But what Jew was safe anywhere these days, even in his own city? Since the Pope had commanded all Jews to wear the badge of shame, the two white strips on their clothing over their hearts, which represented the tablets of stone, they couldn’t even hope to pass unnoticed on the road as once they did.
Last year monks had stormed into Jacob’s house and burned his books and scrolls in front of him, declaring them the work of the devil. They had even destroyed the scrolls of the Old Testament, because they were written in Hebrew, not Latin. The monks had tried to toss the old merchant on their bonfire, too, but the soldiers from the castle had at least prevented that, for now anyway. After they’d gone, Jacob had offered up prayers of gratitude that the men had not discovered his most precious books and scrolls stored in the genizah, a concealed cupboard in the upper chamber of his house, though he was at a loss to understand why the Eternal One should have spared his books when so many of his fellow Jews had lost everything.
Then, just a few weeks ago, Jacob had received word from Leo, a Jewish pedlar in Exeter, concerning a strange and wondrous stone that had come into his possession. As he read the message, the old merchant’s hands began to tremble with excitement. He found himself on his feet dancing and swaying around his chamber like a young bridegroom at a wedding. Jacob had waited his whole life for such a sign, praying for it, longing for it, without ever knowing what form it would take.
In these last few years, with old age gnawing at his bones, Jacob had begun to fear he would never see the sign in his lifetime. But as soon as he read Leo’s words he knew for certain that this stone was what he had been searching for, and he, Jacob, had been chosen to deliver it to his people. Now he understood why the Eternal One had hidden his books from the eyes of the monks. The books had been spared so that he could use them to buy that stone. And he would use them. He would give all he owned if he had to, just to bring that stone home.
It had not been an easy journey to Exeter. No honest man was safe from cutpurses and outlaws on the lonely tracks and roads that spun a tangled web through heath and forest, hamlet and marsh. Once Jacob would have joined a band of fellow travellers for such a journey, but now few Christians were willing to be seen in the company of a Jew, and he was as much in danger of having his throat cut by other merchants as from any outlaw on the road. So the old man had been forced to make the long journey alone, seeking out the hospitality of fellow Jews in towns such as Thetford to at least give him a place of safety to sleep and food that had not been spat in or worse by a surly innkeeper.
Jacob had found the pedlar waiting for him in his filthy lodging in the very worst quarter of Exeter. They were old acquaintances, but still Leo had driven a hard bargain for the stone, not that Jacob blamed him for that. Leo had once been a merchant himself with a dozen men working for him, and Jacob had done much business with him over the years, but the massive taxes against the Jews, the community fines and the ever-increasing restrictions on their trade had combined to ruin the man, so that when finally pirates seized a ship carrying his cargo to Flanders, Leo had been left with nothing but debts. Now he was forced to tramp from village to village hawking cheap buckles, thread and anything else he could sell for the price of a night’s lodgings. The man was bitter – and little wonder.
The pedlar had carefully unwrapped the stone and laid it on the rough wooden stool between them. At first Jacob could see nothing unusual about the stone except perhaps its shape, but when Leo tilted it at an angle to the candle flame, Jacob gasped in wonderment. He stared at it, not daring to touch it, suddenly aware of his unwashed hands.
‘Where did you find it?’ Jacob whispered, unable to tear his gaze away.
‘Shebbear. You’ll not have heard of it – a piss-poor village, full of lice-pickers,’ Leo said sourly. ‘I was selling door to door, or trying to, but those muck-grubbers wouldn’t part with a clipped farthing. Finally, this woman at the end of the village took pity on me and invited me in for a bite to eat. I thought the angels were smiling on me; for once you get inside a house you can usually persuade a woman to buy something just to get rid of you.
‘Anyway, that’s when I spotted the stone up on a shelf above the door lintel. Noticed it straight off, strange shape, bit like a bird if you squint at it the right way, but even so, not what you’d expect to find on a shelf. Those crofts are so small there’s scarcely room for their pots and pans. Who’d waste space on a stone? So I looked closer, and that’s when I saw the marks. I could tell the woman had no idea what they were; doubt she’d even noticed them. Those villagers can’t even read their own names. So I told her an alchemist in Exeter might pay a few pennies to melt it down for iron. It feels like iron, and those crofters will believe anything you tell them about a city.’
‘So she sold it to you?’ Jacob asked.
Leo shifted uncomfortably on his seat. ‘She wouldn’t. Said something about it bringing her and her husband together. You know what fools women can be. So I hung around until she and her daughter were busy, then I tackled the husband when I could get him alone. Men aren’t sentimental, not when they can smell money. But he was as stubborn as she was and said if his Matilda didn’t want to part with it, he wouldn’t sell it, not for a king’s ransom.’ Leo shrugged. ‘So what could I do? The next day was Easter Sunday. I knew there’d not be a soul about with all the villagers in the church, so I took my chance then, while the croft was empty. Put another stone in its place, so they’d not notice the gap straight away, especially if they came home merry after the feasting.’
‘You stole it?’ Jacob was shocked. In all his years as a merchant he had prided himself on never knowingly buying or selling anything that was stolen.
‘There was no danger,’ Leo assured him, misinterpreting Jacob’s frown. ‘She could hardly raise the hue and cry over a worthless stone, and it is worthless to them, but to us . . .’ He gestured towards the stone. ‘You think this should be allowed to stay in the hands of Christians? If one of their priests should chance to see and recognize the marks, they wouldn’t hesitate to defile it. They’d spit and piss on it before they smashed it to pieces. Look what they’ve done to our holy books. You think I should have left it there so that they could commit such a blasphemy?’
‘No . . . no,’ Jacob finally conceded. ‘You did right to rescue it. It is a sin to steal, but the rabbis tell us that the commandments may be broken to save a life, and I am certain that this stone will save not just one life but the lives of all our people. Such a kemea . . . such a sacred sign has not been granted to our people since we were driven out of the land of Israel.’
For once Jacob hadn’t haggled over the price, and as soon as he felt the weight of the stone in his scrip pressing against his body a great peace seemed to wash over him. He left Exeter that same day, travelling as fast as he dared in order to reach Norwich before the feast of Shavuoth, the celebration of giving the tablets of stone to Moses on Mount Sinai.
He had arrived just in time, for the eve of Shavuoth was just two days off and what better day could there be to unveil this stone in the synagogue, a sign that the Eternal One would deliver them from the misery the Christians had imposed on them, just as He had delivered their forefathers from the Egyptians. Jacob’s gnarled old fingers reached up to cup the stone concealed beneath his cloak. If he could spend his last few months on earth meditating on those marks on that stone, his soul would truly find eternal bliss.
Smiling to himself, the old merchant dug his heels into his horse’s side, trying to urge it on apace, but the narrow alley was crammed with the stalls of bellowing bakers desperate to sell the last of their pies and bread to the housewives who elbowed each other aside to snatch a bargain. In all the commotion there was scarcely room for a beggar’s brat to squeeze between the stalls, never mind a horse. But he wasn’t far from his home now. Most of the Jews lived in Mancroft, around the synagogue and close to the castle, where they could flee if they were attacked. But Jacob’s father had been wealthy enough to buil
d a stone house near the river in Conesford Street, where the air was fresher and goods could more easily be transported to and from the boats.
At the crossroads, Jacob glanced behind him as he had done many times over the past few days looking for the Black Friar. Satisfied that there was still no sign of him, the old man was turning his horse’s head in the direction of home when he felt the reins being torn from his fingers. Before he could even cry out, he was dragged from his horse and bundled into a courtyard. Moments later he found himself pinned against the wall with the point of a knife pricking the wrinkled skin of his throat. Three unkempt youths crowded around him.
The one holding the knife thrust his face close to Jacob. ‘Gold, Jew, that’s what we’re after. Give it to us and we might let you live.’ The lad was short and stocky, his legs so bowed he could have straddled three whores at the same time, but he could move as rapidly as a weasel.
Jacob swallowed hard, reciting a silent prayer. ‘I’ve . . . only a few coins – you can have them all – but . . . I’ve no gold.’
‘He’s lying, Gamel,’ one of the boys told Bow Legs.
‘I know that, you cod-wit!’ Gamel grabbed a handful of Jacob’s beard and wriggled the knife against his throat. ‘We know you’ve got gold. All you filthy Jews have got gold. We saw you leave days ago with a full pack, been waiting for you to return. You’ve no pack now, so what did you sell it for? How much?’
‘I didn’t sell it for money.’
‘What, then?’ Gamel demanded.
‘A . . . s . . . stone.’ Even as he stammered out the words, Jacob knew no one would believe that, but it was the truth. What else could he tell them?
The young men laughed mirthlessly. Gamel’s knife flashed upwards, its blade slicing across the old man’s mouth. Blood gushed from Jacob’s lips, staining his white beard crimson.
Gamel took a step back. ‘Search him,’ he ordered his companions. ‘He’ll have the gold ingots strapped to his chest.’
Jacob caught sight of faces peering down at them from the upper casement of a house overlooking the courtyard. He shrieked out to them that he was being robbed, but almost at once heard the sound of a door being bolted shut. It was plain the witnesses to his plight were going to stay safely locked inside and ignore the trouble until it was over.
Frustrated at finding neither discs of gold nor of silver strapped to the old merchant’s chest, Gamel punched Jacob viciously in the stomach. The old man doubled up and sank to the ground. Something muffled but heavy hit the cobbles of the courtyard. Gamel pounced and in a trice had cut the leather thongs of Jacob’s scrip. He held up the weighty leather bag in triumph.
‘Told you he had gold. Lying bastard.’ He kicked the old man in the ribs, and his two companions grinned as they heard the bones crack.
Jacob rocked on the ground in puddles of piss and muck, his arms hugging the agony of his chest, his mouth gaping like a fish as he struggled to breathe. The three youths all tried to make a grab for the scrip, fumbling with the fastenings. Finally, Gamel wriggled his hand inside and pulled out the heavy lump. For a moment the three youths gaped at the black stone in his hand.
Gamel’s two companions glanced at each other, fear gathering in their eyes. ‘If we go back with nothing,’ one muttered, ‘she’ll feed our balls to the hounds—’
‘—while we’re still wearing them,’ the other finished.
With a howl of fury Gamel hurled the stone at Jacob. It struck him on the shoulder, and though the old man cried out in pain he reached out and grasped the stone. With what little strength he had left, he lifted it to his bleeding mouth and kissed it. ‘Shma . . . Yisrael,’ he breathed, but that was all he had time to whisper. For the three youths with a single shout of rage ran at Jacob, kicking and stomping on the old man as if he was an insect they wanted to obliterate.
It is hard to know exactly when the old merchant lost consciousness, but mercifully he was dead long before the youths had finished battering his head to a bloody pulp.
As the youths ran off, Gamel glanced up at the frightened faces peering down from the casement above. He paused to press his finger first to his lips and then slowly and pointedly drew it across his throat, before he followed his companions out of the yard.
As soon as he was sure the youths had gone, a tall stooped figure dressed in a Black Friar’s habit edged cautiously around the entrance to the courtyard and began to pick his way towards the crumpled figure lying in the corner. He had almost reached the body when he heard the sound of the bolts being drawn back on the door of the house. He hesitated, gazing longingly at the black stone still grasped in the dead man’s hand, but before he could reach it the door opened and a maid rushed out screaming and shouting. The friar turned and fled from the yard, empty-handed.
Judith tore through the streets, running after Nathan and her brother Isaac. Her brother yelled at her to go back, but she ignored him. As a small child, she’d been able to beat any boy of her age in a race, but now, at seventeen, she was hampered by her long skirts, and the two young men were already inside the courtyard by the time she caught up with them.
A huddle of women stood just inside the archway to the yard, clutching each other and chattering shrilly like starlings. Judith edged past them and walked over to where Isaac and Nathan stood. As she looked down, it was all she could do to keep from retching. She reached inside her kirtle and grasped the silver amulet in the form of a hand which her mother had given her for protection. She held it so tightly the metal cut into her palm, but she didn’t feel it.
The district bailiff was bending over what looked like a heap of blood-soaked rags, but when he caught sight of the white badge on Nathan’s chest he straightened up and stepped aside. ‘He’s one of yours. You know who he is?’
Nathan pressed his hand to his mouth as if he was about to vomit. ‘Zayde? Grand-père?’ he whispered.
He sank to his knees in the muck and began shaking the old merchant as if he was sleeping and had to be woken. Tears streamed down the young man’s face. He gently eased the black stone from the old man’s fingers and, grasping the gnarled hand, pressed it to his lips, kissing it over and over. Judith felt the tears stinging her own eyes. She grasped her brother’s arm. Startled to find her at his side, Isaac pulled her into his arms, hugging her so fiercely that Judith knew it was as much to comfort himself as her.
‘Well, who is it, then?’ the bailiff demanded gruffly. ‘His name’ll be needed for the records.’
‘The merchant . . . Jacob ben Meir . . ,’ Isaac said. ‘Have you caught the bastard who did this to him?’
The bailiff grimaced. ‘Hue and cry’s been raised. There’s men out looking, but I don’t reckon we’ll find anyone, No idea who we’re looking for.’
‘Someone must have seen something,’ Isaac insisted. ‘What about the people who live here?’
The bailiff shrugged. ‘Didn’t see anything. All busy about their duties. Was a maid found the body, and by then whoever did this was long gone. I dare say he brought it on himself. Might even have been the Jew who started it. Look there.’ He nodded to the black stone in Nathan’s hand. ‘The old Jew was holding that when he was found. Could break a man’s skull, could that. Maybe he tried to hit someone from behind to rob them and they were just defending—’
Nathan gave a bellow of fury and outrage. He was on his feet in a flash, the stone raised in his hand. But the bailiff was a burly man, well used to dodging the blows of drunks and desperate men. And as Nathan struck out, the bailiff grabbed his arm, twisted it and sent him sprawling face down in the yard across the body of his grandfather.
‘Get him out of here,’ the bailiff growled at Isaac. ‘I’m only letting him get away with that ’cause I can see the lad’s upset, but if he threatens me again . . .’
Isaac hastily dragged Nathan upright and bundled him towards the archway. All the fight had drained out of Nathan; though he was still grasping the stone tightly, he offered no resistance. All eyes followed
the sobbing young man as he stumbled over the cobbles, his grandfather’s blood dripping from his hands.
Wednesday 22 May,
the fourth day of Sivan
‘At least you had the sense to stay away from my inn until morning.’ Magote scowled. ‘So the old Jew’s dead, is he? I hope for the sake of your necks there were no witnesses.’
The innkeeper’s widow glanced sharply at Gamel and his two friends, but they merely shuffled their feet and grunted. The courtyard of the Grey Goose Inn was empty, but Magote had been long enough in her game not to take any chances. She gestured the lads into the long low lean-to that served as her brewing room and followed them, taking care to leave the door open just a crack so that she could observe anyone entering the yard.
‘I asked you if there were any witnesses?’ she repeated in a dangerously quiet tone.
Gamel jerked his chin defiantly. ‘I made sure they told the bailiff they saw nothing. They know what’ll happen to them if they talk.’
‘Good lad. You’re learning.’ Magote nodded approvingly.
There was an art to handling these boys: reward and punishment, praise and terror in equal measure. The trick was to keep the lads off balance; never let them guess what was coming. Over the years, she’d worked up quite a gang of them; nearly a dozen lads under her control now. She’d lost a few from time to time – some who’d got themselves knifed, others hanged for thieving – but not one of them had ever fingered her, not even to save their own miserable skins. She was feared far more than the gallows, for even the slowest hanging was as quick as a cut-throat’s knife compared with what she could do to those who betrayed her. If the condemned lad kept his mouth shut, she’d see his family had a fat purse to comfort them for their loss and he’d have someone to pull on his thrashing legs to bring a merciful end to the slow strangulation of the rope. But if the lad was foolish enough to talk . . . Widow she might be, but those who had the misfortune to cross her knew her better as the widow-maker.
The Sacred Stone Page 17
