by E. M. Powell
‘Murdering bitch!’ A woman spat full in Mirabel’s face.
The gob ran yellow down Mirabel’s white cheek. She couldn’t wipe it but didn’t flinch. Another woman grabbed a handful of her dark curls and pulled them from her head with a screech of a laugh. Still Mirabel stumbled on.
Gwen sidestepped past a couple of broad-shouldered women. She didn’t recognise them as local, but people had come from far and wide when word had got out of a Jew-burning. She needed to get a better view. De Faye had set her a clear test and would want to know exactly what had happened.
Everything seemed ready: the fresh-hewn stakes were planted and waiting in the high pile of kindling, branches and logs. A line of men with staves lined the edge of the woodpile.
‘What’re them fellers for?’ one of the big women asked of her friend.
‘Protection,’ replied the other. ‘Don’t want the devil coming down to rescue the bastards.’
The first one nodded. ‘Good idea. Or maybe some other Jews. They can do magic, you know. Come out of thin air, so they can.’
A young priest stepped from the mass of people, into the clear area in front of the woodpile awaiting the Mansers. His hands were joined in prayer, but his lips didn’t move.
The men hauled a struggling Josef over to the pile. The group sweated and swore as they wrestled him up onto it. Their boots scattered the carefully piled wood to a chorus of boos.
‘You cannot do this!’ shouted Josef.
‘Shut up.’ One of the men who held him punched him hard in the stomach, and he sagged with a sharp gasp.
They dragged him to the stake and quickly secured him there with lengths of chain: his waist, his knees. Last, his neck. He had no choice now but to face the mob.
Mirabel was brought forward next. Her gaze fell on her husband, and her knees gave.
One of the men who held her swore. ‘Another one to cart up.’
‘Get her clothes off !’ shouted an unseen man. ‘Make her lighter.’
The laugh echoed loud and long.
With a wide grin, Mirabel’s captor grasped the front of her dress.
Gwen stiffened. If they found the key her mistress had hidden in her dress, her plans would be ruined.
The priest unclasped his hands and raised a warning finger. ‘We are not savages.’
Disappointed, the man dropped his hand with a scowl, to jeers and whistles.
Gwen licked wetness back onto her dry lips. That was close.
The men made short work of securing Mirabel too. She came round as they did so, her gaze seeking out her husband.
The men climbed down from the woodpile, stacking it back up as they did so. Stepping off, they shook hands with each other and took offered jugs of beer. They drank deep and fast.
An ancient, grizzled man stepped forward next, a leather bucket in one hand and a brush in the other.
Those that knew him brayed their approval.
The women who weren’t locals looked over at Gwen with eyebrows raised.
‘Butcher,’ she said. ‘Tallow. Gives a good, steady burn.’
The women nodded in satisfaction.
The butcher set to work, loading his brush with the thick grease and slopping it all over Josef’s clothes, then Mirabel’s.
The Jews took no notice, now had eyes only for each other, whispering words that were too low to catch.
‘Wouldn’t get him to whitewash my walls,’ said one of the strangers, to a hoot of a laugh from her friend.
Job complete, the butcher got off the pile.
‘Quiet!’ called the priest.
A hush fell. No one wanted to miss this bit.
The Mansers’ low whispers carried on, like they were alone in the world, with only each other’s gaze of interest.
‘I told you to be silent,’ said the priest.
The Jews broke off and looked at him.
‘You know the crime of which you have been found guilty,’ said the priest. ‘The murder of Mary Fuller, an innocent child, whom you poisoned last week. You sacrificed her for the glory of your lord, Satan, in your scorn and contempt for Christ.’
‘We harmed no one,’ said Josef, ‘least of all a poor child.’
The priest blessed himself. ‘Lies and more lies, even at the point of your death.’
Another gust of cold wind tugged at Gwen’s shawl, and she held it tight. Lots of people had sickened in this foul weather, which had been handy. Little Mary Fuller just happened to lose her life on Passover eve. All it needed was a ready witness for what had killed her. A ready Christian witness. Everyone had believed her account of the murdering Jewish devils at the trial. Lie after lie, when they’d never believed the truth about Palmer. Funny, that.
The priest motioned to a waiting man, who handed over a long stick with a plain wooden crucifix attached to the top. The priest grasped the end, then moved it before Josef’s face.
‘You will be going to hell, Manser. You will be rejoicing at going to meet your dark master. But Christ is all merciful. Proclaim your faith in Him. Kiss this cross and repent. You could still be with Him in Paradise.’
Josef shook his head to an outbreak of curses and shouts.
‘Quiet!’ The priest turned round to face the din-makers. The cross, poorly secured, dipped onto its side.
‘The Jews are summoning Satan!’ came a shriek.
More screams, cries, shouts broke out. A few folk tried to run and flee, while others pressed forward, the better to see the devil descend.
The priest pulled the stick back and retied the cross. He held it aloft in triumph, to a new clamour of cheers.
‘Mirabel Manser, I offer you the same.’ The priest moved it before her.
‘No,’ she murmured. Then said it again. ‘No.’ Then louder. And louder. Until finally she was screaming the word, over and over.
Gwen wondered why. Then she understood.
For shepherded up onto the woodpile, iron chains around their necks and securing them in a line, were the five Manser children. With hands clumsy from the beer they’d drunk, the men fixed the children between the two posts. The brats quivered and wailed, the smallest one silent but with wet breeches.
Then even Mirabel’s screams were drowned out by the crowd. A man stepped forward, flaring torch in hand. He held it aloft so all could see, then plunged it into the edge of the woodpile. It took the first time. The flame jumped from branch to branch, eager to consume the Jews.
Gwen cast an eye at the sky. The rain should hold off. Good. She didn’t want to get wet through as she waited to complete her task for de Faye. It would be hours before those ashes would be cool enough to find the key Mirabel had. Then she’d leave this accursed place forever.
De Faye had far better plans for her.
De Faye did. Oh, indeed he did.
He slipped the crucifix from its red silk wrapping and held it up to the light, the better that Eleanor’s likeness might gaze upon its magnificence. ‘Soon, my love. It will encircle your fragrant, gracious neck soon.’
‘It will lie against my flesh, take warmth from it. As will you.’
‘It will. And I will.’ De Faye kissed the cross softly, then wrapped it up safely once more before returning it to its home.
He would keep it close with him always. Just as he would Eleanor.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Have you travelled this road often?’ asked Palmer of Stanton.
They rode at the rear of the small procession as it made its slow way from Woodstock to Godstow Nunnery.
‘Only when his Grace can’t make his weekly penance,’ said Stanton. ‘He’s very dedicated to it, so it’s not a very frequent journey for me.’
‘You’ll be faster than him.’ Palmer held the courser he’d ridden at the hunt in check. He shared the animal’s impatience to move fast
er. ‘And faster than us today.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Stanton. ‘Henry rides alone to Godstow. He’d not be burdened with a carriage like we are.’
Ahead, the covered carriage that held Rosamund and her servants swayed as it bumped along the rutted road, its supporting chains clinking on the axles. Leading on horseback, dressed in his bishop’s robes, was Geoffrey.
‘I can picture how pleased Geoffrey would be at the King’s unguarded rides.’ Palmer grinned at the thought. ‘An old habit Henry has never shed. But the King’s temper would win hands down.’
‘There is none to match him.’ Stanton’s eyes rounded in awe.
‘And as we talk of temper, has Rosamund’s mood improved?’ asked Palmer. ‘I didn’t see her this morning; she had already boarded the carriage when I arrived.’
‘Not much. She gave Geoffrey looks that would start a war. But she didn’t say anything.’
‘It’s for her own good.’ Palmer blew out a long breath. ‘Can’t say I’m overjoyed to be moving to a nunnery either.’ He eyed Stanton. ‘But you were pleased as a dog with two tails when Henry asked you to join this, eh?’
Stanton nodded hard. ‘It’s an honour. I still want to prove I can be more than a messenger. Maybe get a knighthood one day.’
Palmer pictured the future Sir Hugo Stanton’s reaction at being at the wrong end of a battleaxe and held in a laugh. ‘But until then, how are your messenger duties going?’
‘Do you mean have I been back to Cloughbrook?’
‘Keep your voice down, man.’
‘Sorry. But the answer’s no. Geoffrey and Henry have had me back and forth between them with all the fuss that’s been happening with the lady Rosamund.’
‘Understandable. And a bit more than fuss. But you need to ask Henry if you can fit in a journey to Theodosia. All she knows is that I’ve been sent into danger. She’ll have me dead and buried a hundred times a day.’
‘Would it help her?’
‘Of course it would.’ The little beggar just wanted to get out of another long ride.
‘And what would the King tell her to ease her mind?’ Stanton had force in his low tone. ‘That a leopard attacked you, is still on the loose? That you were nearly killed in a fire, could’ve broken your neck in a fall? That there’s a murderer abroad, and we don’t know who?’
‘Perhaps you’re right. For once.’ But Stanton was dead right. An account of the lethal events playing out here would give no one comfort. Palmer had nothing under his control. Worse, Stanton’s summary made him, Palmer, sound like a failing ninny. ‘I doubt such news would calm her. It’s best to leave it until we have better news to tell.’
Ahead, the walls of Godstow Nunnery rose up, gated against the world. They should promise security, a haven. Instead, they signalled retreat.
Theodosia watched the search of Cloughbrook from outside her own home, Joan beside her.
Tom and Matilde played on the bridge nearby in a noisy group of several other small children, too young to understand the dreadfulness of the undertaking and catching only the air of disturbance, of excitement.
Riding along the main street, Lord Ordell oversaw the progress from the saddle of his fine horse, able to see more and direct more from his higher vantage point. A group of the lord’s guards accompanied him on foot, armed and ready to deal with any resistance. Others made their way through the houses with an ordered rhythm, in a steady advance towards Theodosia’s home. The black-bearded reeve, Williamson, led them with great enthusiasm.
Theodosia linked her own fingers tight to steady her hands. It would not be long now.
As if reading Theodosia’s thoughts, a snort came from Joan. ‘Look at Ordell. I wouldn’t have thought it possible he could look any further down his nose at folk. But there he is.’
‘He is the lord of our manor, Joan.’
‘Lords can walk too, you know. And this isn’t a military campaign. Has he brought his lizard-face of a wife with him?’
‘Hush.’ Theodosia shook her head. ‘I heard word that her ladyship has been closeted all night with the Abbot in her shrine at the hall, in prayer that the sinner will come forward.’
‘And imagine: no one has.’ Joan’s eyebrows rose briefly.
Now the search advanced on the bridge. That only left the large Thatcher cottage and Theodosia’s own. Her stomach knotted. It was almost time. Joan had reassured her that there was nothing to be found to link them to the offerings in the woods. But Theodosia had searched the cottage well into the night last night, picking over every last thread to make sure nothing had been missed. Her triumph had been a tiny shred of eggshell that lay unnoticed beneath a shovel that leaned against the wall.
Joan had not shared her relief and had merely thrown it in the fire without remark.
The time neared when her scouring of her home would be tested.
Every other home, with the exception of hers and the Thatchers’ next door, had been searched. Those who had been found blameless surged along behind Ordell’s searchers, calling and whistling to each other as they packed the narrow bridge.
‘Hark at them,’ said Joan to Theodosia. ‘I swear they haven’t the sense of the youngsters. It’s the same as a day out at a fair to them.’
‘I am sure it is a relief to be found to have a clear conscience,’ said Theodosia. Not like hers.
‘More like they can’t wait to find someone guilty. A plague on every one of their stupid heads.’
Theodosia had no reply.
Ordell had caught her eye as he brought his horse to the next stop. She could swear she caught a knowing glance. A glance that promised triumph.
She locked her hands tighter.
The search reached the next-to-last cottage, that of Alf and Enide Thatcher.
Then it would be Theodosia’s dreaded turn.
Enide stood in the doorway, arms folded across her broad chest. Alf stood a little way into the road.
‘Move aside.’ Williamson pushed past Alf and went to do the same to Enide.
She did not budge. ‘Bugger off, Matthew. This is my home. I have cleaned it as usual this morning. There are no demons in my stockpot, my linen basket or anywhere else.’
A burst of laughter met her words from the watching assemblage.
Joan laughed loudly too. ‘You tell him, Enide!’
‘Enide, don’t.’ Alf tried to push through the knot of the lord’s searchers that surrounded her.
Ordell gestured to a couple of his waiting guards. ‘Remove her.’
Armed with axes, the two men went forward. One spun his axe, handle at the ready.
Enide faced him down.
‘Wait!’ Alf shoved his way in and grabbed the axe handle with his good hand.
‘Do you want a beating also, Thatcher?’ came Ordell’s sharp question.
‘No, my lord. No.’ With no way to pull his cap off, Alf bowed low instead. ‘My wife forgets herself. That’s all.’ He let go of the axe handle and pulled her away to a chorus of boos and hoots.
People wanted to see violence; Theodosia could feel it, almost taste it in the air. She could see it in Ordell’s grey-pallored face too, with his enraged expression at having been thwarted.
Enide stood beside Alf, who held her by the arm while the sounds of swords and sticks striking on walls came from within the cottage.
‘I’ll knock their heads for them if they break aught,’ said Enide.
‘Hush, love,’ said Alf.
Williamson walked out. ‘Nothing here either, my lord.’
‘Then there is but one remaining,’ said Ordell. His gaze from on high found Theodosia.
The crowd quietened, the better to hear what would happen.
‘And nothing to be found here either, my lord.’ She kept her voice steady, respectful. ‘I give you my word.’
; ‘I shall be the judge of that,’ said Ordell.
Theodosia swallowed. ‘Of course, my lord.’
Williamson marched up to her and Joan. ‘Then stand aside.’
Joan drew breath to reply.
‘Come.’ Theodosia pulled her away, fearing Joan would draw the wrath of Ordell as Enide had done.
Five men joined Williamson, and the sounds of objects being pulled out and overturned echoed out the open door.
Williamson marched out with an armful of clothing. Benedict’s clothing. ‘My lord.’
Theodosia’s heart nearly stopped. Was there something in the folds she’d missed? She grabbed Joan’s arm.
‘Say nothing,’ came the whisper in return.
‘You’ve made a discovery.’ Ordell’s response to his reeve came eager. ‘What is it? Amulets? Signs of sacrifice to Satan?’
‘Clothes.’ Williamson flung them on the ground. ‘They appear to be a man’s.’
Ordell frowned. ‘And?’
‘If Palmer has gone on pilgrimage, it is most odd that he brought no clothes with him.’ Williamson signalled for another man to step out.
The man held Benedict’s satchel and passed it to the reeve.
Williamson held it aloft. ‘And here we have his bag. It has his tools, his leather water carrier in it.’
Theodosia’s breath stalled in her chest in sudden panic. Of course. The lie she’d become so used to telling. She’d not stopped to consider how it would stand up to scrutiny. Joan was right: she, Theodosia, was a poor liar.
From the murmurs that floated from those watching, she could tell they debated it too. Even Joan held a questioning frown.
‘How do you explain this, Mistress Palmer?’ asked Ordell.
‘My husband was upset the night he left, my lord.’ The truth.
‘So upset he would not prepare for such a long journey?’ Ordell asked.
Theodosia opened her mouth to reply. With what?
‘He was full of ale when he left the cottage,’ came Joan’s swift answer. ‘Tried to drown his grief at the news of our family. And he wouldn’t be stopped.’
