Unholy Innocence (28 page)

On that subject, too, I had an idea and might have told him except at that moment we were interrupted by a commotion near the choir altar. All the while Jocelin and I had been talking one of the sub-sacristans had been laying out the altar cloth ready for the high mass following sext. I’d been vaguely aware of him genuflecting and fussing about with candles and tapers, but had been concentrating too hard on explaining matters to Jocelin to pay him much attention. Now he abruptly disappeared behind the altar ducking down behind it only to bob up again a moment later looking very angry and holding between his finger and thumb the ear of a small boy. Fortunately the ear was still attached to the boy who was dirty and dishevelled as were two little girls who also suddenly popped up beside him and were complaining very noisily. It took me but a moment to recognise who they were under their grubby faces and as soon as I did I was on my feet and rushing towards them. From the state of them Jacob, Josette and Jessica looked as though they had been hiding there for a week, which indeed they probably had. But mere commotion was about to degenerate into out and out pandemonium:

‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’

We all looked round in astonishment to see the squat but sturdy figure of Matilde barrelling down the central aisle of the nave towards us with a face of thunder, scattering pilgrims like alehouse pins in her wake and waving her fists wildly in the air.

‘Sanctuary!’ she yelled again, her voice echoing like a banshee’s in the cavernous church. ‘I
claim sanctuary
en nom de Jésus-Christ!
’ her bulbous frame wobbling perilously as she careered down the aisle towards sub-sacristan Gerard and the children.

Startled as he was,
Gerard was not about to relinquish his prize so easily, not at any rate until Matilde had arrived and landed him such a hefty wallop that it sent him flying backwards against the chancel screen with a teeth-splintering crunch. She then cradled the three children’s heads in her arms and backed against the screen glaring fiercely about her and making an odd growling noise in her throat like a cornered animal.

‘Quickly,’ I whispered to Jocelin. ‘The casket.’

‘W-What?’ he stammered.

‘The casket,’ I repeated. ‘From your office. Fetch it now.
Run
!’

Turning, he picked up his robe and rushed down the aisle towards the west door of the church nearly knocking over a family of pilgrims who had just come in.

Matilde was still looking like a mother lioness protecting her cubs and whining maniacally as I gingerly approached hands held out to show I meant no harm.

‘It’s all right, Matilde. It’s me, Brother Walter. I’m not going to touch them, I promise. You have been hiding them, yes?
Here behind the alter - erm,
vous avez été les cacher ici?’
I spluttered
. ‘Derrière l'autel, oui?
’

‘
Oui,
’ she whimpered defensively and bared her teeth at me.

As I later discovered, she had indeed been hiding the children and feeding them from Thibaut’s bounty ever since the day of their father’s suicide. That was where she had been going the day I met her on the street, not to the church to pray as I had thought but to meet the children and to hide them. But they had been discovered too soon. Samson had not yet had time to rescind Jacob’s outlaw status. There was still a hue and cry for him and he could be killed at any moment with impunity.

People were rushing about now and several monks were approaching from both sides trying to pincer the cornered Matilde and her brood. Others hearing the commotion had appeared at the west end of the church blocking any escape that way. There was no point arguing with them. Action was what was called for. I thought quickly. I would use the confusion to get them all safe. Jocelin arrived back with the casket and I pushed it into Jacob’s hands.

‘Take this,’ I said to the boy. ‘Don’t argue, just take it. It’s yours anyway. Take your sisters and Matilde and get to Norwich. Find your relatives – they are there. You know them.’ I looked back. Guards had appeared at the west door now – I could just make out the tops of their pikes as they started towards us. But the door at the far end of the south transept was still clear. I pointed towards it.  ‘Go now. Go.
Go!
’

A moment more of hesitation and then they turned and the last I saw of the four of them was as they pushed their way into the throng of milling pilgrims and disappeared from view. One of the monks had tried at the last moment to grab them as they passed, but Jocelin had tackled him successfully to the ground, God bless his bony white knees.

Chapter 25

A
DEPARTURE AND A RETURN

At
last the day came for the King to be on his way. It was a relief to see him go on many levels but for me personally it would mean that Joseph might be able to return to his shop. I hadn’t seen him since the evening of the football match two weeks earlier when he came to warn me about Geoffrey de Saye. So much had happened since that night. I was looking forward to telling him all the news and hearing his comments which I was sure would be succinct and perceptive.

For the past week the King’s agents had been picking over Isaac’s property removing anything of any value that could be salvaged and sold. Most of the furniture had been destroyed in the fire but some that had survived had been offered for sale to Abbot Samson who had graciously declined. However, I believe Prior Robert bought one or two fine pieces to grace his fine house overlooking the banks of the River Lark. Indeed, so eager had the King been to liquidate his newly-acquired assets I was surprised he didn’t simply hold an ad hoc auction on the road outside the burnt-out shell of Isaac’s house and have done with it. All this stocktaking of Isaac’s wares was, I gather, the reason Earl Geoffrey Fitz Peter had been on the Thetford road the day I was attacked by his uncle having been summoned by the King to make an inventory. Evidently de Saye had not informed his nephew about the existence of the casket of treasure any more than he had the King and for much the same reasons I expect. The loss of any treasure would, I am sure, be a devastating
blow to King John.

As the hour approached for the King’s departure the sense of anticipation was palpable. The entire abbey, obedientiaries, choir monks and servants all, turned out to wish the King a fond, speedy and hopefully final farewell. The three weeks of his stay had all but bankrupted the Abbot who now in exquisite irony would have to borrow the funds to finance it from Jews in neighbouring towns since, by his own ordinances, Bury no longer had any Jews of its own to scrounge from. Jocelin told me that as a token of his gratitude for our hospitality King John was to give back to the abbey the very silk cloth that his servants had borrowed from our sacristy when he first arrived
and which normally adorns the High Altar of the abbey church. Since John hadn’t even paid for the cloth most of the monks were outraged by this display of shabbiness – though not, of course, out loud. They would have been even more outraged had they seen the cloth in question, as I had, draped around the naked body of John’s fourteen-year-old concubine. But I couldn’t help laughing at the joke. I also noticed, incidentally, that the monk who received the cloth from the King was the same sub-sacristan, Gerard, who’d had the tug-of-war over Jacob’s ear a few days earlier and who evidently was still nursing bruises from the encounter. I do hope he remembers to wash it before it gets used again.

As a final act of blasphemy the King went to mass the morning of his departure, the first since his arrival three weeks earlier, and made great play of his donation to the poor of Bury. Considering how much he must have made out of the estate of Isaac ben Moy I thought he could have been a little more generous than the paltry twelve shillings he ostentatiously dropped onto the collection plate. But just as the plate was about to pass from the royal hand the King seemed to have second thoughts and called for its return.

What was this? Had the King been toying with us after all? Was he now to make the generous departing gift so earnestly desired and expected of a visiting monarch just as his brother and father had done at the end of their royal visits?

We craned our necks to see what bounty the King might be bestowing upon the abbey, but all he did was to borrow another shilling from one of his courtiers and tossed it nonchalantly onto the plate thus bringing the sum total of his gift to thirteen: ‘One for the baker,’ he announced in a loud voice, ‘to make a round dozen,’ and then proceeded to snigger at his joke throughout the remainder of the mass.

With that the King took his leave and disappeared out of the East Gate of the town with the remnants of his army, his courtiers and his baggage train bringing up the rear all heading towards lucky Ipswich as the next stop on his journey back to London.
Sic transit gloria mundi
.

I would add one post-script about the King’s constitution – his
corporal
constitution that is, not his political one. Abbot Samson had been right when he said that King John would have no wish to see me again, but he did send round a messenger to ask my professional opinion – unremunerated, naturally - concerning the bowel problem that had been the original cause of his extended stay at the abbey. He wanted to know what I would recommend so as not have to suffer a recurrence of the problem. I suggested a supplement to his diet of soft fruit in order to keep his bowels open: Plums, cherries - or perhaps, since he had an apparent fondness for them, peaches. But not too many, I cautioned, or he may have the opposite problem from the one that laid him low for so long. I have no idea if he ever took my advice.

  Even as the gates were closing on the last of the King’s wagons I rushed in the opposite direction up to the top of the town and through the Risby Gate to Joseph’s shop my heart pounding with anticipation at what I might find there. When I arrived I could hardly believe my eyes. All was magically back to where it had been the day before the King’s arrival, even down to Joseph’s staff which was in its usual position lying across the entranceway.

‘It won’t be for long,’ he said after I had embraced him and slumped exhilarated on his ubiquitous and infuriating cushions. ‘The Abbot has relented on his expulsion of the Jews and is to allow some back into the town – those who can contribute to his taxes.’

‘Into your old shop near the market?’ I said with a twinkle in my eye.

‘Possibly.’ He eyed me suspiciously. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea what might have changed his mind?’

‘None whatsoever,’ I grinned.

So, I thought, Samson had kept his word to me about relaxing his policy towards the Bury Jews – and maybe a touch of conscience might have sweetened his decision, although it was more likely pressure from the Jews of Thetford and Cambridge whose loans he was even now negotiating. I was glad for I did not wish to harbour bad opinions of Samson who I knew at bottom to be an honourable as well as deeply religious man. But like all men he was prone to the climate of other men’s thoughts and the exigencies of the times.

‘Dear God, it’s good to see you again,’ I said to Joseph. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. Yet, you know, even in my darkest hour I had the oddest feeling that you were never far away.’

‘Really? I can’t think why.’ He lightly clapped his hands together.

‘Mind you,’ I went on, ‘I had no need of anybody’s help, if truth were known. When de Saye attacked me in the forest, I was equal to him. It was lucky, really, that Earl Geoffrey arrived when he did or I don’t know what I might have done to the poor wretch even with one of my hands injured.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Oh yes. A flick of the wrist, a duck and a dive and I had him on his back laid out cold like a stunned rabbit.’

‘A stunned rabbit, eh?’ He clapped his hands again.

I burst out laughing and threw one of his cushions at his head. ‘You old goat! I knew it was you all along watching over me, disappearing round corners, thwarting de Saye’s attempt to cut my throat in the forest. And I also know that it was you who stole Isaac’s testament from my cell. So, come on now, admit it.’

His smile faltered slightly as he shook his head. ‘Not me, my brother. Quite impossible.’ He raised his leg and I could see that he had his foot heavily bandaged. ‘I badly twisted my ankle escaping from the abbey the night of the football match. I have been unable to do more than hobble about ever since which was why I went to stay with friends in the country. I haven’t been near the town since. It is nearly mended but I will be incapacitated for some days yet.’

My mouth dropped open. ‘But I saw you. It must have been you.’

I was baffled. I had been sure it was Joseph who had done all those things. But as I examined his foot I could see the bone was badly bruised and quite impossible to put any weight on it. I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘If not you, then who?’

At that moment the screen parted and the boy Chrétien entered bearing a tray of refreshments. He set the tray down on the floor and proceeded to pour us a cup each of the steaming herbal tea. As he handed me mine I noticed one of his arms was scratched as though he’d been in some kind of violent tussle.

No, I thought, that was a foolish notion and instantly dismissed it from my mind. Impossible. He was too light, too
effeminate
.

Seeing him, though, reminded me of something else I needed to settle. ‘By the way,’ I said turning again to Joseph. ‘I believe I owe you some money.’

He gazed vaguely into space stroking his brown beard. ‘No, I don’t think so. The abbey accounts are fully up to date. You paid me for that last purchase you made – have you forgotten?’

I was growing frustrated. ‘I don’t mean my purchase account. I mean the bag of coin your boy here gave me,’ I said indicating Chrétien.

But Joseph was shaking his head sadly. ‘My dear brother, I think in your tussle with Lord de Saye you must have hit your head harder than you thought. I have no idea what you’re talking about. And since you mention him, Chrétien is not my servant. He’s from your mother’s household.’

My jaw inevitably dropped. ‘My
mother
?’

‘Yes. Did I not say? The Lady Isabel came to see me the day before the King’s arrival and brought him with her. She was quite insistent I should take him. Among his
many attributes he is apparently a champion wrestler – are you not, Chrétien? I daresay she knew Geoffrey de Saye was to be among the King’s entourage and thought Chrétien might be useful to you. I hope he was.’

You see now why
I regretted not mentioning him the first time I saw him all those weeks ago, for had I done so I would have learnt all this sooner and might not have attacked him when I found him alone in the shop; might not have wasted my energies chasing shadows around the town; and might have joined forces with him to defeat the dread de Saye sooner. Mortified by my stupidity, I glanced again at Chrétien but he replied to none of this and was already disappearing behind the shutters and silently closing them after him.

*

So there you have it, the chapter missing from Jocelin’s
Chronicle
that should have been written but never was – until now. It has taken me forty years to summon the courage to do so and though I say so myself I think I have made a fair fist of it, although perhaps not as fair as Jocelin would have done. I would, however, add one final footnote to the tale: Despite his best efforts, many of Samson’s fears about the break-up of John’s empire did indeed come to pass - although Samson mercifully never lived to see its final demise. But his machinations had been for nothing for matters followed their own path which meant the whole tragic business concerning the fuller’s son need never have happened. In light of this it is ironic that the events leading to King John’s ultimate defeat were in part precipitated by a scandal involving the death of another child not much older than Matthew: Prince Arthur, the boy Samson was so scornful of occupying the throne and John’s greatest rival, was dispatched in the spring of 1203 aged just sixteen, many say by John’s own hand. That in turn led indirectly to the signing of his Great Charter which many Englishmen regard as marking the beginning of their freedom – an event, incidentally, also fermented within the walls of our abbey of Saint Edmund. But that is a tale for another time.

A few months after the King’s departure I received a parcel from an unknown origin in Norwich. It contained no note or indication as to who sent it just a portion of a beautifully-carved piece of rosewood of the type that often adorns the sides of wooden caskets made in the East. It was from Jacob of course letting me know that he had arrived safely in Norwich. I have kept the carving ever since as a memento and can see it propped on a shelf above my study desk even as I write. Its exotic carvings and subtle colouring look slightly out of place against the unadorned dark oak of my lectern.

Later still I heard that Samson had been as good as his word and given Matthew’s mother a pension out of his own purse, which was more than she deserved. I could be cynical and say this was to buy her silence but I know Samson’s character well enough to know it was probably done out of charity.