The Leper of Saint Giles (4 page)

But… Now he was coming to the bad news. That look of astonished reproach, that a thing well-meant and confidently undertaken should so betray him.

“But such a strange thing… I don’t understand how it could happen, the pot must surely have been cracked, though I could see no break in it. The linctus you left boiling… I did watch it most carefully, I’m sure I took it from the brazier when it was just the right thickness, and I stirred it as you told me. You know you said it was wanted urgently for old Brother Francis, his chest being so bad… I thought I would cool it quickly, to be able to bottle it for you, so I took the pot from the fire and set it in a bowl of cold water…”

“And the pot burst,” said Cadfael resignedly.

“Fell apart,” owned Oswin, bewildered and grieved, “in two great pieces, and shed forth all that honey and the herbs into the water. An extraordinary thing! Did you know the pot was cracked?”

“Son, the pot was sound as a bell, and one of my best, but nor it nor any other here is meant to be taken straight from the fire and plumped into cold water. The clay does not like so sharp a change, it shrinks and shatters. And while we are on that, take heed that glass bottles have the same objection,” added Cadfael hastily. “If warm things are to be put in them, the bottles must be warmed first. Never thrust any matter straight from heat to cold or cold to heat.”

“I have cleared away all,” said Oswin apologetically, “and thrown out the pot, too. But all the same, I am sure there must have been a crack somewhere in it… But I am sorry the linctus is wasted, and I will come back after supper and make a fresh brew in its place.”

God forbid! thought Cadfael, but managed to refrain from saying it aloud. “No, son!” he said firmly. “Your duty is to attend Collations and keep the true round of your order. I will see to the linctus myself.” His supply of pots would have to be defended from Brother Oswin’s excellent intentions henceforth. “Now be off and get ready for Vespers.”

Thus Brother Oswin’s latest achievement in the herbarium was the reason for Cadfael returning to his workshop that evening after supper, and for his involvement in all that happened afterwards.

Chapter Two

SIR GODFRID PICARD AND HIS LADY CAME TO VESPERS IN STATE, with Iveta de Massard diminutive between them like a lamb led to sacrifice. A hard-faced elderly maid carried Lady Picard’s prayer book, and a valet attended Sir Godfrid. The girl had put off her display finery, and came simply dressed in dark colors, with a veil over her great sheaf of gold hair. She stood and knelt throughout with downcast eyes and pale, mute face. Cadfael watched her with curiosity and sympathy from his place among the brethren, and wondered the more, the more he gazed. What kin could she be to the crusader whose name had been a legend among his contemporaries, however this present generation might have forgotten him? Nearly forty years dead, and a man is dead indeed.

At the end of Vespers, as the brothers filed out to supper, Iveta rose, and went swiftly forward, hands clasped, into the Lady Chapel, and there sank to her knees before the altar. It seemed to Cadfael that Agnes Picard would have followed her, but that her husband laid a restraining hand on her arm, for Prior Robert Pennant, ever attentive to Norman nobility of his own kind, was bearing down upon them in all his lofty, silver-haired grandeur, with some civil invitation which could not well be refused. The lady cast one sharp glance at the devout figure of her niece, who seemed to be totally absorbed in fervent prayer, and surrendered gracefully, pacing beside the prior on her husband’s arm.

Cadfael made a very hasty supper among his fellows, still disturbed by the events of the day, for which, unhappily, all his herbs had no remedy. As well that he had a specific task to occupy him during the evening, thanks to the inexhaustible optimism of Brother Oswin.

Iveta remained on her knees until all had been silent about her for some minutes, the prior’s voice fading away into distance, assiduously attentive. Then she stole up from her place and went to peer cautiously through the south door into the cloister. Robert had drawn the guests into the garth with him to admire the last of the carefully tended roses. Their backs were turned to her, and the western walk of the cloister stood empty before her. Iveta gathered up her skirts and her courage, only she knew with how much heroism and how little hope, and ran like a frightened mouse from cats, out into the great court, and there looked round her desperately.

She knew this enclave not at all, it was the first time she had entered it; but she saw between the buildings of the guest-hall and the abbot’s lodging the green of pleached hedges framing a narrow alley, and the heads of trees nodding beyond. There must be the gardens, at this hour surely deserted. Somewhere there he had said he would wait for her, and as she passed him she had given him the signal that she would not fail him. Why had she done so? This could be nothing better than a farewell. Yet she sped towards it with a despairing courage she would have done better to summon up long ago, before it was too late. She was already solemnly affianced, a contract almost as binding as marriage itself. Easier far to slip out of life than out of that bargain.

The thick green walls enclosed her, twilight within twilight. She drew breath and slowed to a walk, uncertain which way to go. The path to the right led between the rear of the guest-hall and the abbey fish-ponds, and beyond the second pool a little footbridge crossed the mill leat near the outflow, and brought her to a gateway in a mellow stone wall. With one more wall between herself and detection she felt unaccountably safer, and there was a curious comfort and calm in the wave of spiced sweetness that rose about her as her skirts brushed the greenery within. Rosemary and lavender, mint and thyme, all manner of herbs filled the walled garden with aromatic odors, grown a little rank now with autumn, ready to sink into their winter sleep very soon. The best of their summer was already harvested.

A hand reached out of an arbor in the wall to take her hand, and a voice whispered in haste: “This way, quickly! There’s a hut here in the corner… an apothecary’s shop. Come! No one will look for us in there.”

Every time she had ever been able to draw close to him— the times had been very few and very brief—she had been startled and reassured by the very size of him, head and shoulders above her, wide in breast and shoulder, long in the arm, narrow and fleet in the flank, as though his engulfing shadow could wall her in from all threats, like a tower. But she knew it could not, and he was as unblessed and vulnerable as she. The very thought had made her even more timorous than she was for herself. Great lords, if they once take against, can quite destroy young squires, however tall and strong and well versed in arms.

“Someone may come there,” she whispered, clinging to his hand.

“At this time of the evening? No one will come. They’re at supper now, they’ll be in the chapterhouse afterwards.” He drew her along with him in his arm, under the eaves rustling with dried herbs, into the wood-warm interior where glass gleamed on the shelves, and the brazier, fed to burn slowly until it was needed, provided a small eye of fire in the dimness. The door he left open, just as it stood. Better move nothing, to betray the visit of unauthorized strangers. “Iveta! You did come! I was afraid… .”

“You knew I’d come!”

“… afraid you might be watched too closely, and every moment. Listen, for we may not have long. You shall not, you shall not be delivered over to that gross old man. Tomorrow, if you’ll trust me, if you will to go with me, come at this hour again, here… .”

“Oh, God!” she said in a soft moan. “Why do we make believe there can be any escape?”

“But there can, there must!” he insisted furiously. “If you truly want it… if you love me…”

“If I love you… !”

She was in his arms, her own slight arms embracing with all their might as much of his hard young body as they could span, when Brother Cadfael, in all innocence, his sandals silent on his well-kept grass paths, darkened the doorway and startled them apart. He was a good deal more astonished than they, and to judge by their faces, much less terrible than whatever they had momentarily taken him for. Iveta recoiled until her shoulders were brought up against the wooden wall of the hut. Joscelin stood his ground by the brazier, feet solidly spread. Both of them recovered countenance with a gallantry that was more than half desperation.

“I cry your pardon,” said Cadfael placidly. “I did not know I had patients waiting. Brother Infirmarer will have recommended you to me, I take it. He knew I should be working here until Compline.”

He might have been speaking Welsh to them, of course, but with luck they might pick up the hints he was hastily offering. Desperation does tend to sharpen the wits at need. And he had heard, as they had not, the brushing of garments along the path outside, the rapid, irate tread of a woman’s feet bearing down on them. He was standing by the brazier, striking flint and steel to light his little oil-lamp, when Agnes Picard appeared in the doorway, tall and chill, brows drawn together into a level, unbroken line.

Brother Cadfael, having lit and trimmed the wick, turned to gather up into a box the troches Brother Oswin had left drying, little white cakes of carminative powder bound with gum. The act enabled him to keep his back turned serenely upon the woman in the doorway, though he was very well aware of her. Since it was plain that neither of the young people was yet capable of uttering a sensible word, he went on talking for them all.

“It will be the tiring journey,” he said comfortably, closing the box upon his tablets, “that has brought on your headache. It was wise of you to consult Brother Edmund, a headache should not be neglected, it may deprive you of the sleep you need, otherwise. I’ll make you a draught—the young gentleman will not mind waiting a few moments for his lord’s needs…”

Joscelin, recovering, and resolutely keeping a shoulder turned on the baleful presence in the doorway, said fervently that he would gladly wait until the Lady Iveta had whatever she required. Cadfael reached for a small cup from a shelf, and selected one from a row of bottles. He was in the act of pouring when a voice cold and piercing as fine steel said behind them, with deliberation: “Iveta!”

All three of them swung round in a very fair show of being innocently startled. Agnes came forward into the hut, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“What are you doing here? I have been looking for you. You are keeping everyone waiting for supper.”

“Your lady niece, madam,” said Cadfael, forestalling whatever the girl might have roused herself to say, “is suffering from a common distress after the exertion of travel, and Brother Infirmarer rightly recommended her to come to me for a remedy.” He held out the cup to Iveta, who took it like one in a dream. She was white and still, the sum of her frustration and fear showed only in her eyes. “Drink it off now, at once, before you go to supper. You may safely, it will do you nothing but good.”

And so it would, whether her head ached or no. It was one of his best wines, he kept it for his special favorites, since the amount he made of it each year was small. He had the satisfaction of seeing faint astonishment and pleasure sparkle through the desperation of her eyes, even if it faded soon, She put the empty cup back into his hand, and gave him the palest of smiles. At Joscelin she did not venture to look at all.

In a small voice she said: “Thank you, brother. You are very good.” And to the presence that loomed darkly watching her: “I am sorry I have delayed you, aunt. I am ready now.”

Agnes Picard said never a word more, but stood aside in cold invitation to the girl to precede her out of the room, eyed her steadily and glitteringly as she passed, and then, before following her, gave the young man a long, intent look that threatened all possible evil. The civilities might have been preserved, but very certainly Agnes had not been deceived, never for a moment.

They were gone, the bride and her keeper, the last rustle of skirts silenced. There was a long moment of stillness while the two left behind gazed helplessly at each other. Then Joscelin let out his breath in a great groan, and threw himself down on the bench that stood against the wall.

“The hag should fall from the bridge and drown in the fish-pond, now, this moment, while she’s crossing! But things never work out as they should. Brother, don’t think me ungrateful for the goodwill and the wit you’ve spent for us, but I doubt it was all thrown away. She’s had her suspicions of me some while, I fancy. She’ll find some way of making me pay for this.”

“At that, she may be right,” said Cadfael honestly. “And God forgive me for the lies!”

“You told none. Or if she has not a headache, she has what’s worse, an ache of the heart.” He ran angry fingers through his shock of flaxen hair, and leaned his head back against the wall. “What was it you gave her?”

On impulse Cadfael refilled the cup and held it out to him. “Here! The like potion might not do you any harm. God he knows whether you deserve it, but we’ll scamp the judgment until I know more of you.”

Joscelin’s eyebrows, winged and expressive, and darker by many shades than his hair, rose in appreciative surprise at the savor of the wine. His forehead and cheeks had the rich golden tan of an outdoor life, rare among those of such fair coloring. The eyes, now conning Cadfael rather warily over the rim of the cup, were as radiantly blue as Cadfael remembered them from Saint Giles, like cornflowers in a wheat-field. He did not look like a deceiver or a seducer, rather like an overgrown schoolboy, honest, impatient, clever after his fashion, and probably unwise. Cleverness and wisdom are not inevitable yoke-fellows.

“This is the best medicine I ever tasted. And you have been uncommonly generous to us, as you were uncommonly quick in the uptake,” said the boy, warmed and disarmed. “And you know nothing about us, and had never seen either of us before!”

“I had seen you both before,” Cadfael corrected him. He began to measure his various pectoral herbs into a mortar, and took a small bellows to rouse the brazier from its quiescent state. “I have a linctus to make before Compline. You’ll not mind if I start work.”

“And I am in the way. I’m sorry! I’ve put you out enough already.” But he did not want to go, he was too full of matter he needed to unload from his heart, and could not possibly offer to anyone but just such a courteous chance acquaintance, perhaps never to be seen again. “Or—may I stay?”

“By all means, if you’re at leisure to stay. For you serve Huon de Domville, and I fancy his service might be exigent. I saw you pass by Saint Giles. I saw the lady, too.”

“You were there? The old man—he was not hurt?” Bless the lad, he genuinely wanted to know. In the middle of his own troubles, up to the neck, he could still feel indignation at an affront to another’s dignity.

“Neither in body nor mind. Such as he live with a humility that transcends all possibility of humiliation. He was above giving a thought to the baron’s blow.”

Joscelin emerged from his own preoccupation sufficiently to feel curiosity. “And you were there among them—those people? You—forgive me if I offend, it is not meant!—you are not afraid of going among them? Of their contagion? I have often wondered—someone tends them. I know they are forced to live apart, yet they cannot be utterly cut out of humanity.”

“The thing about fear,” said Cadfael, seriously considering, “is that it is pointless. When need arises, fear is forgotten. Would you recoil from taking a leper’s hand, if he needed yours, or you his, to be hauled out of danger? I doubt it. Some men would, perhaps—but of you I doubt it. You would grip first and consider afterwards, and by then fear would be clearly a mere waste of time. You are free of your lord’s table tonight, are you? Then stay and give account of yourself, if you’re so minded. You owe me at worst an excuse—at best, some amends for breaking in uninvited.”

But he was not displeased with his unruly intruder. Almost absent-mindedly Joscelin had taken the bellows from him, and was encouraging the brazier into reviving life.

“He has three of us,” said the boy thoughtfully. “Simon waits on him at table tonight—Simon Aguilon, his sister’s son—and Guy FitzJohn is the third of us, he’s in attendance, too. I need not go back yet. And you know nothing about me, and I think you’re in doubt whether you did right to try and help us. I should like you to think well of me. I am sure you cannot but think well of Iveta.” The name clouded his face again, he gazed ruefully into the satisfactory glow he was producing. “She is…” He struggled with adoration, and exploded rebelliously: “No, she is not perfection, how could she be? Since she was ten years old she had been in wardship to those two! If you were at Saint Giles, you saw them. One on either side, like dragons. Her perfection has been all crushed out of shape, too long. But if she were free, she would grow back into her proper self, she would be brave and noble, like her ancestors. And then I would not care,” he said, turning eyes blindingly blue and bright upon Cadfael, “if she gave it all to someone else, not to me. No, I lie—I should care infinitely, but I would bear it, and still be glad. Only this—this wicked market-bargaining, this defilement, this I will not endure!”