Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

“Sir, if you have a need to speak to someone, I am sure the Dean will be pleased to offer you solace, but if you would prefer to discuss things with me…?” He let his voice trail off questioningly.

At his words the man shot him a quick look. “I should like to speak with you, if you can spare me a little time, yes, Brother.”

Ralph sighed inwardly. The man must be more than twice his age, and here he was, searching for answers. The monk was all too aware of his own unfitness for the task, but he nodded as if content. “You should tell me your name first, then. I am called Ralph.”

“My apologies, Brother. My enthusiasm got the better of me. My name is Godfrey – Godfrey of London.”

“Good. Well, master, why do you not come into my chapel and I will listen to your problem.”

“Your chapel?” Godfrey asked, brows raised in surprise.

Ralph nodded to the little building. “St. Lawrence’s.”

“You’re the leper master?”

“Yes, but you have nothing to fear, I…”

“What do you know of fear, little monk? You know nothing – nothing! You’re hardly old enough to grow a beard, for God’s sake! You can’t know what it’s like to have a daughter who… Oh, what’s the point!” Whipping his mount and digging in his spurs, Godfrey suddenly jerked his horse’s head round, and made off along the street, scattering hawkers from his path.

Ralph stood gaping for a long time. It wasn’t the rudeness that made him stare along the road; it was the restless passion in Godfrey’s outburst. It had not been directed at Ralph – of that the monk was quite convinced. It was the explosion of a man pushed to despair, as if he had seen in Ralph someone who might be able to help him, only to have his hopes dashed.

That made Ralph pause thoughtfully, but he had little time to waste worrying about wealthy burgesses; he had work to begin. He walked to the gate and made himself known to the old leper who guarded it.

Ralph was torn with sympathy for the old man. His face was rotted, the palate gone, and with it his upper teeth, giving him the look more of a brutish animal than a human. In his two-fingered, rough gloves and the coarse material of his hose, jerkin and cloak, he seemed subhuman, just a thing. And that, Ralph knew, was how he would be treated by the people of the town, like a cur to be cursed and kicked, reviled by adults and children alike.

He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. The old leper pointed him to his little room, and Ralph set off, nodding and greeting those of his flock that he met on his way. All were quiet, shuffling their feet and staring down, fearful of meeting his eye until they knew him better, nervous in the presence of their new master, and Ralph had to blink away tears of sympathy at the sight of their deformities: many had stumps where their hands or feet should have been; most had faces disfigured and twisted into nightmarish masks.

Yet when he had opened his door and taken possession of his room, when he stood leaning against the doorpost, arms crossed as he surveyed his estate, he could not help a small frown worrying at his brow. It was not the men around him; his thoughts were not now with the misshapen creatures of the camp.

Ralph was only young, but he had looked after enough ill and dying men in his time to recognize the expression he had seen on Godfrey’s face, and that face kept coming back to him: it held a wary sadness – as if Godfrey had been nursing an infinity of despair.

Stepping out of the butcher’s, John of Irelaunde stood a while leaning against the wall, watching the people pass by. As a young woman caught his eye, he would grin, whether or not she noticed him, and keep his attention fixed on her until she was swallowed up by the crowd. Every so often a girl would realize she was being observed, and it was in order to see how she might react that he stood glancing over the crowd.

There were some, the youngest, who ducked their heads in embarrassment as though seeking sanctuary behind another anonymous person. A few were fetching young women who knew nothing of how to cope with a man’s interest, and these he would gaze at longingly – not to offend, but because he wanted to recall their innocence. He knew well that such shy maidenly blushes wouldn’t last; all too soon they would inevitably be replaced by knowing smiles.

Then there were the older women who reddened with anger. Often they were married ladies of some status in the town – which was why John assaulted them with his gaze. When he found a woman who haughtily stared back while going crimson with irritation, he would give her a deliberate leer. It was delightful to fan her anger. Women like this had made his life harder, or had tried to, and their impotence in the face of his insultingly lecherous grin was balm to his soul.

He liked the pretty girls, the fresh young women who met his look boldly. They were worth searching for. It was always a delight to assess how much of their confidence was bravado. They offered the potential for delightful speculation, not that he would dare try his luck with them. Even if he didn’t already have a woman who had stolen his affection, these were too hazardous; he would be tempting fate, dallying with young women who might have a wealthy father or brother who could wish to seek him out for revenge. Young girls could imagine themselves in love too easily, and were prone to seek satisfaction at the point of a sibling’s sword when rejected.

The last category was the other wives – the ones who didn’t toss their heads haughtily or purse their lips on seeing him. They were the pretty ladies wedded to older men, women who wanted excitement without risk to their social standing. In a place like Crediton there wasn’t an inexhaustible supply of them, but there were enough for those who knew how to look. He monitored them as he surveyed the street, noting them with the eye of an expert cattleman checking stock. These women would meet his glance bravely, brazening him out, whether with their husbands or alone; they wouldn’t flush with shame or rage, but would return his pensive stare, and sometimes their eyes made unspoken offers.

That had always been the delight for him, he reflected as he at last pushed away from the wall and made his slow progress to his house, scanning the street for familiar or new faces. It was the thrill of the chase. He knew that the women would have heard of him; it wasn’t as if he had hidden himself. John of Irelaunde liked women. He enjoyed their company, liked giving them gifts – nothing too expensive, but something that involved thought – and he loved loving them without the risk of financial involvement. That was his reputation.

And that was why so many of them had sought his company. John was safe. He was known to be no threat for a woman who wanted the chance of a fling without her husband finding out. And in an age when many cuckolded men would grab for a sword first and ask questions only once limbs and certain members had been irretrievably lost, that was an important consideration.

At the thought, John’s grin widened. He had always been careful; he had never let himself get caught. It wasn’t arrogance, but the cautious evaluation of dangers that prevented his capture. He always made sure that there was no chance that a husband could catch him. And the benefits had been there for him to take. Women had appreciated him for providing them with the affection they missed in their boring marriages, together with the thrill of the illicit. But no more.

No, for John – the man who had enjoyed the favors of many ladies, the man who was free of the taint of falling in love, who avoided the wily snares of those girls who flaunted themselves at him and laughed at the very notion that he should ever remarry – was smitten. And he knew it must be serious, for he couldn’t regret the fact.