He wasn’t sure which he feared most: expressions of revulsion from those whom he had called friends, or looks of sympathy from them. If he had any choice, he would have turned tail and fled back to the lazar house, but Rodde’s hand remained gripping his upper arm, and there was enough strength in that hold to firm his resolve. He had promised Ralph that he would fetch the alms from the church, and with Rodde’s help, he would do so.
Rodde was a support to him-the only one he had. The tall, quiet stranger exuded a calm self-confidence which was proof against any brats’ taunts, and stiffened Quivil’s own nerve. He seemed to be saying, I am stronger than you. Look upon me if you dare. The steady tap…tap…tap of his staff on the cobbles was proof against the contempt and disgust of the whole world. He walked as if he was sneering at all about him.
Quivil was soothed by the presence of his companion. With Rodde beside him, he knew he need fear no one-his rescue from the attack on his first night had been proof of that. Quivil had been raised in the simple environment of a peasant, knowing that he must obey his father’s wishes, and his lord’s, and the commands of the Church. In the space of a few moments all that had been reversed, and now he knew loyalty only to his new friend.
It wouldn’t have been so difficult for him if there had been any stable friendships he could have relied upon, but there were none. His friends now shunned him. He had tried to talk to the butcher’s apprentice, a lad he had known since his childhood, whose face he had pushed into puddles, who had brought him to the ground when they had played camp-ball and forced him into a muddy ditch, who had vied with him for the love of the local girls as they grew, and with whom he had drunk many hundreds of pints of ale-and Quivil had been distraught when his old friend had shied away from him. The last girl for whose charms they had competed was Mary Cordwainer; that victory, which at the time had been so vital, so crucial to his well-being, which seemed to have guaranteed his life’s pleasure, was now hollow. He could never touch her, never kiss her, never know her body. All his future was barren, his life utterly meaningless. It might as well have ended.
He could have wept with the thought. Oh, for only a kiss-even a smile or a grin of acknowledgment from her. Just the simple touch of the girl’s hand would ease his soul. And his curse was, he knew it was impossible.
As they came level with the inn, Edmund heard horses. Looking up, he saw a couple of men riding toward them, and automatically drew to one side. He saw that it was Sir Baldwin and his servant, and waited for them to pass, when he heard the knight rein in his horse and speak.
“Friends, if you ever want for anything at the hospital, tell Brother Ralph to send for me, and I will try to help. Edmund Quivil, I am sorry this has happened to you. Let me know if there is anything you need.”
“Thank you, sir. What could a poor leper ask for?”
Baldwin ignored the petulance in his voice. “I will be making sure that your parents do not want for help on their land, Quivil. They will be under my protection now.”
Quivil nodded ungraciously, and began to move away again. After a short pause, he heard the clatter of hooves as the knight and his man carried on. In some way he felt easier in his mind that Sir Baldwin was gone. His sympathy was all too plain, and Quivil wanted no one’s sympathy. He wanted cure.
“Who was that?” Rodde asked quietly.
“He’s the Keeper of the King’s Peace for this town.”
Rodde glanced at his friend. For someone who had just received a warm expression of kindness from a knight, his shortness was at best ungrateful. “Why was he so willing to offer his help?”
“I used to be one of his men. My father is one of his bondmen, as I would have been, had I not…”
There was no need for him to continue, and soon they had other matters to distract them.
The wheel of the cart squeaked, an irritating, insistent little noise that came and went, and drew more attention to them; and yet there was one group which didn’t turn and stare as they came closer. It was the men and women huddled round Godfrey’s gate. They were all staring fixedly at Godfrey’s house, ignoring all about them, and even the banal jeering of the boys, who kept their distance up ahead, went unnoticed.
“What are they all staring at?” Quivil heard Rodde mutter.
“Lepers!”
This came from a young maiden who, about to enter the street, narrowly avoided walking straight into Rodde. She winced and drew her apron over her mouth to protect her from the foul vapors that everyone knew lepers exhaled. Anyone who breathed in their noxious fumes could become infected. She drew away. The call was enough to make the crowd pull back, and one man jerked his head at them. “Off with you, scum! Keep away from good healthy folk.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Quivil said. “We meant no harm.”
“Edmund?” asked the man. He was a pompous little fellow who had always reminded Quivil of a gamecock, strutting and preening himself in the vicinity of any women, and invariably lambasting anybody weaker than himself. Now he peered, and blew out his breath in an expression of disgust. “Come on, walk round! You don’t want your sins to infect others, do you? That would be as good as murder, and we don’t need another.”
“Another what?” asked Rodde.
“Murder, leper. Haven’t you heard? A man was killed here last night.”
Quivil felt his friend’s grasp on his arm tighten. Rodde snapped, “Here? You mean Godfrey of London is dead?”
Baldwin couldn’t help staring back down the street once he had dropped from his horse. An ostler scurried forward to take the reins from him and lead the rounsey to the back of the inn, where it could be fed and watered, and he handed them over absentmindedly.
Seeing Quivil again was a shock. It was some weeks now since that dreadful service in the church where the poor man had been outcast from society, and with so many other things to take up his time, Baldwin had not spared many thoughts for the peasant’s son from his estate. The sight of the lad looking so crushed while the people of the town avoided him tore at Baldwin’s breast. Even as he stood, shaking his head, he heard a catcall, and then a group of gutter-urchins dashed past, all shouting abuse at the lepers. Caught with a quick anger, Baldwin bellowed at them to be silent, and they hurried off, some gaping with dismay, but others grinning. It was only fun to them, Baldwin reminded himself. Only those who were fit, healthy, and strong were safe in this country. The thought made him sigh, and he turned into the inn with a heavy heart, which was not eased by the reflection that he had not decided how to progress with his investigation.
But as he entered the hall, and heard the laughter, his mood altered.
“Jeanne!-Er…and Margaret and Simon! Welcome, all of you, I am delighted to see you here!”
John of Irelaunde eased the gate shut and clambered onto his cart, grunting with relief once he was safely seated on his plank. Thrusting his bad leg out before him to rest atop the footboard, he clucked his tongue and snapped the reins.
That at least was one less problem for him to consider, he thought as the wagon rattled and clattered down the track toward the main thoroughfare from Crediton to Tedburn. The sack was safely hidden at the mill’s outhouse. Old Sam the miller had rented it out to John some months before, and now it appeared in the Irishman’s eyes as God-sent, perfect for the purpose of concealing those things that the Keeper of the King’s Peace should not be troubling himself over.
As the horse leaned forward in the traces to drag the cart up the hill toward the town center, John winced with every jolt and thud. There were too many ruts and holes in this road; it was always so busy with traffic from Exeter. Each and every one of them made his ankle bang against the wooden footboard. He was glad it was beginning to mend. Now it felt only as if it was badly bruised.