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.’