Unholy Innocence (19 page)

Next came the testimony of the murdered boy’s mother. The usher banged his rod thrice on the floor and called her by name:

‘Call Margaret, widow of
William of the Haberdon, miller.’

All eyes turned to the back of the court and the crowd hushed as she appeared alone at the door, pausing before slowly making her way
down the centre aisle to the front. She was soberly-dressed and clutching a shawl about her as though the freezing wind of desolation blew about her. Even I shivered as she passed in spite of the stifling temperature. She was indeed a formidable woman.

Her function was simple and obvious: To win the sympathy of the court. It was a role for which she had been well primed by Sir Fulk. In a quiet, trembling voice she eulogized her exemplary son’s heroic support of his brothers and sisters since her husband’s tragic death. She told of how little Matthew had been training at the abbey to take the cloth and recalled the last time he had walked out of the house on that fateful evening never to return. In all this there was much weeping but I have to say I saw little sign of actual tears. I did see real tears, but only in the eyes of those listening. We were left with the impression of a saint in the making. I was much impressed. It was a consummate performance.

One aspect of her demeanour in particular interested me: On her way to give evidence at the front of the court she had to pass quite close to Isaac’s table. I would have thought given the ferocity of her attack on him in his garden that she might at least have glanced at her son’s murderer. In fact she did not; her deportment registered his existence not at all. It was as Jocelin had said after our interview with her when he noticed then the change in her attitude towards Isaac. “Resigned” was the term he used. “Indifferent” was mine. Seeing her today I think mine was the truer description. The tingling in my spine returned as I realised just how cold and calculating this woman truly was.

We now came to the part of the proceedings I had been dreading and from the murmuring and excitement clearly the part most people wanted to hear: The detailed description of Matthew’s injuries. I went through my evidence as meticulously and dispassionately as I could trying to leach all emotion from my words. At first I was listened to in respectful silence, but as I progressed listing all the injuries the level of disquiet gradually increased.

I began by citing the marks on the boy’s forehead and wrists and gave my opinion that they had occurred as a result of the boy being restrained. Sir Fulk swooped on this like a falcon to its prey. While the marks were not a precise imitation of Christ’s wounds on the Cross, he suggested, were they not close enough for their purpose to be clear? I didn’t comment but then I didn’t have to, the point was made. In the mind of the common people the image of marks on the child’s head was damaging enough: They were a mockery of Christ’s wounds. I then went on to describe all the other marks on the body in response to Sir Fulk’s detailed questioning. He had clearly done his homework and knew as much, if not more, about Matthew’s injuries as I did.

I wondered as he quizzed me who he could have got the information from. At first I thought of Jocelin, but then I realised it must have been Egbert or one of his cohort who had dug the body up from its first grave. Judging by the gasps coming from behind me people were more interested in the injuries caused by vermin than in anything that suggested ritual sacrifice - doubtless Sir Fulk had anticipated this too. He wanted to paint as graphic a picture of the horrific condition of Matthew’s body as he could and for this to remain in the minds of the listener. The process brought home to me once again the truth of Jocelin’s comment about the mother’s oath: That the details mattered less than the impression it created. Sir Fulk also wanted a detailed account of the autopsy which although - or possibly
because -
I gave it in cold, clinical terms it horrified people all the more. They considered it sacrilege to carve up a human body in this way, especially a saint’s body. All this further added to the impression of ritual desecration. The chains in Isaac’s basement were mentioned (though never linked to the wounds) as was the fact that the body was found in Isaac’s garden. Both facts were circumstantial but that didn’t seem to matter. By the time I got to the actual cause of death, the slashing of the boy’s throat, it seemed a relatively minor injury compared with the rest. Most people by then had made up their minds and although I repeated at the end my conviction that many of the injuries had occurred after the boy had died this simple fact was lost in the hubbub that followed.

Together, my testimony and that of Matthew’s mother, did the job intended. I could not help a wry smirk to think that she and I had been put in this tandem together in order to convict poor Isaac who clearly stood no chance from the beginning. Revulsion was written on most faces around me and one man even went so far as to spit on Isaac’s back. But it was all innuendo and suggestion, nothing substantial. Analysed coldly the evidence would evaporate like the morning mist. But as Samson had said, evidence was not going to be the deciding factor. Finally, and disgracefully, Sir Fulk asked me directly in my role as the chief investigative officer, did I believe Isaac was innocent of the crime of which he was accused, namely murder of the boy Matthew. The question should never have been allowed and although I looked to Samson to overrule it he did not. For the first time since I stood up I also realised that Isaac was looking at me with intense eyes, but like the coward I am I could not bring myself to return his gaze as I gave the only honest answer I could: I did not know if he was guilty or not.

When I sat down Sir Fulk patted me on the arm as though I had provided the
coup de grace
of the prosecution case. He then rose once again and quoted a different law of King Henry which directed that anyone accused of the crime of murder had to suffer ‘ordeal of water’. No flurry of clerical activity this time, I noted, the clerks having been well-primed by the court in advance. Up till now the case had been a matter of procedure but now it was coming to practicalities. I had almost hoped against hope that judgement by ordeal could be avoided even though I knew it was the course Samson and the King had determined upon.

As a matter of record, since King Henry’s time there had been a gradual shrinking away from the notion of trial by ordeal in favour of trial by jury - indeed that had been a central tenet of the old king’s reforms. Trial by ordeal depended on church support since it required priestly cooperation to carry it out. Unfortunately for Isaac, so far the new Pope, Innocent, had been reluctant to give up this vestige of papal control. The conceit was that man was not competent to judge, only God could do that. And how was God’s judgement to be interpreted? By how He treated the injury received during the ordeal. Trial by fire was plainly horrific, but trial by hot water was no less so. This was why Jocelin’s optimism had been so misplaced. The accused was required to put his hand into a kettle of boiling water and retrieve a stone.

Now, anyone who has accidentally scalded himself with boiling water knows how painfully the hand blisters and the skin peels leaving a scar. Imagine the damage a prolonged immersion of an entire limb would cause. The skin swells and cracks, the live flesh actually starts to cook, the blood congeals in the veins and the fat melts away. A wound thus inflicted would be bound and if by some miracle after three days it started to heal then God was presumed to have judged the accused innocent. If, however, the injured site showed no sign of regeneration the accused was adjudged guilty.

It hardly needs saying that Isaac’s lawyers wished to avoid such a process at almost any cost and in so doing they made their fatal error. After more lengthy, and this time quite acrimonious, consultation between themselves and their client the lawyers proposed to the court that Isaac change his plea from Not Guilty to Guilty with the corollary that Isaac should pay a sum of money to the murdered boy’s mother
by way of compensation. There was plenty of precedent for this course of action in Saxon law which was the ancient law in England. But Saxon law had long since given way to Norman - and besides, the mood of the court would not tolerate it. The very suggestion that a Jew could commute Divine Judgement in the case of a murdered Christian child to a few pence or even a considerable sum was greeted with outrage. It would be Judas and his thirty pieces of silver all over again. The lawyers’ mistake sealed Isaac’s fate. There was only one course of action the people were willing to accept and that is what they now proceeded to exact.

But before anything else could happen the Abbot had to give his decision which was merely to confirm what everybody already knew: The verdict of the Court was that Isaac should be handed over to the Sheriff and to suffer Ordeal by Hot Water. Amid cheers of approval the court rose and the King, the Abbot and all the chief officials of the court filed out, with rather unseemly haste it seemed to me, while two armed guards led Isaac away through another door. It appeared neither the Church nor the Crown wished to be seen to witness the unpleasant business of carrying out their commands; that pleasure was to be reserved for others.

*

Poor Isaac. I could hardly bring myself to look at him. He was utterly destroyed, his head for the first time hanging in despair. Amid some turmoil the court was adjourned by the usher, only to be immediately reassembled outside in the Palace Yard where a kettle of boiling water had already been merrily bubbling away for a quarter of an hour or more. The atmosphere out here was quite different from what it had been in the courtroom, more like that of a carnival or a bear-bait, except that the bear is not usually hated the way Isaac clearly was. It was not something I would normally wish to see but despite my revulsion I felt it was my duty to remain and witness that which my pitiable efforts had failed to prevent. I thought at one point Isaac even searched among the faces of the hostile crowd for my face. I hoped so and that he saw me for he had few enough friends in that terrible place that day. I had further hoped that someone might have taken pity and kept the temperature of the water below boiling point, but I could see from the bubbles that it was as hot as it was possible to get. To my further horror they had chosen the deepest bucket they could find so that Isaac’s hand would be covered all the way to the elbow.

The crowd, which by now had become an ugly mob, fell over each other in their rush to find the choicest positions to see. Isaac was at least allowed the courtesy of having a rabbi administer to him - the same rabbi, I saw, who I had met at the Moy house the day before. But Isaac was a lonely figure that day standing in the circle of rabid hyenas eager not to miss a single scream of agony or glance of terror. Trembling uncontrollably he began rolling up his left sleeve, but the crowd were having none of that. They set up a chant of “Dex! Dex! Dex!” which echoed round the enclosed courtyard like a battle cry and sent a shiver down my spine - “dex” being a corruption of “dexter”, the Latin word for “right”. What they were calling for was Isaac’s right hand – his writing hand - to be the one sacrificed to the cauldron.

Three times his hand came near the bubbling liquid but each time he lacked the final courage to plunge the limb in. In the end it was the rabbi who took hold of the hand and staring hard into Isaac’s eyes pushed it under the bubbles accompanied by screams from Isaac and whoops of delight from the crowd several of whom had the decency to faint. Isaac quickly found the stone and tossed it away, but from where I stood I could see the skin was already a crimson red and blistering where it had touched the scalding water. Quick as lightning the limb was bound in clean linen and Isaac was half-carried, half dragged away faint with pain and followed by hissing from the crowd. The entertainment now at an end, there was a sense of anti-climax as the crowd slowly dispersed back to their homes equipped with a satisfying tale of just desserts to while away the long sultry summer evenings.

Chapter 18

FIRE
!

‘S-sometimes
the old ways are the best,’ said Jocelin when we returned to his office. ‘I’m sure G-god will not allow an innocent m-m-man to s-suffer un-n-necessarily.’

‘You don’t think what we just witnessed can be called “suffering”?’ I said bitterly.

‘I d-don’t know,’ said Jocelin shaking his head disdainfully, ‘I don’t know.’

I could tell he was in some distress over what had happened if only by his almost uncontrolled stuttering fit. I felt more anger than distress and I wanted to vent it on someone but realised it wouldn’t be fair to do so on him so I said no more.
I sat down on one of his chairs surrounded by the piles of documents we had hurriedly assembled for the trial.

‘What will happen to him now?’ he asked when he had calmed after a minute.

I let out a long sigh. ‘He’ll remain in custody for three days, at the end of which his bandages will be removed. If the wound has healed, or shows signs of healing, God will be assumed to have judged him innocent and he will be released.’

‘And if not?’

I shrugged. ‘He’ll hang.’

Jocelin shuddered and, typical of the man I was coming to esteem more and more, he had the generosity to say a small prayer. ‘Well, at least your p-part in it is over,’ he said kindly. ‘You look exhausted. You should rest now, certain that you have done all in your power, and leave matters to others.’

I snorted. ‘To God, you mean.’

‘Yes,’ he nodded firmly. ‘To God.’ He looked at me with deep concern. ‘Brother, I hope your experience through these troubles has not destroyed your f-faith. It is at such times that we need to hold on to our certainties with g-greatest tenacity. If we lose them, w-what else is there?’

He was in such earnest that I couldn’t help but smile. His features were screwed into what looked like such pain he appeared even more shrew-like than ever.

‘Do not fear, my good friend,’ I said to him. ‘I am not losing my faith. It is simply that God’s voice sometimes gets so drowned out by the clamour of man’s petty squabbling that we have to listen all the harder to hear Him.’

At this his face relaxed. He beamed and nodded, evidently delighted at my reaffirmation. But I went in to vespers that day with a heavy heart, my thoughts entirely on the man with the bandaged hand who at this moment must be suffering unspeakable torments both physical and mental in the tower gaol. He now had but three days before he learned his fate, three tortuous days of uncertainty and unimaginable pain. Not that any of this was anything more than of academic interest. In all my time as a physician I had never seen anyone recover from an injury like the one he sustained today. A mere spillage of boiling water leaves a horrible scar once healed, if it heals at all. More often the injury turns septic, then gangrenous, a tertiary fever affects the heart and brain and the patient dies, usually in agony and fever. In Isaac’s case it was unlikely to get that far. He will hang well before infection kills him. What was most difficult for me as a physician was the frustration of not being able to dress his wound which would at least make it more comfortable for him. But of course I wasn’t permitted to do so. The whole point of the exercise was that natural processes – and God’s intentions judged therein – had to be allowed to work without interference.

As we filed into choir I deliberately kept my eyes lowered for fear of catching sight of Egbert or one of his colleagues. I could not have borne the look of triumph on their smug faces or the answering scowl on my own. Even so, I could sense their disapproval. As far as they were concerned I was taking the side of a Christ-killing Jew against that of an innocent Christian boy-saint and they were not going to forgive me easily. Jeremiah was the only one to have the decency to come up to me after the service. He laid his own arthritic hand on my arm gently. ‘We will pray for him brother,’ he said. In spite of myself I smiled and nodded, grateful for this small sign of humanity.

*

Later at supper in the refectory Jocelin sat with me again – it was becoming something of a ritual.

‘It s-seems there is to be a candle-lit vigil tonight for the soul of the murdered boy,’ he whispered as he sat down.

I was appalled. ‘That’s tantamount to confirming Matthew is already a saint,’ I said. ‘And by implication that Isaac is guilty. Surely Samson hasn’t agreed to it?’

He squirmed. ‘He will not raise objections provided it is solely within one of the s-side chapels and not open to the general populous.’

I shook my head angrily and started to rise from my bench. ‘No, this cannot be allowed to happen. I must try to prevent it. At the very least it’s prejudicial to Isaac’s case.’

Jocelin put out a restraining hand on my arm. ‘Samson is trying to tread the m-middle path, Walter. He does not want to deny the devout their r-right to honour a martyr. If he did they would make even more of a fuss. B-better to have this private devotion than a public p-protest.’

He was right of course. A service at night in a side chapel with only the choir monks present would keep the publicity to a minimum. I would be doing Isaac no favours by turning it into a noisy battle of wills. ‘So long as they don’t expect me to come,’
I said sitting down again heavily.

Jocelin smiled wryly. ‘I don’t think our presence will be missed.’

I looked up and smiled. ‘Thank you for that “our” at least.’

A brother I did not know well but whose name, I think, was Valentin had been eating next to us and apparently listening to our conversation. He now slammed his spoon down and glared at me with what looked like pure hatred. ‘Have you no conscience at all?’ he demanded of me
before pushing his plate away heavily and getting up.

‘Now, which camp is he in, I wonder?’ I asked Jocelin
watching the man storm out of the room. ‘
Pro
or
anti
? I must say I’m getting confused. Depending on your point of view, I either saved Isaac in court today or put the final nail in his coffin. It seems I can do no right for doing wrong.’

‘He probably just didn’t like having his s-supper interrupted by idle chit-chat,’ said Jocelin watching the monk leave.

I poured us some thin beer. ‘Well, we can do little to obviate Isaac’s suffering but we have three days before judgement. Let us hope nothing else happens in that time to make matters worse.’

Jocelin looked at me sheepishly. ‘Th-there have b-been more m-miracles.’

I groaned. ‘Tell me.’

He glanced at the reader at his lectern: Brother Nicholas today, a quiet, self-effacing monk too immersed in the text he was reading to notice anything else.

‘It seems that during the trial a woman was cured of a lump in her b-breast. Unbeknown to her, she was leaning against Matthew’s grave in order to remove a stone from her shoe as the judgement was read. The stone miraculously swelled and jumped out of her shoe leaving her free of both pain and lump. It is being seen as a sign of God’s favour for Matthew.’

‘Leaning against what?’ I snorted. ‘There’s nothing to lean against. The grave is but a flattened pile of earth. Another fabrication.’ I closed my eyes and shook my head. ‘What else?’

‘A carp hauled this morning from the river near the fuller’s mill. The fisherman opened up the b-belly and found a silver penny with the cross of Saint Matthew the Apostle.’

I was bewildered by man’s seemingly unquenchable thirst for self-delusion. ‘It is only a matter of time before one of the chapels gets re-dedicated to this new saint.’

‘Oh, I doubt that,’ said Jocelin. ‘You know, one of the reasons I wr-rote my
Life of Saint Robert
was because he was being neglected. I had hoped the work might reignite some interest. Alas, to no avail. You still have it, by the way? My treatise?’

‘Hm? Oh yes,’ I smiled reassuringly. ‘Safe and sound.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d lost it.

Jocelin nodded and drank some beer. If only I’d examined Isaac’s testament when I had the chance – as Jocelin counselled I should have done - his treatise might not have been stolen and an awful lot of what happened since might have been avoided. I was sure it was somehow critical to the whole case. The one person who knew what was in it, of course, was Isaac and he was saying nothing. I wanted to visit him again in the abbey gaol to try one last time to persuade him to tell me. I also wanted to see Sir Richard de Tayfen again. He was another who knew more than he was saying. As I toyed with my pot I reflected again that with just three days before Isaac’s final judgment there was still much to do.

*

Sir Richard’s house was a grand two-storey affair fronting directly onto a narrow avenue in the centre of the town in that area known to Mother Han as ‘pennypinch hill’. Built of flint stone with a wattle-and-daub frontage, it stood out from its neighbours in its lush livery of a lime-wash mixed with ox-blood to make that deep, rich reddish-pink pigment so typical these days of town houses in Suffolk. The house was no less than six mullioned-windows in length with a vast gateway at ground level to allow the easy passage of carts into the yard at the back, one of which was just driving in as I arrived nearly knocking me down in its haste. The top floor was one large hall running the full length of the house where Sir Richard conducted his business of buying, treating, sorting and selling cloths of all descriptions.

Sir Richard’s dwarf, Ruddlefairdam, answered the door when I called the next morning. I’d seen him before on my several visits when I was treating his master’s eldest daughter.

‘Ah, good day to you my man,’ I smiled my most professional smile. ‘Remember me?’

He nodded mechanically.

‘Good. I, er, was wondering about the health of your master’s daughter, erm - Marian.’

‘Miriam.’

‘That’s the one. I was wondering how she was, erm, faring.’

‘Well, thank you.’

I nodded. ‘Good, that’s good to hear. I, er…that is to say she, erm… Look, is your master available?’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Do I need one?’

‘He’s a very busy man.’

‘I know, but I happened to be passing and…’

Just at that moment,
Deo gratias
, Sir Richard entered the hallway behind Ruddlefairdam who was fortunately small enough that I could see and be seen over his head.

‘Oh, Sir Richard!’ I called waving furiously. ‘What a lucky coincidence that we should meet thus!’

Sir Richard, who had been engrossed with an employee discussing what appeared to be fabric samples, stopped and squinted.

‘It is I,’ I said smiling broadly and stepping back for the sun to illuminate my face. ‘Master Walter. From the abbey?’

‘Master Walter,’ he nodded courteously but briefly. ‘Did you wish to see my daughter?’

‘Yes, yes indeed I do - erm – well actually, no. Might we have a word?’

I was fearful that he might still be harbouring resentment over my discourteous behaviour at our last meeting outside the abbey church when I brusquely dismissed him. But he seemed in genuine preoccupation with his work.

‘I am extremely busy, brother. Can it not wait until the end of the week?’

Four days away? Isaac would be dead by then.

‘Sir Richard, truly, it cannot.’

He spoke confidentially to his employee and handed the pile of fabric samples to him before turning back to me. ‘Very well.’

*

We were sitting in a plush parlour that I imagined was normally reserved for entertaining important clients. I was not surprised to find myself there. Sir Richard had never struck me as a man especially swayed by the trappings of rank or formality, except where it was necessary in the furtherance of his business interests. Ruddlefairdam had just put down a silver salver on which were a flagon of wine and two silver goblets, and then he left closing the door quietly behind him.

‘This is not about my daughter, is it?’ said Sir Richard when we were alone. ‘It’s about that Jew.’

I smiled non-committally. ‘Sir Richard, when we met outside the abbey church the other day you told me some things that may be of extreme significance in this case. I was taken rather by surprise at the time and was not quick-witted enough to grasp what you were saying.’