The Riddle of St Leonard's (10 page)

‘From tending the sick in the city?’

Henry’s eyes were wild. ‘Night and day. He comes but to eat and gather more physicks, then he goes forth again. He says he sleeps at their bedsides.’

‘What does Abbot Campian say?’

‘My lord abbot says, “One does not stop a saint from his work.”’ Henry stuffed his hands up his sleeves, shook his head. ‘I have tried sending novices with Brother Wulfstan, but he convinces them to return alone. He is impossible.’

‘Do you think he will be back today?’

‘Oh yes, yes. You are welcome to wait. Pray for him whilst you do, lad. Pray for him.’

Jasper chose to wait in the abbey garden, among Brother Wulfstan’s lovingly tended beds of medicinal plants. This garden gave him solace, for it was here that Jasper had first understood he might love someone as much as he had loved the parents he had lost. It was Wulfstan who had helped him see that. Jasper knelt, pinched off some spent blossoms, watched a pollen-laden bee in slow, awkward flight among the flowers. He noticed a lop-sided lavender. Someone must have assisted Brother Wulfstan with the pruning, someone clumsy with a clipper. It made Jasper’s stomach ache to think of someone other than Brother Wulfstan tending the garden.

‘You are sad, my child?’ Wulfstan smiled and spread his arms wide as Jasper looked up, startled, then threw himself into the old monk’s embrace, suddenly a child once more. Wulfstan patted him, let him cling until his heart stopped racing. Then the old monk dropped his arms, stepped back, lifted Jasper’s chin. ‘No tears, so it is not a loss that brings you here.’

Jasper was glad he had stayed the tears. Brother Wulfstan did not need reminders of his age. ‘Mistress Lucie wants to send me to Freythorpe Hadden. Gwenllian and Hugh are already there.’

Wulfstan tilted his bald head, sucked in his wrinkled cheeks, nodded. ‘Ah. Lucie thinks to protect you from the pestilence. And who would blame her? Have you yet seen a victim, Jasper?’

‘Not this time, but when I was very young I had a sister die of it.’

The old monk rested a hand on Jasper’s head. ‘I did not know you had a sister.’

When Jasper thought back to that frightening time he could smell the horrible sickness again. ‘Her name was Anne. She would scream when anyone tried to clean the swelling in her armpits and on her neck. My mother tried to heat them so they would burst, but she could not bring herself to lance them.’

‘If your mother were here now, would she not be frightened for you, remembering her loss?’

‘But my place is here. I am Mistress Lucie’s apprentice.’

Wulfstan’s pale eyes were sympathetic. ‘Come. Let us sit on the bench. My legs ache.’ Wulfstan shuffled over to a stone bench beneath a linden tree. He settled down on it with a grunt and drew a cloth from beneath his scapula, shook it out, blotted his forehead and upper lip and the back of his neck. ‘Winter is the curse of old age, but summer this year does not feel much kinder. The Lord slows me down. Perhaps He means me to retire to the chapel and contemplation.’

Jasper joined the aged infirmarian on the bench. It was cool in the shade, and the air seemed sweet in the garden, yet Wulfstan’s breath was laboured and sweat stood out once more on his face. The boy was worried about his friend. ‘Mistress Lucie says you are taking too much on yourself, going out among the sick in the city.’

Wulfstan patted Jasper’s arm, then stretched his wrinkled, age-spotted hand out beside the lad’s. ‘I am old, Jasper. Nothing that I do will change that fact. I have been infirmarian at St Mary’s since long before God first purged His children with the pestilence. Always before I respected my abbot’s wishes, stayed within to be at hand if any of my brethren succumbed. During the first visitation, I was wise to do so. Many fell, many died. During the second I was not so necessary, and I felt a guilt that has stayed with me these eight years. Now I must go forth. Who better than I? Our Lord cannot mean for me to stay in this mortal shell much longer. And Brother Henry is skilled in healing. Why not let him have the experience that will stand him in good stead when I am gone? Still, I thank you for your concern. And Mistress Lucie, too.’

‘But what about me? Should I go to the country or stay here where I might help?’

‘Has your mistress ordered you to go?’

Jasper shook his head. ‘She says she will not order me.’

‘Then she is leaving it to your conscience. What does your conscience tell you?’

Turning on the bench so he might face Wulfstan, Jasper took the old monk’s hands in his. ‘How do I know whether it is my conscience or my pride speaking?’

Wulfstan’s eyes twinkled. ‘You worry that pride drives you to stay? So that you might brag of your courage to your friends?’

Did Wulfstan intentionally misunderstand? ‘I don’t mean to brag. They are all in danger, too.’

The reminder dulled Wulfstan’s eyes. He dropped his head, murmured, ‘God watch over all of you’ and crossed himself. Jasper followed suit, and was quiet until Wulfstan spoke again. Which was a long time. Time enough for Jasper to wonder whether the old monk had fallen asleep. But at last Wulfstan lifted his head, his eyes pools of sorrow. ‘I have seen such suffering these past weeks, Jasper, such unbearable suffering. I speak not only of the scourge of the flesh. So many are abandoned in their suffering and weakness. Their families flee, hoping to save themselves. They flee from children, Jasper. I sat last night with a boy of no more than five who had been left for dead near the King’s Fishpond. God knows what his parents thought, exposing him to the night, dead or no. But he lived, he knew of my presence, he heard my prayers for him. He did not die alone, thanks be to God.’

‘My mother did not abandon my sister.’

‘Nor did Lucie Wilton her son. But not all have such courage, Jasper. And I am there to help those they leave behind.’ Wulfstan mopped his forehead, his eyes, blew his nose. ‘Now. You fear that pride leads you rather than conscience. I do not think pride stands up against the pestilence, Jasper. You might find other things to brag about. But what is in your heart?’

‘I am not a child.’

‘You prove that in your work, my son.’

‘I do not wish to worry Mistress Lucie. But she needs me in the shop.’

‘What do you judge to be worse for her – the worry or the lack of help?’

‘How can I know that?’

‘What of Owen? Can he not work in the shop?’

‘He is steward of Bishopthorpe and captain of the archbishop’s retainers, so he is busy.’

Wulfstan pressed Jasper’s hands, let them go, pushed himself off the bench and stood. ‘Let God guide you.’

‘How do I do that?’

The white eyebrows lifted. ‘How? Through prayer, of course, my son. Come. We shall kneel before Our Lady’s altar and pray for her advice. And then I must go out again into the city.’

T
he sun had appeared in mid-afternoon and by evening the city was warmed and humid. Sweat trickled down Bess’s neck as she made her way among the tables. The York Tavern was far from bustling, but not empty. Though many stayed out of crowds for fear that someone’s breath or clothes might carry plague, there were those who believed that ale and wine fortified them. A group of the determined souls was huddled close at a long table, speaking in low voices of the latest plague victim, William Franklin. But their voices were not so low that Bess could not hear.

‘They say he brought it from St Leonard’s,’ Jack Crum said.

‘Aye. He should have stayed there.’ Old Bede slumped in his chair, his greasy white hair sticking out in all directions from running his hands through it in his agitation.

‘Why should he die at the spital? A man wants to die at home. Will’s house was in the city, not in the liberty of St Leonard’s,’ said another.

‘Aye. He sickened at home,’ said a third. ‘But he did come and go from spital, all the same. And when he fell sick, two lay sisters from spital stayed at his bedside.’

‘With the pestilence upon us the corrodians should stay put. Or give up their allotment till it passes,’ Old Bede growled. ‘They carry it with them.’

‘You’re daft,’ John Cooper said, rising. His face was flushed with ale and emotion. ‘We have lost seventy-odd folk to the pestilence in the city and only ten of those at St Leonard’s. How can you say the folk from the spital carry it?’

‘We’d have none of it without them,’ Bede insisted.

‘It was a child in the city died first, you ignorant old man. A tanner’s daughter.’

‘Watch your tongue, Cooper,’ one of Bede’s elderly supporters growled.

John Cooper shoved past Old Bede, paused for a parting shot. ‘You hate the corrodians for their comfortable situations, old man, but mayhap you should thank God you could not find the coin to buy a corrody – though pestilence be not the danger.’

Old Bede spat on the floor at Cooper’s feet. ‘You’ve a mouth on you, John Cooper. I’ll thank you to keep it shut.’

Cooper sneered and made his way towards the door.

Bess Merchet hurried after him. Cooper’s last comment intrigued her. She caught his elbow as he reached the door. He shrugged her off roughly. ‘Have a care, John,’ Bess murmured, ‘’tis the hand that pours your ale.’

He glanced round, shamefaced. ‘I thought you were one of Old Bede’s fellows, aching for trouble. Did I hurt you?’

‘Whist! It takes more than a nudge to knock me down. But to make amends you might tell me what you meant when you said the old man should thank God.’

Cooper hesitated, glanced round, obviously wishing to make a quick escape. But he motioned for Bess to step outside with him. Cooper stood beneath the lantern beside the door. He was a solemn, quiet man, with a face that Bess had often thought might be pleasant if ever lit by a smile.

‘You are thinking of your uncle,’ Cooper said.

‘I am.’

‘I heard he was burned trying to save Laurence de Warrene.’

‘He is healing. Why should Old Bede be thankful?’

‘I am not one to listen to rumours – or spread them, Mistress Merchet. But that old man put me in mind of something I heard. There’s talk that too many corrodians are dying of a sudden. Just when the spital is short of funds …’

‘I have heard those rumours, and more. Old Bede is fond of them. But there is no question three of the corrodians died of pestilence.’ Still, Bess shivered. The night had grown chilly and the river mist was damp on her skin.

‘Matilda de Warrene, mayhap, too many saw her suffering, though she was a frail one. But Will Franklin and John Rudby’ – Cooper cocked his head to one side – ‘who saw them but lay sisters and brothers from St Leonard’s? And Laurence de Warrene – now there’s something passing strange about his accident. How many times in a man’s life does he light a fire and not even singe a hair on his head? Why did that fire take him? That’s what folk are wondering. And poor, stumbling Walter de Hotter.
He
did not die of pestilence.’

Bess studied the man’s eyes. He believed what he said, though she doubted he knew her uncle had been attacked. ‘Why corrodians?’

‘Living too long.’ The blunt reply made Cooper uneasy. ‘What I say is not how I feel, Mistress Merchet. You understand that?’

‘I do. But I pray you, explain yourself.’

‘The corrodians pay a sum, reckoned on some assumptions: they are elderly, they have decided to retire from active life, and so they will likely soon sicken and die. The sum is set high, hoping that they die before it is used up in supporting them. Else why take them in? But some folk are too long-lived.’

Bess felt a queer chill down her spine. Certainly her Uncle Julian had outlived his fee. As no doubt had Laurence and Matilda. ‘Where did you hear this?’

‘It is whispered all about town.’

‘God bless you for telling me what you have heard, John.’

‘God go with you.’ John moved away from the wall. ‘I’ll be on my way, then. Forgive me if I’ve worried you. Julian Taverner is a clever man. More so than his friend. You’ve naught to worry about with him.’

Bess found that comment surprisingly naïve. No one, no matter how cunning, was ever safe from all harm.

Flexing his fingers in the looser bandages, Julian Taverner wondered at the difference two days of the new ointment had made. His fingers were tender, but not so tight. His aching shoulder was much improved by Mistress Wilton’s mustard ointment. And the tisane his niece brought him several times a day eased his headache miraculously. He must think of a way to show his gratitude. They had traded harsh words the previous day, and he was sorry for that. Bess thought it best that Honoria kept her distance. But Julian saw no harm in enjoying a pretty face.

Not that Honoria’s devotion to him was without its problems. Julian liked Anneys – he found her crisp competence reassuring and she was comely despite her lined face – and he did not wish to antagonise her. But there it was. Honoria’s cheery visits inspired frowns of disapproval from Anneys. Then again, he did not know whether pursuit of Anneys would prove rewarding.

That morning Julian had found Anneys a disturbing presence. He had been haunted by painful memories and had been trying to push them aside with prayer when Anneys had arrived. Setting her trays of medicines down on his bedside table, Anneys had stood back and shaken her head. ‘You pray in such earnest this morning, Master Taverner.’