The Leper of Saint Giles (19 page)

“Stand! Let no man move or strike!”

Everyone froze into stillness, and only dared turn to face the speaker with slow and submissive care. Abbot Radulfus, that austere, dry, stern but composed man, stood at the edge of the battlefield, where the red torchlight caught him, and blazed like an excommunicating angel, fiery-eyed in a face sharp and cold as ice. Prior Robert at his shoulder looked faded and negligible by comparison, with all his noble Norman hauteur and dignity. Behind them the brothers stared and fluttered, and waited for the lightning to strike.

Iveta’s legs gave way under her, and she sat down on the top step and rested her head on her knees in the weakness of relief. The abbot was here, there would not be killing, not yet, not yet, only law, and the killing that law countenances. One step at a time now, and don’t look beyond. She prayed passionately without words for a miracle.

When she managed to still the trembling that ran through her whole body, and lifted her head to look again, the entire great court seemed to be full of people, and more were pouring in even as she looked about her. Gilbert Prestcote had just reined in and dismounted within the gates. The members of the hunt, making their ways back at their own speed, were coming in by ones and twos, startled and wondering at what they found here at home, after raising no quarry through all the surrounding countryside. In the flickering light it took the sheriff some moments to recognize in the disheveled and embattled young man drawn back against the wall of the guest-hall the suspected murderer and thief he had wasted two full days pursuing through the woods.

He came striding forward in haste. “My lord abbot, what is this? Our wanted man here at bay within your walls? What is happening here?”

“That is what I am bent on discovering,” said Radulfus grimly. “Within my walls indeed, and within my jurisdiction. By your leave, Sir Gilbert, it is my right here to enquire into such an unseemly brawl as this.” He cast a glittering look about him at the ring of armed men. “Put up, every man of you. I will not have drawn steel here on my ground, nor violence done to any.” The same fiery glance lit upon Joscelin, braced and wary in his corner, dagger in hand. “And you, young man—it seems to me I had occasion to use similar words to you once before, and to warn you that this house also has a punishment cell, and you may find yourself within it if you so much as touch hilt again. What have you to say for yourself?”

Joscelin had regained his breath enough to speak up for himself with spirit. He spread his arms to show there was no scabbard of sword or dagger upon him. “I brought no weapon within your walls, Father. See how many circle me! I have borrowed what offered, to keep my life, not to take any other man’s. My life and my liberty! And for all that these may say against me, I have never stolen or killed, and so I’ll maintain within or without your jurisdiction, as long as I have breath.” He was running out of it by then, partly from his exertions, and partly from the choking force of his anger. “Would you have me offer my neck tamely to be wrung, when I have done no wrong?”

“I would have you abate your tone to me and to these secular authorities,” said the abbot sternly, “and submit to the law. Give back the dagger, you see it cannot avail you now.”

Joscelin stared back at him for a long moment with grim face and hostile eyes, and then, abruptly, held out the hilt of the dagger to its owner, who took it warily, and was only too glad to slide it into its sheath and back away out of the ring.

“Father,” said Joscelin, and it was a challenge, not an appeal, “I am in your mercy here. Your justice I might trust more than I trust the law, and I am where your writ runs, and I have obeyed you. Examine me, of all that ever I did, before you give me up to the sheriff, and I swear to you I’ll answer all truthfully.” He added quickly and firmly: “All, that is, as concerning my own acts.” For there were those who had helped and been good to him, and he would do nothing to bring them into question.

The abbot looked at Gilbert Prestcote, who met the glance with a considering smile. There was no great urgency now, the fellow was trapped, and could not escape. There was nothing to be lost by conceding the abbot’s prior authority here. “I bow to your wishes in the matter, Father, but I maintain my claim to this man’s person. He is charged with theft and murder, and it is my duty to hold him fast and produce him in time for trial on those charges. And so I shall—unless he can satisfy both you and me, here and now, of his innocence. But let all be done openly and fairly. Question him, if you so please. It would be helpful also to me. I would prefer to turn the key on a manifestly guilty man, and have your own doubts, if you entertain any, set at rest.”

Iveta was on her feet by then, running anxious eyes over every face that showed fitfully in the flickering light. Horsemen were still riding in one by one at the gatehouse, and staring in open-mouthed wonder at the scene within. She caught sight of Simon at the back of the crowd, newly arrived and startled and bewildered like the rest, and Guy behind him, just as dumbfounded. Not everyone here was an enemy. When she met the sharp black eyes of Agnes, there at Prior Robert’s shoulder as they had emerged from Vespers, she did not lower her own eyes. This time she had ventured so far out of her old self that there could be no returning. It was not she who showed uneasiness, not she who punctuated a glare of naked dislike with frequent and hurried glances towards the gatehouse, noting each new arrival, and unsatisfied with all. Agnes was waiting and hoping for her husband to come, and resume his authoritative role, which in his absence she felt slipping out of her own fingers. Agnes was afraid of what might yet transpire here while her lord was not there to master it.

Iveta began to descend the steps up which she had groped blindly at Joscelin’s entreaty. Very slowly and stealthily she came, stair by stair, not to break the tension below.

“You must be aware,” said Radulfus, surveying Joscelin with face still as grave, but not now so angry, “that you have been sought by the law ever since your escape into the river, after arrest. You have said you will answer truthfully for your actions. Where have you been hiding all this time?”

Joscelin had promised truth, and must deliver it. “Under a leper’s cloak and veil,” he said bluntly, “in the hospital at Saint Giles.”

A stir and murmur went round the great court, almost a gasp. Guests and brothers alike stared in awe at a creature so desperate as to choose such an asylum. The abbot neither gasped nor stirred, but accepted the answer gravely, his eyes intent on Joscelin’s face.

“Into that sanctuary, I think, you could hardly have penetrated without help. Who was it stretched out a hand to you?”

“I have said I was in hiding there,” said Joscelin steadily. “I have not said I needed or received any help. I answer for my own actions, not for those of others.”

“Yes,” said the abbot thoughtfully, “it seems there were others. For instance, I doubt if you thought to hide on your own lord’s premises, as it seems for a while you did, without having a friend willing to give you cover. Also, as I remember, that gray horse I observed being led out of the garden just now—there he stands under guard, like you—is the one you rode when we encountered here once before. Did you recover possession of him without help? I doubt it.”

Iveta glanced over Joscelin’s shoulder to where Simon stood, and saw him draw back a pace into deeper shadow. He need not have had any qualms. Joscelin closed his mouth very firmly, met the abbot’s measuring stare without blinking, and suddenly, though still doubtfully, he smiled. “Ask me of my own deeds.”

“It seems,” interrupted the sheriff sharply, “that we have need of someone in authority at Saint Giles. It’s a serious matter to hide a wanted murderer.”

From the rear of the crowd in the direction of the gardens, a deprecating voice piped up none too happily: “Father Abbot, if it please you, I am willing to speak for Saint Giles, for I serve there.”

Every head turned, all eyes opening wide in astonishment at the sorry little figure advancing meekly to stand before Radulfus. Brother Mark’s face was smudged with mud, a trailing wisp of pond-weed adorned his straggling tonsure, his habit trickled water from its skirts at every step, and clung to his thin body in heavy, dripping folds. He was ridiculous enough, and yet the soiled, earnest face and devoted gray eyes had still a bedraggled dignity, and if there were some half-hysterical grins and sniggers among the throng at sight of him, Radulfus was not smiling.

“Brother Mark! What can this mean?”

“It took me a long time to find a fordable place,” said Mark apologetically. “I am sorry I come so late. I had no horse to carry me over, and I cannot swim. I had to draw back twice, and once I fell, but at the third try I found the shallow place. By daylight it would not have taken so long.”

“We pardon your lateness,” said Radulfus gravely, and for all the composure of his voice and his face, it was no longer quite so certain that he was not smiling. “It seems you had reason to feel you might be needed here, for you come very aptly, if you come to account for how a wanted man came to find refuge in the hospital. Did you know of this young man’s presence there?”

“Yes, Father,” said Brother Mark simply, “I did know.”

“And was it you who introduced and sheltered him there?”

“No, Father. But I did come to realize, at Prime of that day, that we had one man more among us.”

“And held your peace? And countenanced his presence?”

“Yes, Father, that I did. At first I did not know who he was, nor could I always single him out from others of our flock, for he wore the face-cloth. And when I suspected… Father, I do not own any man’s life, to give it up to any but God’s judgment. So I held my peace. If I was wrong, judge me.”

“And do you know,” asked the abbot impassively, “who it was who introduced the young man into the hospice?”

“No, Father. I do not even know that anyone did. I may have some thoughts as to that, but I do not know. But if I did,” owned Mark with candid-eyed humility, “I could not give you a name. It is not for me to accuse or betray any man but myself.”

“You are two here of like mind,” said the abbot drily. “But you have yet to tell us, Brother Mark, how you come to be fording the Meole brook, on the heels, as I understand it—if, indeed, I have yet understood any part of it!—of this young fugitive, who was sensible enough to provide himself with a horse for the venture. Had you been following him?”

“Yes, Father. For I knew I might be answerable for harboring one less innocent and good than I thought him—for which thought I promise I had good reason. So all this day I have watched him. He has hardly been a moment out of my sight. And when he discarded his cloak in the dusk, and set off this way, I did follow him. I saw him find his horse tethered in the copse across the brook, and I saw him cross. I was in the water when I heard the outcry after him. As for this day I can speak for all he has done, and there was no blame.”

“And the day when he came to you?” the sheriff demanded sharply. “What of his first appearance among your lepers? At what hour?”

Brother Mark, single-hearted in his allegiance, kept his eyes fixed upon the abbot’s face for guidance, and Radulfus nodded gravely that he, too, required an answer.

“It was two days ago, at Prime, as I’ve told you,” said Mark, “that I first was aware of him. But at that time he was already provided with the leper cloak, and a face-cloth to hide his face, and behaved altogether conformably with the others. I judge, therefore, he must have been in hiding among us at least some quarter to half an hour, to be so well prepared.”

“And as I have heard,” said the abbot thoughtfully, turning to Prestcote, “your men on patrol in the Foregate, my lord, started a hare that same morning, and lost him in the neighborhood of Saint Giles. At what hour did they sight him?”

“They reported to me,” said the sheriff, pondering, “sighting such a fleeing man the best part of an hour before Prime, and certainly they lost him near Saint Giles.”

Iveta descended one more step. She felt herself suspended in a dream, a double dream that filled her with terror when she looked one way, and wild hope when she looked the other way. For these were not the voices of enemies. And still, blessedly, her uncle did not come, to cast into the balance his black animosity, his narrow malice. She was but two steps behind Joscelin now, she could have stretched out her hand and touched his unkempt flaxed hair, but she was afraid of shattering his braced attention. She did not touch him. She kept an alert eye on the gatehouse, watchful for her chief enemy’s return. That was why she was the first to mark Brother Cadfael’s arrival. Only she and Agnes were looking that way.

The little mule, which had enjoyed an unhurried day, was resentful at being urged to speed at the end of it, and manifested his displeasure by halting inside the gatehouse and refusing to budge further. And Brother Cadfael, who had been demanding some effort of him until that moment, sat to gaze in mute astonishment as his eyes lit upon the scene in the great court. She saw his rapid glance rove over all those intent faces, she could almost feel him stretch his ears to pick up the words that were passing. He saw Joscelin standing braced and alert at the foot of the steps, saw sheriff and abbot eyeing each other somberly, and the draggled little figure of the young brother who, for Iveta, spoke with the unwitting tongue of a minor angel, the kind of angel who would descend with disarming apologies, and of whom no sinner would ever be afraid.

Hastily but quietly, Cadfael dismounted, surrendered the mule to the porter, and advanced to the edge of the crowd, himself still unnoticed. Obscurely encouraged, Iveta descended one more step.

“So it would seem,” said Radulfus reasonably, “that you were at the hospital, young man, by a quarter of an hour at least before Prime of that day, and perhaps as much as half an hour.”

“I had—acquired my cloak,” agreed Joscelin, a little astray now and treading warily, “some little time before I went to the church.”

“And you were instructed how to behave?”