Leper's Return

by Michael Jecks

  “But, you said to Baldwin that he was patrolling the land to keep someone at bay.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  As Simon frowned with incomprehension, he was sure he could hear a querulous voice. He was about to walk to the solar, from where the sound appeared to issue, when Edgar put out a hand to stop him.

  “Sir, you don’t want to go through there.”

  “But can’t you hear someone?”

  “Sir, I think it’s the wind.”

  “I can hear someone—it’s Emma! She’s calling for help!”

  “Surely, if she wanted help, she’d come down to ask for it.”

  “She would, sir,” Hugh confirmed. “She would only have to open her chamber door and walk down here, wouldn’t she?”

  Simon looked at his servant, then at Baldwin’s. Both avoided his gaze, studying their ales carefully. The bailiff looked at Uther, who seemed to share his confusion, and scratched an ear thoughtfully. Then Simon looked at the doorway, and slowly a smile creased his features. “Do you think Uther is protecting his master well even now?”

  “I think his master would be delighted to know how well his dog is keeping unwanted folks away from him,” observed Hugh, and belched.

  John got back to the wall and stood, panting as quietly as he could, nervously studying his surroundings as he sought any sign of a waiting guard.

  The same sky which Baldwin was standing under so few miles away was becoming congested with clouds that looked as if they were composed of finest spun-silver threads. Only now and again was the moon visible. For the most part it was obscured by the clouds as they grew ever larger.

  It was some consolation to John, as he hesitated by the wall, that the land was not under so bright a light as before. When he had set out earlier, the sack on his back filled with the hollowly clanking pewter, he had felt as if he had been under constant scrutiny from every man and woman who lived in the town. It had seemed that every tree and bush had intentionally dropped twigs and branches to try to trip him and make the sack rattle ever more loudly, or to ensure that the ground itself crackled and crunched with every footstep to show precisely where he was. The journey to the hall had been one of terror for him, each step another pace toward possible ruin. When he was almost halfway to the opened window, a screech owl had given its raucous shriek, and he had thought he might end up at the top of the oak beside him, so high did he jump at the unexpected noise. Every hair on his head stood upright in sympathy with his pounding heart.

  Thankfully the sack had been passed over without incident, and John could stand out in the yard in the darkened shadow of a tree while it was hauled inside and stored. After a few whispered words, John had turned and set off home again, and it was then that he had heard that awful whistle.

  While the owl had set his heart thudding with sudden fear, the whistle had made that organ attempt the opposite feat. He had uttered a shocked gasp, his head filled with every combination of ghoul, ghost, fairy, goblin and devilish story he had ever heard. Then they were superseded by the memory of the soldiers billeted at Coffyn’s house, and he took to his heels.

  It was fortunate that he could remember the way back to his wall, especially as his path took him by the most circuitous route he could devise. Scorning the direct way, he had rushed toward the road, doubled back through some trees, squirmed his way under a thicket, cut his hands on brambles in the process, shoved himself between the bars at the window of the stables, making soothing noises to the intrigued horses within, and scuttled forth from the darkest opening at the furthest corner from the house, only to wait, desperately scanning the ground ahead for pursuers, before making his painstaking way back to his tree and safety.

  He watched carefully, his eyes screwed to mere slits as he tried to observe the faintest hint of movement, but could see nothing, and at last he was satisfied. Stepping with a high gait, testing the ground before trusting his weight on it, he made his infinitely slow and cautious progress to the wall. His rope was quickly off his shoulder, and he took one last glance behind him. He had no wish to be snared as he had been the last time. Then he threw. It caught, he yanked twice, it held, and he scrambled up. On the wall, he unhooked it, and let himself fall at the other side, giving a sigh of relief.

  Coiling the rope, he glanced up. The sky was filling quickly with fresh clouds, and he stared a moment in appreciation. Going to the stable door, he tossed the rope over its nail, patted the mare, and made his way to the house. After the excitement of the evening, he felt the need of a good two quarts of ale. Thrusting the door wide, he went to the little fire and kicked the embers together, throwing a handful of tinder on top, and setting a log over all, then crouched to blow it into life.

  “So, Irishman, you feel the cold?”

  He froze. “You wouldn’t hit a man on the ground, would you, sir?”

  His answer was a blow on the side of his skull that felled him. He grunted, while the pain exploded, both in his head and at the top of his neck. It was as if he had fallen from a height and crunched the bones. It was agonizing, and he was so stunned he couldn’t shout or scream, but could only lie dully, unable to reach up and feel the wound.

  He could see the second blow approach. It was a club, he noted, and he saw the heavy wood rise slowly, hesitate, and then sweep down.

  “No, please—”

  It struck, and his last conscious thought as the cudgel met his skull was how strange it was that he couldn’t hear it strike. But then the pain returned, and overwhelmed him. He was unaware of the hand gripping his leg, lifting it gently, while the club swooped down to shatter John’s knee.

  17

  Edgar winced at the sight of the fire in the hall. There was not enough dried timber to make a flame. It had burned through in the night, and no one had tended it yet this morning. He could fetch Wat, indeed he should kick the lazy devil from his palliasse in the kitchen, but when he glanced in, he guessed that waking the lad wouldn’t help much.

  Instead, he marched to the logpile. Dropping an armful carelessly on the floor, he fetched the sack of kindling. Soon he was kneeling, flint and his dagger scritching and clattering together as he tried to bring a spark to the tinder. Blowing, he managed to produce a tiny whisp of smoke, and fed it with dried leaves and grasses before adding small twigs left over from the clearances of the previous summer. Each year as trees were felled for firewood or coppiced for fencing, furniture and charcoal, the smaller, useless branches were saved for this function.

  When he had produced a healthy flame, and had set two logs side-by-side over it, he settled back on his heels to watch it suspiciously for a while.

  “You could have been quieter, if you’d wanted.”

  Edgar grinned at Hugh’s sullen tone. “True!”

  Hugh was lying on a heavy bench, like two or three other guests of Baldwin’s from the night before, and he groaned to himself as he hauled himself upright to rest on an elbow, scowling at Edgar. He grabbed at his rough blanket before it could slip off. “Where’s Wat? I thought he had to make up the fire.”

  “Someone got him drunk last night. I think he’ll be late to rise today.”

  Hugh chuckled quietly. “He seemed to enjoy his beer.”

  “You shouldn’t have kept feeding him that strong ale, though. He doesn’t know how much he can take.”

  “It happened to us all when we were young. I thought he coped well.”

  “Until he got outside,” Edgar agreed. As soon as the wobbling boy had got to the back door and taken in his first deep breath of cool night air, he had hiccuped once, then started walking up and down the yard with increasing speed. Edgar and another had gone to watch and make sure he was safe, for it was all too common for a youngster to fall asleep and drown in his own vomit, but Wat had seemed fine—except he had refused to acknowledge any of the pleasantries hurled in his direction. And then he had been sick. Edgar had been quite surprised at the volume emanating from such a slight figure.

  Wat had been carri
ed to the trough and forced to swill his mouth and wash before being sent off to his bed. There was a maid who usually slept by the fire in the kitchen, and she took it upon herself to watch over him for the night.

  “He’ll have to clear up all his puke before anything else,” Edgar noted. “But he slept all right. He looks very pale, though. I thought it would be kinder to him to let him rest a little longer. Anyway, he looked as though he was liable to throw up again when I looked in on him just now. I didn’t fancy getting him to try to blow the fire into light, not if he was going to spew all over it.”

  “I suppose we’d better wake our masters,” Hugh grunted, stretching luxuriously. He set his feet on the ground, then winced at the pain in his head.

  Cocking an eyebrow at him, Edgar grinned. “Wat wasn’t the only one had too much last night.”

  He set the pan, ready filled with water, over the flames, and wandered through to the solar where Baldwin lay sleeping. Opening the door quietly, he was welcomed by a low grumbling. When he clicked his tongue, the noise stopped and the tawny dog padded over the floor on his massive paws, his tail wagging berserkly. It caught at the top of a chest as he passed, and swept a dagger, Baldwin’s purse, and a goblet clattering onto the floor.

  “Christ’s Blood!”

  “Good morning, Sir Baldwin,” said Edgar suavely. “I am glad Chops managed to waken you so quickly.”

  Baldwin peered at him wearily. “There are times, Edgar, when I wonder why I don’t look for a new steward of my household.”

  “It’s morning, sir, and you asked to be woken early so that you could get back to Crediton.”

  “Oh!” Baldwin clutched at his head as he sat up. He closed his eyes, then daringly opened one into a slit. “I think I drank more wine than usual last night.”

  “I think that is a fair comment, sir.”

  “I remember now why I prefer not to drink too much,” Baldwin muttered as he came to his feet.

  “But the evening went very well,” said Edgar, spreading out the knight’s tunic and inspecting it doubtfully. “This is torn.”

  “The dog caught it last night.”

  Edgar left his master to dress himself. Out in the hall once more, he saw that the fire was blossoming flames, and set more logs alongside to dry thoroughly. Returning from the log store, he met Hugh coming through after waking his own master, and the pair of them entered the hall to find Emma leaving it.

  She glowered at them. There was no proof, but she was convinced that these men were responsible for her confinement the previous night. That dog had been left outside her room to prevent her protecting her mistress.

  Emma was not interested in her mistress’ attraction to Sir Baldwin. To the maid, one man was pretty much the same as any other, although she had respected and felt sympathy for Sir Ralph de Liddinstone. It was the comparison between the two that made her feel such disgust for the knight of Furnshill. Ralph would never have invited all his bondsmen and freeholders to a feast such as Baldwin had held the night before; the idea was laughable. No, Sir Ralph was a real nobleman, in Emma’s eye. He was strong, and demonstrated his strength by imposing his will on his tenants, whereas the feeble Furnshill knight thought it better to pander to them.

  In truth, the virulence of her loathing for Baldwin was based on the simple conviction that once her mistress had enjoyed a true, honorable, powerful knight, she would demean the memory of the man by wedding herself to a weakly article like Baldwin. That was why Emma was determined to prevent any possibility of a match between the two; and why she was seized with rage at having been effectively locked in her room the night before, with that slavering hound wandering outside her door. It had stopped her from walking with her mistress and protecting her from Sir Baldwin’s pathetic attempts at courtly lovemaking.

  It was the first time in a long while that Emma had been so effectively thwarted, and she was furious that these two uncultured, common peasants could have succeeded. And now she had to bring the reward to the knight. It made her gorge rise.

  Hugh quailed under her piercing gaze, and dropped back so that Edgar was a little in front and shielding him. She looked Edgar up and down contemptuously. In her hand was a rough bundle. After a moment’s silence, she thrust it into his hands.

  He looked at it with some surprise. “What’s this?”

  “It’s for your master. From my lady. She asked me to tell you to give it to him.”

  Edgar took the light package straight to his master. Baldwin was about to leave his room, and gave his servant a surprised glance when he appeared.

  “What?”

  “This, sir. It’s for you, apparently.”

  Baldwin frowned at it, then motioned Edgar into his room. The servant took it to the bed and untied the cord that bound it. Inside, he found a bright crimson cloth. Shaking it out, he stared.

  “A new tunic?”

  Baldwin felt the fine woollen cloth. “Do you remember? She said she would make me a new tunic last year at Tavistock.” He glanced down ruefully at his old white, stained and worn robe. “I think I had better get changed,” he sighed.

  His head felt as if it was about to fall from his shoulders. When he opened his eyes, everything was misted and befogged, as if he was looking through a badly finished glass window. Movement of any sort was agony; even blinking brought a stab of pain to his temples.

  Gradually, as he recovered his senses, John realized where he was. He was lying on the floor of his room, beside the fire he had been trying to build. He reached out a hand, and slowly, with infinite care, eased himself onto his belly. As he tried to lever himself up, simultaneous bolts like white-hot brands seared his head and leg. Gasping, he had to let himself flop to the ground, and passed out.

  It was not until the sun was already up and shining in through the open door that he could take any interest in his surroundings again. From the light coming in, he could survey the room. It was clear that someone had ransacked the place. All his belongings were all over the floor, his trunk was opened, and his chairs and tables upset. It made him give a wry grin. “Too late, lads!” he whispered.

  At last he could make a second attempt to move. He gradually forced himself into a position from which he could crawl, and inched his way toward the door, sweat beading his brow. It took all his strength to do so without screaming. It was ironic, he thought, that the only thing he had brought with him from Ireland was this: his stoicism.

  Outside the door was his little rainbutt, and beside that his stool. He stared at them, teeth gritted. It seemed an immense distance, but he was determined to get there; he needed water, and he had to get into the daylight to inspect his wounds. The ground was hard, and each time his leg dragged over a pebble or scraped over a rough patch of dried mud, he bit his lip to keep from swearing.

  It took the very last atom of his energy to hoist himself on to the stool. Then, before he looked at his leg, he forced himself to thrust his head under the freezing water. Coming up blowing and panting, the liquid streaming from his face, he felt quickly nauseous, and had to swallow hard to keep the bile at bay, but the feeling soon passed, and he could sink back on the stool with a grunt and a gasp.

  Only then did he look down at his leg. The foot was twisted, and he couldn’t bear to touch his knee, much less move it. When he gingerly touched his head, it felt as if someone had been beating it like a bolt of iron on an anvil. Both sides of his skull were bruised and swollen. Wincing and shaking with pain and reaction, he squinted at his gate: it hung open. Behind him was the storage shed where he kept his ale, and he felt his mouth water at the thought of a strong draft, but he rejected it as being beyond his power.

  His leg was broken, near the knee. He stared at it grimly. His head felt as if it was being ruthlessly sawn in two, and the sensation wasn’t helped by the occasional impression that his vision was doubling. He wanted to throw up, but couldn’t afford the luxury; he must get help, go and see a surgeon or a monk, and get his leg mended. But to do that he m
ust somehow get into town, and he couldn’t crawl the whole way. If he lived down toward the center of town, he could simply call from his door—but if he had lived in the town itself, he wouldn’t have been attacked: his screams would have been heard. Not that he’d managed to make much noise last night, he reminded himself glumly.

  No, nobody was going to come up here. It wasn’t on the beaten track, and if it was, nobody would be likely to spot him in his yard so far from the path.

  John had been a soldier. He knew a little about fixing broken bones, and he eyed his ruined leg sourly for a while. The only way he was going to get help was if he could get himself down to the church to demand it. He took out his knife, doffed his jacket, and began to hack the cloth into strips.

  When Baldwin entered his hall, he felt more than a little self-conscious. His new tunic was of a bright red hue, more colorful than anything he had possessed before, and he could see that Simon was startled to see him so resplendent.

  The knight ignored his friend, instead walking to the quiet woman near the fire. She was clothed in a new tunic of bright red velvet, and as he surveyed it, he recognized the cloth. It was that which he had bought for her in Tavistock.

  “My lady, I am flattered and honored by your gift.”

  If he sounded a littly stiffly formal, his face belied it. Jeanne smiled back at him, delighted to see how the color suited him. It was twelve months ago that she and Margaret had bought the cloth, and Jeanne had quickly made up the tunic when she returned home after that first meeting, but it had not seemed right, somehow, to merely send it to him with her compliments. She had wanted to see him wear it for the first time, and now, to be able to see how his face was softened by the color, and by his pleasure, she felt her heart swell with pride that she had achieved this on her own, with only her skill at needlework. “It is my pleasure, Sir Baldwin. I am delighted to see that it fits as well as I had hoped.”

  Margaret smiled, and as she felt her husband prepare to offer a humorous sally, shoved a warning arm through his.