The Leper of Saint Giles

6

Huon de Domville lay naked beneath a linen cerecloth in the mortuary chapel, and round about him stood the abbot and prior, the sheriff of the county, the dead man’s nephew and squire, Sir Godfrid Picard, who should by this time have been his uncle by marriage, and Brother Cadfael.

Simon Aguilon was still cloaked and gloved from his strenuous part in the morning’s search, and looked haggard and worried, as well he might, at the responsibility that had fallen on him as the dead man’s nearest kin here. Picard was gnawing the black, clipped fringe of his beard, and brooding on his losses and the openings now left to him. Radulfus was quietly and scrupulously intent on what Cadfael was expounding.

The abbot was a man of the world and of the church, of wide experience, but not so wide as to include those manifestations of violence which were an open book to Brother Cadfael, who had been soldier and sailor besides. Rare among men of wide experience, Radulfus knew precisely the gaps that were left, and was willing to be instructed. The honour and integrity of his house was his prime concern, and in that criterion pure justice was implied. As for Prior Robert, his Norman loyalties were outraged, since a Norman lord had been removed by murder. In his own way he required a vengeance just as surely as did Picard.

“The head injuries,” said Brother Cadfael, his palm under the newly laved and combed head, “would have been no danger, had they been all. But the blow stunned him and laid him open to assault. Now, see …” He drew down the linen cloth below the great barrel of a breast and the massive upper arms. “He fell asprawl on his back, head against the tree, arms and legs spread. My lord Prestcote here saw him so, and so did Brother Edmund and certain novices of our house. I could not then see what I have seen now, by reason of his clothing. Look here at the inner side of his upper arms, those round black bruisings in the muscle. See those arms spread, and consider what fell upon him, senseless as he was. His enemy kneeled here upon these arms, reached here to his throat.”

“And that would not rouse him?” asked the abbot gravely, following Cadfael’s blunt brown finger as he traced the prints of murder.

“There was some effort made.” Cadfael recalled the deep pits Domville’s boot-heels had scored in the turf. “But by the body only, as men jerk from wounds when they have no more power to resist them. His senses were out of him, he could not fight his assailant. And these were strong hands, and resolute. See here, where both thumbs, one over the other, were driven in. The apple of his neck is ruptured.”

He had not had the opportunity until now to look more closely at that savage injury. Under the short beard the slash made by the rope drew a dark-red line, from which the beads of blood had been washed away. The black bruises left by the strangler’s hands showed up clearly.

“Here is every sign of a madly vindictive attacker,” said Prestcote grimly.

“Or a very frightened one,” Cadfael said mildly. “Desperate at his own act, an act unlike him, suddenly undertaken and monstrously overdone.”

“You could be speaking of the same man,” said Radulfus reasonably. “Is there anything more this body can tell us about him?”

It seemed that there was. On the left side of Domville’s neck, about where the middle fingers of the right hand must have gripped, and had left their shadowy shape, the bruise was crossed by a short, indented wound, as though a jagged stone had been pressed into the flesh there. Cadfael pondered this small, insignificant thing in silence for a while, and concluded that it might be by no means insignificant.

“A small, sharp cut,” he mused, peering close, “and this hollow wound beside it. The man who did this wore a ring, on the middle or third finger of his right hand. A ring with a large stone in it, to thrust so into the flesh. And it must hang rather loose on his finger, for it turned partially within as he gripped. On the middle finger, surely … if it had hung loose on the third he would have shifted it to the middle one. I can think of no other way such an injury can have been made.” He looked up into the circle of attentive faces. “Did young Lucy wear such a ring?”

Picard shrugged off all knowledge of such matters. After some thought Simon said: “I cannot recall ever noticing a ring. But neither can I say certainly that he never wore one. I might ask Guy if he knows.”

“It shall be enquired into,” said the sheriff. “Is there more to be noticed?”

“I can think of nothing. Unless it is worth wondering where this man had been, and on what errand, to find him on that path at such an hour.”

“We do not know the hour,” said Prestcote.

“No, true. It is not possible to say how long a man has been dead, not within a matter of hours. Yet the turf under him was moist. But there is another point. All the signs show - very well, let us be wary of reading too confidently, they seem to show! - that he was riding back towards his house when he was waylaid. And the trap set for him was laid and waiting before he came. Therefore whoever set it, and thereafter killed him, knew where he had gone, and by what road he must return.”

“Or must have followed him in the night, and made his plans accordingly,” said the sheriff. “We are sure now that Lucy made his way to the hay-store in the bishop’s garden and hid there, but after dark he came forth, and may well have lurked to keep watch on his lord’s movements, with this fell intent in mind. He knew Domville would be supping here at the abbey, for all the household knew it. It would not be difficult to wait in hiding for his return, and to see him riding on alone and dismissing his squire provided the very chance revenge needed. Small doubt but Lucy is our man.”

There was no more then to be said. The sheriff returned to his hunt, convinced of his rightness; and on the face of it, Cadfael allowed, no blame at all to him for the case was black. Huon de Domville was left to the care of Brother Edmund and his helpers, and his coffin bespoken from Martin Bellecote, the master carpenter in the town, for whether he was to find his burial here or elsewhere, he must be decently coffined for his journey to the grave, and with suitable grandeur. His body had no more now to tell.

Or so Brother Cadfael thought, until he consented to recount the circumstances of death and enquiry to Brother Oswin in the workshop, over the sorting of beans for the next year’s seed. Oswin listened intently to all. At the end he said with apparent inconsequence: “I wonder that he should ride in a late October night without a capuchon. And he bald, too!”

Cadfael stood at gaze, contemplating him with wonder across a handful of seed. “What was that you said?”

“Why, for an old man to go bareheaded in the night…”

He had put his finger firmly on the one thing Cadfael had missed. Domville had not ridden away bareheaded from the abbey gatehouse, that was certain. Cadfael himself had seen him depart, the fine crimson capuchon twisted up into an elaborate hat, gold fringe swinging, and yet he had not thought to look for it where the body lay fallen, or question its absence.

“Child,” said Cadfael heartily, “I am always underestimating you. Remind me of it when next I breathe down your neck over your work, for I shall deserve it. He did indeed have a capuchon, and I had better be about finding it.”

He asked no permission, preferring to consider that the morning’s leave to join in the search might reasonably be extended to cover a further stage in the same quest. There was still time before Vespers if he hurried, and the place was marked with their improvised cross.

The turf under the oak still retained the vague shape of Domville’s body, but already the grasses were rising again. Cadfael prowled the pathway with his eyes on the ground, penetrated into the trees on both sides, and found nothing. It was a sudden shaft of sunlight through the branches, filtering through thick underbrush, that finally located for him what he sought, by picking out the glitter of the gold fringe that bordered the cape of the capuchon. It had been flung from its wearer’s head when he was thrown, and buried itself in a clump of bushes three yards from the path, its fashionable twisted arrangement making it all too easy to dislodge in such a shock. Cadfael hauled it out. The turban-like folds had been well wound, it was still a compact cap, with one draped edge left to swing gracefully to a shoulder. And in the dark crimson folds a cluster of bright blue shone. Somewhere in his nocturnal ride Huon de Domville had added to his adornments a little bunch of frail, straight stems bearing long, fine green leaves and starry flowers of a heavenly blue, even now, when they had lain all day neglected. Cadfael drew the posy out of the folds, and marveled at it, for though it had commoner cousins, this plant was a rarity.

He knew it well, though it was seldom to be found even in the shady places in Wales where he had occasionally seen it. He knew of no place here in England where it had ever, to his knowledge, been discovered. When he wanted seed to make powders or infusions against colic or stone, he had to be content with the poor relatives of this rarity. Now what, he wondered, viewing its very late and now somewhat jaded flowers, is a bunch of the blue creeping gromwell doing in these parts? Certainly Domville had not had it when he left the abbey.

It was a pity there was no time to go further, since he must be back to attend Iveta and go to Vespers. He was beginning to be very curious indeed about Domville’s nightly ramblings. Had not Picard mentioned by the way that the baron had a hunting-lodge near the Long Forest? From the Foregate this path might well be the most direct way to that lodge. True, the place might lie anywhere along some miles of the forest borders, but it would be well worth following the road the dead man had taken. But not today, that was out of the question.

Cadfael tucked the little bunch of blue and the capuchon in the breast of his habit, and made his way back. No doubt it was his duty to hand over both, with due explanations, to the sheriff, but he was not at all sure that he was going to do so. The capuchon, certainly, that added nothing to what was already known. But this small knot of fading beauty was eloquent indeed. Where that grew, Domville had been, and there surely could not be more than one such place in all this shire. He knew of only three in Gwynedd, where it had its home, here he was astonished to find even one. And Prestcote was an honest and just man, but arbitrary in his decisions, and already convinced of Joscelin’s guilt. Who else had a grudge against the baron? Cadfael was not convinced. Loose talk about killing did not delude him. There are people who are capable of murder by stealth, and people who are not, and nothing would persuade him to the contrary. Every man may be driven to kill, but not every man can be driven to kill by cunning, the knife in the back, the rope across the path.

He went back dutifully to the abbey, delivered the capuchon to the sergeant Prestcote had left at the gatehouse, and went to fetch the poppy syrup for Iveta from his workshop.

This time they did not leave him alone with her for a moment. The maid Madlen, plainly Agnes’s creature to the hilt, stood over them sharp-eyed and prick-eared, all he could give the girl was the reassurance of his continued partisanship by his very presence, and the ministrations he offered. At least they could exchange looks, and interpret what they saw. And he could ensure that she should sleep, and sleep long, while he pondered how best to help her. Also to help Joscelin Lucy? She would not be grateful for a partisanship that did not extend to her lover, for whose life she had been willing to barter all her own future happiness.

Cadfael went to Vespers with the little fading cluster of blue still in his habit.

Brother Mark had been vaguely but persistently troubled, all that day, by the feeling that his grasp on the whole body of his flock at the hospice had somehow been disrupted. It had begun at Prime, when all the household, except the one or two young children, came together in the church. It was not that he ever counted them. If any were sicker or more out of mood than normally, they could remain at rest, no one drove them, so the number need never be the same. Moreover, during even this brief office there were some who for good reason must ease their discomfort by movement, and therefore the whole mass shifted and changed a little. It was rather that he was haunted by a sense of unexpected bulk, a limitation of the light within the church, which at all times was dim and cramped. There were six or seven big men among his charges, but he knew the manner and gait of them all, the little halts and stoops that identified even the veiled ones among them.

Once or twice during Prime he had thought he detected one lofty, shrouded head and covered face that had an alien look, but always he lost it again. Not until the end did it dawn on him that he was losing it because all his afflicted household was so disposing its people as to swallow up the intruder.

Intruder seemed a hard word where the doors were open to all, yet had the newcomer been truly a leper, here arrived at one more halt in a lifetime’s pilgrimage, he would have announced himself, and there would have been no need for this mysterious shifting and dissembling. Yet what whole man in his right mind would choose to hide here? He would have to be desperate.

Mark had almost persuaded himself that he was dreaming. But when he doled out the bread and oatmeal and small ale at breakfast, though again he did not count - -for who counts what is given to the unfortunate? - by the end of it he knew that his supplies were depleted beyond what he had expected. Someone among his children had drawn food for another mouth.

He knew, of course, that the sheriffs men were beating the wood and gardens between Saint Giles and the town, and before noon the news of Huon de Domville’s death had reached him. The isolation of the outcasts here never kept out the news. Whatever happened in town or abbey was known at once in the hospice, down to the very manner of the baron’s death, and the outcry raised against the escaped squire as his murderer. But Brother Mark had work to do, and had not thought much about the rumors. There were all his morning medical duties first, and not until the last dressing was renewed and the last sore anointed did he give much consideration to the discrepancy that was troubling him. Even then there were other matters to be attended to, recording gifts made to the hospital, arranging for a party of the able-bodied to go gleaning for the winter wood-pile in the manor of Sutton, a right granted them by the late lord and continued by his son, helping to prepare the midday meal, checking the superior’s accounts, and a dozen other things. Only in the afternoon was he at leisure to pursue some of the duties he had appropriated to himself of his own will, such as reading the office privately to one old man who was too ill to leave his bed, and giving a lesson to the boy Bran. Very easy lessons they usually turned out to be, more than half play, but for all that, the child was thirsty for letters, and drew in learning like mother’s milk, as naturally as breathing.

Mark had made a little desk for him, the appropriate size for his spindly eight years, and on this day he trimmed a leaf of old, cleaned vellum for his use, leaving the frayed strips he had removed on his own desk close by. The schoolroom was a cramped corner of the hall, close to a narrow window for light. Sometimes they ended using up the rest of the leaf in children’s drawing games, at which Bran could usually win. The leaf could always be cleaned and used again and again, until it wore too thin and frayed away.

Mark went out to find his pupil. The day was clear, but the sunlight moist and mild. Many of the lepers would be out along the fringes of the highroads with their clapper-dishes, keeping their humble distance from all traffic, but crying their appeal to those who passed. But close to his accustomed place beside the cemetery wall Lazarus was sitting, tall, straight-backed, head erect in its shrouding hood and veil. Close beside him, leaning comfortably upon his thighs, was Bran, both hands raised with spread fingers holding a web of coarse thread, with one side of it caught in his teeth. The man’s hands shared the spread of the web. They were playing the old game of cat’s-cradle, and the boy was bubbling with laughter round the cord he nibbled.

It was pleasant and cheering to see old age and childhood in harmony together, and Brother Mark hesitated to break into their concentration. He was about to withdraw and leave them to their game, but the child had caught sight of him, and let fall his tether to call out hastily: “I’m coming, Brother Mark! Wait for me!”

He unwound his fingers from the web, said a blithe farewell to his playmate, who unlaced the thread without a word, and ran willingly to slip his hand into Mark’s, and skip beside him into the hall.

“We were only filling up the time, till you were ready for me,” said the boy.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay out and play, while the weather’s mild like this? You may, of course, if you wish. We can learn in the dark evenings, all the winter long by the fire.”

“Oh, no, I want to show you how well I can do the letters you taught me.”

He had towed Brother Mark indoors, and was at his desk and smoothing the fresh sheet of vellum proudly before him, and still it had not dawned on Mark what he had just witnessed. It was the sight of the thin, careful hand gripping the quill that finally brought enlightenment. He drew in breath so sharply that Bran looked up quickly, in the belief that he must be doing something either very badly, or unexpectedly well, and Mark made haste to reassure and praise him.

But how could he have failed to recognize what he was seeing? The height matched, the erect carriage was right, the width of the shoulders under the cloak - everything was as it should be. Except that both hands from which Bran had been in the act of lifting their web of thread had all their fingers, and were smooth, supple and shapely, a young man’s hands.

Nevertheless, Brother Mark said never a word to the superior of the hospital, or to any other, of what he had discovered, nor did he make any move to confront the interloper. What impressed him most, and caused him to hold his hand, was the unanimity with which his afflicted flock had opened to receive the fugitive, surely with barely a word said, and nothing explained, and had closed about him in the silent solidarity of shared misfortune. Not lightly would he presume to turn back that tide, or dispute the lightness of that judgment.

The hunters came back from their fruitless search with the fall of darkness. Guy, a very reluctant conscript, tramped into the chamber he shared with Simon, kicked off his boots, and lay back on his bed with a great gusty sigh of exasperation.

“Well for you, that you escaped that penance! Hours of draggle-tailing it through the bushes and peering into cottage pig-styes, and scaring out molting hens. I swear I stink of muck! Canon Eudo came bustling back from the church and hunted us all out, but his zeal didn’t run as far as volunteering for the foul work himself. He went back to his prayers - may they do the old man’s soul some good!”

“And you’ve seen nothing of him? Of Joss?” asked Simon anxiously, pausing with one arm in the sleeve of his best cotte.

“If I had, I should have looked the other way, and kept main quiet about it.” Guy smothered a huge yawn, and stretched his long legs at ease. “But no, never a glimpse. The sheriff’s got a cordon round the town that should keep in even a mouse, and they’re planning a slow drive further out on the north side tomorrow, and if that fails, on the brook side the next day. I tell you, Simon, they’re set on taking him. Did you hear they even ransacked the grounds of this house? And found he, or some fellow, had been hiding in one of the outhouses down by the wall?”

Simon completed the donning of his coat, glumly thoughtful. “I heard it. But it seems he was long gone. If it was he.”

“Do you think he may be already out and away? Why should we not at least leave the old man’s stable unlocked tonight? Or move Briar to the open one in the court? A small chance is better than none.”

“If we even knew where he might be … But I’ve been thinking,” agreed Simon, “that at least we’d better have the poor beast out into daylight again, and find him some exercise. Who knows, if I was seen riding him, and Joss got word of it, he might get in touch.”

“I see you no more believe in this charge than I do,” observed Guy, lifting his rumpled head to give his friend a sharp glance. “Nor in that wretched business of the necklace in his saddle-bag, either. I wonder which misbegotten dog among the servants got his orders to hide it there! Or do you suppose the old man saw to it himself? He was never afraid of his own dirty work, as long as I’ve known him.” Guy had been in the baron’s service from twelve years old, beginning as a page fresh from his father’s house, and had even acquired a kind of detached affection for his formidable lord, who had never had occasion to turn formidable to him. “But still, it was a foul way to make away with him,” he said. “And I do still wonder…. If Joss was mad with rage - and he had reason to be - I would not be ready quite to stake my soul he did not kill him. Even that way!”

“But I would,” said Simon with certainty.

“Ah, you!” Guy rose indulgently and clapped his fellow on the shoulder. “Where others hold opinions, you know! Be careful you don’t trip yourself some day by trusting too far. And now I look at you,” he added, twitching the collar of Simon’s best coat into immaculate neatness, “you’re very fine tonight. Where are you off to?”

“Only to the Picards at the abbey. A common courtesy, now the worst of the day’s over and the dust settling. They came close to becoming his kin, they’ll have to be allowed a part in the mourning for him. It costs nothing to defer to the man as elder and adviser until my uncle’s buried. There’ll be messages to send out to my aunt in the nunnery at Wroxall, and one or two distant cousins. Eudo can make himself useful doing the scribing, he has the right flowery style.”

“I warn you,” said Guy, rising lazily to go and demand hot water for his ablutions, “the sheriff and Eudo between them will drive you out with the rest of us to take part in their sweep tomorrow. They’re bent on hanging him.”

“I can always look the other way, like you,” said Simon, and departed to do his duty by one who had almost become a kinsman, and had hoped by this time to have a kinsman’s rights.

Iveta lay in her bed, with Brother Cadfael’s poppy draught measured and ready to her hand, and his promise that it would bring her sleep like a small, warm core of comfort in her mind. But she did not want to sleep yet. There was a kind of passive pleasure in being here alone in the room, even though she knew that Madlen was within call. They had so seldom left her alone all these weeks, the oppression of their presence had been like a shadow cutting her off from the sun. Only yesterday, and only for those meager minutes, and even then with an eye on her from the distance, had they sent her out to dispose herself where she must be noticed, and might be questioned, so that she might give the right answers, and display the right assured calmness of consent in her hateful destiny. And all the time they had known that Joscelin was not a prisoner, but somewhere at liberty, even if his liberty was that of a hunted man.

That was over. She could not be cheated like that again. Two things at least she could cling to: he was not taken, and she was not married.

She caught the sound of a hand at the door, and shrank within herself, wary and still. But when the door opened, and Agnes appeared, it was with a face almost benign, and a voice almost solicitous, surely for the benefit of the visitor who came in at her shoulder. Iveta stared in astonishment at the transformation.

“Still awake, child? Then here is a good friend enquiring after you. May he come in for a few minutes? You are not too tired?”

He was in already, Simon in his best, and on his best behavior for her aunt and uncle; and his best behavior must have made its impression, for he was actually allowed to be alone with her. Agnes was withdrawing, smiling her benevolence in her best public manner. “Only a few minutes. She should not exert herself longer tonight.”

She was gone, and the door had closed after her. Simon’s pleasant, boyish face shed its wariness instantly, and he came striding to Iveta’s bedside, pulled up a stool, and sat down beside her. She raised herself gladly on her pillows, the gold mane of her hair loose over the shoulders of her linen gown.

“Softly!” he warned, finger to lip. “Speak low, your dragon may be set on to listen. I’m let in briefly to pay my respects and enquire how you are. God knows I was sorry to see you so shocked. Did they never tell you he broke free?”

She shook her head, almost too full to speak. “Oh, Simon, is there news? Not…”

“Not good nor ill,” he said quickly, in the same low and rapid whisper. “Nothing has changed. He’s still at liberty, and pray God he will be. They’ll be hunting for him, I know. But so shall I,” he said meaningly, and took the small hand that groped out blindly towards him. “Take heart! They’ve searched all day, and no one has laid hand or eye on him yet, who knows but he’s away out of the circle long since. He’s strong, and bold …”

“Too bold!” she said ruefully.

“And still has friends, for all they’ve charged against him. Friends who don’t believe in his guilt!”

“Oh, Simon, you do me so much good!”

“I would I might do more, for you and for him. But take comfort, all you need do is be patient and wait. One threat is gone from you. Now, if he continues free, there’s no urgency, you can wait.”

“And truly you don’t believe he ever stole? Nor that he has killed?” she pleaded hungrily.

“I know he has not,” said Simon firmly, with all the self-assurance with which Guy had good-naturedly charged him. “The only wrong he has done is to love where love was not allowed. Oh, I know!” he said quickly, seeing her flinch and turn her face aside. “Forgive me if I’m presumptuous, but he’s my friend and has spoken with me as a friend. I do know!” He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder, and smiled wry reasurrance at her. “Your aunt will be beginning to frown. I should go. But remember, Joss is not friendless.”

“I will,” she said fervently, “and thank God and you for it. You’ll come again, Simon, if you can? You can’t imagine how you comfort me.”

“I’ll come,” he promised, and stooped hurriedly to kiss her hand. “Goodnight now! Sleep well, and don’t be afraid.”

He was on his way to the door when Agnes opened it, still benevolent, but watchful all the same. This young man was Huon de Domville’s nephew, and partook of the deference accorded his uncle in life. But the watch on Iveta would never be wholly relaxed until she was profitably disposed of, and the gains secured.

The door closed. Iveta was ready now for sleep, the load on her heart greatly lightened. She drank Brother Cadfael’s potion, honeysweet and heavy, and blew out her candle.

When Madlen came prowling suspiciously, Iveta was already asleep.

After Compline Brother Cadfael asked audience of Abbot Radulfus, in his own study in the abbot’s lodging. It was a good hour for grave conversation, a day of many passions over at last, the night’s needful composure closing in.

“Father, I have told you all I know of this matter, but for one thing. You know that I have knowledge of herbs. In the capuchon I brought back and delivered to the sheriff this evening, I found a herb which I know to be exceedingly rare, even in Wales, where it does habit in some places. Here I had never before met with it. Yet Huon de Domville, in his last night in this world, was where this herb grows. Father, I think this circumstance of the greatest importance, and it is my wish to find this place, and discover what business the dead man had there, on his marriage eve. I believe it may have a bearing on his death, the manner of it, and the maker of it.”

He had the little faded posy in his palm, a drying bunch of thin stems, thread-like green leaves and wilting, starry flowers, still surprisingly blue.

“Show me,” said the abbot, and gazed with wondering attention. “And you can say where such a thing grows, and where it does not grow?”

“In grows in a few, a very few places, where the chalk or limestone crops out. I have never before seen it in England.”

“And by this you believe you can divine where our murdered man spent his night?”

“We know the path by which he was returning. By that same path he surely went, when he left his squire at the gate. It is my wish, if you give leave, to follow that path, and find this flower. I believe lives - innocent of anything beyond youth, folly and anger - may hang upon so small a thing.”

“Such things have happened times without number,” said Abbot Radulfus. “Our purpose is justice, and with God lies the privilege of mercy. You have leave, Brother Cadfael, to pursue this as long as may be needful. You have my trust.”

“God knows I value it,” said Cadfael truly. “And you have, and shall have, mine. Whatever I may find, I submit to you.”

“Not to the sheriff?” asked Radulfus, and smiled.

“Surely. But through you, Father.”

Brother Cadfael went to his bed in the dortoir, and slept like an innocent babe safely cradled, until the bell rang for Matins.