“Sir?”
“Nothing. Let’s get something to eat before we see the girl.”
Thomas Rodde sat resting against an oak near the western edge of the town and dozed. The sun was warm on his face, the thick grass of the roadside was as soft as the finest down beneath him, and for a few minutes he could forget the horror of his disease and cling to a memory of what life used to be like before he became ill.
Now he was twenty-nine those far-off days of his youth seemed to be suffused with a rosy glow. Nothing bad or evil ever seemed to interrupt their easy flow. The weather, as now he remembered it, was always balmy-and when it did rain, it was always gentle showers, never harsh, bitter drops that felt as if they had been frozen before falling.
These reflections made him give a small smile, his eyes still closed against the brightness of the sun. He knew, logically, that the rain had been bitterly cold on occasion, just as he knew he had seen thunderstorms, had suffered biting winds while riding through the winter, and had more than once felt frozen to the core when he had been out in snowstorms-yet it was hard now to bring them to mind. It was as if his memory was separated into two parts: that before his illness, the happy life, and that after, the living death. All that happened in his early years was splendid: it was as if his childhood was a perfect dream in which even the elements had conspired to ensure his memories were delightful-and now, since developing leprosy, his entire existence had been blighted.
Whenever he thought about the winter, it was the desolate plains of the northern marches which sprang into his mind. The misery-of being constantly damp; of having the rain driven into his face by a wind that felt so cold it froze the blood in his veins; of walking through puddles and rivulets that might have been composed of pure, liquid ice, that penetrated his cheap shoes in an instant; the pain while his feet at first went cold, then became vessels of pure fire before losing all sensation, followed by the torture of recovery. It often seemed to him that he would be better off staying out and allowing the life to leave his freezing body. Once he had attempted this, remaining in the open air as the ground around him hardened and his breath misted before his eyes. But his will to live was too deeply ingrained in his soul, and he had returned, half-unwillingly, to the protection of the fire at the leper camp.
That was all he could recall of the bleak wasteland of Northumbria. He had loathed the climate, the country, and the people. It had been a refuge of sorts, somewhere for him to escape to, far from the disgust he saw in the eyes of his friends and family, but, like any place of sanctuary, it was no substitute for home, especially when his mild antipathy to the area developed into fierce repugnance.
This was partly due to the apparent slowness of his disease. The suddenness of his affliction had been hard to accept, but if he had continued to slide steadily toward death, he would have been able to cope with his burden. It wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. For some reason, while he had remained in the north, he had enjoyed a period of remission, and it had left him nursing a perverse, bitter fury against God. Thomas could have borne the trials of death, but knowing that he must stay away from contact with society, was excluded from all the pursuits and pleasures which made life bearable, while remaining fit enough in body and mind, was unendurable.
He had stayed there for six years, six long, intolerable years, living in the closed community of lepers, watching others suffering, becoming hideously disfigured, dying. And at last he was forced to leave. The Scots poured over the border in one of their periodic raids, and his little refuge was wasted. There was nothing to keep him there. To him the very air was foul, the climate worse, and he had made his way by easy stages down to the south.
And now it was almost possible to forget some of the pain and hardship. He opened his eyes and gazed up into the cornflower-blue sky, enjoying a moment’s serenity. The tree above him stood solid and unmoving, there was a scent of thyme and wild garlic in the air, and his contentment was enhanced by a small bird high overhead, which sang with a clear, liquid tone. Closing his eyes again, he could imagine himself back in the fields of his old country home in the flat lands of Stepney in the county of Middlesex.
His mental meanderings were called to an abrupt halt. “Thomas? Are you awake?”
Sighing, Rodde slowly eased himself upright. “Hello, Edmund.”
Quivil was tired, Rodde saw. His face was pale from lack of sleep, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Rodde had heard him at night cursing and muttering to himself. It was irritating. Since the abortive initiation ceremony, Rodde and he had shared a hut, so when Quivil couldn’t sleep, often Rodde couldn’t either. But it was impossible for Rodde to snap at him. Perhaps it was that Quivil’s incomprehension of the injustice of his illness was so similar to his own. Whatever the reason, Rodde found himself warming to the farmer’s son, and in return Quivil appeared to look on him with near slavish devotion.
“You look like you need a rest more than me,” Rodde observed.
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“No.” Further comment was unnecessary. All the lepers knew how the depression came on with increased force at night, especially for those most recently consigned to the human midden that was the hospital. Rodde’s voice was sympathetic. “What do you want?”
“I’m going into town to collect food from the church,” Edmund said, waving toward his little handcart. “Will you help?”
Rodde stood. Although Quivil hadn’t said as much, Rodde knew that the lad would be desperate for company. “I’ll come.”
The street was quieter now, as the townspeople sat in their homes and ate their midday meals from good bread trenchers or wooden bowls. In his mind’s eye, Rodde could picture them: comfortable, prosperous traders with their wives and servants all around them, children running and playing among the rushes, the fires glowing and adding to the thick atmosphere as servants ladled stews, panters cut hunks of bread, bottlers topped up mugs and cups, and all about dogs sat and scratched or waited, watching hopefully. Even poor homes would have a good quart of ale and loaf for the master of the house, he knew.
And he was going with Quivil to the church to collect what gracious charity the almoner thought fit for them. It made Thomas’ anger rise again, and it was only with an effort that he could force it down, reminding himself that it was not the fault of the people of Crediton that he was struck down with this disease-it was merely a twist of fate: luck.
They were at the top of the main street in a few moments, and could gaze down the wide thoroughfare. As soon as they appeared, walking slowly with the little cart, Rodde’s bell sounding its doleful tone, the area before them cleared. It was so shocking, Quivil halted for a minute.
He had himself abhorred lepers all his life, but now that he was afflicted, he found the urgency of other people to avoid him to be terrible, as if he was damned. Feeling Rodde take hold of his upper arm, he moved off again, his head hanging with self-disgust and loathing of the people around him.
A child stood watching them approach with horror-filled eyes, only to be scooped up by its mother at the last minute before they came too close; a little group of youngsters ran ahead of them, chanting, “Le-pers! Lepers! Stinking, rotting le-pers!”
Quivil shuffled on, avoiding the eyes of any who might be watching him. These were the people he had grown up with, and now he hated to think that anyone he knew could see him.