‘Do you deny the charges?’
His eyes filled with sudden anger and frustration. ‘Certainly I deny them. There is not a scrap of evidence for any of it. The list is entirely circumstantial.’
‘Of course there is no evidence,’ I agreed. ‘But as the Abbot says, your case will not turn on evidence.’
He gave a sick smile. ‘Ah yes, trial by ordeal. Tell me, how do you rate my chances of surviving that?’
‘None. You will be agonisingly mutilated and then hanged.’
‘Oh please brother, don’t spare me with soft words.’ His body shook as though he had been suddenly thrust naked into a world of ice. ‘You know,’ he shuddered, ‘I have never understood the Christian hatred for members of my faith. We honour the same God as you; we cause no wars; we keep the King’s peace. We harm no-one. It baffles me what we are that makes you despise us so.’
‘I do not see why it should baffle you,’ I dismissed blandly. ‘To me the answer is obvious. You are guilty of being different. You represent the unknown. Every man fears the unknown. It may herald good or it may herald evil, but why take the risk? Safer to strike it out before it has a chance to do damage. And most unforgivable of all, not only are you different but you choose to remain different. That is why you are despised.’ I leaned forward close to the bars of the cage. ‘And, Isaac ben Moy, you are also a liar.’
He looked at me in shocked disbelief. ‘How so?’
‘You told me you did not know the murdered boy,’ I said quickly. ‘I have a witness who says you did. That you knew him – intimately.’
‘That is a lie!’
‘My witness is unimpeachable. He has no reason to lie.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Indeed you do. Any association between you and the boy implicates you in his murder. You knew that when I first interviewed you and you chose to hide it. You placed your hand on the Old Testament, the Tanakh, and you deliberately dissembled.’ I grabbed his hand through the bars. ‘This same hand that will justly burn on Monday if you do not tell me the truth now.’ The gaoler stirred behind me wondering whether to interfere.
‘I did not lie,’ Isaac insisted panicking to retrieve his hand, but I held on tight. ‘I did not know him. Not in the way you mean.’
‘What way do I mean? Isaac, tell me now while you can, what was this boy to you?’
He managed to free his hand from my grip and cradled it like an injured puppy, whimpering.
I slammed the bars of the cage. ‘Tell me, God damn you!’
I heard the gaoler again shuffle behind me but he did not intervene. There was a long pause while Isaac rocked in despair. I thought for a moment he would tell me, but in the end he just lowered his eyes and shook his head.
‘Then you are lost,’ I said.
*
‘You were pretty h-harsh with him,’ said Jocelin later when I told him. We were sitting in the north range of the cloister enjoying the warmth of the midday sun. The sunshine was making me quite drowsy, my interview with Isaac having exhausted me more than I realised and the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with me. Jocelin had his inevitable knapsack propped between his knees.
‘Shock tactics,’ I defended casually, watching the comings and goings of the other monks. ‘I was hoping to frighten him into telling me the truth.’
‘And what is the t-truth?’
‘I don’t know. Something is stopping him from telling me. I think he’s already given up. He spoke like a man resigned to his fate. Before I left the gaol he made me promise again to give the casket to his wife when he’s gone. But I don’t know how I will be able to do that now. Samson has it in his study but he may not release it to me. He certainly won’t if the King gets to hear what’s in it.’
‘And Lord de Saye, no doubt, will be h-happy to tell him,’ nodded Jocelin.
‘To be sure,’ I agreed bitterly, ‘if only to ingratiate himself further with King John. One thing I’m pretty certain of, though, is that he won’t have told him about the testament.’
Jocelin raised his eyebrows. ‘Testament?’
Oops. That was a mistake. I must be more tired than I thought. I still hadn’t told Jocelin about the testament fearing he would reveal its existence to Samson. Even now, I realised, I was suspicious of Samson’s motives in assigning Jocelin to be my assistant. If there was a question of divided loyalties I couldn’t be certain which way he would lean. Too late now, the genie was out of the bottle. There was nothing for it but to come clean and tell Jocelin how Isaac had given me the testament the day we recovered Matthew’s body and how it went missing at the same time as the casket - omitting the one small detail about my hiding it inside his treatise on Saint Robert of Bury thereby losing that too.
‘What was in this t-testament?’ he asked when I’d finished squirming my excuses.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It was sealed.’
‘S-so it could be anything – a confession even. Have you m-mentioned it to Father Abbot yet?’
‘No, not yet,’ I grimaced. I was sure now Jocelin would want to tell him.
He thought for a moment. ‘Then don’t. Samson will be the officiating judge at the trial. If he, too, suspects it might be a confession it could colour his j-judgement. That would be unf-fortunate to say the least.’
‘Oh quite – well yes. I couldn’t agree more,’ I said, relieved. I looked at him sheepishly. ‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the casket and the testament. The truth is, until today I really didn’t know if they had any bearing on the murder. And you have to understand that Isaac took me into his confidence.’
‘Oh, I understand p-perfectly,’ said Jocelin.
‘Good,’ I smiled.
‘I understand that you didn’t t-trust me – that you still don’t trust me – to be impartial in this investigation. You think I am spying for Father Abbot.’
‘No, really I -’
‘I b-believe he thinks that too as a m-matter of fact,’ he continued as though delivering an academic treatise to a class of students. ‘Although he has not asked me in s-so many words. As for this other matter - I don’t b-blame you for having sympathy with Isaac ben Moy - we would not be human if we did not pity him. But it was extremely stupid of you to have allowed yourself to become his confidant, and even more stupid to have kept the fact to yourself. Had you told me about the testament I would almost certainly have advised you to read it. You had the authority to do so. Now that opportunity is lost. S-similarly, if you had told me about the casket you would almost certainly not have spent last night in the tower for I would have been able to vouch for you. That was a failure of duty on your part for it helped no-one having the chief investigator locked up, least of all Isaac ben Moy. You have squandered a whole day with your secretiveness and suspicions when we have precious little time left and we will now have to work twice as hard to make it up. But worst of all I thought that you might have r-realised by now that whatever my own personal beliefs about the boy Matthew I am as keen on finding the truth of what happened to him as you are. Oh, and while I am putting matters straight, it was not I who betrayed your comment to Father Abbot about the state of Saint Edmund’s body the day of the King’s banquet. I am saddened that you should have thought me capable of such a thing. B-but we did not know each other so well then. I had harboured the hope that our work together these past few days might have engendered a better understanding between us, and m-might even have extended as far as…friendship.’
I was speechless. He was right in what he said, every word of it – again delivered, I noticed, barely without a stutter. The catalogue of my transgressions and idiocies would have filled several pages of his tight script. I was guilty of arrogance, conceit, stupidity, suspicion, vanity, deception, contempt for others – most especially for Jocelin. My confessor, Brother Ronald, will be weary of my litany of self-complaint before I am finished. What could I say to this man who I had treated so abysmally? I vowed there and then that I would never
again treat him so contemptuously.
For a few minutes all I could do was stare at the wall opposite the silence hanging heavily between us. Monks came and went along the cloister wall without my seeing them. Finally I was able to find my voice again:
‘What, erm, did you manage to glean from Matthew’s tutor?’
He shook his head. ‘Ranulf would hear n-nothing against the boy. He claims he was a model pupil. In his eyes Matthew is already a saint. However,’ he smiled, ‘there is one interesting fact I m-managed to find out about him. It has to do with his age. He wasn’t as young as we’ve been led to believe. I got the p-parish p-priest of Saint Botolph’s Haberdon, Father Paul, to show me his baptismal records. I was puzzled at first because I could not f-find Matthew’s name in the rolls for eleven-eighty-seven. So I looked at the rolls for the years either side. Matthew was named for his saint’s day in the thirtieth of Henry. Now, King Henry,’ he said rummaging in his knapsack, ‘came to the throne on December the nineteenth anno domini eleven-fifty-four, s-so his thirtieth would have been - let me see -’ He pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘Eleven-eighty-five making Matthew fourteen when he died, not twelve as we p-previously thought.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ I said and realised immediately it might explain another inconsistency. I told him what Sir Richard de Tayfen had said about Matthew’s interest in his daughter. Difficult enough to believe in a child of fourteen, but not as difficult as in a child of twelve. It also rendered the boy less than the pure in heart we were led to think he was, and certainly no pre-pubescent child.
‘Didn’t you say part of the reason these boys are chosen by the Jews for sacrifice is for their innocence? If Matthew wasn’t as young as we thought then that surely weakens the argument against Isaac.’ I grinned rubbing my hands together. ‘Things are looking up.’
Jocelin studied me for a moment. ‘Forgive me for saying so, brother, but you’re sounding more like Moy’s defence c-council than the chief investigator.’
I shifted awkwardly. It was something Samson had also noticed. ‘It’s as you said before, I pity his plight,’ I defended. ‘A-and with so many eager to hang this crime on him I think it reasonable to have someone on his side. And as you so rightly pointed out just now, I betrayed his trust. Because of my incompetence he may well die and his wife and family end up penniless. I have ground to make up. A slight leaning in his direction I feel is not amiss - to redress the balance somewhat.’ I grimaced, unconvinced myself of my own argument.
Jocelin thought for a moment. ‘Have you considered that may be part of his strategy - to influence the c-course of the investigation? To win your sympathy?’
‘I prefer to think that it is a sign of his desperation that he had to turn to me, a complete stranger, a Christian and possibly his chief persecutor, to help him.’ I frowned at the sunlight. ‘It seems to me that everywhere you look someone has something to gain from finding Isaac guilty: The King covets the man’s wealth; our brother monks wish for a new saint to venerate. No-one seems to be bothered about finding the truth.’
‘The elusive truth again,’ smiled Jocelin.
‘Indeed,’ I said resolutely. ‘And I intend to get to it even if that means upsetting the Abbot, Geoffrey de Saye, or even the King himself. But mark me,’ I put on what I hoped was my sternest face for Jocelin. ‘If it turns out that Isaac ben Moy really is the murderer of this boy then I will be the first to put the rope around his neck, make no mistake.’
Jocelin smiled and nodded. ‘S-speaking of mistakes, I noticed that Matthew’s mother d-didn’t try to correct the one about the boy’s age when we spoke to her. ‘
‘Yes, you’re right. Perhaps we should tackle her about it. God, there is so much to do and so little time.’
Jocelin looked thoughtful. ‘It seems to me we are dealing almost with two completely d-different people. There’s Matthew the child saint eulogised by Egbert, Ranulf, Jeremiah et al. And then there’s the urchin Matthew described by your Mother Han, who r-runs about the streets and lechers after girls. Which is the real Matthew, I wonder?’
‘When we know that we’ll know which one got himself murdered, the saint or the sinner. And then perhaps we will know the reason why.’
Two young monks I knew to be among those who had supported the canonization of Matthew at his requiem came out of the inner parlour. They were in animated conversation which stopped abruptly when they saw me. I was dreading they might come over and braced myself for another barrage of abuse. But they merely nodded politely, if coolly, and walked off the other way towards the church. I could sense Jocelin tense and then relax next to me again.
‘What happened to the four Knieler women?’ I asked him gazing up at the brilliant round globe of the sun. ‘I haven’t seen them beside the grave today.’
‘Samson had them removed,’ he said. ‘He d-doesn’t think they are genuine either. I think they may have resumed their vigil outside Isaac’s house.’
Poor Rachel, I thought. That’s all she needs.
‘I think that’s where I should go next, see how she’s faring. God knows what the poor woman must be going through alone in that house with three young children. But she showed herself to be a woman of spirit when we were there. Maybe she can animate Isaac into fighting for what is undoubtedly going to be his life.’
‘Do you want me to come too?’ Jocelin asked.
‘No. She thinks poorly enough of our Christian ways. One monk is intimidating. Two may clam her up completely.’
*
On my way to the Moy house I thought I’d make a quick detour to Joseph’s shop again to see how things were there. I hadn’t been for a few days and it was an insubstantial structure vulnerable if left unattended, and though it had appeared to be all right on my last visit I felt a duty to go up there again to keep an eye on it. It would be one less worry on my mind if I knew it was safe and one less distraction from my difficult task. As before, I went out of the town through Risbygate, turned right and walked the few dozen yards to the shop.
When I got there I was appalled at what I found. It had always been such a welcoming place, lively, busy and filled with the most wonderful artefacts, exotic plants and herbs, spices and potions in colourful bottles and glorious silks and fabrics from the East. All had gone, the shop entirely empty, shutters up and blinds down. My eyes filled with tears at the sight of such dereliction. I was almost too distraught to go inside but I forced myself to push at the door and step across the threshold.
The interior was dark and damp where just a fortnight earlier it had been light and airy, and where there had been the fragrance of incense now was the stench of dereliction and decay. I had no doubt animals and probably vagrants had been in. I knew Joseph had intended going but I had thought he meant to leave the place ready for his return as soon as the King and his entourage had left the town. But this was total abandonment. Coming on top of my concerns over the murder I suddenly felt very weary and realised the events of the past two weeks and lack of sleep had taken a greater toll on me than I had thought. The emotion must have got to me then because I let out a sob of such despair I surprised myself. The sound must have disturbed someone in the inner sitting room because I heard a noise.
‘Who’s there?’ I called angrily and readied myself to fight whoever it was. But the screen parted and a tall lithesome figure appeared in the doorway. The possessor was in shadow at first and I could not see who it was, but then I recognised the young man who had served the tray of spiced must and sweetmeats the last time I was here. I hadn’t liked the look of him then and finding him alone now when Joseph was away annoyed me all the more.
‘You,’ I said. ‘I thought it was a vagrant.’
‘There was someone until two days ago, but I threw him out. I am alone here now.’
I didn’t believe that. By the look of him he couldn’t have thrown a cat out never mind a vagrant. He was clearly up to no good.
‘You know who I am?’ I demanded.
He nodded. ‘Joseph’s brother.’
I bridled at his impertinence. ‘You call your master by name? I wonder if he knows. Where is your master?’
‘Gone.’
‘I can see he’s gone,’ I said sharply. ‘I’m asking you where?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You do, you just won’t tell me. And by the way, what is your name? I don’t think I heard it. Do you not know to show courtesy when you address a brother of the abbey?’
He did not flinch but spoke steadily. ‘My name is Chrétien.’
I snorted. ‘That’s a name for a French ponce. What’s your real name?’
‘It is the name Joseph chooses to call me.’
‘Oh, does he?’ I wagged an admonishing finger at him. ‘I’ll tell him all this when next I see him, don’t think I won’t.’
I’d had enough of his insolence and was about to order him out of the place when I noticed something he was holding behind his back.
‘What have you got there?’
He produced the object, a money purse which I snatched from his grasp. ‘I’ll take that, thank you.’
I opened the purse and saw that it was indeed filled with dozens of silver pennies - doubtless takings from Joseph’s business. This was probably the real reason the boy was here today. I’d clearly caught him in the act of stealing it and was in two minds whether to call the Beadle. But I reluctantly concluded that anyone on the premises, even this ne’er-do-well, was better than no-one.
‘I’ll keep this,’ I sniffed turning to leave. ‘And tidy the place up a bit. Living here as though you owned the place. I shall be back to make sure you do, probably when you least expect me. So beware.’ And giving him one last sneer of disapproval I marched smartly out of the building.
Outside I felt oddly elated by the encounter and relieved at least to have heard news of Joseph. I set off back towards the town feeling unexpectedly refreshed and ready to tackle the harridan who was Isaac ben Moy’s wife.
Unholy Innocence Page 17
