Ben stared resentfully at the back of the man. ‘But it isn’t fair, he isn’t even a cripple,’ he yelled.
The monk, already with his mind on other things, would scarcely have registered this remark had it not been for the howl of protest that rose from the half-dozen beggars who were still milling around the gate, as frustrated and angry as Ben at having been denied their alms.
One of them roughly grasped Ben’s arm. ‘How do you know he’s no cripple?’
Ben had blurted it out even before he’d realised how he knew, but now he thought about it. ‘That leg he’s dragging – it’s as thick as the good leg. Not like his,’ Ben pointed to one of the other beggars in the little group, who also supported his weight on a crutch. ‘His crippled leg’s no more than a stick next to his good leg.’
‘The lad’s right!’ the beggar said. ‘That leg should be wasted if he can’t use it.’
The man was still hopping away up the road, oblivious to the growing commotion behind him at the gate. The monks threw down their baskets, and with a surprising turn of speed raced up the road. Before the beggar even knew what was happening they had seized him, one on either side, and were dragging him back towards the gate. The man’s crutches clattered down onto the stones as the beggar struggled to break free, but the monks managed to keep their grip on him.
They had almost dragged him back as far as Steeple Gate when the almoner appeared, bristling with anger.
‘Who left the gate wide open and unattended?’ he began, then seeing the beggar struggling between the two sweating monks, he took a step forward, frowning.
‘What’s all this? Why have you laid hands on this man?’
‘He’s an averer,’ one of the monks spat. ‘Pretending to be crippled to get alms, and taking food from the mouths of those who are in genuine want.’
A growl of fury went up from the other beggars.
‘Is that so?’ the almoner said grimly. He seized the beggar by the front of his filthy shirt, almost pushing his face into his. ‘It’s wicked enough to steal from the needy when food is plentiful, but with harvests as bad as they were last year, we certainly haven’t any to waste on scoundrels like you. I’m going to ensure you’re made an example of, my lad. I’ll see to it that you’re whipped bloody for this.’
The other beggars grinned their approval, all except one who was quietly slinking away, no doubt thinking he had come perilously near the same punishment.
The averer was fighting to free himself, while at the same time begging for mercy.
‘I didn’t take the food for myself, it was for my poor bedridden mother, I swear.’
The almoner was unmoved. He reached up and tugged at the end of the filthy bandage covering half the man’s face.
‘I warrant this is false too and we’ll find a good eye beneath here.’
The man desperately tried to extricate himself from the monk’s grasp. ‘No, I beg you. The pain! I can’t bear the pain of the light in that eye. It’s agony. Don’t!’
But it was too late. The last twist of bandages was torn away to reveal a somewhat crumpled but unblemished face and a second eye as bright and blue as its twin.
For a moment Ben gaped up at the figure in disbelief. ‘But you’re dead!’
‘You recognise this man?’ the almoner said.
Ben, his eyes bulging like a frog in fear and bewilderment, could only nod his head.
‘Well, who is it, boy?’ the almoner demanded in exasperation.
‘He’s the angel. He’s Martin.’
The almoner didn’t trouble to disguise his glee when he bustled into the prior’s hall at the head of the small procession comprising the two monks, Martin struggling between two lay brothers and, nervously bringing up the rear, the small figure of Ben. There was always a certain amount of rivalry and squabbling between the obedientiaries who held posts of responsibility in the priory. And it was no secret among the brothers that Prior Alan blamed his subprior for all the misfortunes of the last few weeks. Now here was another humiliation. Stephen had men combing the fens for Martin’s murderer, and all the time the victim had been very much alive and sitting at the priory gate.
The almoner could barely keep from smirking when he announced that he had personally apprehended the murderer of the poor Ely lad, Luke. The two monks who had in fact caught Martin exchanged sour looks, but they were resigned to their superiors taking credit for anything that had gone well, though they were never so eager to take the blame when things went amiss.
Prior Alan lowered himself into the chair at the far end of the long table.
‘Come closer.’
The two lay brothers shoved Martin forward with such force that, with his wrists bound behind him, he almost fell sprawling across the table, but he pulled himself upright.
‘There’s been a mistake… I confessed that I begged a little food at the alms gate, but my poor mother is dying-’
‘Dying now, is she?’ the almoner said. ‘She’s suffered a remarkably sudden decline in her health. Just now you told us she was merely bedridden.’
‘She’s bedridden because she’s dying,’ Martin said, glowering at him. ‘Please, Father Prior, I have to get back to her. Suppose she should die alone, thinking her only son has abandoned her? I swear I will return and undertake any penance you wish. But you would surely not deny an old woman the comfort of her son’s hand in her final hours.’
The almoner opened his mouth to protest but the prior held up his hand to silence him. ‘You say this is the man we thought was dead. How do you know it’s him?’
The almoner looked round for Ben, who had retreated to the furthest corner and was gazing round the long panelled room in wide-eyed astonishment.
‘The boy identified him. He’s the lad who acted the part of Isaac in The Play of Adam. And I understand the lad’s father is one of the men you arrested, Father Prior. You, boy, come here.’
Ben was so busy staring at the brightly stitched wall hangings that he didn’t even seem to be aware he was being talked about, never mind addressed. Impatiently the almoner strode over and grabbed him, propelling him towards where the prior sat.
Prior Alan adopted what he clearly thought was a kindly expression, but it did nothing to reassure the boy, who stared at him like a rabbit bewitched by a stoat.
‘Do you see the man with his hands bound?’
Ben’s gaze flicked to Martin and back to the prior. He nodded, uncertain why the prior should be asking him if he could see someone who was standing only feet away, unless Martin really was a ghost.
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘M… Martin.’
‘No, I swear I’m not. I know no one of that name. I live out in the fens. I came to Ely to find food for my poor dying mother. I’ve never seen this boy before. The child is mistaken.’
I’m not,’ Ben said indignantly. ‘You are Martin and there was a half-noble in the bag. You stole it.’
‘You see the boy is clearly making all this up. No doubt he hopes for a reward.’
Prior Alan gestured to the two lay brothers. ‘Be so good as to find Subprior Stephen and ask him to come here. He’s spoken to the actor on several occasions; if this is the fellow Stephen will know. And please fetch Custodian Will too. You need not return here yourselves. When we have done with the prisoner, I shall send for you again to conduct him to the hell-pit. Whoever he may prove to be, one thing is clear, he is guilty of posing as a cripple to beg for alms and he will be punished for that, though I suspect that will prove to be the very least of his crimes.’
When Stephen came hurrying into the prior’s hall, no one could be left in any doubt as to the identity of the man.