The Leper of Saint Giles bc-5 Read online

  “Joss, you fool,” cautioned Simon urgently, “you’ll let that tongue of yours wag too loud and once too often. Cross him now, and he’ll toss you out naked to go home to your father and explain yourself, and how will that help Iveta? Or you, either?” He shook his head over his friend, though good-humoredly, and kept his hold on him. “Better go to him. He’ll have your hide, else!”

  The youngest of the three turned from unsaddling his mount, and grinned at the pair of them. “Oh, let him have his glimpse, who knows how many more there’ll be?” He clouted Joscelin amiably on the shoulder. “I’ll go and run his errands for you this time. I’ll tell him you’re busy making sure all the butts of wine are handled gently, that’ll please him. Go and gaze—though what good it will do either of you….”

  “Will you, though, Guy? You’re a good fellow! I’ll take your turn of duty when you ask it!” And he was off again gatewards, but Simon flung an arm about his shoulders and bounded into step beside him.

  “I’ll come with you. He won’t need me for a white. But hear me, Joss,” he went on seriously, “you take too many risks with him. You know he can advance you if you please him, it’s what your father wants and expects, you’re a fool to put your future in peril. And you can please him, if you give your mind to it, he’s none so hard on us.”

  They passed through the gate and stood in the angle of the wall, leaning shoulder to shoulder against the stone gate-pillar and gazing along the Foregate, two tall, strong young men, Simon the elder by three years, and the shorter by the width of a hand. The sullen, tow-headed lad beside him gnawed a considering lip, and scowled at the ground.

  “My future! What can he do to my future, more than toss me back to my father in disgrace, and what the devil need I care about that? There are two good manors will be mine, that he can’t take from me, and there are other lords I could serve. I’m a man of my hands, I can hold my own with most…”

  Simon laughed, shaking him rallyingly in the arm that circled his shoulders. “You can indeed! I’ve suffered from it, I know!”

  “There are lords enough wanting good men of their hands, now the empress is back in England, and the fight’s on in earnest for the crown. I could fend! You could as well be thinking of your own case, lad, you’ve as much to lose as I have. You may be his sister’s son, and his heir now, but how if—” He set his teeth; it was hard to utter it, but he was perversely determined to drive the knife deep into his own flesh, and twist it to double the pain. “—how if things change? A young wife … How if he gets a son of this marriage? Your nose will be out of joint.”

  Simon leaned his curly brown head back against the stones of the wall, and laughed aloud. “What, after thirty years of marriage to my Aunt Isabel, and God knows how many passages with how many ladies outside the pale, and never a brat to show for it all? Lad, if he has a seed in him, for all his appetites, I’ll eat the fruit myself! My inheritance is safe enough, I’m in no danger. I’m twenty-five, and he’s nearing sixty. I can wait!” He straightened alertly. “Look, they’re coming!”

  But Joscelin had already caught the first glimmer of color and movement along the road, and stiffened to gaze. They came on briskly, Godfrid Picard and his party, in haste to gain the hospitable shelter of the abbey. Simon loosed his clasp, feeling Joscelin draw away.

  “For God’s sake, boy, what’s the use? She’s not for you!” But he said it in a despairing sigh, and Joscelin did not even hear it.

  They came, and they passed. The ogres on either side of her loomed lean and subtle and greedy, heads arrogantly high, but brows knotted and faces pinched, as though there had already been some happening that had displeased them. And there between them was she, a pale desperation in a golden shell of display, her small face all eyes, but blind eyes, gazing at nothing, seeing nothing. Until she drew close, and something—he wanted to believe his nearness and need—disquieted her, caused her to shiver, and turn her great eyes where she hardly dared turn her whole head, towards the place where he stood. He was not certain that she saw him, but he was certain that she knew he was there, that she had felt, scented, breathed him as she passed between her guards. She did not make the mistake of looking round, or in any way changing the fixed, submissive stillness of her face; but as she passed she lifted her right hand to her cheek, held it so a moment, and again let it fall.

  “I do believe,” sighed Simon Aguilon, bringing his friend back in his arm to the courtyard, “that you haven’t given up, even now. For God’s sake, what have you to hope for? Two days more, and she’s my lady Domville.”

  Joscelin held his peace, and thought of the uplifted hand, and knew in his heart that her fingers had touched her lips; and that was more than had been agreed.

  The entire guest-hall of the abbey, apart from the common quarters, had been given over to Sir Godfrid Picard and his wedding party. In the privacy of their own chamber, within, Agnes Picard turned to her husband with an anxious face. “I still do not like this quietness of hers. I do not trust her.”

  He shrugged it off disdainfully. “Ah, you fret too much. She has given over the battle. She is altogether submissive. What can she do? Daniel has his orders not to let her out of the gate, and Walter keeps watch on the parish door of the church. There’s no other way out, unless she finds a means to fly over the wall, of leap the Meole brook. No harm in keeping a close eye on her, even within, but not so close as to draw too much attention. But I’m sure you mistake her. That timid mouse has not the courage to stand up at the altar and declare herself unwilling.”

  “As well!” said the lady grimly. “I hear this Abbot Radulfus has a fine conceit of his own rights and powers, and is no respecter of barons if he feels his writ infringed. But I wish I could be as sure of her lameness as you.”

  “You fret too much, I tell you, woman. Once bring her to the altar, and she’ll speak her words as taught, and no bones about it.”

  Agnes gnawed a lip, and still was not quite convinced. “Well, it may be so … But for all that, I wish it was done. I shall breathe the easier when these next two days are over.”

  In Brother Cadfael’s workshop in the herbarium, Brother Oswin shuffled his feet, folded his large, willing but disastrous hands, and looked sheepish. Cadfael looked apprehensively round the hut, aware of ill news to come, though it was an advance if the lad even realized it when he had done something mad, without having it pointed out to him. Most things appeared to be still in their places. The brazier burned low, there were no noticeable evil smells, the wines in their great flasks bubbled gently to themselves as usual.

  Brother Oswin rendered account self-consciously, gleaning what credit he could before the blow fell. “Brother Infirmarer has fetched the electuaries and the powders. And I have taken Brother Prior the stomachic you made for him. The troches you left drying I think should be ready now, and the dried herbs for the decoction you spoke of, I have ground to fine powder ready for use tomorrow.”

  But… Now he was coming to the bad news. That look of astonished reproach, that a thing well-meant and confidently undertaken should so betray him.

  “But such a strange thing… I don’t understand how it could happen, the pot must surely have been cracked, though I could see no break in it. The linctus you left boiling… I did watch it most carefully, I’m sure I took it from the brazier when it was just the right thickness, and I stirred it as you told me. You know you said it was wanted urgently for old Brother Francis, his chest being so bad … I thought I would cool it quickly, to be able to bottle it for you, so I took the pot from the fire and set it in a bowl of cold water…”

  “And the pot burst,” said Cadfael resignedly.

  “Fell apart,” owned Oswin, bewildered and grieved, “in two great pieces, and shed forth all that honey and the herbs into the water. An extraordinary thing! Did you know the pot was cracked?”

  “Son, the pot was sound as a bell, and one of my best, but nor it nor any other here is meant to be taken straight from the fire and plumped
into cold water. The clay does not like so sharp a change, it shrinks and shatters. And while we are on that, take heed that glass bottles have the same objection,” added Cadfael hastily. “If warm things are to be put in them, the bottles must be warmed first. Never thrust any matter straight from heat to cold or cold to heat.”

  “I have cleared away all,” said Oswin apologetically, “and thrown out the pot, too. But all the same, I am sure there must have been a crack somewhere in it… But I am sorry the linctus is wasted, and I will come back after supper and make a fresh brew in its place.”

  God forbid! thought Cadfael, but managed to refrain from saying it aloud. “No, son!” he said firmly. “Your duty is to attend Collations and keep the true round of your order. I will see to the linctus myself.” His supply of pots would have to be defended from Brother Oswin’s excellent intentions henceforth. “Now be off and get ready for Vespers.”

  Thus Brother Oswin’s latest achievement in the herbarium was the reason for Cadfael returning to his workshop that evening after supper, and for his involvement in all that happened afterwards.

  2

  Sir Godfrid Picard and his lady came to Vespers in state, with Iveta de Massard diminutive between them like a lamb led to sacrifice. A hard-faced elderly maid carried Lady Picard’s prayer book, and a valet attended Sir Godfrid. The girl had put off her display finery, and came simply dressed in dark colors, with a veil over her great sheaf of gold hair. She stood and knelt throughout with downcast eyes and pale, mute face. Cadfael watched her with curiosity and sympathy from his place among the brethren, and wondered the more, the more he gazed. What kin could she be to the crusader whose name had been a legend among his contemporaries, however this present generation might have forgotten him? Nearly forty years dead, and a man is dead indeed.

  At the end of Vespers, as the brothers filed out to supper, Iveta rose, and went swiftly forward, hands clasped, into the Lady Chapel, and there sank to her knees before the altar. It seemed to Cadfael that Agnes Picard would have followed her, but that her husband laid a restraining hand on her arm, for Prior Robert Pennant, ever attentive to Norman nobility of his own kind, was bearing down upon them in all his lofty, silver-haired grandeur, with some civil invitation which could not well be refused. The lady cast one sharp glance at the devout figure of her niece, who seemed to be totally absorbed in fervent prayer, and surrendered gracefully, pacing beside the prior on her husband’s arm.

  Cadfael made a very hasty supper among his fellows, still disturbed by the events of the day, for which, unhappily, all his herbs had no remedy. As well that he had a specific task to occupy him during the evening, thanks to the inexhaustible optimism of Brother Oswin.

  Iveta remained on her knees until all had been silent about her for some minutes, the prior’s voice fading away into distance, assiduously attentive. Then she stole up from her place and went to peer cautiously through the south door into the cloister. Robert had drawn the guests into the garth with him to admire the last of the carefully tended roses. Their backs were turned to her, and the western walk of the cloister stood empty before her. Iveta gathered up her skirts and her courage, only she knew with how much heroism and how little hope, and ran like a frightened mouse from cats, out into the great court, and there looked round her desperately.

  She knew this enclave not at all, it was the first time she had entered it; but she saw between the buildings of the guest-hall and the abbot’s lodging the green of pleached hedges framing a narrow alley, and the heads of trees nodding beyond. There must be the gardens, at this hour surely deserted. Somewhere there he had said he would wait for her, and as she passed him she had given him the signal that she would not fail him. Why had she done so? This could be nothing better than a farewell. Yet she sped towards it with a despairing courage she would have done better to summon up long ago, before it was too late. She was already solemnly affianced, a contract almost as binding as marriage itself. Easier far to slip out of life than out of that bargain.

  The thick green walls enclosed her, twilight within twilight. She drew breath and slowed to a walk, uncertain which way to go. The path to the right led between the rear of the guest-hall and the abbey fish-ponds, and beyond the second pool a little footbridge crossed the mill leat near the outflow, and brought her to a gateway in a mellow stone wall. With one more wall between herself and detection she felt unaccountably safer, and there was a curious comfort and calm in the wave of spiced sweetness that rose about her as her skirts brushed the greenery within. Rosemary and lavender, mint and thyme, all manner of herbs filled the walled garden with aromatic odors, grown a little rank now with autumn, ready to sink into their winter sleep very soon. The best of their summer was already harvested.

  A hand reached out of an arbor in the wall to take her hand, and a voice whispered in haste: “This way, quickly! There’s a hut here in the corner … an apothecary’s shop. Come! No one will look for us in there.”

  Every time she had ever been able to draw close to him— the times had been very few and very brief—she had been startled and reassured by the very size of him, head and shoulders above her, wide in breast and shoulder, long in the arm, narrow and fleet in the flank, as though his engulfing shadow could wall her in from all threats, like a tower. But she knew it could not, and he was as unblessed and vulnerable as she. The very thought had made her even more timorous than she was for herself. Great lords, if they once take against, can quite destroy young squires, however tall and strong and well versed in arms.

  “Someone may come there,” she whispered, clinging to his hand.

  “At this time of the evening? No one will come. They’re at supper now, they’ll be in the chapterhouse afterwards.” He drew her along with him in his arm, under the eaves rustling with dried herbs, into the wood-warm interior where glass gleamed on the shelves, and the brazier, fed to burn slowly until it was needed, provided a small eye of fire in the dimness. The door he left open, just as it stood. Better move nothing, to betray the visit of unauthorized strangers. “Iveta! You did come! I was afraid….”

  “You knew I’d come!”

  “… afraid you might be watched too closely, and every moment. Listen, for we may not have long. You shall not, you shall not be delivered over to that gross old man. Tomorrow, if you’ll trust me, if you will to go with me, come at this hour again, here….”

  “Oh, God!” she said in a soft moan. “Why do we make believe there can be any escape?”

  “But there can, there must!” he insisted furiously. “If you truly want it… if you love me …”

  “If I love you … !”

  She was in his arms, her own slight arms embracing with all their might as much of his hard young body as they could span, when Brother Cadfael, in all innocence, his sandals silent on his well-kept grass paths, darkened the doorway and startled them apart. He was a good deal more astonished than they, and to judge by their faces, much less terrible than whatever they had momentarily taken him for. Iveta recoiled until her shoulders were brought up against the wooden wall of the hut. Joscelin stood his ground by the brazier, feet solidly spread. Both of them recovered countenance with a gallantry that was more than half desperation.

  “I cry your pardon,” said Cadfael placidly. “I did not know I had patients waiting. Brother Infirmarer will have recommended you to me, I take it. He knew I should be working here until Compline.”

  He might have been speaking Welsh to them, of course, but with luck they might pick up the hints he was hastily offering. Desperation does tend to sharpen the wits at need. And he had heard, as they had not, the brushing of garments along the path outside, the rapid, irate tread of a woman’s feet bearing down on them. He was standing by the brazier, striking flint and steel to light his little oil-lamp, when Agnes Picard appeared in the doorway, tall and chill, brows drawn together into a level, unbroken line.

  Brother Cadfael, having lit and trimmed the wick, turned to gather up into a box the troches Brother Oswin
had left drying, little white cakes of carminative powder bound with gum. The act enabled him to keep his back turned serenely upon the woman in the doorway, though he was very well aware of her. Since it was plain that neither of the young people was yet capable of uttering a sensible word, he went on talking for them all.

  “It will be the tiring journey,” he said comfortably, closing the box upon his tablets, “that has brought on your headache. It was wise of you to consult Brother Edmund, a headache should not be neglected, it may deprive you of the sleep you need, otherwise. I’ll make you a draught—the young gentleman will not mind waiting a few moments for his lord’s needs…”

  Joscelin, recovering, and resolutely keeping a shoulder turned on the baleful presence in the doorway, said fervently that he would gladly wait until the Lady Iveta had whatever she required. Cadfael reached for a small cup from a shelf, and selected one from a row of bottles. He was in the act of pouring when a voice cold and piercing as fine steel said behind them, with deliberation: “Iveta!”

  All three of them swung round in a very fair show of being innocently startled. Agnes came forward into the hut, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

  “What are you doing here? I have been looking for you. You are keeping everyone waiting for supper.”

  “Your lady niece, madam,” said Cadfael, forestalling whatever the girl might have roused herself to say, “is suffering from a common distress after the exertion of travel, and Brother Infirmarer rightly recommended her to come to me for a remedy.” He held out the cup to Iveta, who took it like one in a dream. She was white and still, the sum of her frustration and fear showed only in her eyes. “Drink it off now, at once, before you go to supper. You may safely, it will do you nothing but good.”

  And so it would, whether her head ached or no. It was one of his best wines, he kept it for his special favorites, since the amount he made of it each year was small. He had the satisfaction of seeing faint astonishment and pleasure sparkle through the desperation of her eyes, even if it faded soon, She put the empty cup back into his hand, and gave him the palest of smiles. At Joscelin she did not venture to look at all.