‘That was different. He was a child. A-and he was dead.’
‘That is the one fact of which I do not need reminding,’ I said heaving myself out of the wooden tub and grabbing a towel to dry myself. I must say it felt good to have rid myself of the stench of that prison cage with its detritus of vermin excretions and lice. I could begin to see what it was about bathing that so charmed King John although I would not go so far as to indulge in the dozen or so immersions he is rumoured to enjoy in a year. The body, after all, has its own natural oils which should not be removed and Jocelin is at least partially right in thinking the body uncovered like that of the animals can lead to other unwholesome thoughts. I had only to think of the girl in John’s bedchamber to remind me of that.
‘It’s all right,’ I said slipping my habit back over my head. ‘You can look now. I’m decent.’
Jocelin opened his eyes. I nodded to the servant who clapped his hands together upon which signal four more servants entered like genies, two to lift the bath and the others to take the towels and buckets away.
‘Well,’ I said when they were gone. ‘We have our work cut out for us.’ I had already given him an outline of my morning interview with Samson.
‘I don’t see why,’ said Jocelin. ‘As F-father Abbot says, we are in God’s hands now.’
‘So we give up? Nothing more to be done? Let God alone decide?’
‘Is there a b-better judge?’ he asked piously.
I almost replied, Yes there is: Judgement by a dozen of a man’s peers using their wits to assess the evidence laid before them. But he would have assumed I meant God is fallible when what I really mean is that man’s interpretation of God’s intentions is fallible. God Himself, of course, is perfect.
I felt like being mischievous. ‘Have you ever witnessed a trial by ordeal?’ I casually asked him.
‘No,’ he replied suspiciously. ‘Why?’
I sucked my teeth. ‘Not a pleasant sight. I had to attend one once in a professional capacity in order to dress the hand. Ordeal by fire this one was.’
‘And d-did you?’ he asked hesitantly. ‘D-dress the hand, I mean.’
I shook my head. ‘There wasn’t much of the hand left to dress.’
Jocelin cringed and I smiled slyly. I could tell from the look on his face that he wanted me to say more but was hesitant in case he didn’t like what he heard. Like most people, his natural thrill at hearing the gruesome details vied with his fear of being revolted by what he heard. But having warmed the pot of his curiosity, so to speak, I continued to stir the contents:
‘You see, what happens in the case of ordeal by fire is this: A piece of iron – say a horseshoe or something of similar size and weight - is heated in a furnace. I don’t just mean warmed up, I mean really heated, hotter than that bath water you tried to scald me with just now. So hot it glows white and you really do have to shut your eyes or they will burn out of your head just to look at it. Imagine that,’ I said holding out my hand to demonstrate. ‘Holding a white hot poker in your bare, naked hand.’
Jocelin flinched pleasingly. I licked my lips and continued:
‘But then you have to walk with it – not run, mind you, walk - five paces, and slowly. After the first step you can already see the smoke coming off the hand. At the second the flesh begins to sizzle and fall away. At the third the hand is barely recognisable as such anymore.’ I nodded at the memory. ‘It’s actually quite a pleasant smell you know, burning human flesh. Rather like pork.’ I chuckled. ‘Now there’s an amusing irony, fried Jewish flesh smelling of pork. That should cause a stir on Monday morning, don’t you think, when Isaac’s flesh starts to sizzle and fry and fall off? And then, of course, the bone beneath the skin starts to crack and splinter and -’
‘Oh stop!’ said Jocelin who was starting to turn green. ‘You’ve m-made your point. There’s no n-need to be quite s-s-so g-graphic.’
‘Isn’t there?’ I frowned. ‘Anyone who has seen a horse branded knows what hot metal does to flesh. Only this is not animal hide but human skin, and in Isaac’s case the very softest white skin of a man accustomed to living not by his hands but by his wits, with few calluses to cushion the pain.’
‘If he is innocent, God w-will provide,’ insisted Jocelin wiping some beads of sweat from his forehead.
I nodded. ‘Maybe so. And I will remind you of those words as Isaac takes hold of the poker’s end – if, that is, you can still hear my voice above his screams.’
‘What d-do you want of me, Master?’ he asked sitting down heavily and putting his head in his hands.
‘For us to do the job we were engaged to do.’
‘I th-thought we had done. We examined the b-body. We know how the boy was k-killed and we have a credible suspect.’
‘You forget, we concluded that it took two people to kill the boy - one to hold him while the other slit his throat. Even if Isaac was one, who was the other?’
‘Perhaps he will tell us b-before the – the –’
‘Disfigurement?’ I supplied. ‘And how reliable would that be? He could name anyone under that amount of duress, just for a moment’s relief. We need to investigate in order to find out for certain.’
And in the process, I thought, we might just discover who the real murderers are.
‘There’s something else,’ I said seriously. ‘I don’t believe the boy was as innocent as we have been led to believe.’
I could see my words did not find favour with Jocelin. ‘N-now you go t-too far, brother. Everyone attests to his saintliness. His m-mother, those Knieler women.’
‘Ah yes,’ I interjected. ‘The Knieler women. I’m sorry to disillusion you but they are fakes. They’re not religionists at all.’
He slumped deflated. ‘H-how can you know that?’
I told him about my conversation with Mother Han, how the women were from Scotland, not Holland, hired by someone to whip up sentiment against the Moys. I also told him what Mother Han had said about Matthew’s character.
He clearly didn’t hold much store by Mother Han’s word. ‘It is easy to s-say such things now he is d-dead and cannot defend himself,’ said Jocelin morosely. ‘You complain we don’t f-follow the evidence. Well in this case the evidence is clear. He took care of his mother and provided for his siblings. He was even about to t-take holy orders. What more evidence of saintliness could there be?’
‘His murderer clearly didn’t think so,’ I said. ‘He must have done something, or known something that was so dangerous that it was worth taking away his young life for.’
‘But h-how much harm could a twelve-year-old boy do?’ scoffed Jocelin incredulously.
That suddenly reminded me. ‘Speaking of which,’ I said as casually as I could. ‘I never had time to finish your fascinating study of the life of Saint Robert of Bury.’ It was a tenuous connection but I could think of no other way to raise the subject.
If Jocelin noticed the incongruity he gave no sign. He attempted a smile. ‘Hang on to it for a while l-longer, of you like. Give it back to me when you’ve f-finished it.’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’
Well, that settled one question at least. Jocelin didn’t retrieve his treatise from my cell, ergo he didn’t have Isaac’s testament either. Nor from our earlier conversation did Samson. I realised despondently that there was only one person left who could possibly have it: De Saye. My chances therefore of getting it back were probably nil.
‘So w-what next?’ Jocelin asked.
‘Hm?’ I said coming out of my revelry. ‘We continue to dig of course. We have very little time so I suggest we split up. You go and talk to Ranulf, the boy’s tutor. I think he will speak more openly to you than to me. See if he can shed some light on Matthew’s private life. He must have spent many hours getting to know the boy. Find out anything you can about him that might be of use.’
‘What will you be doing?’
‘I’ll tackle Isaac again. It may be my last opportunity
to do so before the trial.’
*
As I suspected, Isaac had already been arrested and was being held in my erstwhile abode, the gatehouse gaol. In a way I was relieved. At least up there he was out of harm’s way. My friend the dumb gaoler would be equal to anyone trying to harm him, even more so than the captain who, unlike the gaoler, would have to leave his post at some time. Yes, probably the tower was the safest place for him.
I was in such a hurry to get up there when I left Jocelin that I nearly collided with someone coming out of the abbey church. I recognised him as Sir Richard de Tayfen, a wealthy local cloth merchant whose daughter I had been treating recently for the cholera. Sir Richard was a widower whose wife had died in childbirth some years before. A local man of humble birth, he had done well in the new prosperity that came with peace after the Anarchy. When it came to his family’s health I am happy to say he did not stint on the most up-to-date and expensive remedies. Although I was reluctant to delay my interview with Isaac, Sir Richard was not the sort of man I would wish, or could afford, to brush aside lightly.
‘Master Walter,’ he said with some surprise stepping back and bowing.
I bobbed too. ‘Sir Richard. My apologies. I was preoccupied and didn’t see you.’
‘You were just in my thoughts,’ he said pointing to the church door. ‘I had been doing as you suggested, giving thanks for my daughter’s recovery. I had been meaning to come before and to thank you personally but I have just been too busy.’
‘Never too busy for God, I trust,’ I beamed at him. ‘How fares my young patient? Well, I take it, since you are offering thanks.’
‘Every day she grows a little stronger, brother – all thanks to you.’
‘I am delighted to hear it. Now, if you will excuse me.’ I bowed and turned to leave.
‘I had the well stopped up as you suggested,’ he persisted stepping in front of me. ‘And the cesspit moved according to your instructions, although I could not see how that would help. I also had a pipe laid to bring fresh water in from the little brook above the house. That has been a popular move. My other daughters find the cooling spring water refreshing in this heat.’
I nodded politely. ‘Good, though I shouldn’t let them drink too much of it. The female sex is particularly susceptible to too much water. Salad rather than raw water, perhaps. And now, Sir Richard, by your leave.’ I tried to move off again, but he put a hand lightly on my arm.
‘There is not much you could teach me about the needs of the female sex, brother. With five daughters mine is a household of females. Oh, I am not complaining for they are a delight to their father in his old age. But a business like mine really needs a son.’ He leaned over and lowered his voice catching hold of my sleeve further preventing me from leaving. ‘Confidentially, Master Walter, they are a worry to me. They will all need husbands in time and no would-be husband wants damaged goods - pardoning your cowl, brother.’
‘Damaged goods?’ I frowned at the hand gripping my robe. ‘Oh yes, I see, damaged goods. Yes - quite.’ I could see the entrance to the tower frustratingly just a few feet ahead of me though it might as well have been half a mile for all the chance I had of reaching it.
Sir Richard nodded knowingly as one man of the world to another. ‘But what am I to do? I can’t lock them up for twenty-four hours a day. Their mother is dead, God rest her sainted soul, and I have only my dwarf servant, Ruddlefairdam, to look to their honour and he cannot be everywhere at once.’
‘I trust your daughters have not been compromised, Sir Richard,’ I muttered absently while peering anxiously up at the tower.
He shook his head vigorously. ‘No no no, as far as any man can be certain of anything I am certain of that. But it’s not for the want of trying. A houseful of fillies always has some young colt sniffing around. That young vagabond who got himself killed for one.’
I stopped. ‘Matthew? You mean Matthew the fuller’s son? The murdered boy?’
‘Aye, the same.’
‘But surely you are mistaken,’ I grinned nervously. ‘The boy was barely twelve years of age. He could not – with young ladies - could he?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s no mistake. He used to come to the house to sell his earth – for the cloth, you understand. But he was a sly one. Far too familiar with my eldest. In the end I had to confine him to the yard outside. Twelve years old you say he was?’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘It’s a sad sign of the times. Lads are starting earlier and earlier these days.’
‘Erm, forgive me Sir Richard, but you are sure we are talking abut the same boy: Matthew the son of William the fuller, on the Haberdon. Not some other boy?’
He was starting to look irritated, unused, no doubt, to having his word questioned. ‘I know the boy well enough, brother. As does that poor wretch up there,’ he said nodding to the tower. ‘He’s up there, am I right? The Jew?’
‘Yes yes,’ I said, squinting up through the sunshine at the tower. ‘He’s there.’
‘Then ask him. He knows the truth of it.’
I looked at him steadily. ‘Let me understand you, Sir Richard. You’re telling me that Isaac ben Moy knew the boy who was murdered?’
He looked at me as though I were a simpleton. ‘Of course he knew him. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? He killed him, so he must have known him.’
‘But you know this for a fact. You don’t just surmise? You are sure they knew each other before the murder?’
‘Brother, I know what I saw. I’ve seen them together.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry Sir Richard, I didn’t mean to doubt your word. I just needed to be sure.’ I smiled and bowed. ‘And now please forgive me but I really must go.’
Bad form or not, I could delay no longer nor hold in my excitement at his words and tugged violently on my sleeve at last releasing his grip. He let out a startled noise of protest but I did not wait to see if I’d offended him, I just had to get away.
‘I am pleased that your daughter is on the mend,’ I called over my shoulder as an afterthought. ‘Give her my blessing.’
But how unpredictable was the goddess Fortuna. If I had not bumped into Sir Richard by chance at the bottom of the tower I would have had little to say to the man at the top. This new piece of information changed everything. Before I was unsure what I was going to say to Isaac. Now I knew exactly what to say to him. With a lighter step than of late I bounded up the tower steps two at a time to the gaol room above.
Chapter 15
AN APOLOGY AND REVELATION
I felt a slight shiver of apprehension as I rounded the stairwell and stepped out onto the gaol level. I hadn’t expected to be back here quite so soon. Mother Han’s ‘husband’, the dumb gaoler, was sitting in his usual cubby-hole by the window. He looked a little confused at seeing me, not being quite sure if he was supposed to be locking me up again. But a silver penny unscrambled his mind enough to let me approach the cage while he went back to killing cockroaches with his thumbnail.
Isaac was kneeling in prayer in just about the same position that I had been doing a similar thing twelve hours earlier. Odd to think that we had both been addressing the same God. I coughed lightly and waited. He finished his prayer and came over to the side of the cage.
‘Master Walter. It is good to see a friendly face.’
‘Is that what I am? I thought I was gathering the means to hang you.’
He smiled. ‘I know you will gather it with an even hand. That is a godly thing to do.’
‘Hm. Well, let me take care of your earthly needs first. I expect you’re hungry.’ I held out the basket of bread and eggs I had purloined from the pittancer’s range. Slightly more wholesome than Mother Han’s mutton and cabbage I might hope, and certainly easier on the gut, but evidently not wholesome enough for Isaac.
‘Abbey food?’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘I cannot eat it.’
‘I thought eggs and bread were permitted under your dietary laws?’
‘It is not j
ust the type of food but how it is prepared. It is complicated.’
‘Even in your hour of extremis? Is your God so heartless?’
‘It is at such times that we are tested most, brother.’ He frowned. ‘Forgive me, I do not mean to lecture.’
‘Well,’ I said holding out a flask of water. ‘Adam’s Ale is the same in any faith. Will you drink?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ he said taking the bottle. He took a long draught before offering the flask back. I told him to keep it. It seemed the gaoler was no more considerate of Isaac’s physical comforts than he had been of mine.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘there is little time and much to discuss.’
I laid out the case against him: The similarities between Matthew’s death and those of Saints Robert of Bury and William of Norwich both of whom had been accepted as martyrs and both thought to have been murdered by Jews; the crucifixion-like wounds found on the body albeit that some of the wounds had been placed there post mortem; the universal presumption that no Christian could have made such wounds in mockery of Christ; the miracles performed by the boy and the mother’s oath corroborating early holiness and thereby confirming God’s special purpose for him; the chains discovered in Moy’s cellar that could have been used to restrain and torture the boy; the Knieler women being drawn apparently through divine revelation to Isaac’s house as the place of his martyrdom; and finally the fact that Matthew’s mutilated body had been discovered in Isaac’s garden.
When I’d finished I looked up. Isaac’s face bore the expression of stoic resignation.
‘I notice you do not challenge any of this,’ I said.
He splayed his hands. ‘To what purpose? The evidence is overwhelming. On the basis of your indictment I am already convicted.’
‘God in Heaven, man,’ I spurted angrily. ‘Won’t you even fight?’
‘God in Heaven knows the truth of it,’ he countered. ‘If He wills it, I will be saved; if not, then who am I to disagree?’
‘I see,’ I nodded. ‘You’re going to play their game too, are you?’
‘If this is how people are thinking, brother, how can I gainsay it? A mere Jew.’
Unholy Innocence Page 16
