“I agree. Even among our own ranks there are some who go about as if they were simply merchants. I have heard of men in the cities-brother monks!-who put on velvet and cloth of gold, and sometimes even go abroad bearded! Only last week I was told that in Bristol, monks have been seen without the tonsure!”
Ralph let his companion’s scandalized voice carry on. He too had spoken to travellers who talked of strange goings-on in other parts of the kingdom, but for the most part he was unmoved by the rumors. He had travelled all the way from Houndeslow, and everywhere he had paused he heard tell of other monks or friars who behaved badly, but had seen no evidence of it himself. In any case, he had more important things on his mind. He wanted to see the state of his new chapel.
When they left the town behind the almoner was at last quiet. As they rounded a little hillock, he stopped and pointed. “There it is.”
Ralph followed his finger. Ahead of them was a small chapel, a simple rectangle, with no frills or decoration. Nearby was a low terrace of cottages. Like the chapel, they were of simple construction: the monk could see the stones that formed the foundation, while above was smooth cob, limewashed like most other homes in the area, although it was some years since these walls had been painted. The thatch, too, was worn. Ralph could see large holes where birds had nested, and there was little overhang past the walls. As the straw started to rot, the mass of thatch would shrink, and after thirty or forty years the eaves would retreat. That would put the walls in danger: rain trickling down the roof could wash away the top of the wall or soak into it, at best rendering the building uninhabitable, at worst causing its collapse. It was a common problem.
But for all the aura of neglect, the plot given to the lepers covered almost an acre, and was surrounded by a thick hedge, well layered to serve as a defense against wild animals, while a sturdy gate blocked the only entrance. It looked safe enough for the suffering inmates, while giving them space to cultivate their own peas and beans.
The almoner was a kindly man. When he glanced at Ralph, he saw the fixed expression, the intent gaze and tightly pursed lips, and felt a rush of compassion. “It’s a hard task, but you’ll find you’re not short of friends. I’m only a short walk away, and I’ll visit often enough to see how you’re doing, so if you need any advice…”
His well-meaning words trailed off as the younger man looked at him. Ralph felt only irritation that the older monk was keeping him from his duties. He forced a smile to his face. “I’m sure I will be fine, but thank you for your help.”
The almoner nodded, said he would drop by to see that Ralph was not in need of anything, and a short while later Ralph was alone. He was about to enter the enclosure when a horse came cantering down the lane to his right, and he waited rather than crossing in front of it.
It was a great black rounsey, gleaming as if oiled. The harness was of the richest, made of well-tooled black leather with silver bells dangling from the reins and harnesses to ease the rider’s journey with their music.
The man himself was dressed gorgeously, with a bright blue tunic and hose under a thick woollen jacket, and with a heavy cloak of purple velvet trimmed with fur. From his soft felt hat with its jaunty feathers and trailing liripipe, to the fine supple leather of his riding boots, everything about him proclaimed him a wealthy man.
“Good day, Brother!”
Ralph ducked his head in acknowledgment as the man drew to a standstill in front of him and took off his splendid hat to scratch his head. “A pleasant day for a ride, sir,” he replied politely.
The man was middle-aged, with graying hair that had fallen away in imitation of a tonsure. It had retreated from his forehead as well, which only served to emphasize the height of his brow. Shrewd brown eyes smiled down at Ralph, but the monk had the impression that the man would find it as easy to glower. There was a harshness in the little puckering between his eyebrows, and the lips were thin and bloodless. “Aye, Brother. It’s good weather for a gallop.”
“Have you been far?”
“Over to Bow and back.” He appeared a little distracted, and Ralph noticed his attention wavering. Every moment or two his eyes would flit toward the chapel’s gates.
“You live here, sir?” Ralph asked, feeling the need to fill the silence.
“Eh? Yes, back your way.”
“My way?”
“Back there, near the collegiate church,” he said, jerking his head. “I have a house in the street nearby.”
“Ah, I see. And you are a merchant?”
“Me? No, I used to be a goldsmith, but that was a long time ago, long before I came here to Crediton. Now I help others…”
It was rude to push a man, but Ralph felt sure that the rider wanted to unburden himself of something. For all his evident prosperity, he looked uneasy, as if he had a confession to make. His mien was all too familiar to the monk; men and women would often accost a monk or priest to talk, and the reason was usually some banal misdemeanor which could be dismissed with a minor penance. On such occasions it was always tempting to avoid offering any solace, or to advise a visit to the church rather than waste time listening to foolish stories. He had only met Peter Clifford the once, but Ralph had formed a high opinion of him. The Dean was the vicar of the parishioners, and Ralph was sure that if this stranger needed absolution, Peter Clifford was well able to ease his mind. Yet he must know who his vicar was, so why was he so apparently keen to waylay an unknown monk in the street and engage him in conversation?
“Sir, if you have a need to speak to someone, I am sure the Dean will be pleased to offer you solace, but if you would prefer to discuss things with me…?” He let his voice trail off questioningly.
At his words the man shot him a quick look. “I should like to speak with you, if you can spare me a little time, yes, Brother.”
Ralph sighed inwardly. The man must be more than twice his age, and here he was, searching for answers. The monk was all too aware of his own unfitness for the task, but he nodded as if content. “You should tell me your name first, then. I am called Ralph.”
“My apologies, Brother. My enthusiasm got the better of me. My name is Godfrey-Godfrey of London.”
“Good. Well, master, why do you not come into my chapel and I will listen to your problem.”
“Your chapel?” Godfrey asked, brows raised in surprise.
Ralph nodded to the little building. “St. Lawrence’s.”
“You’re the leper master?”
“Yes, but you have nothing to fear, I-”
“What do you know of fear, little monk? You know nothing-nothing! You’re hardly old enough to grow a beard, for God’s sake! You can’t know what it’s like to have a daughter who…Oh, what’s the point!” Whipping his mount and digging in his spurs, Godfrey suddenly jerked his horse’s head round, and made off along the street, scattering hawkers from his path.
Ralph stood gaping for a long time. It wasn’t the rudeness that made him stare along the road; it was the restless passion in Godfrey’s outburst. It had not been directed at Ralph-of that the monk was quite convinced. It was the explosion of a man pushed to despair, as if he had seen in Ralph someone who might be able to help him, only to have his hopes dashed.
That made Ralph pause thoughtfully, but he had little time to waste worrying about wealthy burgesses; he had work to begin. He walked to the gate and made himself known to the old leper who guarded it.