Unholy Innocence (11 page)

In the heat of the moment I had quite forgotten Jocelin was behind me and that he was one of the senior obedientiaries, too.

‘I f-feel I am half-way between the two,’ mumbled Jocelin.

‘Fence-sitting as usual, Jocelin,’ tutted Jeremiah. ‘You may find that an uncomfortable place to be in the coming days.’

Jocelin opened his mouth to reply but shut it again, much to my irritation. I suppose I should have been grateful he said that much in my favour and did not declare his true position which it was clear from yesterday’s outburst was more with Jeremiah and the others than with me.

‘Brother Jocelin is here to help me question this grieving woman about her dead son,’ I said indicating Matthew’s mother who had said nothing so far but stood silently while we monks bickered between ourselves. ‘Whom we all seem to have forgotten. So far you have prevented us from carrying out that duty.’

‘Then ask away,’ said Egbert standing
aside from the murdered boy’s mother with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

I looked at the woman who did not meet my eye but kept her lips set in a tight line. With a sinking heart I could see there was little point in questioning her now. The others had plainly coached her before I arrived so that any answers I might get would be theirs, not hers. Even so, I had no option
but to try.

‘Mother,’ I said gently. ‘Do not be afraid, simply speak the truth. Begin, if you would, by telling me what was Matthew doing the night he died?’

Jeremiah replied for her: ‘He was preparing for his coming martyrdom, of course. What else?’

‘He left the house that night at some stage,’ I said to her. ‘Can you ell me what time that was?’

‘It was at the hour appointed by God for his sacrifice,’ shrugged Jeremiah looking round at the other monks who murmured their agreement.

‘Did he know the Moy family?’ I persisted with her.

‘I cannot see the relevance of that question,’ answered Jeremiah. ‘If he was abducted it would just as likely be by a stranger…’

‘You are all very keen to have the boy murdered by this Jew,’ I blurted out angrily. ‘I wonder why?’

‘Ah, I see we all are to be suspects now,’ laughed Jeremiah.

‘Not all,’ I replied too hastily. ‘Any one of you could have killed him – or rather, any two.’

Jeremiah’s eyes lit up. ‘What - with these?’ He took from the sleeves of his robe his two hands crippled into useless claws by arthritis. I felt my face flush crimson and the others laughed at my gaffe.

‘We know who killed the boy, and why,’ said Egbert triumphantly. ‘The Jew
, Moy, in mockery of Our Lord’s Passion.’

Still embarrassed by my
faux pas
I turned desperately to the mother. ‘That’s what you thought yesterday, mother. Do you still think the same today?’

She did not reply but instead kept her eyes firmly fixed on the floor. There was a long pause as we waited for her response, the silence hanging heavy in the air.
Egbert, who clearly thought the argument won, broke the silence. ‘Come brothers, let us go. We have what we came for.’

‘Oh? And what was that?’ I turned on him shaking now with impotent fury.

He casually handed me a piece of parchment. It appeared to be a declaration by the boy’s mother detailing Matthew’s life. I flipped through most of it my eye catching the last two paragraphs:

‘When he
had reached his eighth year of life he was taught the fuller’s craft by his father. Gifted with a receptive mind in a short time he far surpassed boys of his own age and was the equal of his own father. So it came to pass that when he reached his twelfth year this boy of exceptional innocence, ignorant of the treachery that had been planned for him, befriended the Jew, Moy, who seduced him with cunning words and tricks.

Then like an innocent lamb
the boy was led to the slaughter. He was treated kindly at first and, ignorant of what was being prepared for him, he was kept hidden till the day of the Jewish Passover. On that day after the singing of hymns the Jew Moy suddenly seized the boy, bound and gagged him and placed a crown of thorns upon his head in mockery of our Lord’s Passion. Finally he slew the boy by the severing of his head from his body. Thus the glorious boy and martyr, Matthew, entered the Kingdom of Heaven where he lives now in glory for ever.’

‘This is preposterous!’ I blurted throwing the document away from me in contempt. I pointed at the mother. ‘She could not have composed that…that
calumny
.’

‘She has put her mark,’ said Walkin bending to retrieve the document from the floor. ‘The oath is authenticated.’ He held it out for me to see the woman’s cross.

I turned to the woman again in desperation. ‘I do not know what these monks have told you but they have no authority. Abbot Samson will reverse any promises they have made.’ I had a sudden thought and turned on Jeremiah. ‘Where is Abbot Samson? Does he even know of your visit here today? I cannot believe he gave his permission for you all to be excused at this hour.’

‘Samson is away today, Walter. It seems there has been some…irregularity…at our manor of Mildenhall that required his urgent attention. He will doubtless be back tomorrow if you wish to take this up with him then.’

I nodded. ‘By which time it will be too late. You will have had the boy declared a martyr by then. And you call Samson de Tottington the Norfolk Trickster,’ I sneered with contempt. ‘It seems this time it is he who has been tricked.’

Now the mother spoke for the first time her face livid with anger. ‘Look!’ she yelled at me dragging one of the little girls roughly by the shoulder to stand before me. The poor child was so surprised that she instantly burst into tears. ‘See her? I’ve another four like her, eight if you count the three who God in his spite took from me at birth. I have no husband, no man at all now that Matthew’s gone too.’ She spat on the floor. ‘You monks. You don’t live in the real world. You have no children. You don’t work. You fill your bellies on the toil of others.’

‘This oath,’ I said going over it again in my mind. ‘It speaks of the boy as though he were singled out for particular attention by God. But he has no connection with the abbey other than being its tenant. He has not led a specially holy life. As far as I can see he was just a regular, ordinary boy.’

‘Oh, but that is where you are wrong,’ sneered Egbert. ‘He was being prepared as a postulant training for the priesthood. Ask Ranulf. He was his novice tutor.’

‘It is true, Walter,’ said Ranulf. ‘I have been training him for the past year.’

‘That was why the Jews chose him,’ Egbert continued triumphantly. ‘It’s obvious. They recognized that he was already a saint. What greater prize could they have and what a victory for their Christ-hating religion.’ He sneered again. ‘Where are your cynical theories now,
Master
Physician?’

*

The five of them left, doubtless congratulating themselves at having managed to out-manoeuvre me - as well they might. It simply had not occurred to me that anyone would wish to manipulate events to satisfy their prejudices rather than seek the truth. It made me think once again that I was quite the wrong person for this task. Maybe someone else would be better suited, someone less naïve and more pragmatic who would accept a simpler path.  I had to face it, I simply wasn’t up to the job.

The mother was standing before me evidently uncomfortable that I was still there. Her entire demeanour spoke of defiance, her features set hard and her stance resolute. She was clearly expecting an attack and was readying herself to fend it off. In truth, I felt like shaking the woman for her complicity in the deceit. That outlandish document she had signed could never have been composed by her. The wording, the construction, was too scholarly - more like the work of an academic than a simple mother’s testimonial to her child. It was probably even beyond the capabilities of those five monks to compose and I wondered where they had got it from. They had made some sort of deal with the mother in return for her signature on it, but what that deal was would not be rung out of her by bullying from me. What was needed was subtlety
- as Joseph was so fond of reminding me, more flies are caught with honey than with vinegar. So I sat down on the stool vacated by Jeremiah and composed my features into what I hoped approximated a smile.

‘You must still be grieving deeply for the loss of your child, daughter,’ I said gently. ‘Have you anyone to visit you? Family? Friends?’

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She looked at her hands and realising she had been wringing them, let them drop. ‘Father Paul has been twice,’ she said.

‘Your parish priest?’

She nodded. ‘From Saint Botolph’s.’

‘But no-one closer. A sibling or parent perhaps?’

She shook her head.  ‘There’s no-one. I have a sister living still in Sudbury but that is too far for her to travel. Besides, she and my husband never got on. There was a family rift.’

‘Ah yes,’ I nodded. ‘Your husband. I heard the tale. A dreadful tragedy. Matthew must have been very capable to have been able to step into his shoes. You must have been very proud of him.’

‘Fulling is heavy work,’ she agreed pushing a stray brown curl back beneath her coif. ‘Strong as he was, it was too much for him alone.’

‘So, what you said in your testimonial, that Matthew was the equal of his father, was not entirely accurate.’

She shot me a fiery look of anger. ‘I see what you are about. Trying to trip me up. I can’t remember what I said in that document. But whatever I said I hold to.’ She stuck out a defiant chin.

‘Of course you do, I never meant to imply anything else,’ I agreed, rowing back quickly. ‘But you were telling me about Matthew’s character. What sort of boy was he? Jolly? Serious? He must have been quite serious to want to train for the priesthood.’

She shrugged. ‘He seemed like just a normal boy to me. I had brothers, I know what boys get up to. He worked hard when he was needed. What those monks said about him was true enough. He was a good boy. They’re now saying he’s a saint. I don’t know about that. All I do know is that when his father died he became the bread-winner for his brothers and sisters and me and he never let us starve. For all I know that’s what a saint is. And you, brother, will not trick me into saying otherwise.’

I could see I was not going to get any more out of her about Matthew, she was too wily for that. Instead, I asked her about how she had managed to get into the back of the Moy garden since she insisted she had never been there before. She said she had been directed there by a man. What sort of a man? I asked. Her answer was very vague and her response halting as though having to construct each detail from imagination rather than memory. I doubted if any such man ever existed. When I pressed her to describe him, how he was dressed, his age, his manner, she became agitated and insisted that he had kept his face hidden but that he was well dressed like a gentleman. I decided not to press her further but instead went over to her five remaining children and stroked the youngest girl’s hair.

‘Who’ll feed these poor mites now that both your husband and Matthew are gone?’

Their mother gave me a reply I was already expecting. ‘Oh, they will be cared for, do not fear for them.’

I presumed she was referring to the money the other monks had given her for her signature, but when I suggested it she snorted contemptuously. ‘What those old misers gave me wouldn’t keep a beggar alive.’

*

As Jocelin and I walked back to the abbey I reflected upon the labourers already hard at work in the fields and wondered how many of them knew or cared that a new saint was in the making just yards from their hovels. I also noticed Jocelin was looking pretty pleased with himself.

‘Why so smug?’ I asked him. ‘Did you enjoy seeing me humiliated
, too?’

‘I was actually th-thinking about that oath,’ he said. ‘It must have been drawn up quickly to get it to the b-boy’s mother so early and I think I know how. I recognised some of it. It’s almost identical to Thomas of Monmouth’s c-commentary on the life of Saint William of Norwich.’

I harrumphed. ‘If you’re right it would certainly explain where it came from. I thought it was too sophisticated for Egbert and Walkin to have concocted.’

Jocelin smiled non-committally. ‘They seem to have l-lifted sections of it virtually word for word. But in their haste they made a mistake.’

‘What mistake?’

‘D–didn’t you notice? It said that Moy kept Matthew hidden until Passover. Well, William of Norwich may have died at Passover but Matthew certainly did not. As we already know, P-
passover this year was in April and Matthew d-died in J-june’

I slapped my forehead. ‘Of course! I knew there was something about it that rankled with me. I was too angry to think clearly. Damn! I wish I’d seen it while they were there. So, that means the oath is meaningless,’ I said, and laughed out loud. ‘I wonder if the boy’s mother realised what she was signing was a lie.’

‘Probably not. I d-doubt if she can read and since she could hardly have dictated the testimonial herself she p-probably doesn’t even know what was in it. And why should she care? It is quite a thing to be the mother of a saint. Imagine that m-mill turned into a shrine. She could make a f-fortune from selling the water alone.’