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  The leper's return

  ( Knight Templar mystery - 6 )

  Michael Jecks

  It is 1320 and civil war is looming in England as the monk Ralph of Houndeslow rides into Crediton. Ralph faces a daunting task in his new position as Master of St Lawrence's, the leper hospital. Not only are his charges grievously ill, they are also outcasts of society, shunned and feared by all healthy folk.

  The citizens of Crediton have other concerns as well. The murder of goldsmith Godfrey of London and the assault on his daughter Cecily, for instance, crimes all too easily attributed to John of Irelaunde, a womaniser who has in the past tried to defraud the church. Sir Baldwin Furnshill, Keeper of the King's Peace, is not convinced that John is wicked enough to commit murder, and soon he is following other leads, with the able assistance of Bailiff Simon Puttock. But only when they discover the identity of the man overheard talking to Cecily before the attack will the astounding truth begin to emerge.

  Meanwhile, feeling against the lepers is growing, fed by rumours deliberately spread. Unless the burghers of Crediton can be made to see reason, Baldwin and Simon could have full-scale slaughter on their hands.

  Michael Jecks

  The Leper’s Return

  Walter Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter, watched the sky with a sense of foreboding, trying not to wince as his horse rocked gently beneath him.

  “It looks like rain, doesn’t it, my Lord?”

  The Bishop grunted non-committally. Those few words summed up the animosity with which people viewed the weather. During the disastrous years of 1315 and 1316, the crops had drowned in torrential rain and thousands had died in the ensuing famines. Few families across Europe had been untouched by the misery and even now, in autumn 1320, all feared a repeat of the disaster. Stapledon glanced sympathetically at his companion. “At least this year’s harvest was collected safely,” he said gravely. “God gave us a respite, whatever He may hold in store for the future.”

  His companion nodded, but as he surveyed the pewter-colored clouds bunching overhead, his eyes held the expression of one who can see the arrow flying toward him and waits only to see where it will strike. “I pray that God will preserve us in the coming year as well.”

  Stapledon forbore to comment. God’s will was beyond the understanding of ordinary men, and the Bishop was content to wait and see what He planned. At least this visit should be restful, he thought-away from the circle of devious, mendacious tricksters who surrounded King Edward.

  The monk at his side, Ralph of Houndeslow, had arrived in Exeter only a few days before, asking for a room to rest for the night. When he had heard that the Bishop himself was about to depart for the large town of Crediton, northwest of Exeter, he had been delighted to accept Stapledon’s offer of a place in his retinue. It was safer to undertake a journey with company in these troubled times, even for a man wearing the tonsure.

  Stapledon had found Ralph to be quite unlike previous visitors. Most who asked for hospitality at the Bishop’s gates were garrulous, for they were used to travelling, and delighted in talking about their adventures on the road, but Ralph was quiet. He appeared to be holding himself back, as though he was aware of the weighty responsibility that was about to fall upon his shoulders. Stapledon found him reserved and rather dull, a little too introspective, but that was hardly surprising. Ralph’s words about the weather demonstrated one line his thoughts were taking, but the prelate knew other things were giving him concern. It was as if a foul atmosphere had polluted the air in this benighted kingdom, and no one was unaware of the poison at work in their midst: treachery!

  Stapledon turned in his saddle to survey the men behind. There were fifteen all told: five men-at-arms, four servants and the rest clerics. The troops were all hardened types recently hired to the Bishop’s service, and he viewed them askance. Since accepting his high office from the King and Parliament, it had been deemed prudent that he should have some protection, and after persuasion he had agreed to take on a bodyguard. He knew they were necessary for his safety, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy their company. His only satisfaction was that when he studied them he could see they weren’t prey to fears for their future. They each knew that a mug of warmed, spiced ale waited for them at the end of their journey, and that was enough to assure their contentment. They were uneducated ruffians, and higher considerations were irrelevant to them. When he cast an eye over his servants, he saw that they weren’t plagued with doubts either, for they knew their jobs, and would blindly obey their master. No, it was only when he looked at his monks that he saw the weary anxiety.

  Stapledon knew what lay at the bottom of it, and it wasn’t only the weather: the clerics, like himself, were aware that civil war was looming.

  It was many years since the King’s grandfather, Henry III, had engaged Simon de Montfort in battles up and down the kingdom, but the horror of it was known to those who were educated and could read the chronicles. Their trepidation reflected that of all the King’s subjects as stories spread of the increasing tension between two of the most powerful men in the land. The Bishop paid no heed to such rumors-he had no need to. He had witnessed at first hand how relations between the King, Edward II, and the Earl of Lancaster had soured.

  Earlier in the year, Sir Walter had become the Lord High Treasurer, the man who controlled the kingdom’s purse. In theory, the position was one of strength, but it made him feel as safe as a kitten dropped unprotected between two packs of loosed hunting dogs. No matter how he stood, he was constantly having to look to his back. There were many, in both the King’s party and the Earl’s, who would have liked to see him ruined. Men who had shunned him before now pretended to be his friend so that they could try to destroy him-or subvert him to their cause. Stapledon was used to the twisted and corrupt ways of politics and politicians, for he had been a key mover in the group which had tried to bring King Edward and the Earl of Lancaster to some sort of understanding, but the deceit and falseness of men who were well-born and supposedly chivalrous repelled him.

  He had hoped that the Treaty of Leake would end the bitterness, but the underlying rivalries still existed. Stapledon was not the only man in the kingdom to be unpleasantly aware of the rising enmity. Lancaster was behaving with brazen insolence; not attending Parliament when summoned, and recklessly pursuing his own interests at the expense of the King’s. Stapledon had no doubt that if the Earl continued to flaunt his contempt for his liege, there would be war. And if that happened, the Bishop knew that the Scots would once more pour over the border. They had agreed to a truce last year, in 1319, but more recently there had been rumblings from the north. Since their success at Bannockburn and their capture of Berwick, the Scots had become more confident. Stapledon was glumly convinced that if the northern devils saw a means of dividing the English, they would seize it.

  Stapledon knew that the same thoughts were diverting the monks as they made their way along the road. Leaning over, he patted Ralph’s back. “Don’t worry, my son, we can set aside all fears for the future of the country while we are here in Devon.”

  “If war comes, it will reach to every corner of the kingdom.”

  “True, but it will come here last of all, and there is no need to anticipate it at present. Perhaps there are enough men of good will and good sense to avert it.”

  “I pray to God that we might be saved from it.”

  Stapledon peered at Ralph. It was irritating that his sight was so poor now at shorter distances; he could observe things with clarity ten feet away or more, but anything nearer was indistinct, as if seen through a misted glass. “You will find that Crediton will help you forget your fears. It is a happy, bustling town, and the Dean, Peter Clifford, is a good man-and
an excellent host.”

  Ralph of Houndeslow gave a faint smile. Peter Clifford’s hospitality was immaterial to him. There were vastly more important things to consider than a dean’s generosity to travelling monks and an important prelate-but this was hardly the time for him to raise such matters. He was relieved to see the Bishop revert to silent contemplation of the way ahead.

  There was little to see. The rolling hills rose on either side, smothered in ancient trees-oaks, elms, beeches and chestnuts-and here and there a thin column of smoke lifted over the branches until caught by the faint breeze, whereupon it was whipped away like magic. It was good to see that the peasants were industrious here; in so many other places the villeins were surly and lazy. Since the famine, many appeared to resent working for their masters. Here at least the wood was being cut, the coppiced boughs taken for firewood and furniture-making, or being stacked to make charcoal.

  But Ralph had heard about this land and couldn’t like it. He knew that the further he travelled toward Crediton, the further he was going from civilization. Few desired to go as far to the west as Dartmoor or Cornwall. They were wild lands, with a population that was unchanged, so it was said, from the earliest times when the first men came to these islands. Devon and Cornish men were hard and lawless, as rough and untameable as the moors themselves. Exeter was more or less a haven, a lonely fort on the outskirts of the kingdom, much like the castles of the Welsh or Scottish Marches, an isolated beacon of hope in the wasteland all round.

  Just as he thought this, Ralph saw a cart. The sight of so mundane a vehicle made him feel a little foolish after his sour consideration of the land. It was as if God Himself was rebuking him for falling prey to such somber reflections.

  Stapledon was still concentrating on the hills ahead. “Look,” he said, pointing. “That smoke-that’s Crediton.”

  Ralph followed the direction of his finger. They were descending into a broad valley, the river lying on their left, while on their right the woods were thinning. Beyond them he could see a series of strip fields lying roughly perpendicular to the road. A litter of broken branches and mud bore witness to the flooding of a month before when the rain had swollen every watercourse and the plains had filled with water. Much had been cleared from the road here, but silt remained on the side nearest the water. In front of him he caught a glimpse of a limewashed wall through the trees. He could see that the road curved round to the right and disappeared as it climbed up between two hills, above which he could make out the light haze of woodsmoke. Faintly on the wind came the scent of burning wood from the town’s fires.

  “Not far now,” said the Bishop, wriggling uncomfortably in his saddle.

  “No, my Lord,” Ralph agreed. He had been told that the Bishop was victim to hemorrhoids, which made any journey on horseback an ordeal. Ralph had never been afflicted with them, but the eye-watering description of the symptoms, which likened the pain to that of sitting upon a sharpened dagger, made him sympathetic, no matter how much some of his servants might snigger behind the Bishop’s back.

  They were almost upon the cart now. Ralph could see that the driver was a little, hunched figure, elbows resting on his knees, his torso bent, the reins held slackly, as if the driver himself was content to leave the destination to his old pony. Ralph felt his mood lighten at the sight. This was a local peddlar, someone who would buy stocks of bread and beer to trade with households in the near vicinity; hardly the representative of a brutal and ancient race such as the monk had anticipated only a few minutes before. The cleric made a mental note to admit to his foolishness at his next Confession.

  “Good morning,” he called as he overhauled the carter.

  The man idly raised a hand to his old felt hat, lifting the edge of its flopping brim, and Ralph caught a glimpse of shrewd brown eyes, which immediately narrowed in a cheerful grin, and then the hat was swept off with what the priest thought was a counterfeit respect, as if the man was laughing-although not at Ralph himself. It was as though the tranter was sharing a secret joke with Ralph, against the whole world. “Your servant, Lord.”

  “I’m no lord-but you know that well enough!” Ralph retorted, but chuckled when the fellow shrugged good-naturedly. He had seen enough of these wandering salesmen to know that they lived on their wits, persuading dubious farmers or tinminers to part with their hard-earned and jealously guarded money. This man looked capable of selling a broken nag to the King’s own grooms, with his frank and honest appearance, easy smile and strong, square face. He gave Ralph a conspiratorial wink, and the cleric felt absurdly honored, as if he had undergone some form of trial and had exceeded the salesman’s wildest expectations.

  But then Ralph heard the Bishop give a swift intake of breath, and saw him stiffen in his saddle. The monk’s pleasure was suddenly shattered as he heard the Bishop gasp: “My God! You!” 1

  S ir Baldwin Furnshill took another mug of apple juice and sipped. It had taken some years, but Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton Church, had finally accepted the fact that Baldwin preferred not to drink alcohol throughout the day, and now, whenever the knight came to visit him, there was usually some form of refreshment on offer which did not threaten him with intoxication.

  It was rare for a man to avoid ale and wine, but Baldwin had spent his youth as a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon-a Knight Templar. While he had remained a member of the Order he had rigorously avoided strong drink; now he was in his mid-forties, he knew he wasn’t capable of consuming the same quantity as others of his age, and thus saved himself embarrassment by sticking to those drinks he knew would not leave him inebriated.

  “That must be them,” Peter Clifford said as voices were heard in the courtyard. Shortly afterward there was a jingling of harnesses, rumbling of cartwheels and the hollow, metallic clatter of hooves on the cobbles. The Dean stood, emptying his goblet and handing it to the waiting servant. Baldwin set his mug by the fire and trailed after his friend, walking out to welcome the Bishop.

  Baldwin had met Stapledon on a few occasions, and had always found him to be an urbane, refined gentleman. Today the knight was somewhat surprised to see the Bishop standing scowling while Peter’s stablemen held the horses. The Bishop’s men were milling, some pulling chests and boxes from the back of the wagon, others collecting the smaller packages from individual mounts. Their frenetic activity was proof of their own nervousness in the face of their master’s anger.

  “My Lord Bishop, you are very welcome,” Peter said, and Baldwin could hear the doubt in his voice. Peter must also have seen the Bishop’s mood. “My Lord, would you like some spiced wine to take the chill off after your journey?”

  “My friend, it’s good to be here again once more,” the Bishop said automatically, though a trifle curtly. “Meet the new master of St. Lawrence’s Chapel, Ralph of Houndeslow.”

  Baldwin had noticed the cleric before he was introduced. To the knight, most young monks looked as if they would benefit from early exercise every morning for several weeks; they invariably had skin that displayed an unhealthy pallor. This one was different. He stood tall and straight, not bent at the shoulder, and from his ruddy color he might have been a laborer. His face was thin, but not weakly. He had a solid, pugnacious-looking chin, and his blue eyes were intelligent, glittering with a prideful confidence beneath a thatch of tawny hair. The monk put Baldwin in mind of some of his dead friends from the Templars.

  As they walked back to the Dean’s hall, Baldwin noticed that the Bishop did not stride so purposefully as had once been his wont. The prelate had aged in the last year. Although still tall, he was more stooped than before. It looked as if the burden of his office was becoming too much for him to bear. Baldwin had first met him here in the Dean’s house a year before, when Stapledon had pressed him to confirm to whom he owed his allegiance-King or Earl. Then Stapledon had been tall, erect and powerful. But Baldwin knew Stapledon was involved in the politics that surrounded the King, and that the pressure must be crus
hing. He recalled that twelve months before, they had both been fearful of war. In retrospect this appeared laughable: the situation had not been nearly so fraught with danger as it had now become.

  Ralph took a seat a little to the Bishop’s left, leaving the older man near the fire. Two balks of oak glowed dully, and as the Bishop dropped down with a grunt, Baldwin gave them a kick, creating a shower of sparks, before tossing split beech logs on top. Peter Clifford chivvied servants to fetch the wine before seating himself opposite their guests, and Baldwin pulled up a stool next to Ralph. As the flames curled upward the monk saw the knight’s face in the flickering, lurid orange light, and to judge from the set nature of his expression, his thoughts were not pleasant.

  Close to, the knight appeared older than the monk had first thought. Sir Baldwin was a lean-looking man, with the massive shoulders and arms of a swordsman, but where Ralph would have expected to see cruelty and indifference, he was surprised to see rather the opposite. The knight had kindly eyes. They were set in a dark face which was framed by short black hair, frosted with gray at his temples. A well-trimmed beard followed the line of his jaw.

  His cheek wore a long scar, which shone in the candlelight. But Ralph could also see that pain marred his features. His forehead was slashed across with deep tracks, and at either side of his mouth were vertical lines that pointed to years of suffering. He gave the impression of a man who had endured, although the cost of surviving was high.

  Bishop Stapledon also saw Baldwin’s detachment and gave a rueful shrug. “Sir Baldwin, please excuse my shortness. I didn’t intend to be rude.”

  “I am the one who should apologize; my mind was wandering.”

  “In my case I was reflecting on a chance encounter,” said the Bishop.

  “Really, my Lord?” asked Dean Peter with interest.