves and iron on the stones of the roadway, she was tempted to leave him and rush to the gate to urge the men on faster, but she swallowed hard and remained. The hand clutching at her own was enough to convince her that she was of more use here, holding onto the injured man, than outside getting in the way of the riders.

First through the gateway was her stableman, and he was off his mount as soon as he was through it, leaping to her side. Then the wagon came in at a gallop, and the driver had to haul on the reins to stop the two beasts before they compounded John’s hurts.

“Mistress, let me help you up.”

Cecily shook her head. She had no intention of letting go of the man’s hand while John gripped it. A monk came to her side, and gently felt John’s head before studying his posture and coloring. “The diagnosis isn’t difficult, at any rate,” he murmured. “It’s the prognosis that will be more complicated.”

“How is he?”

“How?” He was an older monk, with a fringe of whitening hair all round his head that only served to emphasize the lines of worry and confusion on his brow. “Why, with a beating like this, it’s hard to say. I should think he’s concussed, which means he would have been better employed lying in his bed, rather than getting up to these antics. The only effect of his moving around will be a severe headache.”

“But his leg!”

“Yes. It’s obvious he had to try to fetch help. The leg is in a dreadful state, but at least his pulse seems stable. Sometimes you find that a man will slide away quickly when he has had a bad accident. The pneuma, the life force which is manufactured in the heart from the air collected in the lungs, and carried about the body with the blood until it…”

“Can you cure him?” snapped Cecily.

“Why yes – I suppose so. I think that…”

“Where will you cure him?”

“At the hospital attached to the church, of course, so…”

“So you should hold your lectures until he’s installed there, shouldn’t you?”

She quickly had the men take John’s door off its hinges, and they carefully lifted him onto it, suffering the lash of Cecily’s tongue when she thought they might have failed in any way or made him uncomfortable. Soon John was on the back of the wagon, and Cecily rode in it with him, still holding his hand.

They set off down the hill, the driver standing warily, talking to his two charges as they began the descent, for this was a steep hill in places, and he didn’t want to be called to Cecily’s attention for careless driving. As they went, Cecily was surprised to feel her hand squeezed by the injured Irishman. She looked down and smiled at him.

At that moment, with the sun above lighting her head like a halo, John of Irelaunde was blinded. “Have I died? Are you an angel?” he asked querulously. Before she could answer, the cart hit a stone and jolted, beating his bruised skull against the boarded walls. “Jesus’ Blood!” he swore, and when he glanced upward again and saw her smile, he gave a pale grin in return. “Ah, Mistress Cecily. You must be an angel – almost the best angel I could have hoped to meet this morning. I hope you won’t mind taking a message to my sweet girl?”