The The Medieval Murderers (Susanna Gregory et al)
England, shortly before the Norman Conquest; then in Venice and back in England at various times
RITE OF CONQUEST
Judith Tarr
France & England, 11th century AD
THE LEPER'S RETURN
Michael Jecks
Crediton, England, 1320
'What are they all staring at?' Quivil heard Rodde mutter.
'Lepers!'
This came from a young maiden who, about to enter the street, narrowly avoided walking straight into Rodde. She winced and drew her apron over her mouth to protect her from the foul vapours that everyone knew lepers exhaled. Anyone who breathed in their noxious fumes could become infected. She drew away. The call was enough to make the crowd pull back, and one man jerked his head at them. 'Off with you, scum! Keep away from good healthy folk.'
'I'm sorry, Arthur,' Quivil said. 'We meant no harm.'
'Edmund?' asked the man. He was a pompous little fellow who had always reminded Quivil of a game-cock, strutting and preening himself in the vicinity of any women, and invariably lambasting anybody weaker than himself. Now he peered, and blew out his breath in an expression of disgust. 'Come on, walk round. You don't want your sins to infect others, do you? That would be as good as murder, and we don't need another.'
'Another what?' asked Rodde.
'Murder, leper. Haven't you heard? A man was killed here last night.'
Quivil felt his friend's grasp on his arm tighten. Rodde snapped, 'Here? You mean Godfrey of London is dead?'
'You know it?' Sir Ralph asked again.
Bartholomew recalled those hideous days, running from the beaches, finding King Harold's host hurrying down from London, joining them in the hope that they woulkd hurl the invaders back into the sea and destroy them all, the total, overwhelming despair, as Harold died, run down by a Norman knight's lance.
It had taken weeks to make his way back to the cathedral. His wounds were not extensive, and he had been well nursed with the prayers of his companions. Later, the Normans had arrived, laying siege to the city, hanging and torturing those they caught until the city surrendered. Then came the new rule: houses were torn down to make space for the castle, the symbol of King William the Bastard's power. And when men like Sir Ralph de la Pomeroy arrived to take control, they viewed simple dissent as an excuse for murder.
Bartholomew had seen so many deaths now. So many. And many had been killed by Sir Ralph using this very sword. He shook his head and set the sword back in the scabbard. His fingers were revolted by its very feel. He could not wait until he had returned to the little chapel in Exeter where he had been made chaplain. Perhaps by the time he died he would have grown to comprehend this appalling catastrophe. He doubted it.
Too many good people had died, and brother had killed brother. Dudda and Brada among others. Yes, he had heard Dudda's last words to his brother: 'Brother, I love you ... forgive me!'
This shameful sword, their father's greatest creation, had killed his line. His fingers touched the silver engraving. 'De la pomeroy,' he read, and felt sickened.
Sir Ralph was welcome to it.
Mathilda bent over the tapestry. The branches of an oak spread under her needle, growing swiftly in threads of green and grey and brown. Her maids' chatter flowed over her like the babble of bright water.
Her mind was empty of thought, still and clear, intent on nothing more than the thread, the needle, and the image on the taut-stretched linen. She could feel the earth's turning beneath her feet, and the dance of flames in the hearth, and the concourse of spirits all around and about and through this room in which she sat. Some of them swirled about her needle, sliding down the shaft of it into the tapestry.
The oak's leaves rustled. She caught the scent of damp earth and new-fallen snow. There were tracks in the snow, marks of shod hooves. Still empty, still pure being, she drifted above them, following where they led.
They wove through the trees of a wood, then out into snowy fields. Shadows lay long and black across the expanse of white. At the road's end was a shape of old wood and raw stone, a walled village clustered about the squat bulk of a castle. A banner hung limp from the half-finished tower; no wind caught it, to uncover the device upon it. She saw only that it was the color of blood.
