Joce watched him go with a sour expression twisting his features. He wanted a reason to be able to explode, but Art was giving him no excuse. In fact, Joce was more angry with himself than Art. His rush over to shout at Geoffrey’s door was insane; what’s more, it was unnecessary. He could see that now. Stupid. Much more sensible to wait until later, when Geoffrey was already up and about, and waylay him, beat the little shit half to death without his ever realising who it was, or why. Getting so enraged for no reason was ridiculous. He should never have allowed his neighbours to see him lose control. It was the lack of sleep, surely.
Art came back with more wood then set the griddle over the flames. While he worked, Joce watched him silently. And he saw Art’s eyes go to his cupboard.
‘Fetch my food, boy!’
Instantly Art rose and darted out to the pantry, returning with a tray on which he had set out a loaf, a jug with a drinking bowl, and some pieces of meat. Joce waited until the lad had put them all on the table, and then clenched his fist and slammed it into Art’s belly. He could hear the breath woosh from his lungs, saw the lad’s eyes pop wide, his mouth gape, his back curve over. Dispassionately, Joce observed his servant collapse to the floor, one arm reaching out to the table’s edge, clinging on, while he retched and coughed, desperately trying to suck in some air while his face reddened and his whole body shivered.
‘I am going out to get some real food, you useless cat’s turd. When I come back, I want this place clean.’ Joce kicked hard, once, and the lad crashed down, a hand clenching and releasing among the reeds and dirt that lay scattered all over. As he vomited, Joce smiled to himself. ‘And don’t stare at my sideboard like that, boy. If I ever find you’ve been inside it, I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to the cats. Understand me?’
Leaving his house, the smile remained fixed to his face. It was still there as he entered the little pie-shop. He felt much better for having punched someone. Violence was an effective balm for soothing the soul, he always found.
As Joce had begun thundering on his neighbour’s door, Gerard was leaving the church with the other members of the choir. While the monks went to the great octagonal chapterhouse to discuss abbey business, he walked to the bakery to collect the bread. As a mere acolyte, Gerard wasn’t permitted to witness the deliberations of the monks.
All the monks supported the poor of the burgh. The lepers at the Maudlin were given tuppence each as their weekly pension, and there were generous donations of all the abbey’s used clothes and shoes, as well as the excess food which was doled out to the poor at the gate, but also the Abbey distributed fresh bread, generally to the families of the monks and novices, and today it was Gerard’s turn to collect the food.
The bakery was a little building at the wall by the river, not far from the Water Gate, and Gerard scuffed his feet in the yard’s dirt, thinking over his problem as he walked towards it.
Peter the Almoner was at the bakery, and called to Gerard. His voice startled the acolyte and he glanced behind him, considering flight, but then realised that there were far too many people around for Peter to think of hurting him.
The monk gave him a twisted smile. ‘You don’t want to talk to an older man like me? Aye, and I suppose I wouldn’t either when I was your age, lad. No, there are too many other things to interest a young fellow like you, aren’t there?’
‘I am here to collect the bread, Brother.’
‘Then you can help me to take the loaves around to the needy, can’t you?’
‘I thought Brother—’
‘Aye, well, Brother Edward and I have agreed to change our duties. He wasn’t feeling very well, so he has gone to sit and pray and I shall take the bread with you. Why, you don’t mind me helping, do you?’
Giving an ungracious grunt of assent, Gerard picked up the basket full of loaves which the baker’s assistant had set before him, and followed the Almoner out through the main gate to where the beggars waited.
It was odd to watch the old man, Gerard thought. All the beggars could see him, apart from Blind Ban, of course, and, they all flinched whenever he turned to them, avoiding his hideously wrecked features with that terrible scar. In fact, Gerard thought Peter looked as though he should be out here, living among the beggars, rather than being a monk inside. Somehow he looked too damaged to be one of God’s own Chosen.
As the motley flock of poor folk dispersed with their bounty gripped tightly in their filthy fists, Peter glanced at him. ‘Better get the rest of the loaves to the Maudlin, then, lad.’
‘Yes.’
Peter shot the acolyte a look as they bent their way towards the Hospital of St Mary Magdalene which lay out at the westernmost point of the borough; the leper hospital. The almoner was rector of the hospital, just another of the duties which fell to Peter.
‘It must be terrible to be a leper, to be declared legally dead,’ he said after a few moments, considering their plight. The poor Souls had little enough to occupy their minds other than the slow disintegration and death which awaited them.
‘Yes, Brother,’ Gerard said.
‘They lose all family, all property. Their wills are enforced as though they were dead. I suppose an outlaw loses all as well, but at least a felon can run to another land and create a new life. A leper is unwelcome anywhere else. He must stay in his parish, where he knows he should receive a pension and food.’
Gerard grunted. The almoner’s words seemed
