Ellis Peters - The Leper of Saint Giles

Joscelin drew Iveta into the corner of the guest-hall wall, where the stone steps ascended to the doorway, and put her behind him. Though he was unarmed, they took their time and were cautious of moving in upon him until their circle was drawn tight. Over his shoulder, without taking his eyes from the deployment of his enemies, he said with grim calm: “Go in, love, and leave me. No one will dare stop you or touch you!”

Instinctively she gasped into his ear: “No! I’ll not leave you!” and as quickly understood that she hampered him at this desperate pass, and turned with a sob to scramble up the steps to the doorway, as he ordered. No further! Not a step! Only far enough to free his arms and stand out of his way, but close enough still to experience in her own flesh whatever befell him, and demand her share in whatever followed, penalty or deliverance. But even the moment’s hesitation had undone him, for he had turned his head in furious entreaty to order: “Go, for God’s sake …” And the distraction had given his enemies their best opportunity, and they were on him from three sides like hounds unleashed.

None the less, it was no easy victory over an unarmed man. Until then all had passed in astonishing silence, suddenly there was chaotic noise, the sergeant hallooing on his men, porters, novices, lay brothers, guests, all coming on the run to find out what was happening, voices demanding, others answering, a clamor to rouse the dead. The first man to lunge at Joscelin had misjudged either his own timing, or his quarry’s speed of recovery, and ran full tilt into a large fist that sent him reeling, and unbalanced two of his fellows. But from the other side two more got a hold on Joscelin’s clothing, and though he jabbed an elbow hard into the midriff of the one who had him by the full of his cotte, and doubled him up retching, the other was able to hold on to his fistful of the dangling capuchon, and twist and tighten it with intent to strangle his opponent into submission. Joscelin wrenched forward, and though he failed to free himself, the cloth tore, and restored him room to breathe, and he kicked backwards at the officer’s shins, and raised an aggrieved roar. The man released his hold to hop and rub at his bruises, and Joscelin took his brief chance and lunged after, not at the man but at the hilt of his dagger. It rose into his hand sweetly, smooth as oil, and he made a wide sweep about him, the blade flashing in the torchlight.

“Now come on! Buy me dear, you’ll not get me cheaply!”

“His own choice!” yelled the sergeant. “Draw on him now, it’s on his own head!”

Then there were swords out, half a dozen minor lightnings gleaming and vanishing in the dusk. The hubbub sank into a strange, breathless silence. And into the silence, from the cloister, swept the whole brotherhood, startled at the end of Vespers to find so offensive a disturbance in their own peaceful enclave. An outraged voice, loud and authoritative, thundered across the court:

“Stand! Let no man move or strike!”

Everyone froze into stillness, and only dared turn to face the speaker with slow and submissive care. Abbot Radulfus, that austere, dry, stern but composed man, stood at the edge of the battlefield, where the red torchlight caught him, and blazed like an excommunicating angel, fiery-eyed in a face sharp and cold as ice. Prior Robert at his shoulder looked faded and negligible by comparison, with all his noble Norman hauteur and dignity. Behind them the brothers stared and fluttered, and waited for the lightning to strike.

Iveta’s legs gave way under her, and she sat down on the top step and rested her head on her knees in the weakness of relief. The abbot was here, there would not be killing, not yet, not yet, only law, and the killing that law countenances. One step at a time now, and don’t look beyond. She prayed passionately without words for a miracle.

When she managed to still the trembling that ran through her whole body, and lifted her head to look again, the entire great court seemed to be full of people, and more were pouring in even as she looked about her. Gilbert Prestcote had just reined in and dismounted within the gates. The members of the hunt, making their ways back at their own speed, were coming in by ones and twos, startled and wondering at what they found here at home, after raising no quarry through all the surrounding countryside. In the flickering light it took the sheriff some moments to recognize in the disheveled and embattled young man drawn back against the wall of the guest-hall the suspected murderer and thief he had wasted two full days pursuing through the woods.

He came striding forward in haste. “My lord abbot, what is this? Our wanted man here at bay within your walls? What is happening here?”

“That is what I am bent on discovering,” said Radulfus grimly. “Within my walls indeed, and within my jurisdiction. By your leave, Sir Gilbert, it is my right here to enquire into such an unseemly brawl as this.” He cast a glittering look about him at the ring of armed men. “Put up, every man of you. I will not have drawn steel here on my ground, nor violence done to any.” The same fiery glance lit upon Joscelin, braced and wary in his corner, dagger in hand. “And you, young man - it seems to me I had occasion to use similar words to you once before, and to warn you that this house also has a punishment cell, and you may find yourself within it if you so much as touch hilt again. What have you to say for yourself?”

Joscelin had regained his breath enough to speak up for himself with spirit. He spread his arms to show there was no scabbard of sword or dagger upon him. “I brought no weapon within your walls, Father. See how many circle me! I have borrowed what offered, to keep my life, not to take any other man’s. My life and my liberty! And for all that these may say against me, I have never stolen or killed, and so I’ll maintain within or without your jurisdiction, as long as I have breath.” He was running out of it by then, partly from his exertions, and partly from the choking force of his anger. “Would you have me offer my neck tamely to be wrung, when I have done no wrong?”

“I would have you abate your tone to me and to these secular authorities,” said the abbot sternly, “and submit to the law. Give back the dagger, you see it cannot avail you now.”

Joscelin stared back at him for a long moment with grim face and hostile eyes, and then, abruptly, held out the hilt of the dagger to its owner, who took it warily, and was only too glad to slide it into its sheath and back away out of the ring.

“Father,” said Joscelin, and it was a challenge, not an appeal, “I am in your mercy here. Your justice I might trust more than I trust the law, and I am where your writ runs, and I have obeyed you. Examine me, of all that ever I did, before you give me up to the sheriff, and I swear to you I’ll answer all truthfully.” He added quickly and firmly: “All, that is, as concerning my own acts.” For there were those who had helped and been good to him, and he would do nothing to bring them into question.

The abbot looked at Gilbert Prestcote, who met the glance with a considering smile. There was no great urgency now, the fellow was trapped, and could not escape. There was nothing to be lost by conceding the abbot’s prior authority here. “I bow to your wishes in the matter, Father, but I maintain my claim to this man’s person. He is charged with theft and murder, and it is my duty to hold him fast and produce him in time for trial on those charges. And so I shall - unless he can satisfy both you and me, here and now, of his innocence. But let all be done openly and fairly. Question him, if you so please. It would be helpful also to me. I would prefer to turn the key on a manifestly guilty man, and have your own doubts, if you entertain any, set at rest.”