The Leper of Saint Giles bc-5 Page 4

  In a small voice she said: “Thank you, brother. You are very good.” And to the presence that loomed darkly watching her: “I am sorry I have delayed you, aunt. I am ready now.”

  Agnes Picard said never a word more, but stood aside in cold invitation to the girl to precede her out of the room, eyed her steadily and glitteringly as she passed, and then, before following her, gave the young man a long, intent look that threatened all possible evil. The civilities might have been preserved, but very certainly Agnes had not been deceived, never for a moment.

  They were gone, the bride and her keeper, the last rustle of skirts silenced. There was a long moment of stillness while the two left behind gazed helplessly at each other. Then Joscelin let out his breath in a great groan, and threw himself down on the bench that stood against the wall.

  “The hag should fall from the bridge and drown in the fish-pond, now, this moment, while she’s crossing! But things never work out as they should. Brother, don’t think me ungrateful for the goodwill and the wit you’ve spent for us, but I doubt it was all thrown away. She’s had her suspicions of me some while, I fancy. She’ll find some way of making me pay for this.”

  “At that, she may be right,” said Cadfael honestly. “And God forgive me for the lies!”

  “You told none. Or if she has not a headache, she has what’s worse, an ache of the heart.” He ran angry fingers through his shock of flaxen hair, and leaned his head back against the wall. “What was it you gave her?”

  On impulse Cadfael refilled the cup and held it out to him. “Here! The like potion might not do you any harm. God he knows whether you deserve it, but we’ll scamp the judgment until I know more of you.”

  Joscelin’s eyebrows, winged and expressive, and darker by many shades than his hair, rose in appreciative surprise at the savor of the wine. His forehead and cheeks had the rich golden tan of an outdoor life, rare among those of such fair coloring. The eyes, now conning Cadfael rather warily over the rim of the cup, were as radiantly blue as Cadfael remembered them from Saint Giles, like cornflowers in a wheat-field. He did not look like a deceiver or a seducer, rather like an overgrown schoolboy, honest, impatient, clever after his fashion, and probably unwise. Cleverness and wisdom are not inevitable yoke-fellows.

  “This is the best medicine I ever tasted. And you have been uncommonly generous to us, as you were uncommonly quick in the uptake,” said the boy, warmed and disarmed. “And you know nothing about us, and had never seen either of us before!”

  “I had seen you both before,” Cadfael corrected him. He began to measure his various pectoral herbs into a mortar, and took a small bellows to rouse the brazier from its quiescent state. “I have a linctus to make before Compline. You’ll not mind if I start work.”

  “And I am in the way. I’m sorry! I’ve put you out enough already.” But he did not want to go, he was too full of matter he needed to unload from his heart, and could not possibly offer to anyone but just such a courteous chance acquaintance, perhaps never to be seen again. “Or—may I stay?”

  “By all means, if you’re at leisure to stay. For you serve Huon de Domville, and I fancy his service might be exigent. I saw you pass by Saint Giles. I saw the lady, too.”

  “You were there? The old man—he was not hurt?” Bless the lad, he genuinely wanted to know. In the middle of his own troubles, up to the neck, he could still feel indignation at an affront to another’s dignity.

  “Neither in body nor mind. Such as he live with a humility that transcends all possibility of humiliation. He was above giving a thought to the baron’s blow.”

  Joscelin emerged from his own preoccupation sufficiently to feel curiosity. “And you were there among them—those people? You—forgive me if I offend, it is not meant!—you are not afraid of going among them? Of their contagion? I have often wondered—someone tends them. I know they are forced to live apart, yet they cannot be utterly cut out of humanity.”

  “The thing about fear,” said Cadfael, seriously considering, “is that it is pointless. When need arises, fear is forgotten. Would you recoil from taking a leper’s hand, if he needed yours, or you his, to be hauled out of danger? I doubt it. Some men would, perhaps—but of you I doubt it. You would grip first and consider afterwards, and by then fear would be clearly a mere waste of time. You are free of your lord’s table tonight, are you? Then stay and give account of yourself, if you’re so minded. You owe me at worst an excuse—at best, some amends for breaking in uninvited.”

  But he was not displeased with his unruly intruder. Almost absent-mindedly Joscelin had taken the bellows from him, and was encouraging the brazier into reviving life.

  “He has three of us,” said the boy thoughtfully. “Simon waits on him at table tonight—Simon Aguilon, his sister’s son—and Guy FitzJohn is the third of us, he’s in attendance, too. I need not go back yet. And you know nothing about me, and I think you’re in doubt whether you did right to try and help us. I should like you to think well of me. I am sure you cannot but think well of Iveta.” The name clouded his face again, he gazed ruefully into the satisfactory glow he was producing. “She is …” He struggled with adoration, and exploded rebelliously: “No, she is not perfection, how could she be? Since she was ten years old she had been in wardship to those two! If you were at Saint Giles, you saw them. One on either side, like dragons. Her perfection has been all crushed out of shape, too long. But if she were free, she would grow back into her proper self, she would be brave and noble, like her ancestors. And then I would not care,” he said, turning eyes blindingly blue and bright upon Cadfael, “if she gave it all to someone else, not to me. No, I lie—I should care infinitely, but I would bear it, and still be glad. Only this—this wicked market-bargaining, this defilement, this I will not endure!”

  “Mind the bellows! There, draw it out, you’ve given me all the fire I want. Lay it by on the stone there. Good lad! A name for a name is fair exchange. My name is Cadfael, a Welsh brother of this house, born at Trefriw.” Cadfael was pounding honey and a morsel of vinegar into his powdered herbs, and warming his pot by the fire. “Now who may you be?”

  “My name is Joscelin Lucy. My father is Sir Alan Lucy, and has two manors in the Hereford borders. He sent me as page to Domville when I was fourteen, as the custom is, to learn my squire-craft in a greater household. And I won’t say my lord has been so hard a man to serve. I could not complain for myself. But for his tenants and villeins, and such as fall under his justice …” He hesitated. “I have my letters, I can read Latin hand. I was at school with monks, it stays with a man. I don’t say my lord’s worse than his kind, but God knows he’s no better. I should have asked my father to take me away to another lord, if…”

  If this courtship, to dignify it by that name, had not begun to be mooted between Domville and the Massard heiress. If the boy had not seen, marvelled at, been captivated by, that tiny, fragile, virginal creature between her two dragons. His lord’s entry where she was had been entry also, at whatever hopeless distance, for his esquires.

  “By staying with him,” said the youth, wrenching at the insoluble complications of his predicament, “I could at least see her. If I left him, how could I ever get near? So I stayed. And I do try to serve honestly, since I so promised. But oh, Brother Cadfael, is this just? Is it right? For the love of God, she is eighteen years old, and she shrinks from him, and yet, for all I can see, he is better than what she now has. She has no happiness now, and can look for none in her marriage. And I love her! But that’s by the way. Of small account, if she could be happy.”

  “Hmmm!” said Cadfael with mild skepticism, and stirred his gently bubbling pot, which began to fill the hut with a heady aromatic sweetness as it simmered. “So many a lover has probably vowed, but with one eye on his own advantage, all the same. I suppose you’ll tell me you’re willing to die for her.”

  Joscelin melted suddenly into a boy’s grin. “Well, not with any great eagerness! I’d liefer live for her, if it can be arranged. But i
f you mean, would I do all in my power to set her free to take another of her own choice, yes, I would. For this match is not of her choice, she dreads and loathes it, she is being forced into it utterly against her will.”

  There was no need to labor it; the first glimpse of her face and bearing had said it all for him.

  “And those who should most guard her and work for her good are using her for their own ends, and nothing more. Her mother—she was Picard’s sister—died when Iveta was born, and her father when she was ten years old, and she was given over into her uncle’s ward as her nearest kin, which is natural enough, if her kin had proved natural to her! Oh, I am not so blind as not to know there’s nothing new in a guardian making the best profit for himself out of his ward, instead of using his own substance on her behalf, and plundering her lands instead of nourishing them for her future good. I tell you, Brother Cadfael, Iveta is being sold to my lord for his voice and countenance with the king, and advancement under his shadow—but for more than that. She has great lands. She is the only Massard left, all that great honor goes with her hand. And I suspect that the bargain they’ve struck over her means the carving up of what was once a hero’s portion. A great swathe out of those lands of hers will surely stay with Picard, and some of what goes with her to Domville will have been milked hard for years before it passes. A very fine arrangement for both of them, but crying wrong to Iveta.”

  And every word could all too well be true. Such things happen when a child is left orphan and heiress to great estates. Even if the child be a boy, and young enough, thought Cadfael, and with no one to protect him, he can be married off to make a profitable alliance for his guardian, to join up lands convenient for exploitation, to spite a rival, just as nimbly and irresistibly as can a girl; but with a girl the thing is more usual, and less to be questioned. No, no one in authority between baron and king will lift a finger to interfere with Iveta’s destiny. Only, perhaps, some rash young hothead like this one, at his own risk and hers.

  He did not ask what they had been whispering together about, when he stumbled in upon their embrace. However fretted and angry, young Lucy had still something, some faint, hoarded hope in his sleeve, so much was clear. Better not to ask, not to let him utter it, even if he offered. But there was one thing Cadfael needed to know. The only Massard left, he had said.

  “What was the name of her father?” he asked, stirring his thickening brew. Before Compline he would be able to set it aside to cool gradually.

  “Hamon FitzGuimar de Massard.”

  He stressed the patronymic with ceremony and pride. There were still some among the young, it seemed, who had been taught a proper regard for the great names of the dead.

  “Her grandsire was that Guimar de Massard who was at the taking of Jerusalem, and was captured afterwards at the battle of Ascalon, and died of his wounds. She has his helm and his sword. She treasures them. The Fatimids sent them back after his death.”

  Yes, so they had, in courtesy to a brave enemy. They had been asked also to return his body from its temporary burial, and had received the request graciously, but then the intermittent squabbling among the Crusader leaders had cost them the chance of securing the port of Ascalon, and the negotiations for the return of the paladin’s body had been neglected and forgotten. Chivalrous enemies had buried him with honor, and there he rested. It was all very long ago, years before these young people were ever born.

  “I remember,” said Cadfael.

  “And now it’s great shame that the last heiress of such a house should be so misused and defrauded of her happiness.”

  “So it is,” said Cadfael, lifting his pot from the fire and standing it aside on the beaten earth of the floor.

  “And it must not continue,” said Joscelin emphatically. “It shall not continue.” He rose, with a vast sigh. “I must go back, no help for it.” He eyed the array of bottles and jars, and the dangling bunches of herbs that furnished the workshop with infinite possibilities. “Have you not something among all these wonders that I could slip into his cup? His or Picard’s, what does it matter which? Either removed from this world would set Iveta free. And leave the world the sweeter!”

  “If that is seriously meant,” said Cadfael firmly, “you are in peril of your soul, boy. And if it is mere levity, you deserve a great clout on the ear for it. If you were not so big, I might attempt it.”

  The flashing smile came and went in an instant, warmly if ruefully. “I could stoop,” he offered.

  “You know as well as I do, child, that you would not touch such foul methods as murder, and you do yourself great wrong to misuse words.”

  “Would I not?” said Joscelin softly, the smile clean gone. “You do not know, brother, how far I would put my soul in peril to make all safe for Iveta.”

  Cadfael fretted about it all through Compline, and into the warming-room for the last quiet half-hour before bed. Of course there had been nothing for it but to take the boy sternly to task, tell him firmly and truly that he must abjure all such black thoughts, out of which nothing good could come. None but knightly measures were open to him, since he was destined for knighthood, and he should, he must, forswear all others. The trouble was that the boy had shown very sound sense in retorting that he would be a great fool to challenge his lord to honest combat, after the manner of knighthood, since Domville would not even take such an impertinence seriously, but simply throw him out of his household and be done with him. And how would Iveta be helped then?

  But need that mean that he was really capable of contemplating the use of murder? Remembering the open brown face, very poorly provided for dissembling, and the headlong manner, surely not adapted to going roundabout, Cadfael could hardly believe it. And yet there was that fragile golden miniature of a girl with her sad, resigned face and empty eyes, two days from her hated marriage, and her fate was a weighty enough matter to demand, if it could not justify, a death or two.

  The urgency touched Cadfael, no less than Joscelin Lucy. For here was Guimar de Massard’s granddaughter, stripped of all her kin but these two who hedged her in like guardian dragons. And how could the last of the Massards be left to her fate, without a finger raised from all those who had known her grandfather, and reverenced his memory? As well abandon a comrade wounded and surrounded in battle.

  Brother Oswin crept diffidently to Cadfael’s side in the warming-room. “Is the linctus already prepared, brother? The fault was mine, let me do something to make amends. I will rise early and bottle it for you. I have caused you such extra travail, I should make some repayment.”

  He had caused more travail than he knew, and more perplexity of mind, but at least he had recalled Cadfael to the remembrance of his first duty here; after, of course, the observance of the rule.

  “No, no,” said Cadfael hastily. “The boiling is very well, and it will cool overnight and thicken, after Prime is time enough before bottling. You are reader tomorrow, you must keep the offices strictly, and think only of your reading.”

  And leave my brew alone, he thought, as he went to his cell and his prayers. It came clear to him suddenly how like were Brother Oswin’s large hands to those of Joscelin Lucy, and yet how the one pair made a havoc of whatever they touched, and the other pair, for all their size, moved with delicate dexterity, whether on the reins of a speckled gray horse, or sword and lance, or circling the tender body of a heart-heavy girl.

  And with equal adroitness, thus driven, on the means of murder?

  Cadfael arose well before Prime next morning, and went to bottle his overnight brew, and take a measure of it to Brother Edmund at the infirmary. The day had dawned misty and mild, without wind. In the still air sounds were muted and movements softened, and the great court presented an ordinary picture of routine activities from Prime to breakfast, through the first Mass and the chapter that followed, on this occasion cut short and briskly conducted, there being so much following business to be seen to for the next day’s marriage. There was therefore a rather lon
ger interval left for relaxation before High Mass at ten, and Cadfael took the opportunity of returning to the herb-gardens, and earmarking for Brother Oswin’s afternoon duty those tasks which seemed best proofed against his knack of well-intentioned devastation. Autumn was a good time, since there was digging to be done, to make the cleared ground ready for the operation of the frosts to come.

  Cadfael returned to the great court before ten o’clock, when brothers, pupils, guests and townsmen were beginning to gather for High Mass. The Picards were just issuing forth from the guest-hall, Iveta forlornly small and mute between uncle and aunt, but looking, or so Cadfael thought, resolutely composed, as though a faint, reviving wind had blown through the heavy stillness of her despair, and given her heart at least to hope for a miracle. The elderly maidservant, as forbidding of visage as Agnes herself, walked close behind. The child was hemmed in securely every way.

  They were moving at leisure towards the cloister and the south door, with Brother Denis the hospitaller in attendance, when the decorous quiet was rudely broken by a furious clatter of hooves at the gatehouse, and into the court galloped a rider on a speckled gray horse, at such headlong speed that he almost rode down the porter, and scattered the servants like hens before the fox. Reining round abruptly with great slithering of hooves on the moist cobbles, he flung the bridle on his horse’s neck, and leaped down with flaxen hair erected and blue eyes blazing, to plant himself squarely in Godfrid Picard’s path, feet spread and jaw jutting, a young man in a formidable rage.

  “My lord, it’s you have done this thing to me! I am cast off from my service, thrown out without reason, without fault, with nothing but horse and saddle-bags, and ordered to quit this town before night. This in a moment, and no word of mine will be heard in excuse! And well I know to whom I owe the favor! You, you have complained of me to my lord, and got me turned off like a dog, and I will have satisfaction from you for the favor, man to man, before ever I turn my back on Shrewsbury!”