Mistress of the Art of Death (5 page)

"Nevertheless," he said out loud and sternly, "I must tell you that, whatever your purpose in Cambridge, it will be compromised by the peculiarity of your menage. Mistress Doctor should have a female companion."

This time it was Simon who was surprised, and Prior Geoffrey saw that the man did indeed see the woman as merely a colleague. "I suppose she should," Simon said. "There was one in attendance when we started out on this mission, her childhood nurse, but the old woman died on the way."

"I advise you to find another." The prior paused, then asked, "You make mention of a mission. May I inquire what it is?"

Simon appeared to hesitate.

Prior Geoffrey said, "Master Simon, I presume that you have not traveled all the way from Salerno merely to sell nostrums. If your mission is delicate, you may tell me with impunity." When the man still hesitated, the prior clicked his tongue at having to point out the obvious. "Metaphorically, Master Simon, you have me by the balls. Can I betray your confidence when you are in a position to counter such betrayal merely by informing the town crier that I, a canon of Saint Augustine, a person of some consequence in Cambridge, and, I flatter myself, in the wider realm also, did not only place my most private member in the hands of a woman but had a plant shoved up it? How, to paraphrase the immortal Horace, would that play in Corinth?"

"Ah," Simon said.

"Indeed. Speak freely, Master Simon. Sate an old man's curiosity."

So Simon told him. They had come to discover who was murdering and abducting Cambridge's children, he said. It must not be thought, he said, that their mission was intended as a usurpation of local officials, "only that investigation by authority sometimes tends to close more mouths than it opens, whereas we, incognito and disregarded..." Being Simon, he stressed this at length. It was not interference. However, since discovery of the murderer was protracted--obviously a particularly cunning and devious killer--special measures might fit the case....

"Our masters, those who sent us, appear to think that Mistress Doctor and I have the appropriate skills for such a matter...."

Listening to the tale of the mission, Prior Geoffrey learned that Simon of Naples was a Jew. He felt an immediate surge of panic. As master of a great monastic foundation, he was responsible for the state of the world when it must be handed over to God on the Day of Judgment, which might be anytime soon. How to answer an Almighty who had commanded that the one true faith be established in it? How to explain at the throne of God the existence of an unconverted infection in what should be a whole and perfect body? About which he had done nothing?

Humanism fought the training of the seminary--and won. It was an old battle. What
could
he do? He was not one of those who countenanced extermination; he would not see souls, if Jews had souls, severed and sent into the pit. Not only did he countenance the Jews of Cambridge, he protected them, though he railed mightily against other churchmen for encouraging the sin of usury in borrowing from them.

Now he, too, was in debt to one such--for his life. And, indeed, if this man, Jew or not, could solve the mystery that was causing Cambridge's agony, then Prior Geoffrey was his to command. Why, though, had he brought a doctor, a
female
doctor, with him?

So Prior Geoffrey listened to Simon's story, and where he had been amazed before, he was now floundered, not least by the man's openness, a characteristic he had not come across in the race until now. Instead of canniness, even cunning, he was hearing the truth.

He thought,
Poor booby, he takes little persuasion to unload his secrets. He is too artless; he has no guile. Who has sent him, poor booby?

There was silence when Simon had finished, except for a blackbird's song from a wild cherry tree.

"You have been sent by Jews to rescue the Jews?"

"Not at all, my lord. Really, no. The prime mover in this matter appears to be the King of Sicily--a Norman, as you know. I wondered at it myself; I cannot but feel that there are other influences at work; certainly our passports were not questioned at Dover, leaving me to opine that English officialdom is not unaware of what we are about. Be assured that, should the Jews of Cambridge prove guilty of this most dreadful crime, I shall willingly lay my hands to the rope that hangs them."

Good.
The prior accepted that. "But why was it necessary for the enterprise to include this woman doctor, may I ask? Surely, such a rara avis, if she is discovered, will attract most unwelcome attention."

"I, too, had my doubts at first," Simon said.

Doubts?
He'd been appalled. The sex of the doctor who was to accompany him had not been revealed to him until she and her entourage boarded the boat to take them all to England, by which time it was too late to protest, though he
had
protested--Gordinus the African, greatest of doctors and most naive of men, taking his gesticulations as waves of farewell and
fondly waving back
as the gap between taffrail and quay took them away from each other.

"I had my doubts," he said again, "yet she has proved modest, capable, and a proficient speaker of English. Moreover"--Simon beamed, his creased face crinkling further in pleasure, taking the prior's attention away from a sensitive area; there would be time to reveal Adelia's particular skill, and it was not yet--"as my wife would say, the Lord has His own purposes. Why else should she have been on hand in your hour of greatest need?"

Prior Geoffrey nodded slowly. That was undoubted; he'd already been on his knees in thanks to Almighty God for putting her in his way.

"It would be helpful, before we arrive in the town," pursued Simon of Naples, gently, "to learn what we can of the killing of the murdered child and how it came about that two others are missing." He let the sentence hang in the air.

"The children," Prior Geoffrey said at last, heavily. "I have to tell you, Master Simon, that by the time we set off for Canterbury, the number of those missing was not two, as you have been told, but three. Indeed, had I not vowed to make this pilgrimage, I would not have left Canterbury for dread the number might rise again. God have mercy on their souls; we all fear the little ones have met the same fate as the first child, Peter. Crucified."

"Not at the hands of Jews, my lord. We do not crucify children."

You crucified the Son of God,
the prior thought.
Poor booby. Admit to being a Jew where you are going and they will tear you to pieces. And your doctor with you.

Damn it,
he thought,
I shall have to take a hand in the business.

He said, "I must tell you, Master Simon, that our people are much aroused against the Jews, they fear that other offspring may be taken."

"My lord, what inquiry has been made? What evidence that Jews are to blame?"

"The charge was made almost immediately," said Prior Geoffrey, "and, I am afraid, with reason..."

It was Simon Menahem of Naples's genius as agent, investigator, go-between, reconnoiterer, spy--he was used in all such capacities by such of the powerful as knew him well--that people took him to be what he seemed. They could not believe that this puny, nervous little man of such eagerness, even simplicity, who spilled information--all of it trustworthy--could outwit them. Only when, the deal fixed, the alliance sealed, the bottom of the business uncovered, did it occur to them that Simon had achieved exactly what his masters wanted.
But he is a booby,
they would tell themselves.

And it was to this booby, who had judged the prior's character and newfound indebtedness to the last jot and tittle, that a subtle prior found himself recounting everything the booby wished to know.

It had been just over a year ago. Passiontide Friday. Eight-year-old Peter, a child from Trumpington, a village on the southwest edge of Cambridge, was sent by his mother to gather pussy willow, "which, in England, replaces the palm in decoration for Palm Sunday."

Peter had shunned willows near his home and trotted north along the Cam to gather branches from the tree on the stretch of riverbank by Saint Radegund's convent, which was claimed to be especially holy, having been planted by Saint Radegund herself.

"As if," said the prior, bitterly interrupting his tale, "a female German saint of the Dark Ages would have tripped over to Cambridgeshire to plant a tree. But that harpy"--thus he referred to the prioress of Saint Radegund's--"will say anything."

It happened that, on the same day, Passiontide Friday, several of the richest and most important Jews in England had gathered in Cambridge at the house of Chaim Leonis for the marriage of Chaim's daughter. Peter had been able to view the celebrations from the other side of the river on his way to gather branches of willow.

He had not, therefore, returned home the same way but had taken the quicker route to Jewry by going over the bridge and passing through the town so that he could see the carriages and caparisoned horses of the visiting Jews in Chaim's stable.

"His uncle, Peter's uncle, was Chaim's stabler, you see."

"Are Christians allowed to work for Jews here?" Simon asked, as if he didn't know the answer already. "Great heavens."

"Oh, yes. The Jews are steady employers. And Peter was a regular visitor to the stables, even to the kitchens, where Chaim's cook--who
was
a Jew--sometimes gave him sweetmeats, a fact that was to count against the household later as enticement."

"Go on, my lord."

"Well. Peter's uncle, Godwin, was too busy with the unusual influx of horses to pay attention to the boy and told him to be off home, indeed thought he had. Not until late that night, when Peter's mother came inquiring to town, did anyone realize the child had disappeared. The watch was alerted, also the river bailiffs--it was likely the boy had fallen into the River Cam. The banks were searched at dawn. Nothing."

Nothing for more than a week. As townsfolk and villagers crawled on their knees to the Good Friday cross in the parish churches, prayers were addressed to Almighty God for the return of Peter of Trumpington.

On Easter Monday the prayer was granted. Hideously. Peter's body was discovered in the river near Chaim's house, snagged below its surface under a pier.

The prior shrugged. "Even then blame did not fall on the Jews. Children tumble, they fall into rivers, wells, ditches. No, we thought it an accident--until Martha the laundress came forward. Martha lives in Bridge Street and among her clients is Chaim Leonis. On the evening of Little Peter's disappearance, she said, she had delivered a basket of clean washing to Chaim's back door. Finding it open, she'd gone inside--"

"She delivered laundry so late in the day?" Simon expressed surprise.

Prior Geoffrey inclined his head. "I think we must accept that Martha was curious; she had never seen a Jewish wedding. Nor have any of us, of course. Anyway, she went inside. The back of the house was deserted, the celebrations having moved to the front garden. The door to a room off the hall was slightly open--"

"Another open door," Simon said, apparently surprised again.

The prior glanced at him. "Do I tell you something you already know?"

"I beg pardon, my lord. Continue, I beseech you."

"Very well. Martha looked into the room and saw--
says
she saw--a child hanging by his hands from a cross. She was given no chance to be other than terrified because, just then, Chaim's wife came down the passageway, cursed her, and she ran off."

"Without alerting the watch?" Simon asked.

The prior nodded. "Indeed, that is the weakness in her story. If,
if,
Martha saw the body when she says, she did
not
alert the watch. She alerted nobody until
after
Little Peter's corpse was discovered. Then, and only then, did she whisper what she had seen to a neighbor, who whispered it to another neighbor, who went to the castle and told the sheriff. After that, evidence came thick and fast. A branch of pussy willow was found dropped in the lane outside Chaim's house. A man delivering peat to the castle testified that from across the river on Passiontide Friday, he saw two men, one wearing the Jewish hat, toss a bundle from Great Bridge into the Cam. Others now said they had heard screams coming from Chaim's house. I myself viewed the corpse after it had been dragged from the river and saw the stigmata of crucifixion on it." He frowned. "The poor little body was horribly bloated, of course, but there were the marks on the wrists, and the belly had been split open, as if by a spear, and...there were other injuries."

There had been immediate uproar in the town. To save every man, woman, and child in Jewry from slaughter, they had been hurried to Cambridge Castle by the sheriff and his men, acting on behalf of the king, under whose protection the Jews were.

"Even so, on the way, Chaim was seized by those seeking vengeance and hanged from Saint Radegund's willow. They took his wife as she pleaded for him and tore her to pieces." Prior Geoffrey crossed himself. "The sheriff and myself did what we could, but we were outdone by the townsfolk's fury." He frowned; the memory pained him. "I saw decent men transform into hellhounds, matrons into maenads."

He lifted his cap and passed his hand over his balding head. "Even then, Master Simon, it might be that we could have contained the trouble. The sheriff managed to restore order, and it was hoped that, since Chaim was dead, the remaining Jews would be allowed to return to their homes. But no. Now onto the floor steps Roger of Acton, a cleric new to our town and one of our Canterbury pilgrims. Doubtless you noticed him, a lean-shanked, mean-featured, whey-faced, importunate fellow of dubious cleanliness. Master Roger happens"--the prior glared at Simon as if finding fault with him--"
happens
to be cousin to the prioress of Saint Radegund, a seeker after fame through the scribbling of religious tracts that reveal little but his ignorance."

The two men shook their heads. The blackbird went on singing.