Frevisse, stepping back to make room for him, glimpsed Mistress Blakhall and Master Weir where they stood beyond the nearest pillar, safely beyond seeing the body and turned to each other, only shadow-shapes against the distant candleglow but with something in the way they were together—a unexpected nearness that she would, another time, have thought on; but over the boy’s body Brother Michael was repeating his assertion against Jews to Master Crane, with, “My work in France was to find them out, so I know…”
Seeming not to care what the friar knew, Master Crane asked Master Grene, “This is your stepson? You’re sure of it?”
‘I’m sure.“
‘How long has he been missing?“
‘Since Thursday last past. In the evening. He’s apprenticed to Master Yarford in Rother Lane. He went out after supper and didn’t come back.“
Master Crane stared grimly at the body. “Looks to have been dead that long, too.” He shifted his stare to Father Walter. “You found him? Why wasn’t he found before? By the smell, if nothing else.”
‘It’s cool in the crypt,“ Father Walter answered, firm in his authority. ”Corruption comes more slowly here. The floor of the nave is stone, and so there’s no smell in the church yet. It was only because I came down here I found… smelled… found him.“
‘Why did you come down here today and not before?“
‘There was no need before today. But Master Neve died at dawn, and his wife wants him in the crypt. I came to see about a place for him.“
‘All of which is neither here nor there,“ Brother Michael broke in almost angrily. ”I’m saying it was Jews did this profanation.“
‘Why are you so set on that?“ Master Crane demanded at him. ”Yes, I see the hands and feet and the wound in the side. I’m not blind. But those could be done by some half-mad Christian without bringing Jews into it. There’ve been no Jews in England—“
‘Those marks,“ Brother Michael interrupted. ”The Hebrew letters gashed into his flesh. Who else but a Jew would make them? Why else would they be made except for a Jew’s purpose? This was no plain killing. This was done by Jews. It was one of their ritual murders!“
Silence deep as the darkness in the crypt’s far corners enwrapped them. No one moved and no one spoke, all stares fixed on Brother Michael, whose own look dared anyone to deny his charge. Of all the crimes that could be done against Christendom, ritual murder was among the worst—the killing of a Christian child by Jews in mockery of Christ’s crucifixion. England had two boy-saints, St. William of Norwich and Lincoln’s little St. Hugh, both said to have suffered that fate generations ago. Throughout Europe, an accusation that a child found dead had died at Jewish hands was all too often all that was needed to bring on a seeking out and killing of Jews—any Jews—men, women, children—in blind revenge. But into the crypt’s heavy silence full of that thought Frevisse said slowly, “Pope after pope has decreed there’s no such thing as ritual murder by Jews.”
‘And yet there…“ Brother Michael pointed at the body. ”… there is proof of it!“
‘Those marks,“ Father Tomas said, his voice small, as if he would smother the words as he said them, ”are not Hebrew. They are maybe meant to look so, but they are not.“
‘You’d know Hebrew to see it?“ Brother Michael challenged with an edge of scorn.
Gripping the cross hanging on his breast with a trembling hand, Father Tomas met the friar’s stare with his own straight look. “I would know.”
Brother Michael’s scorn went into something sharper. “How?”
Afraid though Father Tomas openly was, he lifted his head, bracing for an attack he knew would come, and said, “Because I saw my grandfather’s Jewish books when I was young.”
Chapter 11
Brother Michael’s was not the only sharp-drawn breath, but his was the accusation afterward. “You’re Jewish!”
‘I am Christian.“ With no going back, Father Tomas seemed to gather strength. ”I was baptized at birth. My parents—“
‘Where?“ Brother Michael demanded. ”Antwerp. Where my parents went after being forced from Portugal.“
‘Because they were Jewish!“
‘Because their parents had been Jewish. In Spain now that is not forgiven even unto the third and fourth generations.“ Father Tomas’ bitterness was undisguised. ”Converses and their children and their children’s children are watched and hunted by the Inquisition. For the chance to be Christians in peace, my parents left, taking my father’s father with them, the last of any family they had left. In Antwerp no one knew they were anything but Christian, so they lived in peace until they died.“
‘Except your grandfather still had his Hebrew books,“ Brother Michael accused.
‘Because my grandfather was a learned man who valued the learning in those books.“
‘Tainted beliefs. False beliefs.“
‘I did not say they were books of religion,“ Father Tomas said back at him. ”More than that can be written in Hebrew.“
‘He lived as a pretended Christian among honest men…“
‘He pretended nothing. He lived in a back, upper room of my father’s house, never leaving it, never seeing even our servants, through all the last years of his life. He was old and tired and did not want to learn new ways.“
‘So your father hid him and let him live his Jewish life, false to his baptism.“
‘He sheltered his aged parent and left him in peace. Does not the commandment say to honor your father and your mother? It does not say ’unless’ or ‘except’, only ‘to honor.’ “
‘He had Jewish books, and you read them,“ Brother Michael said.
‘I did not. I only followed his finger as he read aloud to me. Read poetry and history, not religion. But I saw the letters while he read, and those—“ Father Tomas pointed at the slices in the body ”—are maybe meant to look like Hebrew, but they are not anything.“
Brother Michael drew a deep breath to say more, but Frevisse said from where she stood behind the men, at the edge of the lantern-light, “Nor was the boy crucified.”
‘What?“ Master Grene asked quickly as Brother Michael turned an angry look to her.
The friar’s claim was too dangerous to leave unchallenged. “The wounds in his hands and feet are wrong. Look at them.”
Master Crane already had. Instead of at the wounds he looked at her and agreed, “They aren’t nail-wounds, no. They looked to have been stabbed into him with probably a dagger.”
‘Whereas for a true ritual killing nails should have been used,“ Frevisse said. ”Nor should he have been dead when it was done. But he was.“
‘Nails or not,“ Brother Michael declared, ”and whatever is claimed against those letters…“ his look at Father Tomas was ripe with accusation. ”… this was a ritual killing of a Christian boy by Jews.“
‘Likewise the time of year is wrong, isn’t it?“ Master Weir asked from the deeper shadows. ”Isn’t part of the purpose said to be to get blood for their Passover rites? That’s at Eastertide, not midsummer.“
‘Could any of those wounds have been used to drain his blood?“ Frevisse asked, sure of the answer.
‘I’d say no,“ answered Master Crane. ”None of these wounds bled. As you say, everything looks to have been done to him after death.“
‘Then how did he—“ Master Grene started.
‘Can we go elsewhere with this talk?“ Father Walter asked. ”It’s unseemly over the poor boy’s body.“ Though he sounded as if it were less the unseemliness that troubled him than his own sickness at it all.
‘I’ve seen what I need to see,“ Master Crane said. ”When Sir Richard has viewed the body…“
‘I wonder where his clothing is,“ Frevisse said mildly, as if more to herself than anyone. ”He wouldn’t have been brought here naked.“
From the stairway a man none of them had heard coming declared loudly, “Where in the name of blessed Saint Lucy are your lights?”
‘Sir Ric
hard,“ Master Crane said, raising the lantern he held. ”We were waiting for you to illumine us.“
‘Humph,“ Sir Richard said in return. He came into what lantern-light there was, a man not so tall as Frevisse, with a thin, weatherworn face and a swordsman’s walk that suggested his knighthood was more than an easy courtesy. He was so surely the under-crowner there was no need for anyone to say so, but despite one way and another he must have seen bodies enough, at sight of Hal’s he grimaced and swore, then said to Frevisse, ”Your pardon, my lady,“ and added over his shoulder to Mistress Blakhall in the shadows, now standing a little apart from Master Weir, ”Yours, too, I pray you,“ before he glared at Master Crane and demanded, ”Should these women be seeing this?“
‘They should not, no,“ Master Weir agreed quickly. ”I’ll see them out.“
He made to take Mistress Blakhall toward the stairs, but Frevisse said to Sir Richard, “We were just wondering where the boy’s clothing was.”
‘Well?“ Sir Richard asked at Master Crane, and at his clerk Master Crane said, ”Take the lantern and look through the crypt.“
As the clerk obeyed, Sir Richard said, “Now tell me what we have here.”
By the lantern’s bobbing light Frevisse saw Mistress Blakhall and Master Weir were at the stairs waiting for her, but she stayed where she was, listening as Master Crane detailed what had been so far been said, with a hard look that silenced Brother Michael when he started to speak. He did tell the friar’s assertion, though, and Father Tomas’ answer to it, and although Sir Richard listened closely, Frevisse thought he no more leaped at accepting Brother Michael’s accusation than Master Crane had.
‘I’ve found them,“ Lewes said from the farthest corner of the crypt.
‘Bring them here,“ Sir Richard ordered, pointing to the floor near the body. ”I’ll take your lantern.“
He went and took it from him, and Lewes picked up the clothing in its heap and brought to put down beside the body. Standing over him with the lantern, Sir Richard ordered, “Sort through it. See what’s there and what isn’t.”
While everyone watched, the clerk went through the clothing naming each thing as he found it. Everything was there that might be expected—undergarments, hosen, shoes, shirt, an apprentice’s plain tunic. The tunic and shirt stayed stiffly wadded together, though, when the clerk handled them, and Sir Richard said, “Unfold them.”
As Lewes pulled apart the stiffened folds, a small, gold-gleaming cross on a chain fell to the floor. “Not robbery, then, if that’s still here,” Master Crane said as Father Tomas bent to pick it up.
‘The only robbery was of his life,“ Brother Michael said sharply. ”I tell you this was—“
‘We know what you say it was,“ Sir Richard interrupted. ”Father Tomas says otherwise. That leaves the question still open. Master Grene, was that the boy’s cross?“
Father Tomas held it out to Master Grene, who only looked at it and said, “Yes. It was his father’s.”
The clerk held the blood-stiffened tunic up in the lantern-light for them to see, and Sir Richard said, “By that, he looks to have been stabbed in the back. Turn him over.”
Master Crane knelt down and eased the body onto its side. In the lantern-light three black-mouthed dagger wounds showed below the shoulder blades, two to the heart-side, one to the other.
‘Made sure of him, didn’t they?“ Sir Richard said. He shifted the lantern and looked at the earthen floor. ”Did it here. That’s blood darkening the dirt.“ He pointed with one forefinger, outlining the stained area that spread from beneath the body, unnoticed in the shadowy light until now. ”Stabbed him, stripped him, mangled the body while it was lying in its own blood.“
Master Crane had bent for a closer look at the back of the head. “He was struck here, too. Clubbed, by the look of it. Hard enough to split the skin but…” He felt at the wound. “No, the skull’s not caved in. He would likely have been unconscious but not dead. It was the stabbing that finished him.” He eased the body down again and stood up. “I’ll get more light down here, and we’ll finish looking to see if the murderer left aught else, but we can move the body now, can’t we?”
‘Yes. Best look through the church, too,“ Sir Richard said. ”Unless he came down here of his own will and then was killed, he was most likely struck down in the church, rather than out in the street. Easier to get the body into the crypt unseen from the church than the street.“ Sir Richard pointed at the bloodied ground beside the corpse. ”Who knelt there?“ Without waiting for an answer, he bent over and poked with his finger at a slight, rounded hollow indented in the hard earth. ”Not done today,“ he said. ”That was done while the dirt was blood-softened, by the murderer kneeling to his work.“ Standing up, he added mordantly, ”All we need do is to find someone who had one of his hosen, or his tunic, or his gown bloodied at the knee five days ago. That shouldn’t be hard in London.“
As Father Tomas bent and laid the cross gently on the boy’s maimed chest, Frevisse turned away, having seen enough, and followed Mistress Blakhall and Master Weir from the crypt, to pause, blinking, at the top of the stairs while her eyes grew used to daylight again. For probably the same reason Master Weir and Mistress Blakhall were stopped, too, standing apart from each other now as Mistress Blakhall said miserably, “What am I going to tell Pernell that won’t kill her to hear it?”
‘That it is her son,“ Frevisse said. ”That he’s been dead several days and looks to have been stabbed. That he died quickly and knew nothing. More than that she doesn’t need to hear.“
‘There’ll be talk. If not from us, she’ll hear the worst from someone else.“
‘Use that she has to keep to her rooms from now until her baby’s birth,“ Frevisse returned. ”Tell Mistress Hercy enough so that she’ll see no one sees her and that the servants don’t talk where Mistress Grene can hear them.“
‘It would be best, too, that Hal be kept here,“ said Master Weir. ”That the body be readied for burial and buried straightaway. The fewer who see him, the better.“
Mistress Blakhall closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “There was never harm in him, ever. Why would someone…”
‘Let it go for now,“ Master Weir interrupted gently, firmly. ”Before anything, Mistress Grene needs to be protected.“
Lowering her hands, Mistress Blakhall took a deep breath and said steadily enough that Frevisse believed her, “I’ll do what needs doing.”
Frevisse looked to Master Weir. “If I see Mistress Blakhall to the Grenes‘, will you stay to tell Master Grene that we think this is all his wife should hear?”
‘I’ll tell him now, but do you wait and I’ll see you back there. There’ll be people wanting to question you.“
Frevisse accepted that with a nod, willing to add his help to the Naylors‘; and she took the chance as soon as he was gone to say to Mistress Blakhall, “I’ll come to your house tomorrow for the gold. Will that do?”
‘Tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow,“ Mistress Blakhall said, as if unable quite to believe in tomorrow just now.
‘In the early afternoon,“ Frevisse said.
‘Yes. Then.“
Master Weir returned, Father Tomas with him, and Frevisse was glad of the chance to tell the priest, “That was bravely done, facing down the friar.”
‘I likely did little good,“ Father Tomas said doubtingly.
‘You did what good you could,“ Master Weir said. ”Not that there’s hope of changing that friar’s mind,“ he added dryly. ”He too much wants to believe in his Jews. But you gave Master Crane grounds for holding off talk of ’ritual murder‘ and that’s to the good.“ Smiling, he added to Frevisse, ”You joined in boldly, too.“
‘I don’t like the willful use of ignorance as a weapon,“ she answered.
‘I hardly think Brother Michael is ignorant,“ said Master Weir. ”He gives every sign of being very learned.“
‘I don’t doubt he’s learned,“ Frevisse returned, not
bothering to keep her anger from her words. ”But he’s not learned enough to wonder why any Jews secretly here in London would announce they were here, let be by something so ugly as this murder. Besides that, I’ve never seen any reason why Jews would commit such blasphemous murders in the first place, and this one wasn’t even done rightly for the ’ritual murder‘ it was supposed to be.“
Supposed to be.
There was something to wonder. Why would someone have wanted it to seem a murder done by Jews at all?
She thought she saw the same question quicken in Master Weir’s face, but before she could say anything, Father Tomas murmured something about satisfying his fellows’ curiosity and went away toward the men gathered farther up the nave, and Master Weir started them toward the outer door where a crowd and questions would have to be faced. And then the dead boy’s mother.
The Sempster's Tale Page 12
