The leper's return ktm-6 Read online

  “Yes, Dean. I met a man I had no wish to see again,” Stapledon said coldly. He accepted a goblet of mulled wine from the bottler, snuffing the aroma and grunting his approval. “That smells good! It was chilly on the way here; I swear I feel the weight of my years more strongly with each succeeding winter. With age, my flesh grows ever less protective against inclement weather. As a lad I’d have thought the weather today was so mild it only merited a shirt, but now I am old and feeble I have to reach for two tunics, a jerkin, and a thick woollen cloak. Dean Peter, your wine tastes as good as it smells! Thank you-I can feel my good humor returning!”

  “But what unsettled you?” Peter persisted, waving at the bottler to top up Bishop Stapledon’s goblet.

  “That incorrigible little man, John Irelaunde.”

  “Oh-good God!”

  “You don’t seem surprised, Dean,” the Bishop observed drily. “I am sure I recollect advising he should be banned from the town.”

  “It was hard to evict him. I’m not responsible for the town’s court, as you know.”

  “You mean to suggest that the good people of this town wouldn’t take your recommendation, Dean?”

  Ralph heard the Bishop’s voice sharpen. The Dean was avoiding Stapledon’s keen gaze, and when Ralph glanced at Sir Baldwin he noticed that the knight was once more staring at the flames, but now with a tiny grin touching his mouth as if he was trying to conceal his amusement. Ralph looked back at the Bishop helplessly. “But my Lord Bishop, who was the man? He looked inoffensive to me, just a tranter about his business-why should he irritate you so much?”

  The Bishop’s features set into a sour mask; the Dean thoughtfully stirred his wine with a finger. It was left to Baldwin to respond. Without turning from his contemplative survey of the logs, he spoke quietly, eyes twinkling merrily in the firelight. “This man John of Irelaunde is well known.”

  “But why, sir?”

  “I’m not the best man to ask. It all happened a long time ago, before I returned here myself. I lived abroad for many years, and it was only when my brother died in an accident that I inherited the estate. All I know is what I have heard.”

  Baldwin shot Ralph a quick look. The monk saw his features highlighted by a sudden jet of flame, and now he could hear the delight in his voice. So too could the Bishop, for Ralph heard him grunt in a surly manner and shift irritably in his seat.

  The knight continued, “John Irelaunde arrived here in 1315-I think in the August, wasn’t it, my Lord?” The Bishop gave a short nod. “As I say, I was not myself here in those days, but I have heard the story so often, it almost feels as if I saw it all. But before you hear about Irelaunde, you have to know the background, the tale of the other man, the one whom Irelaunde had met on the road. You see, the Bishop here was holding a service in the church to celebrate a mass…”

  “It was the mass of St. Peter advincula,” Stapledon said quietly. “Orey came here on the Wednesday before the first of August.” While Baldwin continued, his voice close to laughter, the Bishop could see the scene in his mind’s eye with perfect clarity.

  It was a cold and wet August-every month that year and the year following were abysmal-and the congregation was soaked. In the yellow glow of the hundreds of candles, the Bishop could see the steam rising like some strange marsh gas from the clothes of the people standing before him, creating an unwholesome fug. The stench was unimaginable: sodden wool, damp furs, the rank animal scent of badly cured leather, the reek of unwashed bodies-Stapledon had thought they all combined with the burning tallow to create a uniquely repellent atmosphere. He felt it was no way to give praise to God. It was so bad he had to rebuke himself for his lack of concentration.

  As he moved on with the mass, chanting the long passages that held such a wealth of meaning for him, submitting himself to the influence of the familiar phrases and soothing cadences, his concentration was shattered by a wild shriek.

  It was as if a pig’s bladder had been inflated and burst. The noise was so unexpected it was an obscenity in its own right. Stapledon was horrified, thinking at first that the devil himself had polluted the ceremony. Voices called out, some in condemnation, others in praise and while the Bishop stared uncomprehendingly, he saw that a figure was stumbling wide-eyed toward him, shouting, “A miracle, a miracle!”

  “What is this? Who dares interrupt a holy meeting?” he demanded, but the crowd had begun to murmur, and he couldn’t hear the reply. Holding up his hand, he glowered around waiting for silence.

  The man, Orey, had that kind of shabby gentility that was so common among tradesmen of poor birth. He was an unprepossessing fellow; short, grubby, ungainly, fat with too much ale, and flushed. Slack-jawed and apparently nervous, he barged forward and fell on his face on the floor before the altar, lying with his arms outstretched like a penitent imitating crucifixion. A stunned quietness overtook everyone, and Stapledon waited doubtfully, glancing from side to side at the church officials. He could see no help there. They were as confused as he himself.

  “My Lord Bishop, I was blind-I came in here with my wife hoping and praying that God in His goodness would grant me a miracle and let me see again, and behold! I can see! It’s a miracle, I swear!”

  Facing the ground as if scared of seeing the expression on the Bishop’s face, Orey’s voice was muffled, but enough of the people heard him. A thrill of excitement ran through the crowd. There was a pause, as if the whole congregation was drawing breath, and then the cries came out in a torrent: “Ring the bells!” “Praise God!” “Give thanks to God for a miracle!”

  At Orey’s side was a woman, thin and careworn, her hair prematurely gray. She held out her hands to the Bishop in supplication. “It’s true, my Lord. My husband here went blind weeks ago, and he had a dream that if he could get here to your mass he’d be able to see again. We came as soon as we could, and now he’s no longer blind!”

  Bishop Stapledon nodded to himself slowly, eyeing the crowd skeptically before turning to the astounded cleric at his side. “Arrest him.”

  There had been outrage, the gullible protesting he should be honored, not held like a felon; others, seeing the direction of the Bishop’s thoughts, threatened to tear Orey limb from limb for heresy. Stapledon merely motioned the people away from the altar and imperturbably continued with the service.

  But all through the rest of the ceremony, he had struggled to control the turbulence that shivered through his body. It was impossible to suppress the hope that this might truly be a miracle, the first he had ever witnessed.

  Stapledon gave a heavy sigh as Baldwin finished his story.

  Ralph leaned forward, barely controlling his excitement. “But I’d never heard of this! Was he telling the truth?”

  Baldwin gave a crooked smile. “Ah, now that is the question. How could the Bishop tell?”

  “I couldn’t. I wanted to believe-of course I did!-but I am too old to take a peasant’s word as Gospel truth when he swears to a miracle like that.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I had Orey and his wife questioned. They both deposed that on the Thursday before Easter he had gone to bed perfectly well, and had awoken blind. Orey came from Keynesham, he was the local fuller, and we sent to hear from his neighbors. There were plenty prepared to support his story.”

  “So the Bishop was left with little choice,” Baldwin said.

  “No,” said Stapledon. “I had to accept their word, especially since all swore on the Gospels. If there had been a shred of doubt I would have had Orey in jail for deception, but as it was, everyone supported his story-even the local priest, although he was hardly better educated than Orey himself and spent most of his spare time investigating the mysteries held inside ale barrels rather than those in the Bible. No, I had to order the bells to be rung, and held a thanksgiving service for God’s mercy in manifesting the illness on Orey, and for giving him his cure.”

  “And this man Orey is now known as John of Irelaunde?” asked Ralph with confus
ion.

  “No!” laughed Baldwin. “Orey was the man who persuaded John the trickster to come here.”

  “Orey returned to his business the next January,” Stapledon noted drily, glaring at the knight. “It so happened that on his way he met this tranter, John of Irelaunde, and told him of his miraculous cure. Orey was determined to praise God after what he was sure was a miracle, and wherever he went he told people what had happened to him. His wife, I understand, was a most willing witness. But this tranter, this John, then changed his direction and came to Crediton. He covered his eyes like a blind man, walked with a stick, and asked everyone he met whether they could lead him to the church. He said he had suddenly been struck blind, but had been sent a dream from God which showed him that he could be cured if he would only come to Crediton and attend a mass.”

  “He was so transparent,” Peter Clifford chortled. “Turning up like that, just a short time after Orey had gone, and all alone on his cart-as if he could have travelled so many miles blind and without a guide! I suppose he never considered how suspicious he would look.”

  “But why would he bother?” Ralph asked.

  Stapledon threw him a patronizing glance. “Ralph, when you have lived as long as I have, you’ll realize how gullible people can be. The populace here had showered Orey with money, hoping that by their charity a little of his good fortune would redound to them. No doubt he mentioned this to John. The people wanted to associate themselves with Orey, for after all, God had marked him out as favored. What Irelaunde intended was to visit the church, demonstrate his own marvellous recovery, and be similarly favored by the good burgesses of the town.”

  “But how can you be certain he wasn’t truly blind?”

  “In the first place because he could bring forward no witnesses; in the second because his story was too unlikely. God doesn’t send miraculous cures by the gross or even the pair; He provides them occasionally as proof of His kindness and power. And then, of course, the fool was seen lifting the bandage from his eyes.”

  “Our constable has good eyes himself,” Baldwin laughed, giving up all attempts to restrain his mirth, “and a deeply suspicious soul. When he sees an apparently blind man lifting one edge of the cloth binding his eyes in order to survey his path before making his way straight to the inn at which, upon arriving, he gives every sign of being quite incapable of seeing anything-the good constable begins to wonder what kind of ocular incapacity he is witness to. The constable kept his own eyes on John, and the next day when John made his entrance in the church, the constable was able to offer some words to the Bishop.”

  “I doubted the man from the first,” Stapledon muttered. “It was too much having a second man with a sudden blindness turn up; miracles aren’t that common. No, I had Irelaunde put in the jail, and when he couldn’t produce a single witness to support his defense, I said he should be held until he could be tried in court.”

  “There was no point, my Lord,” said Clifford. “He was too obvious. I asked the burgesses what they would do, and relayed your suggestion, but they all seemed to think he was a joke, and only made him spend a morning in the stocks.”

  “A morning? A whole morning? My God, what cruelty!” the Bishop said witheringly.

  Baldwin laughed. “Don’t be too hard on the town for such generosity. You can imagine how the burgesses would have looked at it: on the one hand they had a fabulous proof of the holiness of their church, an event that had been witnessed by the Bishop himself, and something that would be bound to bring in pilgrims from all over the country-and on the other a simple crook, someone who might, if his case came to be known, ruin the town’s reputation. If one man was proven to be a fraud, wouldn’t that automatically reflect upon the first miracle? If John of Irelaunde was false, people would wonder whether Orey was as well.”

  “It hardly demonstrates the correct desire to punish a wrongdoer.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Bishop. Surely it is better to punish one man leniently than potentially the whole town unfairly,” Baldwin said teasingly. “Especially since it might demean a genuine miracle: that of Orey.”

  Stapledon snorted. “So what has he been up to since? I assume you must be well acquainted with him for you to be able to call him to mind so easily, especially since, as you point out, you didn’t even live here when all this took place.”

  The knight sipped at his juice. “It is true that I have seen something of him.” He decided that the most recent rumors he had heard should be withheld. Peter Clifford might know something of them, but there was no need to inform the Bishop when it could only serve to irritate the prelate. “He has been brought before me in my capacity as Keeper of the King’s Peace, but never over anything serious: selling underweight loaves of bread, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s bad enough!” exclaimed Ralph. Many poor people depended on their bread for their daily sustenance, and those who short-changed their customers were guilty of trying to starve them, in his view.

  “True, but it’s not something a man should be hanged for,” Baldwin stated easily. He knew how hard some found it to make any kind of a living, and didn’t believe in excessive severity against those who only committed offenses to prevent their own starvation.

  “So he’s hardly a model citizen,” the Bishop commented.

  “No-but he adds a certain color to the town’s life,” Baldwin suggested. “He has a bold nerve. I believe he could sell sulfur to the devil-and profit from the exchange!”

  “Hardly the sort of comment to endear him to me,” Stapledon snapped coldly, but even as Ralph gave a sharp intake of breath at his irreverence, Baldwin could see that Stapledon was concealing his own amusement.

  “But it’s true enough,” Clifford said, with a kind of weary resignation. “Irelaunde has some kind of natural gift with language. Only last week he persuaded me to take some of his cloth. I know what he’s like, and although I’m quite certain there’s no malice in him, I should’ve known better than to buy from him.”

  “If there’s no malice…” Ralph interrupted, confused.

  “There doesn’t have to be evil intent,” Baldwin explained. “John only thinks of the next minute or two, and what he can make. If there’s an opportunity for profit, he’ll take it. He will trade in anything. It usually won’t be something that could hurt-but it wouldn’t necessarily match the high expectation the customer had.”

  “And then,” Clifford added gloomily, “he always has a ready explanation, which on the face of it is reasonable, and which inevitably shows that you are somehow at fault. Take my cloth: he let me have it for half the going price-purely, he said, because he had picked up a sizeable quantity cheaply from a retiring weaver, and he’d prefer to see the Church get a bargain than make more money himself or give the benefit to an already fat merchant.”

  “That should have warned you, Peter,” said Baldwin, mock-reprovingly. “He actually implied that he would sooner see you gain the advantage of the deal than he himself? What more warning could he have given?”

  “He was most convincing.”

  “He always is! Go on, what was the matter with the cloth? Did it dissolve in the rain? Or perhaps it evaporated in the sun?”

  Peter Clifford pursed his lips. “The cloth was for tunics for some of the lay brothers and servants,” he admitted after a moment. “Some of them had such threadbare stuff that they were hardly better off than going about naked. But as soon as John’s material was washed, it shrank. It had already been made up into clothes by then, and it was all useless.”

  “And he said it was your fault?”

  “He was most apologetic, but he said we should have washed it before cutting and stitching it. I suppose he’s right, but you don’t expect it to contract to that extent! The shirts were only good for children once they were washed.”

  “It goes to prove that I was right,” the Bishop stated. “He should have been thrown out of the town after his attempted deception.”

  Baldwin could see
that this topic was embarrassing his friend, and changed the subject. “So, Ralph, you are to become the new master of St. Lawrence’s? Let me see. That means you come from the Trinity Convent, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. From Houndeslow, some few miles from Westminster.”

  “A good thriving monastery, I hear,” Peter Clifford observed approvingly.

  Baldwin watched the young monk as he answered the Dean’s questions about his House. The knight had known that the little chapel of St. Lawrence’s was served by monks from Houndeslow, but he had not realized that old Nicholas, who had died during the previous summer, was to be replaced by someone so young. Baldwin was sure that the lad was no more than twenty, and although that was surely old enough for any man to take up his life’s duties, it was disturbing to think that the fellow was taking up such a hazardous role. Ralph had the self-assurance of a much older man, Baldwin noted; perhaps he would be capable of managing the affairs of his little chapel. Observing him, Baldwin was impressed by his stillness; the monk held himself with an almost detached serenity. Unlike so many young men Baldwin saw, Ralph didn’t fidget, but sat composedly, his hands resting in his lap.

  Baldwin picked up his goblet and took a sip. It was good to see a young man who was determined to serve his God by protecting his charges, but Baldwin was fascinated by what could motivate someone to take on such a job. The inmates of St. Lawrence’s Hospital were not ill of broken limbs or cuts. They were not run-of-the-mill patients such as monks commonly looked after. Those who lived in St. Lawrence’s were a far more gruesome group.

  St. Lawrence’s was the leper hospital. 2

  O nly 200 yards away from where they sat, John of Irelaunde was rattling his way over the unmade road toward his home.

  It was rare for him not to smile or wave to those he saw by the side of the road, though it was less common for his greetings to be returned. A young maid at one house glanced at him coolly when he called to her; a little farther along the road a woman hurrying by with her two children reddened and looked away when he whistled and winked. Still, he felt he was adequately compensated for these responses when he came near a group of maids chatting at the corner to an alley. He stood on his board, doffing his scruffy hat and bowing from the waist, and the girls giggled. One met his eye boldly, and he grinned and waved his hat to her.