Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

But Jack had only the companionship of the tavern or inn, where his prejudices were reinforced by others who believed the same as him, and who were prone to embellish their tales to make them more easily swallowed when mixed with ale. And his brain was fogged by the fumes that rose each day from the glowing coals.

The heat of the smithy made him toss back the last of his ale; he peered into the empty mug, then across at the barrel, which lay gently rocking. There was nothing for it, he would have to buy a fresh one. He picked up the barrel and set it on his little handcart, pushing it before him as he made his way to the inn.

When he set off, he had no intention of going against the knight’s instructions. The damn thug had appeared and threatened him, but that was the sort of behavior one expected from a metal-clad meat-head. All they were good for was beating up the innocent as they went about their daily business. Jack knew that, just as he knew that a foreigner, someone from a place five or six miles away, for example, was likely to be a troublemaker. Most of them only wanted to come to Crediton to steal or live off other men’s work.

Yet while he walked, he found his bitter thoughts turning more and more toward the evil represented by the lepers. Why should the knight wish to protect them? As he mused, he was coming level with Godfrey’s hall. There he saw a dark figure slip from the gate, and he gaped. It was that leper, the stranger from outside town, the one who had decided to come here to Crediton.

His two favorite grudges were linked by this single, hated figure. Not only was he a leper, he was also foreign, begging money from the good people of the parish when he had done nothing to deserve it – he hadn’t even been born in the town!

Jack was filled with a sudden hatred. This was the sort of scum that knight and his friend had tried to protect. A man completely undeserving of any charity, someone who should be hounded from the place. Unconsciously, Jack had slowed his pace to match that of the limping man before him, and now he consciously followed him.

“It feels as if I am coming here every other hour at present,” Baldwin muttered as he dropped from his horse.

“You are,” Simon laughed.

They had collected Edgar from the Dean’s buttery, and now stood together outside Godfrey’s hall. Baldwin glanced at the door, but musingly. Then, jerking his head for the others to follow, he led the way round the corner of the house to the back.

It was all quiet, though Baldwin could hear noises from without the yard, and he strode quickly over the cobbled area to the low building where the horses lived. Going down the row, he could find only two mares, the others were all stallions, geldings and other males. The first of them, a pleasant roan, stood quietly while he lifted each hoof, but there was no sign of one that had been recently reshod. The second was a calm bay. This too was happy to let him investigate her, and he paused at the second hoof. “Look!”

Simon bent to see. The hoof had new, almost undamaged nail heads, but the shoe itself was badly worn at the inside and front. “That should have been replaced with a new one,” he said.

The knight nodded, thoughtfully setting the hoof down and patting the mare. Then he walked from the place toward the large gates.

Standing just outside were a pair of carts, and as Baldwin watched, a servant arrived with a bucket and began wiping the clotted red mud from its wheels.

“Why do you do this out here and not in the yard?”

The man turned and gave him a disinterested glance. “My lady has a bad headache. She said she wanted no noise out in the yard, but she wants these things cleaned. Where would you do them?”

“Are you a stableman?” Baldwin asked, but this time he had the man’s undivided attention. In his hand he spun a coin.

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know all about your mistress’ mare which threw a shoe on the day your master died?”

The man nodded, his bucket and cloth forgotten as he watched the little silver coin spin and curve in the air so prettily. He could almost hear it calling to him, demanding a comfortable resting place in his purse.

“Was Godfrey mean with his horses?”

“No, he was always careful to make sure they were well looked after, sir.”

“Yet on this occasion he had a shoe replaced on his mare’s hoof. Why didn’t he send the mare to the smithy for a new one?”

“Well, the mistress saw her mare had cast a shoe – she pointed it out to me when she was back from her ride – and said it seemed a pity to have a new one made when the old one was fine.”

“You mean she saw the shoe come off and went to fetch it?” Simon asked disbelievingly. “Do you think that’s normal?”

The servant gave him a long-suffering look, as if nothing much that happened in his household would surprise him. “Her father could have an evil temper. Maybe she was nervous about causing extra expense.”

“But you said he always saw his horses were well looked after?”

“That doesn’t mean he’d appreciate seeing others frittering away his money on their own.”

Baldwin nodded. “And your mistress might have been nervous about his response? Do you have good reason to suppose he’d treat her badly?”

“I haven’t seen her being beaten, but we’ve all heard her weeping. Especially over the last few weeks.”

“Had Godfrey been different, then, over that period? Had he treated everyone more harshly?”

“No, sir. Generally, he was better to us all.” The servant was frowning, as if he was himself surprised by the recollection. “But the mistress has certainly been very upset. I assumed she was being beaten by her father. He could have a violent turn of mood on occasion.”

“So you said. Very well, so Cecily asked you to go to the smith?”

“Yes, sir. Her mare lost the shoe on the morning that the master was killed. As soon as the mistress came home she asked me to fetch the smith, and tell him to get here for the afternoon. He said that was fine, but if the shoe needed replacing he’d have to take the mare back to the forge to make one. As it was, Mistress persuaded him not to bother and just to refit the old one, and told him he could join Putthe in the buttery when he was done.”

“You heard all this?” Baldwin pressed.

“Yes, I was there while they were looking at the mare. Mistress said he could carry on, and she went back inside.”

“And this was early afternoon?”

“Yes, I guess so, by the time the smith got here.”

“One thing,” Simon asked frowningly. “Was the smith an especial friend of the bottler? Did Jack often drop in to meet with Putthe over a jar or two of ale?”

“Him?” the servant guffawed, dropping his cloth into the bucket and holding his chest with mirth. “You must be mad! Putthe friends with a smith? Look, Putthe is the bottler in a good hall. He gave his vow to the master for life – and a man like Putthe takes that kind of oath seriously. You honestly think a fellow like him would be the comrade of a peasant who’s managed to learn a trade? No, Putthe and Jack aren’t friends. At best they’ll pass the time of day, but no more than that.”

“So why should Putthe be expected to entertain Jack in the buttery with him?”

“You know how it is – the master or mistress tells the servant who to meet and talk to. I daresay Putthe was not pleased to be told to have a boorish fool like Jack in the room with him, but once he was told, what was he supposed to do?”

“I think it’s time we went to speak to Putthe again,” said Simon.

Rodde was unaware of the steps behind him. He had other things to consider. Apart from anything else, his hip hurt as though the bone was chipped – a rock had struck him there the night before, and it burned as if he had been branded. It was so painful, it overwhelmed all the other bruises and scrapes of his body, and caused his slow, limping gait.