Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

From the town came what looked like a solid mass of men. They approached inexorably, some carrying burning torches, clad in a malevolent silence that was more intimidating than if they had been chanting slogans or shouting.

He fell back from the gate, his guts churning. The signs were all too easy to recognize; this was an attack. He had heard of the murders in France from a traveller when he lived in Houndeslow. There, he had heard, a whole number of lepers had been captured and burned alive, on the pretext that they had been involved in poisoning wells. It was nonsensical, of course. The lepers depended on the alms of the healthy – if they killed their neighbors, they would be killing themselves – but that hadn’t persuaded the peasants who wanted to extirpate the “sinners.”

His glance roved up and down the camp. He had no choice but to defend the place, but how?

Simon was a little in front of the other two when they arrived at the stableyard. It was already dark, and there were no torches lighted. Baldwin bellowed for his grooms as he passed through the gates.

The bailiff was impatient to get to the fire. His horse pranced, hooves pounding at the packed earth, and Simon hunched his shoulders to keep his neck warm. Baldwin kicked his feet free of the stirrups, and leaped down, stumbling and almost falling. Seeing this, Simon gave a short laugh.

“Very funny!” Baldwin growled.

“This is how you do it,” said Simon, and swung his leg over his horse’s neck. As he did so, his mount lifted his head, catching the bailiff’s foot. Simon found his leg rising higher and higher. He had no reins to hold, his feet were free of the stirrups, and suddenly he found himself falling, eyes wide in surprise. He hit the ground with an unpleasant squelch, his ears filled with the delighted, mocking laughter of his friend.

Margaret set aside her tapestry as the two men walked in. She smiled and welcomed Baldwin, but then froze at the sight of her husband. “Simon, what have you done?” she wailed.

“He was showing off, Margaret!” was Baldwin’s unsympathetic contribution.

“I just had an accident in the yard,” said Simon, and yawned.

“You must go and change.”

Baldwin could see her point. Simon was smothered in mud and straw. An old pile of rubbish and hay had broken his fall, but he was liberally bespattered with bright red mud.

“Meg, I can’t. I’m exhausted. Maybe in a while, when I’ve had a chance to warm up a bit.”

Hearing voices, Jeanne walked in and stood on the dais. She returned Baldwin’s smile. “I was wondering whether you were coming home again today. It is very late.”

“We have had an interesting day,” Baldwin said, crossing the room and taking her hand courteously to lead her to the fire. Jeanne listened while he explained all that had happened to them.

“We’re no nearer discovering Godfrey’s killer,” Simon added sourly as Baldwin finished.

“Oh, I can’t be so negative, Simon. We may not have solved the murder, but at least we appear to have solved a theft without knowing it, and we have averted the victimization of the lepers!”

At the gate once more, Ralph would have laughed to hear his words. He held a heavy staff of oak, one which he was sure would do good service if he was able to hit someone with it. The monk was untroubled with the concept of fighting to defend his inmates. It was the natural duty of a religious man to protect his flock, whether the man was a bishop leading the people of his city, his sword in his hand, against barbarians, or the master of a leper house defending his sufferers.

“They don’t look as if they’re going to stop, Brother.”

Ralph glanced to his side. Thomas Rodde stood there, his hat tilted forward as he peered forward through slitted eyes at the approaching horde. The leper wore his gloves, and his strong staff was in his hands, but he stood like an old man, bent at waist and shoulder.

Rodde was no fool. He counted the men, and gave up when he reached twenty. That number of strong and healthy folk could overrun the camp in a matter of minutes. There were only the few lepers here, and of them he and Quivil, even after their ordeal of the night before, were still the most healthy. The best thing for him to do, he knew, would be to run quickly. He had little strength, but this rabble of townspeople was here to evict the lepers. They wouldn’t, if he knew the English at all, be remotely bothered about chasing their prey. Their objective was to see the lepers away from Crediton. What happened after that would be someone else’s problem.

“Brother, wouldn’t it be best for us all to leave?” he suggested.

“Leave here? This is our home! It’s where we belong. How can we go? And where to?”

Rodde met his look resolutely. He was not suggesting a coward’s route, but a sensible retreat in the face of overwhelming odds. “In that case, let me suggest that you should send for the constable, and also for the Precentor or Dean of the church. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Baldwin washed his hands and settled back in his chair. He had a delightful sense of warmth sitting here before his fire. The presence of guests had persuaded him to partake of some strong wine, and it flowed through his veins like fire. He had not drunk enough yet to feel the soporific effect, but it had certainly heightened other senses. To his mind, Jeanne appeared to be devastatingly beautiful.

She glanced in his direction every now and again. Seeing him sitting there so calm and contented made her feel curiously relaxed. It was an odd sensation, this feeling of well-being – she refused to put it stronger than that – that she felt while near him. He exuded an air of stability and honor. It felt as if, when he walked into a room, that room suddenly took on a fresh splendor, and it was down to his self-effacing, gentle personality.

Jeanne still had no idea of his past in the service of the Knights Templar. She had no idea of his involvement with the Order, but she was aware of the latent anger that lurked within him, constantly searching for injustice and oppression. This harder side to his character lent a subtle charm to his generally calm demeanor.

Studying him now, as he stared at the fire, the contours of his face softened by the glow of the flames, she was taken by a sudden desire. She could see his confusion, that he was still mulling over the killing in the town, and it made her want to fold him into a strong embrace and shield him from the world outside. He was vulnerable. She knew his air of cold rationality was a mask to conceal his defenselessness against a world he only partly understood and mostly disliked. He was a man composed of opposites: he was the Keeper of the King’s Peace, yet he doubted any man’s absolute guilt; he was a knight, yet he felt sympathy for villeins; he was a landowner, yet he shared the profit of the land with the people who farmed it for him. All in all, he was a curious mixture.

She felt the attraction to the man of action, which he undoubtedly was, as well as to the cautious, but generous and kind man who looked after his peasants. There was no denying the fact that he was good-looking. To Jeanne’s eye he was almost perfect. Even the scar, the wound of some old battle that marred his cheek, was attractive, a reminder that this was not some picture but a real flesh-and-blood man. She smiled, and found herself once more considering how well she would fit into this hall, with these servants, with this man. Baldwin would probably find it harder than her, she guessed. She had been married, had lived with a man; Baldwin had never married. He was a bachelor, and at over forty, must be set in his ways. But the thought didn’t frighten Jeanne. It wasn’t her wish to change him – if she changed him, he wouldn’t be the man she desired. No, she wanted him just as he was, and if living with him entailed her having to alter her lifestyle a little, then so be it.