The Sempster's Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  ‘For that,“ said Master Weir quietly, ”and because they’re profitable to Christians. Because they traded widely across Europe when few others did, they brought money into the reach of kings, princes, bishops, and lords. Money both to be loaned because Jews were allowed usury when no Christians were, and money to be taxed away into the coffers of those kings, princes, bishops, and lords. At least so I’ve understood it, and that therefore Jews were allowed to live among Christians. Now, because matters have changed and we Christians can do much of what only Jews did before, they’re no longer needed. So—“

  ‘That is not where the trouble lies,“ Brother Michael snapped. ”Those are worldly matters. I’m talking of the heresy the Jews have brewed in their secret teachings. Among themselves they’ve corrupted the faith of their forefathers into something else than what it was. By that they’ve broken their covenant with the Church that kept them safe in Christ’s care and become heretics!“

  ‘But the Christian faith has changed with the centuries,“ Master Weir said mildly. ”Why—“

  ‘The Church has never changed! It is the same now and for all Eternity,“ Brother Michael interrupted vehemently. ”Forever true to—“

  ‘Until St. Gregory the Great declared otherwise, the bishop of Rome was seen only as a bishop among bishops. Not head of all the churches of Christendom,“ Master Weir said, his voice level. ”It was an even later pope that claimed to hold sway over all earthly rulers, and…“

  ‘Everything taught by the Church is contained in Christ’s teachings.“ Brother Michael tapped the table again. ”Only the working out of time was needed to make them known and clear.“

  ‘Can’t the same be claimed for the ’changes’ you allege the Jews have made in their understanding of God’s word?“ Master Weir asked. ”That in the working out of time, they’ve come to understand better what was always there for them to know?“

  Brother Michael cast that aside with a sharp gesture. “When they clung to the Old Law, refusing the New Law of Christ, Jews forfeited all right to change. Having nonetheless changed and been found out in their vile corruption, they’ve voided their right to the Church’s protection and laid themselves open to the same fate as any heretic. They—”

  Mistress Hercy, in the clear, calm voice of someone taking control of her guests, broke in with, “Here comes Master Bocking at last. Master Bocking, we pray all is well?”

  Master Bocking, striding vigorously up the hall, was a man of hale middle years, his black hair well-greyed. He bowed deeply to both Mistress Hercy and Master Grene at once and said, “All’s well enough with me and mine. Not so good otherwise.” His English was not so clear as his nephew’s but clear enough. “The rebels are into Southwark, and the bridge’s gates have been shut against them.”

  Master Grene thumped a fist onto the table. “Where, by all that’s holy, is the king? Or least his lords?”

  ‘What matters,“ Mistress Hercy said firmly, gesturing Master Bocking toward his place at the table’s end, ”is that you’re here and they’re not, nor likely to interrupt our dinner.“

  ‘Or our supper, either,“ Father Tomas said, trying for lightness. ”Not with the river still between us and them.“

  That brought approving laughter along the table, even from Master Bocking, and talk went on around him while he ate, not about the rebels but in complaints against the king’s failures, until Father Tomas asked if anyone had heard more about the rumored rebel stirrings, in Essex now, rather than in Kent.

  ‘I hadn’t heard of them at all,“ Mistress Blakhall said.

  ‘It’s no more than another of the rumors we’ve heard a hundred of this year,“ Master Grene said, dismissing them.

  Which was true, Frevisse thought. Except that Essex was very near to London—and on the same side of the Thames. The meal finishing then, Mistress Hercy asked if the ladies would go up with her now to keep her daughter company a while. “Leaving the men to make what they will of the world and all,” she said.

  There being little choice, Frevisse, with what outward good grace she could, followed the other women from the hall and up the stairs into the expectedly rich parlor of a wealthy London mercer in what looked to be a range of rooms running along the south side of the courtyard. Well-windowed to north and south, it was filled with the afternoon’s warm light, with beautifully braided reed matting on the polished wooden floor, bright cushions along the window benches, several backed chairs and carved joint stools and floor cushions. On a square-topped table in the room’s middle was a silver bowl holding white roses and blue love-in-a-mist, and on the far wall, beside a door that probably opened into a bedchamber was a woven tapestry showing Dido and Aeneas on the shores of Carthage.

  Mistress Grene was seated in one of the chairs, the spread of her yellow loose gown of fine linen over the wide curve of her child-swollen belly leaving no doubt how near to birthing she was. She did not try to rise from her chair, only held out her hand to Mistress Blakhall, who went to take it while a half-grown girl stood up from the nearer window bench and made a deep curtsy to them all.

  ‘Mistress Grene and her daughter Lucie,“ Mistress Hercy said, smiling on the girl with a grandmother’s deep affection. ”Show the nuns what you’re embroidering for your brother-to-be, Lucie.“

  Everyone duly praised the small cap Lucie was embroidering with a cross-stitched pattern of tiny flowers, and Frevisse supposed that next they would all sit and fall into talk, and that in a while servants would bring something to drink, and sometime Master Grene would come and wonder if she and Dame Juliana would care to see his damask, and somewhere in the house Master Naylor was fuming because the rebels were in Southwark at the far end of London bridge, and only finally would she and Dame Juliana be able to return to St. Helen’s. The best she could hope for was a quiet word with Mistress Blakhall on when they might meet again at her house.

  But they had only just sat down when Master Grene came in, all his smiling graciousness gone. Giving no one else any heed, he crossed to kneel in front of his wife, taking both her hands as he said, “Pernell, my love, Father Walter has just sent from St. Swithin’s to say there’s been a body found in the church. He wants…”

  Chapter 10

  Mistress Grene began struggling to rise, crying, “It’s Hal!”, but Master Grene sprang to his feet, holding her by the shoulders, saying quickly, “No. Listen.”

  ‘I know it’s Hal,“ she cried. ”I know.“ ”We don’t know,“ Master Grene insisted. ”That’s why Father Walter sent for me. Because they don’t know. I didn’t want you to hear from a servant that I’d gone, and where, and why. I knew what you’d think. But you mustn’t. Not until we know. Hush now. For the baby’s sake.“

  Mistress Grene was clinging to his hands now, desperately wanting to be reassured, but she looked to Mistress Blakhall and said, her voice catching on the words. “Do you go with him. To see for me.” And pleaded when Mistress Blakhall drew back in her chair, her eyes widening with refusal, “Please. I can’t.”

  ‘I’ll go,“ Mistress Hercy said despite she was gone as white as her daughter.

  But Mistress Blakhall had overtaken her unwillingness and said firmly, “No, I’ll go if you need me to, Pernell.”

  Mistress Hercy looked about to protest that, but Frevisse, to sort them out the more quickly, said, “Mistress Hercy, you should stay with your daughter. Mistress Blakhall, I’ll go with you if you like, so you won’t be alone in this. Dame Juliana, will you stay here with them for their better comfort?”

  Having held office often enough at St. Frideswide’s to value the use of strong decisions quickly made, Dame Juliana nodded ready agreement.

  Master Grene quickly kissed his wife’s cheek. “I’ll send word as soon as I’m sure. It’s going to be all right.” One of those meaningless promises that served to soothe only those who didn’t think about them.

  Brother Michael, Master Weir, and Master Bocking were waiting at the stairfoot. They looked their surprise at see
ing the women, but Master Grene said, “Master Bocking, would you go up and keep my lady in talk? So she doesn’t fret more than need be while I’m gone. Brother Michael, Daved, I’d like you with me, if you would.”

  Master Bocking said, “But of course,” gave a brief bow to Frevisse and Mistress Blakhall and went for the stairs as Master Grene started for the outer door, saying, “Let’s make haste and have this done.”

  Outside, in the yard, Master Naylor and Dickon came from among the household servants gathered staring and talking there. “You’re going?” he asked Frevisse.

  Without pausing, Frevisse said, “With Mistress Blakhall, yes. Dame Juliana is staying to keep Mistress Grene company.”

  ‘We’ll come with you, then,“ Master Naylor said and fell behind her with Dickon.

  She let them because there was no reason not to, and after all they had not far to go. St. Swithin church stood where St. Swithin’s Lane met wide Candlewick Street, and what neighbors did not provide toward the crowd starting to gather in the churchyard, passersby on the busy street did; but a way cleared readily for Master Grene, who only shook his head and did not answer what questions were asked as he passed. The two men on guard at the church door to keep out the curious stood aside to let him and the others go in, and Frevisse barely saw the statue of St. Swithin with his crozier, closed book, and cloud on the gable above the door before she was inside. It was an older church, with the round columns of Norman times along the narrow nave, but newer aisles added to either side and the roof raised by a new-made clerestory of pale stone and glazed windows that filled the church with sunlight told of the wealth of its parishioners here in London’s heart. Despite the guard outside, there were a number of men already here, mostly priests and probably belonging to the church, and from among them Father Tomas came toward Master Grene, saying, “The body is below. In the crypt. The constables and under-crowner have been sent for, but Father Walter thought you should come because…” The priest dropped his voice. “… he does think it is Hal.”

  ‘Thinks?“ Mistress Blakhall said with distress. ”He can’t tell?“

  ‘Anne,“ Master Grene said gently. ”Hal’s been missing nearly a week. You’d maybe best not…“

  Mistress Blakhall lifted her chin. “I told Pernell I’d see.”

  ‘You shouldn’t,“ said Master Weir.

  ‘Father Walter,“ Father Tomas said carefully, ”says he died a bad death.“

  One way and another, Frevisse had seen violently dead bodies before this, and she doubted with the men that Mistress Blakhall should see this one; but stubbornly Mistress Blakhall said, “I told Pernell I’d see for her. I have to.” However little she wanted to hold to her word, now that she had found out what it would mean, Frevisse thought, and thought the better of her for it.

  Father Tomas still hesitated, looking to Master Grene, who after a moment nodded for him to lead on.

  The way to the crypt was through a door standing open in a west corner of the nave. Stone steps went down into thick shadows, with only the uneven flicker of a single candle on a pricket at the stairfoot to light the way. Father Tomas went first, Master Grene and Brother Michael behind him and then Master Weir, who turned sideways to hold Mistress Blakhall’s arm as she descended. Frevisse paused to say to Master Naylor, “It’s maybe better you and Dickon wait here. There’s going to be people enough in the crypt, as it is.”

  ‘It’s maybe better you wait here, too,“ Master Naylor said.

  Not deigning to answer that, Frevisse turned from him, cleared her skirts from her feet, and started down. Was halfway down when the gorge-rising smell of rotting flesh reached her. At the stairfoot Mistress Blakhall had started to gag, and Master Weir was saying quickly, “Hold your sleeve over your nose and mouth. Breathe through it.”

  Fumbling with haste, Mistress Blakhall did. Frevisse noted that he did not. Nor did she, knowing that in a while her mind would refuse the stench and she would cease to note it. Or at least to note it so stomach-churningly.

  They moved away toward an unseen lantern’s light at the crypt’s far end, Master Weir steadying Mistress Blakhall on the uneven earthen floor, Frevisse taking care of her own steps in the darkness between the stairfoot’s candle and the lantern-light beyond the piled wooden coffins that half-filled the crypt, set on shelves along the walls and between the two rows of squat stone columns running the crypt’s length— stunted brothers to the ones in the nave above them.

  The body lay on the floor in the gap between the last piled coffins and the crypt’s end wall, hidden by two men already there beside it. Frevisse looked first at them, rather than trying to see the body, guessing that Father Walter was the middle-aged priest with a silver-gilt crucifix on a silver chain around his neck and an appearance of authority, while the other was simply a plain-dressed young priest, kneeling beside the body with eyes closed, murmuring in rapid prayer, his face the whey-color of someone who had just been—or was going to be—very sick.

  Mistress Blakhall, ahead of Frevisse, able to see the body first past Master Grene and Brother Michael, gave one sickened cry and turned away. An arm around her waist, Master Weir moved her away into the shadows, and Frevisse edged forward to look past Father Tomas and the other men.

  The body was lying naked on its back, legs straight, arms outstretched to either side. Rats had been at it, and bloating had begun. In places the greenish skin had begun to slip loose from the flesh. The days of decay, even in the cool crypt, had had their toll but…

  Hush-voiced, Father Walter said, “It’s Hal, isn’t it?”

  The words flat with his strangled feelings, Master Grene answered, “It’s Hal. Yes.”

  Father Tomas knelt down and began to pray with the young priest, their voices low together. “… animam famuli tui, quam de hoc saeculo migrare iussisti, in pacis ac lucis regione constituas…”… the soul of your servant, which from this life you have ordered to go, into the place of peace and light…

  Brother Michael, still standing, went on staring at the body, seemingly intent beyond horror.

  ‘My wife…“ Master Grene said. ”She can’t see this. She can’t ever know… what… how…“

  ‘Not while she’s bearing,“ Mistress Blakhall choked, still with her back turned. ”It would kill her and the baby both. Or mar the child.“

  Brother Michael, his voice odd, said, “Those marks on his chest and stomach.”

  Of them all, he and Frevisse were the only ones still fully looking at the body. The sight sickened her, but a week ago this ruined, decaying body had been alive. Had been a boy with thoughts, feelings, hopes. Had been someone who expected to be alive this day and other days after it, had expected to see summer end and autumn come and winter after that and another spring. Not be a rotting corpse unfound and unmourned for almost a week. He deserved more than her sickened, averted glance, and she looked at what was left of him, trying to see beyond it to the boy there had been, despite how little of his face remained.

  But like Brother Michael she was also seeing the shallow wounds all over his chest and stomach. The rats did not account for the score or more of long, blood-blackened gashes into the corpse’s chest and belly—thin slices into the flesh, done with the point of a very sharp knife or dagger—except for a single, wider one under his right breast that looked to have been a killing-deep thrust to the lung. She hoped that had been the first one—that he had been dead before the rest were done to him.

  ‘And the wounds in his hands and feet,“ Brother Michael said.

  Frevisse had not seen those until now—the deep cuts driven into both of his hands and both of his feet. She was refusing to understand them when Master Grene said with hush-voiced horror, “He’s been crucified.”

  Father Walter groaned, “I know. God save us. Devils and fiends were here.”

  ‘Not devils,“ Brother Michael said. ”Jews.“

  The young priest broke off praying with a gasp. Father Tomas went quiet. Somewhat desperately Father Walter
said, “There’ve been no Jews in England for a hundred years and more.”

  In a voice as dark as the lantern shadows cast upward on his face, Brother Michael said, “Jews are everywhere. Known and unknown. Secretly as rats in walls. Waiting to pollute—”

  Heavy footsteps down the stairs and the sudden jump of new lantern light among the crypt’s shadows interrupted him. Of the two men who came with the light, the first carried himself in a way that told he was either the under-crowner or else a constable even before Father Walter said with open relief, “Master Crane,” and added to Brother Michael, “He’s a constable of Walbrook Ward here.”

  ‘And Master Lewes, my clerk,“ Master Crane said. He started to say more, but his gaze had fallen toward the body, and his words and face froze. Then he crossed himself, saying, ”Dear God.“