Love and the Leper Woman

THE priest read the Office of the Mass to the village folk in the village church.

Sir Gilbert knelt in his great pew, staring all about him, cracking walnuts between his strong white teeth and spitting the shells out on to the pavement. Now and then he stroked other fragments from his grey beard with his thick and dirty hand and coughed huskily to clear his throat.

At the bench behind the pew knelt his squire, Philip of Gisburn. Philip was handsomely arrayed for the Holy Day in a rich green cloak embroidered with white and yellow daisies, in a doublet of purple velvet, scarlet hose and pyked shoes. His golden hair hung about his shoulders in thick locks, his complexion was white and red like a girl’s, his features delicately moulded, his eyes grey as glass, his eyebrows curved like a bow, his nose straight and small, his mouth firm and red. When he was asleep he might have been mistaken for a maid or an angel (God and wise men alone can tell the difference between these twain).

Four old men were dozing on their knees behind him. Upon his left a dozen old women ceaselessly cackled scandal, occasionally interrupting with their smothered, raucous laughter the voice of the priest. Philip glanced towards the little group of impious females. A moist black eye peered laughingly at him from beneath a bright yellow head-dress. Alice, the Franklin’s daughter, was sitting at the end of her bench, across the aisle, upon the fringe of the group of withered gossips. She was without doubt a bonny creature, with eyes like sloes, lips like cherries, cheeks like peach blossom, and all else as one might wish. Philip returned her gaze with a roguish stare and then winked his left eye. The girl repressed laughter upon her lips and instantly dropped her eyes in devotion. After a while she raised her head again; her eyes shone and a blush overspread her face; she winked her right eye like lightning and dropped her head again.

For five minutes Philip steadily regarded her through his fingers. She slowly looked up again and glanced half timidly and half impudently toward him. He met her eyes with a full gaze of meaning, pursed his lips together, and softly kissed the air towards her. She blushed crimson, but returned his salutation in a manner precisely similar. ‘Deo Gratias’ cried the priest. The Ordinary of the Holy Sacrament was at an end.

******

As Sir Gilbert and Philip rode homeward up the hill together they fell to talking.

‘Who was that bonny wench with the big black eyes?’ asked Sir Gilbert.

‘Marry, sir, I counted a good half-dozen black-eyed wenches in church.’

‘I don’t doubt it, my good Philip; thy devotion was early on women rather than on Holy Church. But I mean the wench with black eyes and raven hair, and dressed in a right comely, yellow kirtle.’

‘Marry, sir, I was that occupied with the matter of my devotions that I did not mark her.’

‘My good Philip, thou art lying. The girl, who sat opposite thee, across the aisle?’

‘Ah, now I know whom thou meanest. The girl is Alice, the Franklin’s daughter.’

‘What, the daughter of the rich Franklin? By the Virgin, but a fair wench, as pretty a piece of woman’s flesh as I have seen in France or yet in Italy.’

Sir Gilbert thoughtfully stroked his beard. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘England breeds the best horses and the bonniest women.’

II

Alice sat in the orchard. The boughs of the old apple-tree overshadowed her with a roof of emerald green and radiant snow. A warm air blew out of the south and toyed with the jet black curls hanging loose round her shoulders. The sunlight, piercing through the leafage, fell in vivid splotches upon her face and bare arms, as she bent busily over her embroidery.

Suddenly a long low whistle came from the hedge, repeated three times. At the first whistle Alice raised her head attentively, at the second she smiled and a swift look of joy shot into her dark eyes, at the third she threw down her work and ran to the hedge.

It was as she had thought. Philip had climbed the hedge. The next moment he held her in his arms.

‘My darling,’ he said, ‘I am right glad to find thee here. I guessed I should.’

‘Oh Philip,’ she answered, ‘this is a sight for my poor eyes. But I didn’t hope that thou wouldst dare come. Oh, and if my father finds us together, he will be mad with rage.’

‘I dare anything for thy sake, pretty Alice,’ he answered, kissing her. ‘But cheerly, my dearest, there’s no chance of your father happening upon us, for I watched him into town a half an hour ago.’

‘Praise Mary,’ said Alice. ‘If he caught us he would buffet me sorely, and he would tell Sir Gilbert, and then woe to thee, poor Philip.’

The young squire groaned and bit his underlip fiercely.

‘I would to God the old knight were lying in his grave,’ he said.

‘Sh-sh,’ said Alice, putting her little fingers over his tense mouth.

‘Tell me now,’ quoth he, ‘canst thou not persuade thy father against this iniquitous marriage, or at least thy mother? It is a shameful and wicked thing to wed a young maid like thee against her will, and especially to a greybeard like old Sir Gilbert, a notorious villain and ribald to boot.’

Alice sighed deeply. ‘I would by Our Lady I might. But father says that Sir Gilbert has bonny lands and castles and gold and silver in great plenty, nay, he is the lord of all these parts. Mother says the match is God’s own fortune, and I shall have many pretty gowns to wear and go in a great chariot and folk shall call me “My Lady.”’

‘Holy Cross, that thou shouldst speak thus. It shall not be, I swear it by the Blessed Saints, it shall not be. When do they speak of making the contract?’

The girl hesitated.

‘To—to-morrow,’ stammered she at last. ‘Father has bespoke Master Richard the Parson and Robert the Bailiff to the wine-drinking, and to stand as witnesses afterwards.’

‘To-morrow? To-morrow?’

‘Yea.’

‘And thou didst not tell me. Thank the Lord I came hither this afternoon. Oh Alice, sweet Alice, thou dost love me, dost thou not? Thou dost love me, sweet Alice?’

She gazed at him reproachfully, then put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

‘Thou knowest I do, dear Philip.’

‘Thou dost? Then all is well. We shall wed in spite of all; we shall, I say. By Mary, I would go through Hell to win thee, my darling Alice. Now, sweeting, be brave and adventure a little for our dear love’s sake, and I will save thee from that cursed old villain and thy father’s covetousness. Listen: to-morrow the contract is to be signed; there is but one way; thou must escape this night.’

‘Escape? This night?’

‘Yea, this night. ’Tis the only way out. Listen. Thou sleepest alone except for old Annie? I will bribe old Annie to carry a rope-ladder into thy chamber. At midnight I will whistle outside the window; do thou descend by the ladder, and ere sunrise we will put a dozen miles between us and Sir Gilbert.’

‘Ah—but Annie?’

‘Never fear; I know the hag. I have dealt with her before this. She would sell her soul to Hell for a gold angel. She will help thee. Thou wilt come with me? Say thou wilt come.’

‘Oh Mary, never was a poor girl so perplexed,’ cried Alice, and the round childish tears tumbled down her cheeks.

Philip kissed them away passionately.

‘My darling; my heart’s darling,’ he cried, ‘dost not love me better than all?’

‘Yea, yea, thou knowest I do,’ she answered piteously.

‘Then wilt thou stay to be the wife of that hoary sinner, who had damned himself into Hell long before thou wert born? One brave step and thou art mine for ever. Once married before the priest, and not even the Lord King upon his throne can part us, praise Holy Mother Church. Escape with me to-night; promise me, promise, promise.’

‘Jesu, Jesu,’ sobbed the poor girl.

‘Ah, thou dost not love me after all,’ groaned Philip, ‘thou dost not love me.’ He unlaced her arms from his neck, and pushed her away from him, covering his face with his hands.

‘But I do, I do,’ she cried, clinging to him passionately.

‘Then promise to come with me to-night; promise!’

‘Ah, I promise, I promise.’

He kissed her fervently again and again.

‘I must not stay,’ quoth he. ‘I must get everything to hand. I shall get horses ready. I must think of the road and the priest, and I must see old Annie. Remember thou hast promised. To-night, to-night.’

He kissed her again, and with one last passionate embrace they parted.

III

It was midnight. The squire’s horse, tethered in the wood across the lane, champed upon its bit. Outside the Franklin’s dwelling the squire crouched behind a briar bush, gazing at Alice’s window thirty feet up. Not a star shone; the moon was overcast with dark clouds. A single bat flew erratically by; the frogs croaked harshly from the pool in the old moat. The darkness was laden with heavy mist that condensed in drops upon Philip’s cloak. As he gazed at the window a sudden chill seized him; he shivered slightly. He looked for some faint light; there was none. He listened; there was no sound. All was silent as a grave. At length he gave three long low whistles. An owl hooted from the orchard, but there came no other reply. He thought he heard a sound from Alice’s window, but no, he was mistaken. Silence—still silence.

An hour passed away. There was no sign of any kind from the window. Another hour passed away, and another. The moon sickened behind the clouds, the eastern sky lightened, an opal light burned on the horizon, the air grew grey and the cocks began to answer each other from the roosts.

Philip’s face was set hard and white. He rose to his feet, shaking the water from his cloak. He gazed up at the window and in a sudden paroxysm of rage shook his fist at its dark vacuity. With a bitter curse on his lips he flung away into the semi-darkness of the breaking morning.

IV

There was much ado in the Franklin’s house. The Franklin had been to London and brought thither rich gowns, bright ribbons, gorgeous sashes, brocades, velvets and damasks, and much rich work of the goldsmiths. Spices and delicious meats filled his larders, the good wife was busied all day at her preserves, and a notable cook had been engaged to prepare the viands for the nuptial banquet.

In the oak parlour Robert the German undid his pack and displayed the choice laces of Bruges and Mechlin. The Franklin, his wife and daughter, fingered them over with exclamations of admiration, the merchant naming the price of each article.

‘Eh, but this is bonny,’ cried Alice, holding up a lace kerchief to the light of the little window. As she did so the sunlight streamed upon her face and plainly revealed a small livid spot, about the size of a groat, upon her right cheek.

‘Lo,’ cried her mother, catching sight of it. ‘The wench is spotted; ‘twill never do for her to go to church speckled like a trout.’

‘Nay, it is nothing,’ said Alice.

‘By the Virgin,’ cried her father, ‘thou shalt be bonny the bridal, be thou ugly for ever after,’ and calling to a servant, he sent to bid the Leech come.

The Leech was a cunning man in diseases and in all manner of simples.

‘Give her a draught for a good complexion, Master Doctor,’ cried the Franklin.

‘Let her be clear-skinned against the wedding,’ said her mother.

But the Leech grew solemn as he examined the girl’s face.

‘Is it aught but a skin scratch, Master Doctor?’ asked her father.

The Leech lifted his hands and closed his eyes in token of gravity.

‘It is the leprosy,’ he said.

‘The leprosy,’ shrieked her mother, and she crossed herself again and again.

‘The leprosy,’ muttered her father. He turned as white as a shroud and reeled against the wall.

Alice fell back in a swoon.

About noon the Bailiff told the news to Sir Gilbert. The old knight grunted.

‘Before God,’ he said, ‘I have no use for a leper wench; thou canst tear up the parchments and send the girl to the lazar-house.’

Then as the Bailiff left the chamber he called after him, ‘And send up thy daughter Kate to me this evening.’

Sir Gilbert was a grim and mighty man. The parchments were put by and Alice was admitted to the lazar-house over against the forest, and there she abode with those other folk, whom the Lord had afflicted in like manner.

Philip of Gisburn had gotten him leave a month since, and had betaken himself to the French wars to fight for the King.

V

It was the eve of our Lord’s Nativity. The dusk was falling like a grey powder on the wide waste stretches of snow; the distant forests and barren hills were already hidden in an ashen darkness. A single light shone warm and red from the village in the valley. No wind blew; it was very still and bitterly cold. The leper women stood in the highroad, a score of hideous, withered creatures, like phantoms embodied from foulness and decay. They gathered their filthy and scanty rags about them to defend them as they might from the nipping air. Some blew upon their meagre fingers, some feebly struck their bony palms together, some shuffled their swathed feet upon the snow. Their breath froze upon their blue lips.

‘There will be no more travellers this way to-night,’ said one, ‘it grows dark apace.’

‘God’s malison upon them,’ cried another. ‘It’s precious little, when they do come, that they give us. A cursed day may the Holy Day be to them all; may all whole folk rot piecemeal, as we do,’ and she shook her corroded arms fiercely in the air.

‘Ah,’ quoth Alice, looking toward the village. ‘There were good and kindly folk once. I doubt but they are all gone now.’

One of the women laughed, screaming shrilly. ‘What, thou fool? Didst ever hear of a leper’s friends? Why, the Lord Almighty Himself deserts us and lives with rich men in the warm houses.’

‘Hush, thou blasphemest,’ cried another. ‘Look, Christ is good, here come other wayfarers.’

Sturdily over the snow rode a young knight in armour that shone like gold. His horse was black as coal, with crimson trappings. Behind him a squire bore his broad pennon and there followed ten well-mounted men-at-arms, with bright spears and shields. At the noble’s side rode a lady on a white palfrey. She was richly dressed in ermine and vair and cloth of brocade and gold. Her face was as fair as spring-time and glowed like a rose with the sharp exercise of riding. The hoofs of the horses sounded dully on the hard-frozen snow, and the laughter of the woman pierced through the air like the clear note of a bell.

Sir Philip of Gisburn returned from France, and with him travelled the fair lady Margot, the queen of love and delight.

‘Money, money, for the love of Heaven, money,’ whined the lepers.

‘Beautiful lady, money for the poor lepers.’

‘Largesse, noble knight and gentles all.’

‘For Christ’s sake a trifle, a miserable coin, good gentlemen.’

‘May the Holy Virgin bless you a thousand times for each of your alms.’

‘We will pray for you night and day for a penny, a single penny.’

They clacked their clacks and held out their wooden dishes.

‘Holy Mother, what foul creatures are these?’ cried Margot, shrinking upon her saddle. ‘But, poor souls, I pity them from my heart.’

‘Keep back, keep back, ye hags!’ cried Sir Philip, making his stout charger rear and plunge from left to right among them. ‘Out of my way, woman,’ he cried to Alice, who stood in the way with extended dish.

At the sound of his voice she looked up into his face, gave a little cry, and shuffled quickly back before the French woman’s palfrey.

‘Poor soul!’ quoth Margot, and unfastening her silken purse she threw a silver penny toward her. ‘Pray for me,’ she said.

The cavalcade moved quickly on over the snow. Their merry laughter and talk rang clear upon the air, growing fainter and fainter as they descended the hill path toward the village.

‘Umph,’ said Sir Philip to the fair Margot, ‘I seem to have seen that wench’s face before, somewhere. Lo, the church steeple; we have made a good journey.’

The leper women mumbled among themselves in groups. ‘Let’s home,’ said one to Alice. ‘There’ll be no more to come by to-night; it grows dark apace. Here’s enough to stay our bellies on to-morrow.’

Alice’s laugh echoed wild and shrill over the snow.

‘Ay, home, home,’ she cried. ‘The French harlot hath given me a penny; the French harlot hath given me a penny.’