day began with the dawn, and when the darkness stole over the land they went to their beds.
Quivil was used to the dark. In his home, so few miles away, the days were gauged by whether the animals were awake, and at this time of night, all were asleep. Now, he knew, his father would be sitting at his old stool before the fire, occasionally casting an eye at the sheep as they grumbled to themselves, huddled in the corner farthest from him. He would be whittling a stick, sometimes breaking off to whet his blade against the stone by the fire, spitting to lubricate the metal as he honed it to sharpness.
For his whole life Quivil had assumed he would take his place there by the fire. He had thought he would replace his father when the old man died, and then he would sit at the stool and fashion walking sticks and furniture by the firelight until the days grew longer and his every waking hour was filled with other forms of work. He had seen himself growing old and bent, just as his father was, knowing what his responsibilities were, knowing what jobs needed to be done daily. And where his mother sat, near her man, there would Mary sit, her eyes on him, looking to ensure that he was content, just as his mother had always watched his father so lovingly. And now he had nothing to look forward to. His life was over.
A noise came from outside his doorway, and the curtain was pulled aside. Framed against the night sky Quivil saw a darker shape. He muttered to himself, pulled his blanket tighter and rolled away. This room was home to another besides himself, and he assumed this must be his roommate. He had no desire for company, he wanted the peace of solitude.
But it wasn’t one man preparing to climb into bed. Quivil heard murmuring voices. They were hoarse from the disease they shared, but it wasn’t that which made his blood run chill. It was the cruel delight in them.
“What are you doing? What do you want?” he demanded, turning to face them.
“We want you.”
All at once he was grabbed by four pairs of hands, and hauled from his mattress. He could do nothing: his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and all he could utter was a whimper of dread.
They dragged him from the hut and out into the black night. The cold penetrated his robe, sending a fresh trickle of ice-cold terror washing down his spine. His mind, which had been in a state of sheer panic for days already, was frozen with horror. He had lost all will. In his blue funk he was certain he was about to die, but after the loss of all his self-respect and the destruction of his life, he had no strength to resist.
He could see them in the miserable light, and to his strained senses they looked like demons: small, misshapen, deformed, swollen with the putrescence of leprosy. Their appearance was that of gibbering fiends, their stench was the reek of the charnel-house. He was transfixed with horror.
They stopped, and he heard one of them give a chuckle. It sounded like the devil himself. Quivil felt his knees weaken, and would have fallen, but felt himself propelled forward, and then he found he was falling. The ground opened into a gaping hole before him, and he screamed, a high, keening noise, as he saw the earth rise up on either side.
Rodde had seen the petrified Quivil being dragged to the chapel’s yard as he reentered the grounds. He had slipped into the protection of the building’s wall as the group passed by, then followed after. At the sight of the young man being shoved into the newly dug grave, he felt rage choke him. It took but a moment to cover the few yards to the men, and he swung his staff. It caught a leper on the shoulder, then he whirled to stab and thrust at the others. “Leave him, you bastards!” he spat, his staff held high over his chest.
“Leave us alone, stranger. It’s nothing-we do it to all the new ones,” one man whined.
Rodde knew it was true. He had been forced to undergo a similar initiation ceremony when he had first been driven into a camp; the other lepers had thrown him into a grave, then scattered soil on him in obscene imitation of burial; sometimes he had seen other victims squirming while their tormenters urinated over them.
“It stops now.” Rodde couldn’t prevent his voice from shaking with disgust. He caught sight of a figure hobbling near him, and the stick shot out, catching the man in the chest. “I said it stops! Now, leave us.”
He stood protectively while the lepers, muttering to themselves, backed away from him and made off toward their huts, and only when they had disappeared did he glance down into the hole. At the bottom, Quivil was kneeling, sobbing, gathering up handfuls of soil and wiping them over his face, smearing blood and tears together into a mask of utter despair.
Quivil’s distress was the misery of mankind. Rodde stood quietly by the side of the grave, his staff still held to protect the younger man until Quivil subsided into weeping. Then he cast his prop aside and climbed down to help Edmund out.
A fortnight later the weather had turned. Now each morning the land was frozen, the grass rimed with frost. The ponds and ditches were filled with ice, on top of which the ducks and geese waddled, protesting loudly and with some confusion at the sudden loss of their favorite element. Sir Baldwin Furnshill still found the English weather difficult to cope with, even after so many years back at his estate. His blood had been thinned by his sojourn in the Mediterranean and subsequent soft living in Paris.
He pulled up at his stableyard as twilight fell, shouting for his groom and dropping from his horse. Usually he rode a dainty Arab, but today he had left early, and had chosen his rounsey, a solid beast who jerked his head and pranced skittishly, his breath steaming in the bitter evening air. The knight patted his neck while he waited for his men. “I know, I know-you haven’t had enough exercise today. I’ll see you’re taken out for longer tomorrow. Calm yourself!”
Cold it might be, but Baldwin loved his land. The small estate stood some five or six miles north and east of Crediton, near to Cadbury. It had been his older brother’s, but when poor Reynald had fallen from his horse while hunting and broken his neck, the land had come to Baldwin. After wandering for so long with little money and few comforts, the knight was delighted to own so prosperous and fertile a region of Devon-especially with the comfortable house; especially with his recent improvements. He was determined to impress his guests. One of them, anyway, he amended with a small smile.
The sun was already gone and twilight was giving way to nighttime. In the distance he could see a wraithlike streamer of smoke rising over a wood. There, he knew, a tenant of his was settling down with a pint or two of ale, tired after a day of hedging. Baldwin had passed him on the way. Above, the stars were breaking out as the sky dulled and darkened. It was strangely relaxing, as if no harm could come to anyone who appreciated its beauty, and the knight felt some of his earlier trepidation and gloom fade away.
Passing the reins to the groom, Baldwin walked from the yard and strode to his front door. Before he opened it, he looked back over his shoulder. In the time it had taken to reach the threshold, night had fallen. He could make out the faint outlines of the hillsides shining like old pewter in the moonlight. Above him the sky was a deep blue- black, across which silver-rimmed clouds drifted idly.
He opened the door. Instantly there was a scrabbling, and he caught a glimpse of the massive shape.
“Oh, no-God, no!”
It launched at him. His eyes widened in shock, then it was on him, and the knight staggered back under the assault. His heel snagged on a step, and he was falling. Even as his shoulder struck the packed earth of the path, he saw the jaws open at his throat, smelled the foul breath, and he shut his eyes against the inevitable.
“Good evening, sir.”
Baldwin dared raise one lid, fending off the attack as best he could. A thick gobbet of saliva landed quivering on his cheek and he shuddered. “Edgar, get the brute off me!”
“It wasn’t my idea to get the monster,” Edgar said pointedly. “In fact I remember saying it would be stupid to replace the bitch.”
Baldwin felt the weight leave his chest as his servant hauled on the thick leather collar, and rolled stiffly to his side before levering himself up. The mastiff was sitting at Edgar’s side now, his hindquarters wriggling as he tried to wag his tail. Slobber dribbled from his huge black jowls, and he was whining excitedly, desperate to greet his master with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. And that, Baldwin knew, was a lot of enthusiasm.
Edgar was right, he reflected, but that hardly eased matters. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, replacing his old mastiff with a new one. Lionors had been his brother’s bitch originally, and when the knight arrived after Reynald’s death, Lionors had transferred all her affection to him unreservedly. At first it had been stifling, for Baldwin had been used to a hard life of constant travel, and having a creature so dependent upon him was irksome, especially when she took to grabbing whatever she could and chewing it in a demonstration of fervent adoration.
But he had been surprised by his sense of loss when she died. It had happened quite quietly. She had not come to him in the morning when he arose, but had remained lying by the fire. Ben, the brown and black farm dog
