ones who had already given up. They had succumbed to grief, or had become angry with their God for their living death. Ralph felt he could understand their misery, but could not forgive their loss of faith. They should, he felt, put their trust in Him. It was with a kind of abstract disinterest that he wondered how he himself would react if he became a leper. It was always possible that he might succumb to the malign disease. He only prayed that he could be like the first group, and would relish the opportunity for praising God that its onset would provide-but he wasn’t sure.
The message came late in the morning, while he was sweeping the floor in the chapel. Mud and rubbish accumulated in the corners of the old building, and it was a daily task to ensure that God’s house was clean. He had almost finished, when Joseph, an old leper much disfigured, caught his attention.
One of the early symptoms of the disease was that the victim found breathing difficult and the voice became hoarse. Poor Joseph had endured his illness for over four years, Ralph had been told, and the monk usually found his speech difficult to understand, but today he quickly understood that he was needed.
At the main gate he found a young woman waiting. She was in her early twenties, plain of face, but with an inner strength that showed in her grave, solemn features. Ralph could see that she was no gentlewoman. Her clothing was clean, but certainly not expensive; the fabric had torn in several places, and had been carefully mended.
As he approached her, Ralph’s attention was on her face. The woman was paying him no heed: she was watching Joseph. And unlike everyone else whom he had seen observing a leper, her face held no fear, no horror or disgust, but only an expression of compassion and utter sadness. It made him want to stop and memorize every detail of her as she stood there, radiating kindness like a modern Magdalen. When he came close, he saw that her cheeks were streaked with tears.
“You asked for me?”
“Yes, Brother. I have been sent by the Dean to tell you that another man has got the disease.”
“Oh, I see.” Ralph closed his eyes briefly. He had five inmates already. Another would be a strain on his resources. The almoner had already hinted that the harvest had not been as good as had been hoped, and that it would be best if the lepers could reduce their demands on the church. He dismissed the thought with a shrug. “I shall come immediately.”
Inside Crediton’s collegiate church, the candles and sconces threw a dim light compared with the bright sunshine streaming in through the windows. There weren’t many people there. It looked as if monks and lay- brothers were almost alone; only a few of the local people were attending. That was no surprise, for nobody wanted to be reminded of the illness. One woman sobbed, and a man at her side held her protectively by the shoulders. Ralph felt certain they were the parents; their grief was so obvious. Not far from them, Ralph was surprised to see the knight, Sir Baldwin, his head bowed in prayer.
The Dean, in his capacity as vicar of the parish, was holding the service as the monk entered. Ralph walked to the altar and knelt, making the sign of the cross and bowing his head in prayer before looking over at this latest victim.
Edmund Quivil felt like a twig that had fallen into a rushing torrent; he was being swept along by a course of procedures he couldn’t comprehend. Wrapped in a shroud, he’d been carried in here on a bier as if he was already dead. His movements were mechanical as he obeyed the Dean’s instructions. Canons brought forward a pall as he lay down on the ground, and it was draped over him while the requiem mass was chanted. Then Clifford’s sonorous voice continued, droning on in the curious international language of the Church.
And then Quivil remembered the significance of the rite.
He almost cried out. It was an effort not to leap up. This was the end of his life. From now on he was dead, to the Church and to the Law.
It had been explained to him the night before, when the Dean had visited him to confirm that he did indeed have leprosy. That was hard enough to accept. Quivil was not yet twenty. He had been courting Mary Cordwainer for six months now, and their banns were to have been read in the little church at Sandford when he had developed the fever. It had come quickly, leaving all his bones aching, and then it was gone. But it had returned, and this time it had brought with it a dull headache that made movement torture, and his nose started bleeding profusely.
The herbarer had been very helpful. When the second attack had struck, the monk had kindly come to visit him, and had given him a powder which had reduced the pains a little, but when this second fever had somewhat abated, the monk had become noticeably anxious. He had seen the little discoloration on Quivil’s hand. And soon it was not one, but many. The yellow-brownish lumps multiplied over his face and hands. That was when Quivil had been brought to the town on a cart and subjected to a detailed examination.
He shuddered, squeezing his eyes tight shut. It was only yesterday, and now his life was ended.
Edmund felt the silent tears trickling down his cheeks. He opened his hands once, to study with disbelief the little nodes on the skin of his wrists; he reached up to touch his face, feeling the faint lumps. It was impossible that he should be a leper! He was young and fit, not a mutilated cripple with only a few years to live. It must be a mistake! The brother herbarer would come in and rescue him from this living nightmare: it couldn’t go on.
But the solemn voice continued its message of doom. No hurrying brother came to rescue him. He lay uncomfortably until the mass was ended, and then there was silence. It was as if his heart had in truth stopped beating.
Ralph rose to his feet. The Dean was kneeling and praying, and as he finished and stood, Ralph could see the tears glistening. The two men stared at each other for a moment, sharing the pain and sadness of the occasion, as if they were accomplices in Quivil’s destruction, and then Clifford gave a rasping sigh and walked to the door. Ralph put his hand on the leper’s shoulder, and the young man gave a start, looking up at him with desperation. The monk tried to give him an encouraging smile, but Ralph’s face felt as if it was going to crack. Uttering a prayer to God for strength, he helped Quivil up, and walked with him to the door.
Outside, Clifford waited with the other brothers near a newly dug grave. The last stage of the rite had to be completed. Quivil found himself being laid down again, and while he stared up at the priest, Clifford sprinkled dust on his head three times. “Edmund Quivil, you are dead to the world. Be alive again to God.”
Now Ralph took him by the shoulder once more, and while the monks chanted the Libera me, led the leper away to his living purgatory: unalive, though not yet dead.
John saw the pair walking away, and he shook his head sympathetically. Everyone in the town had heard the news about poor Quivil. Gossip of that kind spread quickly.
But the little Irishman didn’t have time to dawdle in the street, he had things to do. He walked back toward the church, and was about to turn up his own road when he heard his name being called.
“Yes? Sir Baldwin, how are you this fine day?”
“Well enough, John,” Baldwin said. He pulled off his gloves and stuck them in his belt. Truth be told, he wasn’t at all content. Witnessing one of his villeins being put through the Office for the Seclusion of a Leper had blunted the pleasure he had felt earlier on seeing what good weather the day promised. “What are you up to, though?”
“Me, Sir Baldwin?”
The knight studied his innocent face. “Yes, John, you! I have been hearing rumors about you.”
“Ah, surely you’d not listen to villainous talk about me, sir?”
“That would depend on how untrue the talk was, wouldn’t it, John?”
“But you know I’m an honest trader, sir. I’d never break the town’s laws.”
“Really? By the way, did you hear about Isabella Gilbard?”
John forced his voice to sound casual, as if he had not only not heard of her, he was sure he wouldn’t want to either. “Isabella? No, I don’t think so.”
“I let her buy her freedom from my manor so she could marry. She was wed in June, but now I hear she has given birth to a bouncing boy-only three months later.”
“It’s a terrible thing when people behave like that,” said John, nodding his head sagely. “Young churls today don’t have the manners their grandparents had.”
“Quite. It means she was fornicating before she was married; before she bought her freedom. I suppose I shall have to impose the lairwite on her.”
John pursed his lips. The lairwite was the fine imposed on bondwomen who proved to have weaker morals than they should, and who gave birth without first going through the formal and necessary process of marrying. The fine could be enforced when the woman subsequently married in an attempt to conceal her incontinence. And John
