Child of the May by Theresa Tomlinson Read Free Book Online

them.
    “Nowt to fear. Come here!”
    Magda went cautiously towards him but all she could see through the gloom was a bundle of rags, dumped beneath the bush. As she stepped closer, the bundle moved and a thin white hand wagged a noisy wooden clapper in the air, making her cry out in alarm.
    Robert grabbed Magda by the arm and pulled her back. “Tom!” he cried. “Keep away! A leper!”
    Magda’s heart thudded with fear at his words. Was that the meaning of the harsh clapper? She’d never come across the disease, not in all her years with the Forestwife, though she’d heard enough about it to dread it.
    “Get back, Tom,” she yelled.
    But Tom did not retreat again. He bent down towards the bundled rags. “’Tis but a child,” he cried.
    “Do not touch! Do not touch!” Magda screamed it frantically at him. She went slowly to see for herself, then caught her breath. She looked down though the faint dawning light on the pinched face of the Nottingham potter’s boy, a dark bruise showing on his chin where she had hit him.

9
Bestwood Dell

    Magda remembered the strange red patches on the boy’s throat and his frantic search for herbs.
    “Look!” she told Robert. “See who it is! His father sold pots on the next stall.”
    Robert scratched his head. “The lad you sent flying? Aye, so it is. What are you doing here, boy?” he asked.
    The boy sat mute and still as a statue, staring blankly; he would not look at them. When Tom held out his hand, he quickly snatched up the clapper and set it snapping its harsh rhythm through the quiet trees.
    “Stop it!” Magda cried, covering her ears with her hands. “I hate it.”
    There was silence again until Tom spoke. “But you are no leper,” he said. “Surely?”
    Then in a small shaky whisper, the boy answered. “Father says I am.”
    “Why?” Magda cried. “Why should he think it so?”
    “My mother was stricken soon after my birth,” the boy whispered.
    Magda shivered.
    “Where is your mother? Does she live?” Tom asked.
    “Stoned.” The lad spoke without emotion. “The villagers stoned her. Father says it is best that I go, seek out my own kind. Better than suffer my mother’s fate.”
    “Your father!” Robert almost spat it out. “Was that he?” he asked, pointing after the cart.
    The boy nodded.
    “I cannot believe it,” Tom cried. “You are no leper! Magda, tell him so!”
    But Magda could not forget the sight of the patched red skin. She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “His skin is marked.”
    Tom stood up. “We must give him food and let him have the horse,” he said.
    “That was for me.” Madga heard her own voice sounding pettish.
    Robert shook his head, uncertain for once. “Give him the horse, but he’d best keep his distance from us. I’m sorry for the lad, but we’ve troubles enough of our own. We must eat and find ourselves water and be on our way.” Suddenly his expression was lighter. With a flourish he brought out a loaf of fine white bread from his potter’s sack. “A gift from our Sheriff’s lady.”
    “It cheers you to think you’ve cheated anyone,” Magda cried.
    “Only rich fools,” Robert laughed.
    They divided up the loaf and Tom carried a good hunk over to the potter’s boy. His hands closed about the soft white bread that was such a treat, but he seemed unable to eat. Tom crouched down, full of comforting words, but Magda was quickly on her feet and shouting furiously again. “Do not touch him!”
    When at last they were ready to go, Tom held the bridle and soothed the horse, while the lad obediently struggled to mount. He accepted the reins without thanks. Tom slapped the bony flank and the horse set off north towards Barnsdale, the boy sitting stiffly astride like a straw-stuffed doll.
    Tom watched him go, a troubled expression on his face.
    “There’s nowt we can do,” Robert told him, shaking his head.
    “He says his name is Alan, same as my grandfather,” Tom said.
    When at