Leper's Return

by Michael Jecks

  William ran through his dispositions: there was the man at the front door, one at Mrs. Coffyn’s private room, and the last two in the stableyard. He had looked to them all a few moments before he was called, and was sure there was nothing for him to be concerned about with them, so he was curious as to why his presence had been demanded. “Sir?”

  “Come with me, William.”

  William allowed his eyebrows to rise as he followed his master through the door behind the dais. This was the first time he had been permitted to have a view of the special strong room where Coffyn kept his money and plate.

  It was a small rectangular cell. A tiny, slit-like window set high in the wall allowed in a gloomy light, and by it William could see that the place was filled. Two large chests sat on the floor, both solid and metal-bound. At each wall were shelves, and on these lay a selection of some of the best cloths William had seen. But that wasn’t all. There was also some silver and pewter, although not as much as William would have expected. His fingers itched to fondle it, but now he was here, he was sure this was a test, and he forced his hands to his thick leather belt, hooking his thumbs over. He daren’t appear too interested. It was more difficult to control his eyes, which sauntered over the plates, goblets and bowls with an almost salacious desire.

  “You see all this?”

  Coffyn’s voice brought him back to the present with a snap. Fortunately, the merchant had his back to him, and hadn’t noticed his expression. Carefully, William ventured the word, “Yes?”

  “Used to have more. Had to hawk it like a peasant to pay a debt. It’s usually Jews who fleece us, isn’t it? But now it’s Florentines, Genoese or other Englishmen as well! There’s always someone prepared to make a profit from somebody else’s misfortune.”

  He spun round on his heel, scowling. William maintained his disinterested stance, but he was intrigued despite himself. He wanted to know what was behind this interview.

  “I was talking to one of your men today, William. He told me you’re only a short while back from France. Is that right?”

  The guard walked to a chest and sat upon it before giving the question his attention. Reviewing in his mind the fights he had been involved in, he couldn’t see how any of his past offenses or victims could have come to haunt him here in England. He hadn’t done anything wrong here, he was convinced of that. “Yes?” he said again, questioningly.

  “Is it true about the peasants? Have they revolted?”

  “Oh, yes!” William shrugged. He couldn’t believe that Coffyn had asked him into this room simply to ask about affairs in far-off France.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I know little about it, sir. It’s been going on for a couple of years. This time it was a group of peasants marching from the north, heading southward. They claimed that the nobles were thieves and worse, taxing the peasants too highly, that sort of thing. Said what a peasant produced in a year would be consumed in an hour by a knight. Normal rubbish you hear from the poor.” William had a simplistic attitude to the pastoral folk of France. They had useful food and wine, but rarely any means of defense, and could be looked upon as a handy source of free meals.

  “And what when they reached the south?”

  There was a note to Coffyn’s voice that made William pick his words carefully. “They stormed castles, released prisoners from jails, killed bailiffs and soldiers, burned town halls and record offices—all the things you expect of a rabble.”

  “And the Jews?”

  “Oh, them! Well, they set upon them, of course. Massacred them whenever they could. That wasn’t a surprise. Jews hold all the money, don’t they?” It wasn’t something to trouble William. After all, even the English King had eventually thrown all the Jews out of his country. The French had expelled them in 1306, and many people had applauded the action, thinking that all their debts would be wiped out, but then the French King’s son, Louis X, had let them back, with terms that meant he was a two-thirds partner in all their efforts to recover their debts.

  So the peasants were repaying theirs the only way they knew how: at the points of pitchforks and lances.

  Coffyn nodded at the sentiment, but for him there was a different reason to applaud the actions.

  He was a keenly religious man. That was something that had been carefully instilled in him by his master when he was still apprenticed, and the thought that lepers might be endangering the town by their existence had taken hold. His face was flushed with excitement as he sat opposite William.

  “Others were attacked as well?”

  William shrugged. There was a greediness in Coffyn’s stance, almost as if he was discussing food. It was a look the soldier had seen before in the faces of zealots. “Almost anyone with a position of power, or those with money.”

  His master made an irritable click of his tongue and snapped his fingers in a gesture of contempt. “What of them? They hardly matter. When they are gone, God will recognize His own. Those whom He ignores won’t be missed. The good will go to Heaven and should be grateful for their death for releasing them from this life of toil! No, it’s the others: there was a group stoned and hanged along with the Jews, wasn’t there? The lepers. Why were they also killed?”

  “They were accused of being in league with the Jews,” William agreed. “It was said that the lepers had agreed to a pact with the Jews in which they would be given any women they wanted from the towns, and in return they were poisoning the wells.”

  “It is as I thought!”

  “Master, these were the ravings of peasants,” William pointed out reasonably.

  “You are a soldier, William; you can’t understand how these things happen,” said Coffyn confidently. “But you must have heard the priests talking about lepers. Their every mark and sign of disease is a divine punishment for their sins.”

  “What sins?” asked William, casting his mind back to a friend from an army in Spain who had developed the disease.

  “Concupiscence and pride.”

  “Oh.” Yes, he thought. That would describe his Spanish comrade well enough—randy and arrogant. Then William shifted uneasily on his seat, wondering whether he should make a visit to the church himself.

  “And it is the duty of good Christians to throw these loathsome dregs from our town,” Coffyn stated.

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Their monstrous sins are made visible by God in the shape of their hideous deformities.”

  “But they’re under the protection of the Church.”

  “That needn’t prevent citizens from helping us rid the town of them.”

  “How would you persuade people to help chuck them out?”

  Coffyn lowered his head and grinned. “You heard what I said? These people are foul and driven by uncontrollable lust. Look at that poor Mary Cordwainer, going there every day. Can there be any doubt that the inmates of the lazar house have forced her to their will?”

  “You mean they’re…?” William’s lip curled in revulsion.

  “Yes. They have polluted her, and bound her to them by their depraved behavior. I have heard it from your friend the smith.”

  William pursed his lips. “What’ll you do?”

  “It’s more what I want you to do.”

  14

  Baldwin and Simon waited while Edgar fetched his horse from the yard behind the inn, then all three rode to the Dean’s house.

  When they arrived, the place was in a flutter of activity, with servants rushing around and getting into each other’s way as they cleared up after a meal. The smells from the kitchen made Simon’s mouth water, and it was only then that he realized how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten all morning.

  Peter Clifford was seated in his hall. Bishop Stapledon was visiting once more, and sat at his side. Baldwin and Simon took their places on a bench nearby while the Dean finished washing and drying his hands. The bailiff couldn’t help giving a platter of bread a longing glance. Clifford saw the direction of his gaze and smi
lingly ordered the panter to bring fresh loaves and wine and set them before the bailiff. As the others spoke, Simon listened as best he could, chewing hungrily.

  “The Bishop and I were just discussing the choir,” Clifford said. “He was concerned that it wasn’t being performed with the right degree of solemnity.”

  “It’s important to ensure that the services are conducted with the uttermost dignity,” Stapledon nodded. “They exist to praise Our Lord, and if they fail to impress someone as poor and ignorant as myself, how can we hope to please Him?”

  “So what has been decided?” asked Baldwin.

  “I have agreed to appoint four young clerks to assist—one to see to the sacristy, books and the ornaments under the tutelage of the Treasurer; one to be responsible for the bells; a third to attend to offerings at the high altar; and a last who will instruct the others, and inspect their morals.”

  Baldwin glanced at Clifford, who studiously avoided his eyes. It struck the knight that the Bishop had agreed to invest in a not-inconsiderable number of new clerks for the church, while the Dean was to be the main beneficiary. Baldwin told himself not to be cynical, but he could see that the Bishop appeared tired, and wondered whether his friend Clifford might have taken advantage.

  “By the way, Dean, about these fairs…”

  Baldwin settled and resigned himself to waiting until the two priests had finished their business. Now they were talking about the two fairs Stapledon had granted the town. He was alarmed at the drop-off in tolls. This involved a great deal of poring over old parchments and rolls of figures, each of which had to be brought in by troops of monks and canons, until Baldwin was becoming thoroughly irritable. He waved to the panter for food, and soon had a large mug of watered wine and a plate of cold meats.

  It was half an hour before Stapledon motioned his clerks away and peered at Baldwin. His eyesight had been failing for some years, and he needed to use spectacles now, which gave him something of the appearance of a bemused owl. “You’ve been very patient with us, Sir Baldwin. My apologies for keeping you waiting so long, but it’s so much better to get these things out of the way when one can. My time isn’t my own any more.”

  Baldwin dismissed the apology as unnecessary. “My Lord Bishop, we should apologize for turning up unexpectedly.”

  “What can I do for you, Sir Baldwin?” Clifford asked.

  “Peter, I wanted to ask you about a girl in the town,” he said. “It’s Cecily, the daughter of the dead man. I understand she’s very generous to the poor, including the lepers.”

  “Yes, I believe she has assisted with a few good works. Why?”

  “Since her father has been killed, we have been trying to find a reason for his murder, but it’s possible it was only a robbery that went wrong. I am fairly certain that a lot of Godfrey’s plate has gone missing. Similarly, I have to wonder about the dead man’s last words.”

  “What were they?”

  “Apparently, ”So you’d defile my daughter, would you?“”

  “What has she to say about this?”

  “She says nothing. She is adamant that she was struck down by a man at the window, and knew nothing of her father’s death.”

  Stapledon sipped his wine. “And you do not believe her.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, my Lord—I simply don’t know. But it does seem odd to me that she should walk into her hall and be instantly attacked. Most thieves would run away on hearing someone approach. And those words—they allow for some intriguing speculation.”

  “Obviously he came upon someone trying to rape the poor girl,” said Clifford.

  Simon stole a morsel of Baldwin’s meat. “That’s what it sounds like.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the Dean.

  “If it was a simple attack of that nature, why say ”defile‘? If it were a rape, wouldn’t he have said just that? “So you’d rape my daughter, would you?” Surely it’s the form of words that would come most easily to a man?“

  “I’m not so sure,” said Stapledon. “One hears such stories nowadays: of nuns being raped in their convents, women being taken from their homes, their husbands murdered or tortured to show where their valuables are stored. These villains are bestial. If this poor man came into his hall and found these men had knocked his daughter down, and were trying to rape her, perhaps he used the first words which sprang into his mind. Defile is a very strong word, but when used against some of the footpads I have seen in my own court…”

  Baldwin gave a slow nod. He too had seen some of the very dregs of society before him when the court was in session. How, he wondered, would he have reacted to seeing one of them pawing his daughter? If he had a daughter he would adore her, he felt, just as surely as Simon doted on his; and if he ever found a scruffy, degenerate, drawlatch of a man fondling her youthful body while she lay unconscious, punched in the face by her attacker, Baldwin was sure he would use stronger language than “rape.” But then he would probably have used stronger language than “defile” too. In fact, he thought, he probably wouldn’t have used any language at all: he would have grabbed for his sword or a club, and expressed his feelings more forcefully.

  “So what do you want from me, Sir Baldwin?” the Dean enquired.

  “Anything you can tell me about her, about her father, or anyone else who might have a bearing on this horrible murder.”

  “Well…” The Dean gazed into the middle distance thoughtfully. “Her father was quite a strong character, I always thought. He wasn’t very forthcoming, and not particularly popular, but he always struck me as a resolute man.”

  “When you say he wasn’t very popular, in what way?”

  “Oh, he upset quite a few folk. Used to refuse to give alms to certain people. He was quite cruel toward lepers. Insulted them and once even threw stones at one who stood too close to his gate. But nothing serious, the leper wasn’t hurt. Still, his attitude to those who weren’t as healthy or wealthy as he, was quite off-putting.”

  “Did he often lose his temper?”

  Clifford glanced at the knight. “He did on occasion, but usually only when it was something that bore on his daughter. I think that was why he was so harsh toward lepers, because he feared that one of them might attack her.”

  “Why should he think that?” Simon interrupted.

  It was Baldwin who answered. “Because many people think that lepers have an insatiable appetite for sex.”

  “Yes,” Clifford nodded. “Some think leprosy is a sexual disease, acquired by those with abnormal lusts, and shows the nature of the soul within. Others think it’s caused by perverted parents, and is actually the proof of some kind of moral deviance. I think Godfrey thought so, and wanted to keep such people from his daughter.”

  “And stop them defiling her,” Simon mused.

  “It’s possible,” Baldwin agreed. “And what of her, Cecily?”

  “Oh, she’s a treasure. Where her father was hard and unswerving, she seems generous to a fault. She shows every sign of compassion and tolerance. I have tried to broadcast St. Hugh’s opinion: that lepers are here to show us all the way to redemption, demonstrating by their worldly suffering what is to come; they are set before us by God as a reminder, so that we may always tread the right path. That was St. Hugh’s view, and I believe in my heart that it’s the correct one. Mistress Cecily is one of the few people of the town who has taken my words to heart.”

  “God be praised,” murmured the Bishop.

  “And how does she evince this care for the ill?” Baldwin probed.

  “She’s spoken to the master of the lepers about making a small but regular donation to assist the house, and also to offer a chantry.”

  Simon stared, his mouth falling open. “She wants to pay for regular mass in the lepers’ chapel?”

  “Yes. She won’t stretch to a new altar for them, but she said she will be pleased to give them money annually if they will celebrate a mass in memory of her father, both on his birthday and on the annivers
ary of his death.”

  “That is extremely interesting,” Baldwin noted. The rich often endowed a chantry on their favorite church so that they might be remembered and prayed for while they remained in Purgatory, but the knight had never known it to be paid to a lepers’ place of worship. “Why should she ask for that, I wonder?”

  “Because she wanted to save his soul, Sir Baldwin,” Clifford said sharply.

  The knight gave him a half-apologetic grin, for the Dean knew that he had little faith in the Church as an institution; after the betrayal of his Order by the Pope, his trust had been shattered. “No, Peter, I think you miss my meaning. It appears highly curious to me that she should endow this little chapel with funds, specifically to pray for her father, when she must have known how he felt about lepers. It is almost a studied insult to do so, surely? Why not give you the money to hold masses in the canonical church here, rather than at the lazar house?”

  “Sometimes, Baldwin, you can be too suspicious! I am quite sure she wanted to help the poor victims of St. Lawrence’s, that’s all. And why shouldn’t she? If she is a true believer, she should want to use her money to save as many souls as she can.”

  “No doubt you are right, Peter,” Baldwin said soothingly. He had upset the priest, he saw, and spoke more carefully now to mollify him. “Tell me, I have also heard of Edmund Quivil’s woman, young Mary. Is it true that she is working there to help your leper master?”

  “Yes, it’s so. She too has a strong conviction and faith. I would be glad if more people in this town demonstrated half the goodness of those two young women.” His face darkened. “And I would be glad if some of those who try to smear the girl could do something useful themselves rather than slandering her.”

  Baldwin’s eyebrows rose in his astonishment. “I am sorry, Peter, I didn’t mean—”

  “Not you! It’s the others. Some people will go about casting slurs on those who don’t deserve it. Young Mary Cordwainer has been insulted in the street by some who should know better. I even heard this morning that someone has been saying she is only going there for—well, saving Your Lordship’s presence—for the gratification of her passionate desires.”