chatting at the corner to an alley. He stood on his board, doffing his scruffy hat and bowing from the waist, and the girls giggled. One met his eye boldly, and he grinned and waved his hat to her.
As he retook his seat, thoughts of the women were rudely cast from his mind. He had caught a glimpse of a man riding toward him. The rider was in his early to middle thirties, with a face overly fleshy from too much rich food and drink, and a thick belly that seemed to rest on his horse’s withers. John set his lips and gave a tuneless whistle, letting his head drop so that his face was hidden beneath the brim of his hat. Peering from under this barrier, he saw the legs of the horse approach, then pass by. The carter chortled quietly to himself. “And a good day to you, Master Matthew Coffyn. Glad to see you’re on your way. I hope you’ve left all your valuables safe!”
Soon he was passing Coffyn’s house. It was a good-sized place, as befitted the man’s status in the town, with fresh paint on the wood, and limewash that was unstained by the weathering that marred a property’s appearance. John kept his head down and watched from below his brim as he passed the gates, but he couldn’t see Martha Coffyn. The place was quiet, and he nodded to himself. While the master was away, his servants would relax. No doubt most were in the buttery enjoying their master’s absence while they simultaneously enjoyed his strongest ale.
After that was a newer building. This one, Godfrey’s, was a massive hall, with good moorstone rendered and painted, surrounded by a wall strong enough to deter a mob. John glanced in. A gardener was clearing leaves from the thick clump of cabbages while another spread straw over a patch of vegetables to protect them from frost. They would soon retire as the light faded, John thought to himself contentedly.
As he came level with the gates, his attention was taken by a pair of young women. One was of middle height, with bright blue eyes that held a reserved calmness, as if she had confronted pain and found herself able to cope. Her face was oval, with a tall, wide brow under her little coif. She had the well-rounded body of a mature woman. John knew she was almost twenty-seven, and that was old for a single woman, especially one who was so attractive. When he saw her glance in his direction, he gave her a happy smile, and nodded his head respectfully. She ignored him, turning on her heel.
“By God, Cecily, you know how to hurt a fellow’s pride,” he muttered to himself, but then chuckled as he caught the eye of the other woman in the garden, the young maid. She met his gaze unswervingly, with a condescendingly raised eyebrow. It was enough to lift his heart as he rode past the house.
Beyond was a new street. He turned into it and up a steep incline, his pony slowing and hunching in the traces, hauling determinedly. “Come on, girl!”
On his right was the sandstone wall surrounding Godfrey’s plot. It had been an expensive undertaking, constructing this barrier, for John knew it enclosed no less than three acres, inside which cows and pigs browsed on the food given to them until they should in their turn feed the household.
John’s pony paused a few yards before the next crossroads, at the furthest extremity of Godfrey’s wall. Looping the reins loosely around the board that stood by his knee, John sprang down. Crediton was behind him, in front was common land, and on his left stood a wood, but to the right, backing on to Godfrey of London’s place, was his own yard.
His small court was hidden behind the fence. Even the wooden gates were covered with boards. John valued privacy in his domain. He unlocked the padlock and released the chain, shoving the gates wide open, the hinges screeching in protest. The noise made him wince, and he made a mental note to grease them again. He led his horse in and slammed the gates, unlimbering her and removing her harness, hanging it from a nail while he wiped her down and brushed her. Leaving her at a newly-filled manger, he went to see to his merchandise. Once that was stored in the lean-to shed at the back of his cottage, he fetched himself a jug of ale and stood at his doorpost, whistling reflectively. He was facing east, but now, as the sun set, he could see the last rays gleaming red and gold on the leaves of the trees opposite.
He was comfortable here. The house was tiny, but then so was the place he had left in Ireland. At least here there were plenty of trees plainly visible. He could sit out here for hours with a quart of ale, just watching the birds and the golden squirrels leaping and playing in and amongst the branches. For most of the year he could tell the season by simply looking over his fence. In the springtime the trees were clad in light green, fresh young leaves; the summer meant a duller verdant tone. Now it was autumn, and the oaks had been licked with a drab ochre as the leaves prepared to fall.
These trees gave him all the wood he needed for heating, and at this time of year he could gather his own food as well. Through the autumn he would store up boxes of nuts: mainly cobs and chestnuts. These last were his favorites. He liked them roasted, eating their fluffy white flesh while still hot, or cooking them in milk and mashing them to make a thick, creamy stew.
John sighed happily. It had been the wish of the townspeople that he should be made to feel excluded from the life of Crediton-and they had been disgusted when they realized he intended staying. The town was united against him; he must be forced to understand how his actions were deplored. That was why they had refused to let him acquire a plot of land nearer Crediton town center. The intention was to punish him for his attempted fraud, but he was grateful that they wanted to alienate him. It had left him with this view up the hill and over the trees-and ensured that he could go about his business without being observed.
And that was sometimes important to him. He stirred himself as the light faded, stretching both arms high over his head. Crossing his yard, he made sure the pony was settled before taking a length of rope from the stable door. Where his plot met Godfrey’s, he had not bothered to put up a fence. Godfrey’s wall was eight feet high here, enough to deter most unwanted visitors. Now John studied it, sucking his teeth thoughtfully while he fashioned a loop. Ready, he weighed the coil in his hand. A few short feet above him the broken branch of an oak protruded over to his side. He hurled the rope; it encircled the limb, and he tested it a moment before using it to help him clamber to the top. Once there, he unhitched the loop from the branch, whistling absent-mindedly as he cautiously looked out for any watching gardener, then dropped to the ground.
Matthew Coffyn was away again; he often was. And when left to her own devices, his wife, Martha, was prey to boredom.
As soon as he had broken his fast the next morning, Ralph took his leave of both Bishop and Dean and set off to his new position. Ralph had expected to go alone to the lazar house, but Clifford insisted that someone should show him the way. The lepers were to be found at the far side of the town, he pointed out, and it would be easy for Ralph to get himself lost en route.
Ralph followed the almoner through the screens to the courtyard and out into the road, the older monk proudly pointing to the imposing new church as they passed it. The bustling little town was already awake, he saw. On every street, people stood hawking wares from baskets. Shops had their windows open. Their shutters were hinged at their lowest edge, so that they could be swung down to rest on trestles, and now they were displaying fresh produce of all kinds. As they walked, Ralph smelled newly-baked bread, cooking pies and stews, fowls roasting, and the clean tang of fish, all of which contended for dominance with the stench from the sewer.
It made him feel foolish after his reservations of the previous afternoon. At Houndeslow, this town was looked upon as a frontier outpost, somewhere so far removed from civilized living that it was a miracle anyone could survive for long, but now he was here, Ralph found it was a thriving, cheerful place. He wondered briefly whether the country further west was as forbidding and wild as he had heard, or whether it would prove to be as friendly as Crediton. Contrary to what he had been told, this was not a border town, not in the same way as Carlisle.
He had heard a lot about the northern marches from older monks at his convent. There, he understood, raiders and thieves were continually attacking from the Scottish side, and it was impossible to live in peace. Carlisle had to be protected by massive curtain walls and a prominent castle, behind whose gates civilians could shelter when the Scottish barbarians came burning and looting on their little ponies. Here at Crediton there wasn’t any kind of a wall, yet the people didn’t appear to feel its lack.
Further into the town the atmosphere altered. Here was the business center. There were regular squeals from one yard where a pigsticker plied his trade, a butcher standing outside in his leather apron shaving carcasses, while others nearby stoically carved and jointed. One apprentice voided entrails into a little stream, while another knelt downriver rinsing lights and offal ready for sausages. The stench was that of the tanners, an unwholesome odor, and as they walked on, Ralph found himself passing cobblers and cordwainers, fullers and weavers. The town had an enviable busyness.
But the almoner was not taking Ralph to see workers about their business; he was leading the monk to his new post, and they passed through the crowds thronging the streets and out to the other side of the town. As if apologetically, the almoner began to speak of the leper house and the various inmates.
