“I suppose so, but I wish I knew who the two were in Godfrey’s garden.”
“If John was telling the truth and wasn’t simply confused by seeing two bushes in the dark, you mean?” Simon chuckled. “Come on, Baldwin, don’t look so glum! You’re on your way to meet your Lady.”
“Oh, shut up!”
Simon laughed. They made their way into the outer fringe of the town, then on up to the church. Here they were about to turn right to head up to the north, when the bailiff saw Cecily’s maid at her gate. “Baldwin?”
Following his friend’s gaze, the knight gave a low whistle.
At the entrance to Godfrey’s house, hidden from the road by the wall, and only visible from this angle because the gate was ajar, Alison stood laughing and chatting to John of Irelaunde. As Baldwin watched, he saw John tweak a curl from her wimple and chuck her under the chin.
“That bloody Irishman,” Simon grumbled. “Look at him!”
“He certainly appears to take his pleasures where he can,” Baldwin chuckled. “Ah, and who’s this?”
Riding toward them was William. He smiled broadly to them, and jogged off back the way they had come. The knight stared after him. “I wonder where he’s off to?”
Jack wiped his hands on his heavy leather apron, and stood contemplating the view bitterly. The questioning by the Keeper had unsettled him. The smith was a man of few words normally, and now he felt as if he had been forced into giving away too much-something he could regret later. Jack was all too well aware of the risks of telling law officers too much. It often led to a man being arrested and hanged.
There was a scuttling noise near the forge, and he turned to see his cat lying, tail twitching, watching a large rat scrabbling for a crumb. Jack let out a curse, and swung his boot at the cat, who, realizing her master was not of a mind to scratch her ears, flattened them against her skull before pelting off to a dark corner where she judged she should be safe enough.
Jack turned back and supped ale, disconsolately studying the sweep of the river. He was still standing there, his great mug in his fist, when he was hailed.
Entering his yard was a cheerful-looking man on a decent palfrey. “Smith? Can you make me a shoe? My fellow here has cast one.”
Jack looked up into William’s face and grunted.
“I’m very glad to find you here,” said William with feeling, falling from his saddle and strolling to a bench while Jack set to pumping the bellows. The guard held his hands to the fire, a small frown creasing his brow. He had also seen John and the maid in the road, and it had interested him a great deal. He decided he would have to tell his master as soon as he returned to Coffyn’s house. For now, though, he had another task to perform.
He grinned up at the smith. “Smiths always hear all the gossip before anyone else. But I suppose you need a tale in exchange, yes? Have you heard what the lepers are up to?”
Baldwin walked into his hall and threw his gloves onto the table. Margaret was there, sitting at the fire as she unpicked stitches from a tapestry. When Simon walked in, she stood to greet him, and he glanced down at her work.
“But you never make mistakes with your needlework!”
“Sometimes even the best seamstress must have a bad day,” she said. “How has yours been?”
Baldwin bellowed for Wat and sank down into his chair. His boots were too tight, and after wearing them all day, his feet felt as if they had swollen so much he would never be able to get them off. “Where is that blasted lad? WAT!”
“Don’t shout at him, Baldwin,” Margaret said urgently. “You’re not the only one to have had a bad day.”
Baldwin and Simon exchanged a glance as the boy came in, snivelling. Immediately behind him was Emma.
To the knight she looked as threatening as a war-horse pawing at the ground, and he flinched as he felt her eyes flit over him, registering his mud-bespattered hose and tunic, the hair lying lankly where he had been wearing his hat, and his booted feet.
“That dog of yours,” she stated firmly, “ought to be killed.”
Emma was disgruntled. This place was so far from anywhere important, she was seriously alarmed her mistress might choose to marry the knight and move here permanently. Here! So far from any decent town or city.
It had been bad enough when she had been told she was to join Jeanne when her charge was wedded the first time, to Ralph of Liddinstone. That was very hard, when she was so fond of the shops of Bordeaux, the little pie shops and sweetmeat stalls where she could purchase whatever she wanted while escorting Jeanne around, but she had accepted that it was necessary for her mistress to be married, and had finally agreed to stay with her.
But for little Jeanne to consider coming to a benighted spot like this was intolerable! The road-hah, it was what passed for a road here, at any rate-was little more than a quagmire. At the moment it was frozen into reddish muddy ruts, each of which threatened to snap the bones of a horse’s leg, but the nearest town was miles away, either northward up to Tiverton, or south to Crediton or Exeter. There was literally nothing in between, just a few hamlets filled with grubby peasants and their ragamuffin brats. How could poor Jeanne consider living in a place like this?
Crediton wasn’t so bad, she’d grudgingly agreed that yesterday when Jeanne had asked. But that was when they had only just entered the town, and soon Emma’s attitude had changed. In its favor, at least Crediton had some cobbles, and there were walkways so that ladies and gentlemen did not have to trail their finery in the filth of the sewer, or in the horse dung that lay all over…or in the feces from dogs and cats, goats and sheep, steers and heifers. In real towns, she had reminded her mistress scathingly, such wastes were found only in the market area where butchers and tanners plied their trade, but Crediton was such a one-road place that the animals got everywhere.
This farm, where the “noble” knight lived, was hardly good reason to want to live here. Emma could only gaze around her with scorn. There were no fine paintings on the walls, no elaborate carvings; it was just somewhere where a wealthy peasant wouldn’t have looked out of place. She glanced around the hall. A large table for Sir Baldwin and his guests lay at the far end, and the rest of the rush-strewn floor held other benches and tables-for the most part trestles that could easily be cleared away. There was no grace or elegance about it whatever.
And then there was the dog.
“Killed?” Baldwin repeated with horror. “But why? Uther’s always so gentle.”
“Gentle? I suppose you think when the monster knocks you flat on your back and stands slavering at your throat, he’s being playful?” Emma’s lip curled into a sneer. Her logic was unanswerable, she knew. She had always had a detestation for dogs of all sorts. Their slavish obedience, their fawning displays of affection and the filth they would eat, made her stomach churn. As if that wasn’t enough, she had a horror of the huge teeth. They looked too much like those of a wolf. “That dog should be killed,” she said again, with emphasis on the last word.
“But my dear woman, I really must say that I think Uther was only-”
“Why you should think my mistress would consider living in a hovel running with flea-bitten, mangy runts like that, I don’t know. As if it wasn’t enough that she should be killed by your hounds while she’s asleep, I expect she’ll scarcely get any rest, what with the fleas and other things. A fine place! The only way to get this household fit for a lady like her is to have the dogs out where they belong, in their kennels.”
With that, having confirmed that Baldwin’s face was as shocked as she had hoped, Emma rotated her massive bulk and steered a course through the door and out.
Baldwin passed a hand weakly over his forehead. “Is it true that she really has gone?” he asked. “I swear, if I’d had a javelin here, I would have hurled it at her, whatever the consequences!”
“Don’t worry, Baldwin,” Margaret said sympathetically. “I’m sure she’s not as bad as all that once you get to know her. Maybe it’s just t
hat she’s some way from home and feels a little uncertain.”
“I rather think she has too many certainties for my liking,” Baldwin pointed out acidly. “And what in the name of God has got into you, Wat my lad?”
For answer, the boy began to weep, and covered his face with his hands.
“God’s Blood!” muttered the knight. “I really believe this household has gone mad in the last day. Wat, calm yourself-and if you can’t, go out to the buttery and fill yourself with strong ale. Ah! Hugh-what the hell has been going on in here? What’s the matter with him?”
Hugh watched the lad shuffle out, and set his jaw. “It was her,” he said contemptuously. “She said the fire in her lady’s room wasn’t hot enough, and when Wat tried to make it burn better, he dropped an ember on her cloak and burned a hole. She clouted his ear for it.”
“He’ll have to learn to be more careful,” said Baldwin.
To Hugh he looked very pensive, and it wasn’t due to the murder, Hugh thought. Simon’s servant had known the knight for several years now, and Hugh had seen him investigating enough other crimes to know some of his moods, but he had never yet seen Baldwin in so irascible a temper.
No, the trouble was that Baldwin was so keen on this woman, Jeanne. It was as plain as a black sheep in a white flock that he wanted her. But he was terrified of the woman’s servant.
That was a position that Hugh could understand. As far as he was concerned, the bitch was mad. She had slapped Hugh’s mug from his hand at the inn, wasting over a pint of ale, just because she thought he’d had enough-as if she could tell. He’d only drunk two quarts, and that was nothing for him. Especially after a long ride like the one they’d had to get to Crediton. She’d come up, slapped his wrist and sent the lot flying. It had shocked him so much, he’d not been able to make any complaint, not even when she grabbed him by the nape of his tunic and hurled him out into the hall. Landing on the floor like that had been humiliating. And Hugh didn’t like being humiliated.
He also didn’t like people who disliked dogs. Hugh was a farmer’s son from the old moor hamlet of Drewsteignton, and had grown up on the open land around there, spending much of his time as a youth protecting the flocks. He knew dogs as well as any who spent their life with only a pair of sheepdogs as companions: he knew their strengths and their few weaknesses, and anybody who could want to condemn a dog to death for no reason was no friend to Hugh.
A moorman learns early on to value self-reliance. When a man lives out in the moors, he has to shift for himself. But a shepherd develops other skills: how to be devious, how to trap and destroy many wild things by stealth. Hugh stood grim and silent as Edgar walked in, holding Uther by the collar, watched as Baldwin laid a hand on his head and stared the dog full in the face contemplatively. Hugh’s expression darkened, and the room was quiet as they all waited expectantly.
“Baldwin, you can’t,” said Margaret quietly.
The knight held his mastiff’s head in both hands and stared into his eyes. “Uther, old friend, I don’t know what to do.”
“Sir, surely you should just lock him away in the stable or something,” said Edgar.
“What? You don’t want him put to the sword straight away?”
Edgar shifted from one foot to another, almost embarrassed. “It would be a great pity to kill the brute just because a maid doesn’t choose to like him. Poor old Chopsie isn’t vicious. I’d stake my life on it!”
“Chopsie?” asked Margaret.
“Don’t ask! Lock him up, then,” said Baldwin, and stood. “And now I am going to change out of these clothes. Excuse me, Margaret.”
He left the room without a backward glance, which looked to Hugh like a determined effort to appear blase. But Hugh knew how much Baldwin’s dog meant to him, and at that moment his mind began to scheme and invent methods of avenging Uther.
William waited while the hoof was cleaned and rasped into shape, and while the new shoe was forged and fitted. Only when the new one was nailed in place, did he offer to buy the smith an ale.
It took more than William had expected. The smith appeared to have an insatiable thirst, and yet managed to remain upright. It was not long before William found himself having to pretend to drink in order to prevent himself getting too drunk to continue with his careful prompting.
His task was made the easier by the presence of a man, Arthur, whom William had noticed about the street but to whom he had never spoken. Arthur, he learned, was a fishmonger, and Arthur was possibly even more bigoted than Jack. For some reason, Arthur was convinced that the sole reason for his sales having fallen off was that lepers were allowed into the town.
“I mean, why should they be let in, eh? What good do they do? And all the time they’re leching after our wives and daughters.”
“They’re an offense in the sight of God,” William offered sanctimoniously.
“Of course they are. Just look at the way they go around whining and begging. If they really wanted to get better, they’d go to their chapel and pray-that’s what I’d do! I wouldn’t sit around whinging, demanding money from strangers all the time. No, I’d get off my arse and pray to God, that’s what I’d do.”
“But you hear stories about them,” said William, dropping his voice to a low whisper.
Arthur nodded emphatically. “That’s right. The bastards. They’re in league with heretics and Jews. They’ve all agreed to attack us, and take all our property.”
“And our women,” added Jack, taking another swig of ale. “And what then? That’s what I’d like to know. They’re all such dirty bastards. God knows what they’re doing to poor Mary Cordwainer. She’s going up there every day. Helping them, she says. Cleaning up and such. Who believes her? I don’t, I can tell you. No, they have her doing something else for them, that’s what I reckon,” he said, and made an emphatic gesture.
“You think so?” asked Arthur. “That’s disgusting, that is! I’ve known little Mary all my life, and I’d never have thought-”
“Well, she was going to get engaged to Edmund, wasn’t she? It’s no surprise she went up there at first, but to be still going there every day? No, she’s been perverted into their ways, that’s what’s happened. Poor girl.”
Jack stared angrily at his jug. William almost said something to prompt him on, but then decided against it. The smith had the look of a man who took time to come to his conclusions, but with the inevitability of molten metal slowly pouring from a clay vessel into a channel, once he had started on a theme, he would follow along the track until he came to a solution which satisfied him.
When William left the inn, tugging his thick green velvet cloak about him against the frosty air, he felt well pleased with himself.
In the leper camp, Ralph finished his work and leaned back on his stool, his eyes shut as he allowed them a moment’s rest before packing up for the night. Day had ended long ago, and he was writing with the help of a small candle, whose flame was almost unequal to the task of shedding a little light on his parchment. Yet he was grateful for the meager amount it gave. He knew that it was provided by the kindness of others who had no need to supply him with anything.
It was frustrating to write up his accounts in this way, late at night when he was already exhausted, but there was so much to do during the day. He had the small garden to help cultivate, the chapel to keep spotless, the services to hold in order to protect his little flock, and the never-ending round of helping the inmates to change their bandages and apply ointments.
Many of them were showing the onset of the more serious symptoms, and their pain was all too evident. It was a hard cross to bear for Ralph, but he had no idea what he could do, other than clean their sores, wrap up the worst of the weeping wounds, and try, by his own example, to show how they might each hope to gain entrance into Heaven.
Three were showing no signs of accepting their fate. It was a cause of constant worry to Ralph, for his most urgent and pressing duty was to ensure that they all reached that st
ate of grace whereby they might die at peace with God and the world. Alleviation of their pain was, when all was said and done, only a short-term issue. Their souls were the important thing.
And of them, one was most pressing of all. The other two, Thomas Rodde and Edmund Quivil, had plenty of time to learn the error of their ways and come to thank God. No, the real problem lay with old Bernard.
His speech was difficult for the monk to understand, but Ralph had learned that his life had been full of hardship, for he had once been an important soldier in the service of the King, fighting away on the Welsh Marches, before he had caught this evil canker. Now the body that had been strong and vital, which had held its own in a hundred bloody campaigns, was falling apart, eaten away from within.
Bernard had been struggling against his fate for long enough now, and he was almost ready to surrender, but not easily, and not willingly. To Bernard, life itself was the sacred essential-he simply couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand Ralph’s insistence that he should give himself up to God with enthusiasm. The old warrior wanted to contest every step, as if taking part in a rearguard action. But his enemy was as implacable as himself, with greater resources and powers. As Bernard failed and gradually sank, Ralph was ever more aware of Death waiting at the side of the mattress.
If only Ralph could have persuaded him to confess his sins, he would have felt that he had achieved something, but the hunched, wretched figure refused. It had now come to pass that he permitted the cleric to dress his wounds, but made it clear that he preferred the company of Rodde and Quivil at his bedside. The three of them had some kind of compact in which they all accepted their status as outcast. It was as if their very difference from the society that shunned them was itself a badge to be worn with pride.
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