Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Jacob did not like the intensity of his gaze. It alarmed him that one of these young lords should single his son out for special notice, and he sought hastily to draw attention back to himself. “You would be right, Sir Guy—if money-lending was an occupation of choice. But that is not so. For most of my brethren, it is the only livelihood open to them. We are barred from the craft and trade guilds. We are not permitted to sell our goods in your market places. Your Church forbids us to work for Christians, or even to employ them. Because we cannot take your oaths of homage, we cannot hold land. Your universities are closed to us. So, too, are your courts, since we cannot swear upon your holy relics. So how are we to live?”

  He paused for breath, trying to gauge the impact of his words. While none had yet to interrupt, only a few seemed to be truly listening; he was heartened, though, that Simon was one of them. He hesitated, and then concluded quietly, “Your society barricades all roads but one. Is it fair, then, to scorn us for taking the only path possible?”

  His question found no favor with his listeners, save only Benedict, who felt a surge of pride. But of all those affronted by Jacob’s presence there, none were as irate as the Prior of London’s Dominican friary. “What do you expect from us—that we pity your plight? It is God’s Will that you suffer for your sins. Your punishment for the crucifixion of Our Lord Christ was the destruction of your temple. From that day, you were condemned to wander the world, outcasts and Ishmaels, bearing the curse of Cain.”

  The exhaustion came upon Jacob without warning, sapping his strength, and he looked yearningly at a nearby footstool. But in the confusion following Gloucester’s return, Simon had forgotten to give him permission to sit. He leaned heavily upon his cane, not realizing how much his fatigue had dulled his caution until he heard his own voice, saying with rash candor, “Your Scriptures may speak of our suffering, but they also decree, ‘Slay them not.’ Your Book of Psalms, I believe?”

  “How would you have such knowledge of our Holy Writ?”

  The question seemed innocuous; Jacob knew better. No answer he gave would satisfy the Prior, and equivocation would only inflame his suspicions all the more, for the Dominicans were quick to detect the scent of sulphur. He temporized, and then deliverance came from an entirely unexpected quarter.

  “In all honesty, I see nothing sinister in his familiarity with Scriptures,” Simon interrupted, with obvious impatience. “He tutored my lord Bishop of Lincoln in Hebrew for years. I’d wager some of that time was spent in theological debate.” A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “The Bishop,” he said, “was a fisherman. But what he angled for was souls.”

  Jacob nodded gravely. “The Bishop of Lincoln was a renowned scholar,” he said. “I came to have great respect for him.”

  “So did I.” Simon’s eyes fell upon the stool and he gestured, freeing Jacob to sit. Leaning back against the table, for he’d become adept at inconspicuously favoring his weakened leg, he said, “Now…tell me what you want from me.”

  Jacob sank down gratefully on the stool. “I want justice, my lord. You were not there to see the horror with your own eyes, and I do not think you realize the full extent of the bloodshed. Men were slain at evening prayers, bled to death in their own homes. Our women were not spared, not even our children…Our synagogue was burned, our houses were looted, our cemetery in Wood Street desecrated. My lord, it was a slaughter of innocents. We—”

  Fitz Thomas could bear to hear no more. “It was an abomination unto the Lord, and it shames me that it should have happened in my city. If only I—”

  “Nay, you’ve no cause to reproach yourself. You did your best to stop the carnage.” Jacob glanced toward Hugh le Despenser. “As did the Justiciar. But there is a madness that comes over men at such times, a…a lust for blood.”

  Simon nodded. “And for gold,” he said grimly.

  “Indeed, my lord. Not all of them had killing in mind. Some must have seen the rioting as a rare chance for ill-gotten gains. Men kill for many reasons, they steal for but one—greed.” Jacob drew a bracing breath. “There were your men amongst that mob, my lord.”

  Simon didn’t deny it. “Yes,” he said, “it’s likely there were. You would think that if a man embraced a noble cause, he would not be capable of such base crimes, and yet that is not so. I confess I’ve long been baffled by the contradictions in man’s nature. How is it that Edward can have so much courage and so little honor? Men say King John was cruel, vengeful, and faithless. How is it, then, that he cared more for the weal of his subjects than Henry does?”

  Moving away from the table, Simon stood for a moment before Jacob, eyes searching the aged rabbi’s face. “On the eighteenth of April, I captured the town of Rochester, laid siege to the castle. Whenever I take a town, I give orders that my men are not to commit sacrilege, that there’s to be no raping or looting. I’ve hanged men for disobeying those commands. Moreover, this was Good Friday, one of the most sacred days of the year. And yet some of the soldiers still plundered the priory of St Andrew, stole holy relics, and stabled their horses in the cloisters, even in the nave of the church.”

  Jacob’s fatigue was miraculously gone, alleviated by this sudden infusion of hope. He felt certain that this was the first genuine conversation Simon de Montfort had ever had with a Jew, for a man of his rank would not deal himself with money-lenders, would leave that for his steward to do. This tenuous accord, however tentative, however unlikely, was, God willing, a beginning.

  “I agree with you, my lord. I would that I could understand man’s cruelty to man, for we are all brothers in Adam. It must be that they lose their identity in a crowd, become nameless, faceless, and free to sin…I do know how difficult it is to punish them, even to identify them.” He saw that Simon was listening intently, and he got to his feet, no longer choosing his words with care, letting them spill out spontaneously, from the heart.

  “But there is one man, my lord, who cannot deny his guilt. There are witnesses, for his arrogance was such that he cared not at all who saw him. When that maddened mob surged into the Jewry, he was in the forefront of the attack. He did his share of looting and burning, and then he led men to the house of Isaac, son of Aaron, a wealthy moneylender. They emptied Isaac’s coffers, stripped the embroidered hangings from his walls, stole his candle-sticks and plate, took all that could be carried out. And then they torched the house. But ere they did, this man ran Isaac through with his sword. My lord of Leicester, he must be punished for this despicable crime. You alone have the power, I entreat you to use it. Call him to account for his sins.”

  Simon was frowning. “Who is this man?”

  “His name, my lord, is John Fitz John.”

  There was a second or so of silence, and then pandemonium. “Who?” If Simon sounded incredulous, the other voices were hotly indignant.

  “Do you not know who he is? Fitz John is Gloucester’s cousin!”

  “And my friend!” Harry jumped to his feet so hastily that he jarred the table, tipping over several wine cups, which, in turn, set off a wave of startled oaths. Harry paid them no heed, so single-minded was he in defense of Fitz John, a favorite carousing companion. “I’ll not have his name slandered!”

  Hugh le Despenser was on his feet, too. “John and I are kinsmen; our wives are sisters. I did what I could to stop the killing in the Jewry, and I would see the offenders punished. But you cannot treat a man of John’s rank as if he were a common churl!”

  “Your timing is deplorable, old man!” Guy alone of the speakers did not sound in the least offended. Making no attempt to hide his amusement, he said, “My lord father knighted Fitz John this very noon!”

  Jacob had not been disheartened by the uproar; he’d expected no less. But at that, he took a quick step toward Simon, unable to hide his dismay. “My lord, is that true?”

  Simon nodded. “Do you have any idea what you ask of me?”

  “Yes, my lord, I do. I know this man is of good birth, but that did not keep
you from serving justice in Gascony. You protected the Gascon people, townsmen and farmers who were being cheated and robbed by the lords of their province. You called them bandits and cast them into prison. Why can you not do the same for Fitz John?”

  “I was right,” Simon said. “You do not understand in the least. It is not Fitz John’s blood that concerns me, it is the life blood of England. Have you paid so little heed to our plight? In a matter of days, we’ll be facing the King across a battlefield, and the odds are not in our favor. Not only is my army badly outnumbered, a good portion of my men are green London lads who’ve never drawn blood. But I cannot spare even one of them. And you’d have me lose one of my best commanders? Not to mention the knights and men-at-arms who owe allegiance to Fitz John! I have risked all for the Provisions; not even my family has been spared. You must be mad if you think I would sacrifice our only chance of victory for your vengeance!”

  Benedict was not surprised, and therefore, not disappointed. He found he actually preferred such a pragmatic refusal, for he’d been expecting an exoneration based upon birth. But it was different for Jacob. For him, Simon’s refusal was shattering.

  “How can you be so indifferent to our suffering? Do you care nothing for the fact that the blood of my people is on your hands?”

  “How dare you make such an accusation? The killing in the Jewry was none of my doing, and well you know it!”

  “Oh, I know you took no part in the killing. And I believe you disapproved of it, mayhap even deplored it. But my lord, that is not enough. Where is your outrage?”

  “What in blazes are you talking about?”

  “This man felt it!” Pointing toward Fitz Thomas. “He was appalled by the slaughter. Why were you not equally appalled, my lord? I know what is said of you, that you feel bound to protect the weak and the poor. It must be true, else these Londoners would not be so willing to die for you. Again and again you’ve shown a surprising sympathy for the downtrodden, the defenseless, and it does you great credit. But what people are more oppressed than mine? Why do you harden your heart against us? Why have you no pity to spare for the Jews?”

  “Because you deny Our Lord Christ!”

  There was such passion in his voice that Jacob took an instinctive step backward, dropping his cane. But with Simon’s next words, he realized that Simon’s emotion was not anger.

  “I was taught that over every Jew, God holds His breath, waiting to see if he will decide for Christ. How can you give Our Lord such grief? How can you reject salvation?” Simon reached out, grasped Jacob’s arm. “It took courage for you to come here. Yours is a soul worth saving! Why will you not admit that Christ is the Messiah? Do you not fear damnation?”

  It was utterly still. Benedict had moved to his father’s side, and he now waited wordlessly for Jacob’s answer. The rabbi met Simon’s eyes without flinching. “I think I can best answer you, my lord, by posing a question. I know you took the cross in your youth, passed some months in the Holy Land. Many of your fellow crusaders were taken prisoner by the Saracens. If that had happened to you, and you were given a choice between abjuring your Christian faith and death, which would you have chosen?”

  “Death,” Simon said simply, with no bravado, and Jacob nodded.

  “Just so, my lord,” he said softly.

  As the implications of his answer sank in, Simon’s disappointment was as sharp as any sword. So intense had his desire been to bring Jacob from darkness to light that he’d convinced himself he would prevail, that this time God would not hold His breath in vain. He stepped back, released Jacob’s arm. “I’ll not deny,” he said bleakly, “that your people are willing to die for your beliefs. But that proves nothing. Not even martyrdom can sanctify a false faith.”

  Jacob bent down, slowly retrieved his cane. “I’ve had my say. We’ll take up no more of your time, my lord.”

  Benedict took his arm, expecting at any moment to hear a summons to stop, not yet convinced they could escape this particular lion’s den unscathed. But Simon watched them in silence, and after an endless trek, they reached safety, the enveloping dark of the stairwell.

  A pall had settled over the room. Most of the men felt uncomfortable, without knowing exactly why. Nerves were on edge, tempers frayed, and when Guy made a dubious joke about John Fitz John and the money he suddenly had to spend, Harry almost hit him. Simon silenced them with a look, which stung more than words could have done. He now knew where Fitz John had gotten the funds he’d so generously put at their disposal. But he did not regret his refusal to punish the man. That was an easy decision to make, a soldier’s decision, the only decision. What disturbed him was his failure with Jacob.

  “It was like watching a candle,” he said suddenly. “It flickered, seemed about to catch fire, and then guttered out.”

  The Bishop of Worcester slid a wine cup along the length of the table. “You ought not to have seen those Jews, Simon. You’ve cares enough at the moment, need not take on any more.”

  “I’m sorry I did,” Simon admitted. Picking up the cup, he then set it down untasted. “But after what happened in the Jewry, I suppose I owed them that much.”

  “Nay, my lord, do you not see the danger in such thinking?” The Dominican Prior startled them all, so loudly did he speak, for all the world as if he were preaching a fire-and-brimstone sermon at Paul’s Cross. “You see now how insidiously they insinuate themselves, how beguiling they can be. They would take shameless advantage of our pity, if we let them.”

  While the Bishop of Worcester agreed with the sentiments, he disapproved of the extravagant delivery; in his experience, the friars always indulged in unnecessary theatrics, and it irked him that they had such success in swaying the people. “It is sadly true,” he said, “what Seneca so long ago concluded, that no enemy is more capable of inflicting injury than a familiar one. I regret the killings, of course. Jews bear witness on our behalf that we have not forged the prophecies about Our Lord Christ. They are not to be harmed; they must be converted to the True Faith, to save their souls and to hasten the Second Coming. But until then, they must be strictly segregated, lest their heresies infect unwary Christians.”

  To Simon, that sounded like an oblique rebuke. Had he indeed let his guard down too much? “I well know we must be wary of them,” he said, but still his disquiet lingered, and he moved restlessly to the window.

  Fitz Thomas, sensing his mood, followed with a cup of wine. So did a contrite Harry, and Simon allowed his son to prop cushions under his leg, too tired to deny his discomfort. He leaned back in the windowseat, watching them both, and after a long silence, said, “When I was just a lad, about eight or so, my lady mother summoned before her all the Jews in the French city of Toulouse. She demanded that they renounce Judaism, accept the Christian faith. When they refused, she had them imprisoned, and gave their children to local families, to be raised as Christians. But even then, most of them still held fast. Only forty-seven would agree.” A look of surprise crossed his face. “Strange, that I should remember the exact number, after so many years…”

  This was a story Harry had not heard before. Simon had told his sons how he’d been trapped in a siege at the age of seven, and he’d related how, when his father once needed reinforcements, his mother had led them herself. But this he’d never shared. “What happened to the Jews, Papa?”

  “When my father returned to Toulouse, he did not approve. Oh, he hated Jews, hated all heretics. Indeed, when he suppressed the French Cathars at the Pope’s behest, he showed so little mercy that the Cathars learned to fear him more than Satan himself. Thirty years later, when I came to govern Gascony for the King, there were men who hated me for my name alone, because I was his son, so long and so bitter were their memories.”

  Fitz Thomas silently held out the wine cup. Simon took it, drank slowly. “But if he would slay a heretic without qualms, he did not believe in knife-point conversions. So he set the Jews free, saying that was a poor way to bring a man to God.”
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  It was with a start that Simon realized they were all listening, not just Harry and Fitz Thomas. Setting the wine cup down, he got to his feet, making a conscious effort not to limp.

  “What of the children, my lord? The ones taken from the Jews? Do you remember their fate?”

  “Yes, Tom, I remember. The Cardinal Legate refused to return them to their parents, saying the salvation of their souls mattered more than kinship of blood.”

  “My lord Leicester?” Slouching by the door, the guard straightened up hastily at Simon’s approach.

  Simon glanced back at the Bishops of Worcester and London, knowing neither they nor the Dominican friar would approve of what he was about to do. As an Earl, a knight, a soldier, he was indifferent to the approval of his peers, following his own instincts, his own concept of honor. But as a Christian, he was obliged to heed other voices, to be guided by the ethics of his Church. He paused, then beckoned to the guard. “Those Jews that were here,” he said. “See that they get safely back to the Jewry.”

  It was a long walk from the Tower to the Jewry, and much of it had been passed in silence. Jacob was oblivious to his son’s clumsy attempts at consolation. Benedict’s assurances that he’d done his best mattered little against the reality of Simon de Montfort’s refusal. After a time, Benedict, too, lapsed into silence, for by then he was aware of the men trailing them. They were not conspicuous, stayed a consistent twenty feet behind, but Benedict’s every instinct was alerting him to danger.

  Curfew had rung, and the streets were all but deserted. As they moved up Fenchurch, they encountered few passers-by. They had not lost their shadowy pursuers. Benedict’s mouth was dry. Although Jews had been forbidden by the Assize of 1181 to bear arms, Benedict had a contraband dagger concealed in his sling, for he’d vowed never to be defenseless again. He fingered it surreptitiously, while studying Jacob’s cane; if need be, it could serve as a weapon. If only he’d been alone! He knew the narrow, twisting streets of the city well enough to outdistance any pursuit. But his father was too frail to run, too infirm to fight.