Jocelin listened with concentrated attention. ‘W-what do you think he meant by that: He can be as generous to those who help him as he can be ungenerous with those who do not?’
‘He meant he wants Isaac to be found guilty of the murder so that he can inherit his property,’ I said gloomily. ‘And he expects me to deliver it to him.’
Jocelin swallowed hard. ‘W-what will you do?’
‘Pray, brother,’ I yawned. ‘I’m going to pray.’
‘Y-yes indeed,’ nodded Jocelin thoughtfully. ‘Well, all may not be lost. I’ve been r-reading up about all this in the l-library and I think I m-may have something.’ He reached into his sack and took out his notebook which I could see was filled with jottings.
My heart sank. I was in no fit state this morning to deal with these copious annotations of Jocelin’s. They always depress me since nothing could more graphically illustrate just how disorganized my own system of record-keeping is. He writes so much and so often that there can be little ink left in the scriptorium for the copying of manuscripts, although it wouldn’t surprise me to hear he had a stock of oak apples in his office from which to manufacture his own.
He found his place in his notes and raised a senatorial finger. ‘You remember F-father Abbot told us that all Jewish property goes to the King on the death of the owner? In fact that’s n-not quite right. It’s only property obtained through usury that is forfeit. Everything else he can keep - I m-mean his s-survivors can keep,’ he corrected himself sheepishly.
I could tell he was not to be discouraged with yawns and sighs. I closed my weary eyes. ‘All right. So how is it possible to tell which property is the product of usury and which is not?’ It was a superfluous question. I had no doubt he was going to tell me whether or not I wanted him to.
He licked his lips and shuffled enthusiastically to the edge of his bench. ‘Nine years ago there was a m-massacre of Jews in York Castle – er, you perhaps have heard of it?’
I recalled with a shudder Isaac’s clinical description of the incident. I nodded. ‘A hundred-and-fifty innocent souls. What about it?’
‘Well, King Richard was v-very angry about it.’
‘I should think so too,’ I snorted tucking my head into my robes and pulling them up around me. ‘It was a disgraceful episode.’
‘Oh, n-not about the Jews being murdered,’ Jocelin corrected himself. ‘I mean, of course he was angry about that. B-but what he was more concerned about was their bonds of debt which were b-burned on the floor of the Minster church at the same time. You see, without them there was no proof of how much he was owed.’
‘So King Richard was thwarted for once from getting his hands on his – or rather Jewish - money.’ I sniffed. ‘Good. There is at least some justice in the world. Now, what’s your point?’
‘M-my p-point,’ said Jocelin lowering his voice further, ‘is that in order to prevent it happening again – losing the proof of ownership I mean - R-richard decreed that a record of all f-future transactions by the Jews was to be kept by his officials and he passed a law to that effect.’ He looked at me expectantly but I just shrugged unable to see the point he was making. ‘Don’t you s-see? It would make an excellent m-motive for Matthew’s m-murder.’
I nodded sleepily. ‘By anyone who could benefit from Isaac’s death – yes, I see that.’ I suddenly woke up. ‘Good God. You’re not suggesting…’ I too lowered my voice now. ‘You’re not trying to suggest King John is Matthew’s murderer?’
Jocelin blushed. ‘No no, of course n-not.’ Then he grinned slyly. ‘B-but it’s an intriguing theory, d-don’t you think?’
I did not. The suggestion was preposterous, treasonable indeed and I told him in no uncertain terms that if he valued his neck he should not repeat it to anyone. The very idea that a King of England would be complicit in the murder of a twelve-year-old boy - whatever next?
However, Jocelin’s ferreting did put paid to my own pet theory about Isaac’s testament, for if it was a bond of debt that Isaac had wished me to preserve, as up till then I had been assuming, then under this law of King Richard a record of it would be held somewhere by one of the royal officials. In that case it hardly mattered what happened to the original. Yet Isaac had been adamant that I should keep his document safe. So it followed that it must be something other than a bond of debt, something important enough for him to want me to protect it as though his life depended on it.
But if not a bond of debt then what was it?
There was only one way to find out. I resolved to do what up till now I had been so reluctant to do: I would go to my cell, break the seal on the document and read it, whether Isaac wished it or not. It was clearly more than a mere testament; it was evidence material to the murder and I therefore needed to know what was in it.
Jocelin was busy scrutinizing another set of his voluminous notes and muttering to himself. ‘V-very interesting all these old laws. Did you know that when an abbacy becomes v-vacant the King is entitled to its revenues? That would explain why there was a t-two-year gap between the death of Abbot Hugh and the appointment of Samson. I’d often wondered why that was.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would,’ I said distractedly.
‘I bet Samson didn’t like that,’ he chuckled to himself.
‘I imagine not.’ I wasn’t really listening anymore. I was paying more attention to the scene outside the window. Samson and the Prior were just arriving on their mules and from the expression on Samson’s face he was not the happiest of men. They must have ridden since first light from Mildenhall to get here by now. I couldn’t resist a slight chuckle. I didn’t envy those monks who had tricked him into going to Mildenhall on a wild goose chase. And when he finds out the reason they did it - to get him out of the way while they interrogated the murdered boy’s mother and then to manufacture that false oath - he’s going to be absolutely furious. Another poke in the eye for Jeremiah and his cohort of conspirators, I thought with glee. Oh yes, things were definitely beginning to look up.
*
I had about ten minutes before Chapter and it wasn’t an occasion I wished to miss. I’d guessed Samson was going to use the meeting to accuse, berate and then punish those monks who had been agitating to get the boy Matthew canonized, among them in particular the five who had hijacked my interview with Matthew’s mother the previous day. I could just picture all five of them – Jeremiah included despite his age and his arthritis – lying prostrate on the floor of the chapterhouse before the entire congregation, contrite and begging forgiveness. No doubt they thought the mother’s oath made the deception worthwhile. But they miscalculated. Oh yes, Samson was going to wipe the floor with them - literally. Of course, such degradation of one’s brother monks is something shameful to our order and to be abhorred – but it was going to be fun to see nevertheless!
On our way back to our cells I noticed some activity near Matthew’s newly-dug grave. Among a group of about a dozen people I could see the same four Knieler women I had seen outside the house of Isaac ben Moy three days before.
‘God preserve us, what are they doing here?’ I said to Jocelin. ‘They’re like the chorus in a Greek tragedy turning up everywhere unannounced and wailing away. We must get Samson to exclude them from the abbey grounds. Their presence only serves to further inflame prejudices.’
‘B-better here than outside the Moy house,’ said Jocelin.
I nodded in reluctant agreement to that. It occurred to me again that I hadn’t yet been able to find out how they knew to come to Bury in the first instant. With all the other chicanery that had been going on I wouldn’t put it past Egbert to have arranged their presence from the very outset. No, I shook myself. I really must stop seeing conspiracies everywhere. There were other explanations for their presence. I just had yet to discover them.
Jocelin said he had some business of his own to see to so we agreed to meet again after Chapter. That suited me because I didn’t want to discuss Isaac’s testament with him until I knew wha
t it contained. But when I got back to my cell I was in for a shock: The casket had gone. Or more accurately, the soiled bed-linen under which the casket had been hidden had gone. Then I remembered the date. Bed-linen is replaced regularly on the second Saturday of every third month, a practice Sylvanus the Chamberlain was very particular about, personal hygiene being one of Saint Benedict’s strictest rules. This must be one of those Saturdays. Sure enough, there on the corner of my cot neatly folded was a complete set of clean linen. But of the casket there was no sign. I was sure I hadn’t moved it. I could only hope that the servant who had taken the soiled linen had noticed the casket and put it somewhere safe. On the other hand, if he hadn’t noticed it then the casket and its contents could even now be boiling away in the laundry vats. The thought of all that treasure tumbling around among the soiled underwear of eighty monks made me shiver. At least I’d had the foresight to separate the testament from the casket and hidden it among Jocelin’s biography of Saint Robert otherwise that could be cooking in the copper as well. I looked on my shelf for Jocelin’s manuscript but to my horror it had gone, too. I searched every shelf and cubby-hole and looked through all my own papers but it was not anywhere. The casket may have been taken by mistake but the testament can only have been taken deliberately. But by whom? I hoped against hope that Jocelin might have come into my cell while I was away to retrieve his tract and not noticed Isaac’s testament secreted inside. It was surely a vain hope. In any case there was no more time to think of it now for the bell summoning me to Chapter had started ringing. I dare not miss this meeting. Both the casket and the testament would have to wait until later.
*
Inside the chapterhouse there was a buzz of nervous anticipation. During Samson’s absence the pro-canonization faction, as I had come to think of Jeremiah and his friends, had been busy its numbers having swelled from the quarter of all choir monks a day or so ago to over half now. Jocelin had been right when he said the mere existence of the mother’s testament was enough to win over some waverers. They were all seated on one side of the chapterhouse with the anti-canonization faction, or those yet to be persuaded, seated on the opposite side. There was also a rather unpleasant smell in the house today, I noticed.
Samson sat prominently on his dais at the front glowering at every monk in turn as he entered. He waited until everyone was settled then he rose slowly and held out his arms in customary welcome.
‘The Peace of the Lord be with you and may he give his blessings on these our solemn deliberations, Amen.’
The united response of “Amen” thundered louder than usual, I thought, and as the echo died away Samson began to speak, his voice quiet but trembling with suppressed emotion:
‘My brothers. I do not need to tell you what has been going on. You all know that I have been badly mistreated, sent to hunt coney in a foxhole. There was no maladministration at our manor of Mildenhall. Our tenant there was shocked to see me and professed ignorance of sending any message for help. I was made to look a fool and this when my presence at the abbey could not have been more urgently needed. The King here, paralysed and unprotected. An ignoble pretence unworthy of our sacred institution.’
The King, I thought wryly to myself, was happy enough to have the run of the place without you. But no matter.
‘So now tell me - whose idea was it?’ He looked from side to side of the room.
‘All!’ came a lone voice from the pro faction.
Samson glared at the speaker. ‘Then I am more sorry for that than if you had taken off both my feet at the ankles. What were you thinking of? You have shamed me but even more important than that you have dishonoured the name of the blessed Edmund with your deceit. I tell you now in all candour that I have prayed to him long and hard and with a heavy heart and he expects the instigators of this charade to own up and accept their punishment.’
He looked expectantly around at the eighty faces encircling him but no-one stepped forward. So Samson went on:
‘The holy saint knows who you are and he has told me your names but wishes the guilty to admit their fault in person as a sign of their contrition. So therefore speak now.’
He waited but when no-one came forward he continued more angrily:
‘Brothers, I do not intend to conduct a witch-hunt but I will hear the names of the conspirators from their own lips before we leave this place today.’
He waited again, but apart from some uncomfortable shifting on benches no-one made a move. Samson glowered his frustration.
‘This is intolerable. I will now sit and we will all wait here for as long it takes even if it takes all day. Have the courage to own up to your sins and grovel for forgiveness. Do not punish your innocent brothers by your transgression. I command you as your spiritual leader to speak now!’ He sat down again heavily and waited. We all waited.
A minute passed. Another. Then old Jeremiah, a man whose integrity if not his judgement I had never doubted, started to rise. But before he got fully to his feet Egbert jumped to his, his face purple with fury.
‘No!’ he growled. ‘This is unjust. What we did was right, it was necessary. We are being diverted from the path of righteousness. When Herod denied the Christ-child it was the Wise Men who saved him by going a different way. We too must go a different way if our own shepherd will not see the truth!’ He pointed accusingly at Samson.
‘Aye!’ shouted Walkin leaping up beside him, ‘Justice for Saint Matthew!’ and within moments twenty more were on their feet waving fists at Samson, who was again on his feet, and all yelling at once.
Such strength of feeling - I admit I was surprised. But not as surprised as I was a moment later when Ranulf the sub-sacristan strode behind Samson’s dais and pulled back a screen that until then I had barely noticed to reveal a grotesque sight: The exhumed body of poor little Matthew fixed upright to a wooden board in attitude he never would have adopted in life, his head bowed, his feet together and his arms outstretched in imitation of the Crucified Christ. So that was what had been going on at the grave-side earlier, I should have guessed something of the sort. It also explained the foul odour in the air. A gasp went up from every quarter of the house as two more monks joined Ranulf in raising the board to its full vertical position at which point the entire congregation fell to their knees including, I’m sorry to say, Jocelin, which left Samson and me the only ones still standing.
‘See!’ yelled Egbert, the little man’s eyes ablaze with fanatical light as he pointed to the boy’s forehead. ‘Marks of the crown of thorns. And here,’ he held up a discoloured wrist, ‘where the nails were driven through, the other hand here too. And here at the feet. Is there any doubting here to test us further? What more proof do you need that this was a mockery of our Lord’s Passion. We are not the criminals. It is the Jew, Moy, who did this! Alleluia, brothers! Alleluia!’
Other monks were echoing the alleluias and moaning, some holding up their arms, others grovelling in supplication as though Christ Himself had come to end the world. We were in the midst of a collective hysteria. I knew I had to intervene. If I did not I feared a mob of my own brother monks would have gone out there and then to lynch Isaac ben Moy.
I strode to the front with my heart pounding in my chest. I needed no more than a glance at the so-called ‘wounds’ to realise what had been going on.
‘These wounds are fresh and post-mortem!’ I yelled but was immediately shouted down. So I shouted all the louder: ‘They were not present when I examined the boy three days ago. See, there is no blood. Someone has fabricated this. Brother Jocelin will bear witness that I say true.’
I searched among the writhing throng for Jocelin to corroborate my words but instead of Jocelin’s face my eyes saw that of another – Geoffrey de Saye. Amid the confusion he had entered the chapterhouse with a troop of his soldiers and now stood at the back glaring at me in triumph. In a moment I saw the trap that had been sprung.
‘Of course he would say so, wouldn’t he?’ bellowed de Saye walking
steadily and deliberately to the front while his guards barred the door at the rear. I am ashamed to say I shrank a little at his approach.
‘What is this outrage?’ yelled Samson clearly overwhelmed by events that were now out of his control. ‘This is a House of God!’
De Saye ignored him. ‘Of course he would say these wounds are false,’ he repeated still staring at me. ‘That’s what he wants you to believe. He wants you to think that the child was murdered by a Christian. But he knew all along that the Jew Moy had murdered the boy.’
To his credit, Samson snorted loudly in de Saye’s face. ‘Why would he? What possible reason could he have?’
‘Because his brother is a Jew of course!’ de Saye yelled at the top of his voice. At this several monks gasped and looked at me in horror.
‘And if that doesn’t convince you,’ he went on, ‘then perhaps this will.’
He signalled to one of his men who now came forward and produced the casket that Isaac had given me. I almost smiled with the realisation of what was happening. It was beautifully done like a scene from one of the Easter miracle plays. The soldier held the casket high in the air for a second or two to let the image and colour imprint themselves on the eyes of my brother monks before crashing it down on the tiled floor and smashing it open so that hundreds of silver and gold items cascaded in every direction. The monks closest scampered in panic from the scattering coins as though they were tiny goblins chasing them from Hell. The sense of revulsion was palpable but I almost felt like applauding and could have written de Saye’s next words myself they were so obvious:
‘And there,’ he said pointing dramatically at the treasure, ‘are his thirty pieces of silver.’
Unholy Innocence Page 13
