Unholy Innocence

by Stephen Wheeler

  People were rushing about now and several monks were approaching from both sides trying to pincer the cornered Matilde and her brood. Others hearing the commotion had appeared at the west end of the church blocking any escape that way. There was no point arguing with them. Action was what was called for. I thought quickly. I would use the confusion to get them all safe. Jocelin arrived back with the casket and I pushed it into Jacob’s hands.

  ‘Take this,’ I said to the boy. ‘Don’t argue, just take it. It’s yours anyway. Take your sisters and Matilde and get to Norwich. Find your relatives – they are there. You know them.’ I looked back. Guards had appeared at the west door now – I could just make out the tops of their pikes as they started towards us. But the door at the far end of the south transept was still clear. I pointed towards it. ‘Go now. Go. Go!’

  A moment more of hesitation and then they turned and the last I saw of the four of them was as they pushed their way into the throng of milling pilgrims and disappeared from view. One of the monks had tried at the last moment to grab them as they passed, but Jocelin had tackled him successfully to the ground, God bless his bony white knees.

  Chapter 25

  A DEPARTURE AND A RETURN

  At last the day came for the King to be on his way. It was a relief to see him go on many levels but for me personally it would mean that Joseph might be able to return to his shop. I hadn’t seen him since the evening of the football match two weeks earlier when he came to warn me about Geoffrey de Saye. So much had happened since that night. I was looking forward to telling him all the news and hearing his comments which I was sure would be succinct and perceptive.

  For the past week the King’s agents had been picking over Isaac’s property removing anything of any value that could be salvaged and sold. Most of the furniture had been destroyed in the fire but some that had survived had been offered for sale to Abbot Samson who had graciously declined. However, I believe Prior Robert bought one or two fine pieces to grace his fine house overlooking the banks of the River Lark. Indeed, so eager had the King been to liquidate his newly-acquired assets I was surprised he didn’t simply hold an ad hoc auction on the road outside the burnt-out shell of Isaac’s house and have done with it. All this stocktaking of Isaac’s wares was, I gather, the reason Earl Geoffrey Fitz Peter had been on the Thetford road the day I was attacked by his uncle having been summoned by the King to make an inventory. Evidently de Saye had not informed his nephew about the existence of the casket of treasure any more than he had the King and for much the same reasons I expect. The loss of any treasure would, I am sure, be a devastating blow to King John.

  As the hour approached for the King’s departure the sense of anticipation was palpable. The entire abbey, obedientiaries, choir monks and servants all, turned out to wish the King a fond, speedy and hopefully final farewell. The three weeks of his stay had all but bankrupted the Abbot who now in exquisite irony would have to borrow the funds to finance it from Jews in neighbouring towns since, by his own ordinances, Bury no longer had any Jews of its own to scrounge from. Jocelin told me that as a token of his gratitude for our hospitality King John was to give back to the abbey the very silk cloth that his servants had borrowed from our sacristy when he first arrived and which normally adorns the High Altar of the abbey church. Since John hadn’t even paid for the cloth most of the monks were outraged by this display of shabbiness – though not, of course, out loud. They would have been even more outraged had they seen the cloth in question, as I had, draped around the naked body of John’s fourteen-year-old concubine. But I couldn’t help laughing at the joke. I also noticed, incidentally, that the monk who received the cloth from the King was the same sub-sacristan, Gerard, who’d had the tug-of-war over Jacob’s ear a few days earlier and who evidently was still nursing bruises from the encounter. I do hope he remembers to wash it before it gets used again.

  As a final act of blasphemy the King went to mass the morning of his departure, the first since his arrival three weeks earlier, and made great play of his donation to the poor of Bury. Considering how much he must have made out of the estate of Isaac ben Moy I thought he could have been a little more generous than the paltry twelve shillings he ostentatiously dropped onto the collection plate. But just as the plate was about to pass from the royal hand the King seemed to have second thoughts and called for its return.

  What was this? Had the King been toying with us after all? Was he now to make the generous departing gift so earnestly desired and expected of a visiting monarch just as his brother and father had done at the end of their royal visits?

  We craned our necks to see what bounty the King might be bestowing upon the abbey, but all he did was to borrow another shilling from one of his courtiers and tossed it nonchalantly onto the plate thus bringing the sum total of his gift to thirteen: ‘One for the baker,’ he announced in a loud voice, ‘to make a round dozen,’ and then proceeded to snigger at his joke throughout the remainder of the mass.

  With that the King took his leave and disappeared out of the East Gate of the town with the remnants of his army, his courtiers and his baggage train bringing up the rear all heading towards lucky Ipswich as the next stop on his journey back to London. Sic transit gloria mundi.

  I would add one post-script about the King’s constitution – his corporal constitution that is, not his political one. Abbot Samson had been right when he said that King John would have no wish to see me again, but he did send round a messenger to ask my professional opinion – unremunerated, naturally - concerning the bowel problem that had been the original cause of his extended stay at the abbey. He wanted to know what I would recommend so as not have to suffer a recurrence of the problem. I suggested a supplement to his diet of soft fruit in order to keep his bowels open: Plums, cherries - or perhaps, since he had an apparent fondness for them, peaches. But not too many, I cautioned, or he may have the opposite problem from the one that laid him low for so long. I have no idea if he ever took my advice.

  Even as the gates were closing on the last of the King’s wagons I rushed in the opposite direction up to the top of the town and through the Risby Gate to Joseph’s shop my heart pounding with anticipation at what I might find there. When I arrived I could hardly believe my eyes. All was magically back to where it had been the day before the King’s arrival, even down to Joseph’s staff which was in its usual position lying across the entranceway.

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ he said after I had embraced him and slumped exhilarated on his ubiquitous and infuriating cushions. ‘The Abbot has relented on his expulsion of the Jews and is to allow some back into the town – those who can contribute to his taxes.’

  ‘Into your old shop near the market?’ I said with a twinkle in my eye.

  ‘Possibly.’ He eyed me suspiciously. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea what might have changed his mind?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ I grinned.

  So, I thought, Samson had kept his word to me about relaxing his policy towards the Bury Jews – and maybe a touch of conscience might have sweetened his decision, although it was more likely pressure from the Jews of Thetford and Cambridge whose loans he was even now negotiating. I was glad for I did not wish to harbour bad opinions of Samson who I knew at bottom to be an honourable as well as deeply religious man. But like all men he was prone to the climate of other men’s thoughts and the exigencies of the times.

  ‘Dear God, it’s good to see you again,’ I said to Joseph. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. Yet, you know, even in my darkest hour I had the oddest feeling that you were never far away.’

  ‘Really? I can’t think why.’ He lightly clapped his hands together.

  ‘Mind you,’ I went on, ‘I had no need of anybody’s help, if truth were known. When de Saye attacked me in the forest, I was equal to him. It was lucky, really, that Earl Geoffrey arrived when he did or I don’t know what I might have done to the poor wretch even with one of my hands injured.’

&n
bsp; ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Oh yes. A flick of the wrist, a duck and a dive and I had him on his back laid out cold like a stunned rabbit.’

  ‘A stunned rabbit, eh?’ He clapped his hands again.

  I burst out laughing and threw one of his cushions at his head. ‘You old goat! I knew it was you all along watching over me, disappearing round corners, thwarting de Saye’s attempt to cut my throat in the forest. And I also know that it was you who stole Isaac’s testament from my cell. So, come on now, admit it.’

  His smile faltered slightly as he shook his head. ‘Not me, my brother. Quite impossible.’ He raised his leg and I could see that he had his foot heavily bandaged. ‘I badly twisted my ankle escaping from the abbey the night of the football match. I have been unable to do more than hobble about ever since which was why I went to stay with friends in the country. I haven’t been near the town since. It is nearly mended but I will be incapacitated for some days yet.’

  My mouth dropped open. ‘But I saw you. It must have been you.’

  I was baffled. I had been sure it was Joseph who had done all those things. But as I examined his foot I could see the bone was badly bruised and quite impossible to put any weight on it. I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘If not you, then who?’

  At that moment the screen parted and the boy Chrétien entered bearing a tray of refreshments. He set the tray down on the floor and proceeded to pour us a cup each of the steaming herbal tea. As he handed me mine I noticed one of his arms was scratched as though he’d been in some kind of violent tussle.

  No, I thought, that was a foolish notion and instantly dismissed it from my mind. Impossible. He was too light, too effeminate.

  Seeing him, though, reminded me of something else I needed to settle. ‘By the way,’ I said turning again to Joseph. ‘I believe I owe you some money.’

  He gazed vaguely into space stroking his brown beard. ‘No, I don’t think so. The abbey accounts are fully up to date. You paid me for that last purchase you made – have you forgotten?’

  I was growing frustrated. ‘I don’t mean my purchase account. I mean the bag of coin your boy here gave me,’ I said indicating Chrétien.

  But Joseph was shaking his head sadly. ‘My dear brother, I think in your tussle with Lord de Saye you must have hit your head harder than you thought. I have no idea what you’re talking about. And since you mention him, Chrétien is not my servant. He’s from your mother’s household.’

  My jaw inevitably dropped. ‘My mother?’

  ‘Yes. Did I not say? The Lady Isabel came to see me the day before the King’s arrival and brought him with her. She was quite insistent I should take him. Among his many attributes he is apparently a champion wrestler – are you not, Chrétien? I daresay she knew Geoffrey de Saye was to be among the King’s entourage and thought Chrétien might be useful to you. I hope he was.’

  You see now why I regretted not mentioning him the first time I saw him all those weeks ago, for had I done so I would have learnt all this sooner and might not have attacked him when I found him alone in the shop; might not have wasted my energies chasing shadows around the town; and might have joined forces with him to defeat the dread de Saye sooner. Mortified by my stupidity, I glanced again at Chrétien but he replied to none of this and was already disappearing behind the shutters and silently closing them after him.

  *

  So there you have it, the chapter missing from Jocelin’s Chronicle that should have been written but never was – until now. It has taken me forty years to summon the courage to do so and though I say so myself I think I have made a fair fist of it, although perhaps not as fair as Jocelin would have done. I would, however, add one final footnote to the tale: Despite his best efforts, many of Samson’s fears about the break-up of John’s empire did indeed come to pass - although Samson mercifully never lived to see its final demise. But his machinations had been for nothing for matters followed their own path which meant the whole tragic business concerning the fuller’s son need never have happened. In light of this it is ironic that the events leading to King John’s ultimate defeat were in part precipitated by a scandal involving the death of another child not much older than Matthew: Prince Arthur, the boy Samson was so scornful of occupying the throne and John’s greatest rival, was dispatched in the spring of 1203 aged just sixteen, many say by John’s own hand. That in turn led indirectly to the signing of his Great Charter which many Englishmen regard as marking the beginning of their freedom – an event, incidentally, also fermented within the walls of our abbey of Saint Edmund. But that is a tale for another time.

  A few months after the King’s departure I received a parcel from an unknown origin in Norwich. It contained no note or indication as to who sent it just a portion of a beautifully-carved piece of rosewood of the type that often adorns the sides of wooden caskets made in the East. It was from Jacob of course letting me know that he had arrived safely in Norwich. I have kept the carving ever since as a memento and can see it propped on a shelf above my study desk even as I write. Its exotic carvings and subtle colouring look slightly out of place against the unadorned dark oak of my lectern.

  Later still I heard that Samson had been as good as his word and given Matthew’s mother a pension out of his own purse, which was more than she deserved. I could be cynical and say this was to buy her silence but I know Samson’s character well enough to know it was probably done out of charity.

  The verdict of the King’s coroner, by the way, was that Matthew had been murdered by person or persons unknown. But the Jews were exonerated from all blame, I’m pleased to say, and specifically Isaac and Jacob ben Moy, Isaac receiving a posthumous pardon. This again I think was Samson’s doing for shortly after that some of the restrictions on the movement of Jews within the town were eased as Joseph had predicted and while suspicion did not entirely disappear, no more violence was perpetrated upon that unhappy race. Once again I will resist the temptation to cynicism and instead make recourse to the wisdom of Scripture: “And behold, there was in the carcass of the lion a swarm of bees and honey” – in other words, out of depths of evil comes sweetness.

  Dear God, I’m even starting to sound like Jocelin.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  The basis for the story is the spate of child murders that took place in 12th Century England. All these murders were blamed on Jews thus turning the victims into martyrs (the first victim, twelve-year-old Saint William of Norwich, is still venerated in a chapel in Norwich Cathedral today). The murder of another twelve-year-old boy called Robert occurred in Bury St Edmunds in 1181. Partly in response to this fifty-seven Jews were massacred in the town on Palm Sunday 1190.

  Jews in twelfth-century England were a useful source of finance before the invention of banks and at a time when the usury laws prevented Christians from lending money at interest. It was not unusual to try to get out of repaying these loans by destroying the records - or better still, by murdering the lenders as well.

  Many of the characters in the story existed in real life. Abbot Samson and Jocelin of Brakelond are well-known figures and were written about by Jocelin himself in his Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds. Walter the Physician also existed as did Geoffrey de Saye who was the real-life uncle of the Chief Justiciar of England, Geoffrey Fitz Peter, and great-nephew of yet another Geoffrey - the infamous Geoffrey de Mandeville, Scourge of the Fens.

  Jocelin records that King John did indeed visit Bury St Edmunds shortly after his coronation in May 1199 although he does not say how long he stayed. He did give the abbey its own silk cloth as his parting gift along with thirteen shillings. He may or may not have suffered from constipation during his visit, but he did die seventeen years later probably from eating too many peaches.

  SWW August 2011

  BLOOD MOON

  November 1214. King John has returned to England having lost his empire to King Philip of France. Humiliated and desperate for support, he again travels to Bury St Edmunds where Abbot Samson
has died and a battle is raging among the monks over who will be his successor.

  In the midst of this there arrives in the town a seemingly inconsequential young couple and their maid. The wife is heavily pregnant and gives birth in the night to a baby daughter.

  But then the maid is mysteriously murdered and it is soon apparent that the family is not all that it appears. With rebellion looming, abbey physician Walter of Ixworth is drawn once again into investigating a murder and a conspiracy that threatens to engulf the country in civil war and ultimately leads to the final nemesis that is Runnymede and Magna Carta.

  DEVIL’S ACRE

  January 1242. Brother Walter of Ixworth is dying. He is an old man but the prospect of death does not disturb him - indeed, he welcomes it to meet with old friends and see God in the face. But before he finally joins the heavenly host he is determined to solve one last mystery that has been plaguing him for decades.

  But there are dark forces afoot that want to frustrate his efforts and are prepared to go any lengths to keep secret events that even now could disturb the government of England, even murder.

  In his mind Walter returns to those far off times when Abbot Samson took him on a bizarre journey away from the comforting familiarity of Bury Abbey and into the wilds of barbaric Norfolk where the abbot’s power is limited and met by a far greater one in the guise of the Warenne family of Castle Acre - or as some still choose to call it, the Devil’s Acre.