“A leper can still burn. That’s what they do to lepers found guilty in other parts, Thomas,” she pointed out helplessly. “And they say that this knight is very determined once he’s on the track of a felon.”
He shrugged. “He must be very determined indeed if he intends to catch Godfrey’s killer. He won’t find it easy.”
“Oh, why did we have to come here!” she burst out, and covered her face in her hands. “If we’d only stayed in London, you’d still be settled and resigned, and Father would be alive. Instead he’s dead, and it’s all my fault. If only I hadn’t seen you and-”
“Hush, Cecily,” he said more gently. Watching her through the window, he was tempted to pull off his rough, clumsy glove and give her the comfort she needed. But he couldn’t. “It’s not your fault. If anyone is to blame, I suppose it’s me for trying to see you again. If I hadn’t come here, if I hadn’t brought my friend, if I hadn’t spoken to you so often, then he might still be alive-but none of that is your responsibility.”
“You cannot know how much I have missed you, Thomas.”
“Nor you I, Cecily.”
“How many years is it?”
He considered, as if the memory was difficult to trace. “Is it seven years? Or eight?”
“It’s nine years since you left London. You always pretended not to remember dates!”
“What makes you think it’s a pretense?”
She laughed then, not the constrained, miserable laugh he had heard so often recently, but the old belly-laugh she had used when he joked with her.
“It’s good to hear you laugh again like that.”
She smiled at the softness in his voice. “We have not so very much to laugh about, do we?”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “We have very little to laugh about.”
Jack drained his mug and belched, wincing at the sour taste. When he moved toward his barrel of ale, he knocked a hammer from his bench, and the iron rang on the flagstone, making him wince and groan.
It was the wine, he told himself. If it wasn’t for that, he’d be fine. The inn’s ale was of good quality, and never gave him a head like this. No, it was the fact that he had mixed his drinks: the ale at the smithy in the afternoon; wine at the inn, until William had left them; more ale at the inn; then ale at home after seeing Mary’s father. His mouth tasted like the bottom of the forge’s grate. There was a gritty texture on his teeth that he longed to sluice away with ale, and a bitter, near-vomiting taste at the back of his throat. His head was pounding so hard it felt like someone was using one of his own hammers on him.
He tilted the barrel to fill his mug and glowered when there wasn’t enough, kicking the barrel from him. Sitting on a low stool, he closed his eyes a moment, keeping the bright sunlight from them.
The knight was a fool. Why should Jack listen to someone who couldn’t even see the danger? Knights thought they were better than everyone else, just because they were born with money in their purses, but money didn’t buy brains. Jack knew that he was fortunate. He had been born poor, and he’d had to learn how to make his own path in life the hard way, learning about people and his trade as he struggled to earn a living. That was something you’d never find a knight succeeding at, he thought as he grimly took a pull of his ale.
If he had enjoyed an easier life, Jack might have turned out very differently. He wasn’t cruel by nature, and neither was he dim, but he had been marked out for a hard life, breathing in foul smoke from his charcoal all day, slaving bare-chested over red-hot bolts of steel and iron, pausing only long enough to slake his thirst with his barrel of ale. If he had been educated, if he had enjoyed intellectual debate with men who reasoned and appreciated his logic, he might have grown to understand that those who wore a different appearance were not necessarily different in their motivations.
But Jack had only the companionship of the tavern or inn, where his prejudices were reinforced by others who believed the same as him, and who were prone to embellish their tales to make them more easily swallowed when mixed with ale. And his brain was fogged by the fumes that rose each day from the glowing coals.
The heat of the smithy made him toss back the last of his ale; he peered into the empty mug, then across at the barrel, which lay gently rocking. There was nothing for it, he would have to buy a fresh one. He picked up the barrel and set it on his little handcart, pushing it before him as he made his way to the inn.
When he set off, he had no intention of going against the knight’s instructions. The damn thug had appeared and threatened him, but that was the sort of behavior one expected from a metal-clad meat-head. All they were good for was beating up the innocent as they went about their daily business. Jack knew that, just as he knew that a foreigner, someone from a place five or six miles away, for example, was likely to be a troublemaker. Most of them only wanted to come to Crediton to steal or live off other men’s work.
Yet while he walked, he found his bitter thoughts turning more and more toward the evil represented by the lepers. Why should the knight wish to protect them? As he mused, he was coming level with Godfrey’s hall. There he saw a dark figure slip from the gate, and he gaped. It was that leper, the stranger from outside town, the one who had decided to come here to Crediton.
His two favorite grudges were linked by this single, hated figure. Not only was he a leper, he was also foreign, begging money from the good people of the parish when he had done nothing to deserve it-he hadn’t even been born in the town!
Jack was filled with a sudden hatred. This was the sort of scum that knight and his friend had tried to protect. A man completely undeserving of any charity, someone who should be hounded from the place. Unconsciously, Jack had slowed his pace to match that of the limping man before him, and now he consciously followed him. 22
“I t feels as if I am coming here every other hour at present,” Baldwin muttered as he dropped from his horse.
“You are,” Simon laughed.
They had collected Edgar from the Dean’s buttery, and now stood together outside Godfrey’s hall. Baldwin glanced at the door, but musingly. Then, jerking his head for the others to follow, he led the way round the corner of the house to the back.
It was all quiet, though Baldwin could hear noises from without the yard, and he strode quickly over the cobbled area to the low building where the horses lived. Going down the row, he could find only two mares, the others were all stallions, geldings and other males. The first of them, a pleasant roan, stood quietly while he lifted each hoof, but there was no sign of one that had been recently reshod. The second was a calm bay. This too was happy to let him investigate her, and he paused at the second hoof. “Look!”
Simon bent to see. The hoof had new, almost undamaged nail heads, but the shoe itself was badly worn at the inside and front. “That should have been replaced with a new one,” he said.
The knight nodded, thoughtfully setting the hoof down and patting the mare. Then he walked from the place toward the large gates.
Standing just outside were a pair of carts, and as Baldwin watched, a servant arrived with a bucket and began wiping the clotted red mud from its wheels.
“Why do you do this out here and not in the yard?”
The man turned and gave him a disinterested glance. “My lady has a bad headache. She said she wanted no noise out in the yard, but she wants these things cleaned. Where would you do them?”
“Are you a stableman?” Baldwin asked, but this time he had the man’s undivided attention. In his hand he spun a coin.
“Yes, sir.”
“So you know all about your mistress’ mare which threw a shoe on the day your master died?”