“I think you are right. And I wish you godspeed, my friend.”
“Thank you.”
Ralph noticed that a monk was walking toward them. It wasn’t the almoner, for Ralph would have recognized his bent back and slightly shuffling gait. This man walked with a spring in his step. As he came closer, he hailed Ralph. “Brother, may I speak to you a moment?”
Shrugging, Ralph joined him at the gate. Rodde waited patiently, his attention fixed on the town’s smoke in the distance. When he was called, he was surprised, but he ambled over willingly enough, although the suppressed excitement in Ralph’s voice made him wary.
“Thomas, this brother would like to have a word with you.”
Margaret walked slowly with Jeanne through the knight’s orchard. The clouds overhead tried to cast a gloomy atmosphere over the area, but Margaret couldn’t sense it. She was still filled with delight over the news of the night before.
“When will you arrange the celebration?”
Jeanne giggled. “I don’t know! Perhaps early in the New Year. I would like to wed in springtime. It seems best to marry when the flowers are springing up and the leaves are bright and fresh. A new year for beginning a new life—it seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”
“Most appropriate! And I will look forward to it.”
“So will I. He is a good man.”
“He is,” Margaret smiled. “You have won the heart of a kind and noble gentleman.”
“I am glad you think so too. It would be horrible to find myself attached to another man like my first husband,” Jeanne said with a shudder.
Margaret put her arm round her friend’s shoulder. “You can forget your past now. Baldwin will be a good husband for you.”
They were coming close to the house again, and in the doorway they saw Hugh helping Wat to bring in wood. The dour servant nodded to his mistress, before shepherding the boy inside.
“Is that man always so miserable?” Jeanne whispered.
“Oh yes,” Margaret laughed. “He was born with a sour apple in his mouth and the flavor has never left him!”
They went through into the house and along the screens. In the hall Wat was tending to the fire under Hugh’s supervision. Hugh rolled his eyes at his mistress as the women passed the doorway.
“I think when you are the lady of this house you’ll need to take that boy under your wing,” Margaret murmured, trying not to grin.
Jeanne caught the boy’s glance and gave him a wink. He instantly reddened to have been noticed by his master’s lady, and bent to his task with renewed vigor. His evident embarrassment made Jeanne hurry to the door and out to the open air, where her laughter couldn’t upset him.
But as they came out into the sunlight, her attention was caught by the low cloud of dust on the road. “Is that them? They’ve not been very long, if it is.”
Margaret nodded, shielding her eyes from a sudden flash of sunlight that burst from between the clouds. “Yes. It’s Baldwin and Simon.”
The knight could see the two women standing waiting at the door, and instead of riding through to the stableyard as normal, he cantered along the roadway and reined in before them.
“Is there anything the matter?” asked Margaret.
“Nothing,” replied the knight. “In fact, all is very well indeed. A murderer is in jail. Let’s get inside and we’ll tell you what we’ve done today.”
The fire was hissing and crackling merrily, the wine was warmed and spiced, sitting in pewter jugs on the hearth, the cold meats had been brought out with bread, and the four made a good meal while Baldwin and Simon told their ladies of their morning’s discoveries.
“But why,” said Jeanne, a slight frown wrinkling her brow, “why did Coffyn kill him then? Surely he could have killed Godfrey at any time?”
“Yes,” said Baldwin, “but at any other time he wouldn’t have had his enemy totally at his mercy. There is something about seeing a weak foe that does something to a certain type of man. I think Coffyn is of that kind. He met with Godfrey regularly, and probably passed the time of day with him, always having that vague, niggling doubt worrying at him, but never found the courage to strike at him, or even simply accuse him to his face.”
“Many men would have waited until they could find him with the woman and killed in hot blood,” said Margaret.
“And that was what he planned, I think. A surprise return, followed by a hideous slaughter. But although his blood was up, he couldn’t find his quarry. It was only when he remembered he had heard a shout from his neighbor’s house that he realized Godfrey must have got home, and that was when he rushed next door. And when he found that the man he hated was completely in his power, he couldn’t stop himself. All alone in that room with the man he loathed, and no one to prevent him taking his revenge. No constraints, no restrictions—and best of all, everyone would assume, as they did, that it was a tragic mistake, that the first blow had been the one to kill Godfrey.”
“Even the leper Quivil thought his blow had killed him,” mused Simon.
“I wonder whether his servant was persuaded, though,” said Baldwin.
Margaret paused with a morsel of meat at her mouth. “Why?”
“He has the look of a man-at-arms. Even John noticed Godfrey didn’t appear dead, and John had only very limited experience of warfare. William, Coffyn’s guard, seems much more experienced. I think he must have known Godfrey wasn’t dead when they first got to the hall.”
“True,” said Jeanne. “But just thinking Godfrey had died after they arrived wouldn’t mean he’d automatically assume his master had murdered him. He’d probably only think Godfrey had suffered some sort of collapse.”
Baldwin shook his head. “I think it’s more than that, Jeanne. He must have realized his master’s stick was missing; I suspect he noticed Godfrey’s wound was worse than when he first arrived. I expect he’d never admit it, but I think he knew perfectly well who was guilty.”
“Which leads us on to the other leper,” said Margaret. “He is the man I am most sorry for. And how his poor wife must feel! What a love she must have for her man, that she can still adore him when he is so hideously disfigured.”
Baldwin grinned and took a sip of wine. “That is the other thing. Thomas Rodde is not actually very revolting. Oh, he’s got lots of sores, and he looks a bit of a mess, but what can you expect from someone who lives in a lazar house?”
“But to think what he will become! And this Cecily still wants to stay with him and tend to him. She must have great courage.”
“I think she has to be one of the most loyal women imaginable,” said Simon frankly. “Don’t look at me like that, Meg! There’s no point denying the fact that most women would desert their spouse if he developed that disease. Yet this woman wants to make sure she doesn’t lose him again, and she appears to be utterly determined on that score.”
“And now, thanks to God, I think they may be able to live together,” said Baldwin.
Jeanne stared at him. “You mean the leper master has agreed to let her live with him?”
“I fear not. Brother Ralph is quite determined too, in his own way.”
“So they will leave the town together? That’s a shame. But maybe it’s for the best. There are so many sad memories for them both in Crediton.”
Baldwin let both arms fall to the table, and shook with laughter. “No, Jeanne! That’s not it!”
It was Simon who explained, while the knight chortled. “You see, this odious knight of yours has travelled widely. He has been to the Holy Land, and while he was there, he saw many lepers. But there are different kinds of skin disease.”
“There are two forms of leprosy,” said Baldwin. “Morphea alba and morphea nigra. It is hard to tell them apart, but if you prick the skin with a needle—”
“Baldwin!” Margaret wailed, pushing her trencher from her.
He gave her a grin of apology. “Let it be said, then, that there is an easy enough test, but morphea alba is curable. It is not the true leprosy, for that would kill even a strong man in less than eight years, and we all know what an old leper looks like. Yet this man told me that he had carried his disease for over nine years already. It struck me that his illness couldn’t be the black morphew.”
Jeanne stared. “You mean all the time the poor fellow has been living in leper camps he has been free of the disease?”
“Exactly. He is no more a leper than I am. And soon I think I should be able to have him declared clean by the Dean. As soon as that happens, he’ll be free to take up his life again. And so will Cecily.”
“So the murderer is arrested, the leper will be cured, and all ends well,” said Jeanne.
“Apart from poor Quivil,” said Margaret. “He went to his death thinking he had murdered a man—in fact, it was probably why he allowed himself to be killed. If he had felt innocent, surely he would have defended himself.”
Baldwin eyed her thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said. “But then, how can we tell? It was undoubtedly a better death for him than the slow and lingering one fate was holding for him, and for that I am sure he was grateful. Especially since he died without defending himself, just as Christ taught. That must be some solace to his soul.”
They had all but finished their meal, and Edgar now released the mastiff. Uther bounded in joyfully, running pell-mell for his master, and sat at his feet panting, a long dribble of saliva hanging from one jowl.
“And you helped us get to the truth, Chops,” said Simon.
Baldwin stroked the broad head, ruffling the short fur. Uther panted up at him, mouth gaping in a broad smile. Then he twitched round, his great paw lifted, and he scratched at his ear. Baldwin watched, paralyzed with horror as the long stream of dribble rose, curved, performed a short, sinuous dance, and finally flicked off, climbing upward before the knight’s face, seeming to get ever closer.
Edgar, out in the buttery with Hugh, was sitting on a barrel and chatting when they heard the roar. He half-rose, then shrugged and sat back again.
“What was that?” asked the mystified Hugh.
“From the sound,” said Edgar, taking a reflective pull of his ale, “I think my master is debating whether to ask Emma to stay.”
About the Author
MICHAEL JECKS gave up a career in the computer industry when he began writing the internationally successful Templar series. There are now twenty books starring Sir Baldwin Furnshill and Bailiff Simon Puttock, with more to follow. The series has been translated into all the major European languages and sells worldwide. The Chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association for the year 2004–2005, Michael is a keen supporter of new writing and has helped many new authors through the Debut Dagger Award. He is a founding member of Medieval Murderers, and regularly talks on medieval matters as well as writing. Michael lives in Northern Dartmoor with his wife and family. Visit his website at www.michaeljecks.co.uk.
Books by Michael Jecks
A FRIAR“S BLOODFEUD
THE BUTCHER OF ST. PETERS
THE CHAPEL OF BONES
THE TOLLS OF DEATH
THE OUTLAWS OF ENNOR
THE TEMPLAR“S PENANCE
THE MAD MONK OF GIDLEIGH
THE DEVIL“S ACOLYTE
THE STICKLEPATH STRANGLER
THE TOURNAMENT OF BLOOD
THE BOY-BISHOP“S GLOVEMAKER
THE TRAITOR OF ST GILES
BELLADONNA AT BELSTONE
SQUIRE THROWLEIGH“S HEIR
THE LEPER“S RETURN
THE ABBOT“S GIBBET
THE CREDITON KILLINGS
A MOORLAND HANGING
THE MERCHANT“S PARTNER
THE LAST TEMPLAR
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE LEPER’S RETURN. Copyright © 1998 by Michael Jecks. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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