The following day Girard packed a leather script with a worn Bible, his mother’s rosary beads, and a tattered piece of St. Giles’s robe. Slinging the leather strap over his shoulder, he descended into the valley of the lepers. The trail sloped through brush abuzz with insects, and as he drew nearer the encampment, he heard children at play. Accustomed to the muted and predictable sounds of the scriptorium—Brother Peter’s mournful humming, his own labored breathing and the inevitable rustle of vellum—the rippling glee of children’s laughter lifted his spirits. Despite the horror of what awaited him, a gentle breeze cooled his body and soothed his prickly heat.
Sister Petronilla, a short compact woman with a high chirpy voice, was waiting for Girard by an abbreviated wall, an exceptional job of masonry that reminded Girard of the chancel at Holy Trinity and prompted a wave of longing for the contemplative life he had abandoned.
In later years, Moriuht and a crew of young brothers would plant the valley walls with grape vines and olive trees. But for now, only a dusty ridge of earth, hoed into place by the leper Thomas, and a six-foot section of a waist-high wall of stone, separated the malades and the others. Robert had put a stop to the wall, announcing that he wanted no barriers at Fontervand. Thomas reputedly argued with the master, reminding him that while none of the sisters who worked among the lepers had yet contracted the disease, as a safety precaution a line should be drawn between the sick and healthy. Robert had repeated that there would be no barriers.
“You must be Brother Girard,” Petronilla called out in greeting. “You’re just in time to help me with the baskets!”
Every day novitiates carried food and supplies to the edge of the encampment. A dozen baskets rested atop the wall. “Good morning Sister.” He prayed that Petronilla, who lived outside the slippery realm of gossip, did not know the nature of his sin.
As though reading his mind, she lifted her hand before he could speak another word. “The Master told me everything,” she said.
Girard blushed and looked away.
“Here,” she said, removing a vial from her habit, “dab some of this beneath your nose. It helps cover the smell of the lepers.”
Though Petronilla’s bluntness startled Girard, he nodded obligingly. Keeping his crippled arm well hidden, he reached for the vial with his good hand, removing the stopper with a flip of his thumb. The spicy scent of clove oil reminded him of Moriuht’s diseased gums and he shivered slightly.
“It’s possible to find relief from the leper’s twisted limbs and contorted faces in the beauty of the morning sky,” Petronilla said in a matter-of-fact voice. Smiling, she lifted her wimpled face to the scattered clouds. “But there’s no escaping the stench of rotting flesh,” she said, lowering her eyes to meet his.
Girard clutched the open vial and blanched. He could feel the bile roiling in his belly.
“You are disgusted,” Sister Petronilla said. “Don’t be. The disease is ugly. To pretend otherwise would be a lie. But people are not their disease.” She pointed to the vial and ran a finger lightly across her upper lip. Girard turned slightly so as to conceal his deformity and quickly smeared the oil beneath his nose.
“In time you’ll learn to ignore the smell and to focus your attention on the leper’s souls. But for the time being,” she said, “keep the vial with you.”
Girard turned to face her, clove oil glistening beneath his nostrils. “Thank you,” he said.
“Now, if you’re ready, I suggest we get started. Grab two baskets and follow me.”
“Two?” he asked, slipping the vial into his robe.
She furrowed her brow. “Even then, it will take a considerable time.”
“I cannot carry more than one basket at a time,” he said.
“Of course you can,” she said. “Your fat will hamper you, but I’ll slow my pace to match yours.”
“It isn’t that,” he said. Pulling back the sleeve of his robe, he exposed his left arm. “The limb is quite useless,” he said.
She appeared neither moved nor repelled, and for this Girard felt gratitude. “Let me see.” Using both of her hands, she assessed the strength of his flaccid arm with a gentle probe and slide of her competent fingers. “True enough,” she said with the smallest of sighs. “Well then, transporting the baskets will take a bit longer than I had planned. But you needn’t worry. There’s plenty of time before the midday meal, and if we’re lucky, we can cajole some of the urchins to help us!” The mention of children seemed to reignite her spirit. Lifting two of the fullest baskets, she smiled. While she waited for Girard to take up his burden, she broke into a cheerful song about sweet cherry tarts and gingerbread squares.