Unholy Innocence (5 page)

‘Come back again, yer little beggars,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll whup the lot of you!’

We heard them disappear up into the town no doubt to cause more pandemonium to some other poor innocent soul.

‘I think perhaps you had best get home too,’ I said to Joseph.

‘They are only boys,’ he dismissed.

‘I know, but high spirits and alcohol make for a lethal combination.’

As if to prove my point another posse came rushing back the other way down Churchgate Street towards the abbey shouting at the tops of their lungs. These stopped to speak to the gatekeeper. As we watched, intrigued, they stood gesticulating and arguing with great ferocity for a few moments. But instead of berating them the gatekeeper suddenly turned unexpectedly on his heel and ran as fast as his fat legs would carry him towards the barracks. A minute later the posse was back again and shouting in great excitement. I thought at first it was one of the chants for the football match, but then I realised it wasn’t that at all. It was just one word they were shouting over and over, and the word was “
Murder!
”

Chapter 6

AN INCONVENIENT MURDER

My
initial reaction to the ‘murder’ was that, like the King’s ‘poisoning’, it was nothing of the kind but just another piece of mindless violence in the aftermath of the football match. Either that or someone had taken advantage of the general confusion of the game to settle an old score – unfortunately another all-too-common event. I was forced to rethink both conclusions, however, at Chapter next morning when not only the Abbot but also the Prior were absent and rumoured to be in deep conference with the Justiciar who was still at the abbey.

Chapter is the daily meeting when notices are given out and the general business of the abbey discussed
, and other than when we recite the offices, it is the only time when all eighty of the choir monks assemble together.  As such it interrupts the smooth running of the abbey and can be something of an irritation. Without the Abbot or the Prior present there seemed little point in holding it at all. By common consent, therefore, the meeting was about to break up when we received a message from the Abbot asking us all to remain in the chapterhouse until further notice on a matter of extreme importance. This naturally sparked speculation that the delay might be something to do with the murder. For the Abbot, the Prior and the Justiciar all to become involved the victim had to be someone of unusual interest at the very least and we wondered who it could have been. So we remained on our stone benches lining the walls of the chamber in some degree of trepidation.

After a further hour and in something of a flurry Samson at last arrived, accompanied by a stony-faced Prior Robert and an even stonier-faced Earl Geoffrey. I gathered later that the delay had been largely because of acrimonious wrangling between the Abbot and the Justiciar over who was the most senior officer now that William Marshal and Archbishop Hubert had both returned to London. It was a moot point for the Justiciar officially acts as regent in the King’s absence and would doubtless have insisted on
doing so today. But Abbot Samson would be loathe to relinquish one scintilla of his authority whilst within the abbey demesne. Only threats from Samson to appeal directly to the King had forced the Justiciar finally to submit, and judging by the expression on his face he did so with bad grace. But now that the correct protocols had been established at last Abbot Samson addressed the assembled community, and he did so in words of utmost gravity beginning with the usual prayer for divine guidance:

‘The Peace of the Lord be with you and may He give His blessings on these our solemn deliberations, Amen.

‘My lord Justiciar, Brothers in Christ, I have a woeful duty to perform. Yesterday evening during compline word reached us that the body of a twelve-year-old boy had been found in the town.’

Was that it? Was th
at what had kept us so long from God’s work, the death of a mere boy?

‘Was the victim known?’ This from the far end of the chapterhouse.

‘Yes,’ answered Samson simply. ‘The boy’s name is Matthew, son of William the Fuller, a tenant of the abbey.’

Oh, worse and worse. Not just a boy but a
servant
to boot. This caused a good deal more noisy protestation with many frowns and the shaking of tonsured heads.

I should perhaps explain for we are not quite as heartless as my account may make us at first appear. You see, tragic though any death is - and the death of a child particularly so - nevertheless it is hardly so vital as to disrupt the important work of the abbey. We had the souls of the entire nation in our care not just that of a single child. Besides, murder was a matter for the Abbot and the secular authorities not the entire convent meeting in full Chapter. We had better things to do with our time than to waste an entire morning waiting to be told news that could easily have been conveyed with a great deal less disruption to our busy schedules.

‘I understand your disquiet, brothers,’ said the Abbot raising his voice above the growing clamour, ‘but if you would bear with me for just a moment longer.’ Here he paused to confer with the Justiciar and the Prior while the restlessness continued. But then Abbot Samson resumed:

‘From his injuries and the circumstances of the boy’s death I fear it might be…that is to say, it looks as though it could be….’ He grimaced awkwardly. ‘Brothers, I believe we may have another Robert on our hands.’

This had the effect Samson was clearly expecting. For a moment we all froze, no-one daring to move or to speak as we held our collective breath. Those monks who had stood up to leave sat down again while others looked anxiously at each other and then to the Abbot who at last had our full attention. We all waited to hear his words for we knew well enough to whom – and to what - Samson was referring. Ah yes, we all knew what Samson was talking about all right, and as I remembered the details all in a rush a tingle of anticipation ran down my spine, for eleven years earlier the body of another twelve-year-old boy had been found murdered in the town, and that time there was no doubt about its significance.

His name was Robert and his death had led to one of the most disturbing episodes in the entire two hundred year history of our abbey. No culprit was ever found for the murder but it was widely believed that the Jews had killed him in mockery of Christ’s Passion. Whatever the truth of it, many miracles were ascribed to the boy and he quickly became venerated as a martyr - indeed, his shrine still stands in the crypt of the abbey although these days largely forgotten.
But the tragedy that followed his death and the shame that so many still felt as a result was that a few years after Robert’s death, on Palm Sunday
anno domini
1190 to be precise, riots had broken out in the town and fifty-seven Jews were massacred, some at the very gates of the abbey trying to find sanctuary within our walls.

In mitigation, if defendable such an appalling episode could be, it was a time of great religious anxiety. Jerusalem had fallen to the heathen
s three years earlier and the new king, as Richard was then, was eager to win it back for Christ. The entire country had been roused by his call to arms against the infidel and emotions were running high. Local resentment against the Jews, never entirely stilled after the death of the boy-saint, erupted again with tragic consequences. Those Jews who survived the butchery were later expelled from the town, my brother Joseph among them. And the Abbot who had ordered the expulsion was none other than Samson de Tottington.

‘Was he crucified?’ inquired one loan voice once we had at last collected our wits.

‘It is too early to say,’ replied Samson.

‘Have there been miracles?’

‘To my knowledge, not yet.’

‘Who is keeping watch over the child’s body?’

‘His family, and my lord Essex here has posted a guard.’ Samson bowed in deference to Justiciar Geoffrey.

‘It is only a precaution,’ said the Justiciar. ‘Our priority must be to maintain order while the King’s person is in the town.’

‘It is God’s priority we are concerned with, not the King’s,’ came an angry voice.

‘Who did it?’ came another. ‘The Christ-killers?’

‘You mean the Jews!’

This provoked a storm of protest among the brethren and much angry argument. Samson frowned and shook his head. I looked on in dismay for the news had hardly been announced and already the old passions were coming to the fore. I could see now that Joseph had been right to fear for his safety and I thanked God that he had chosen to leave the town the previous night. I could only hope he was a long way away by now.

Samson held up his hands beseechingly. ‘Brothers, I know no more at the moment. Please, speculation is unhelpful. Let us wait until we have confirmation and more details.’

‘The body must not be touched!’ yelled another angry voice.

‘His purity must not be violated!’ came yet another.

‘Yes,’ said Abbot Samson wearily sitting down.
‘I know.’

*

An hour later I was once again standing before Samson’s desk in his study. He was slumped disconsolately in his chair exhausted and looking as though his haemorrhoids were giving him even more discomfort than usual. On the desk this time were not drawings of towers but the yellowing pages of a script written in a neat, small and precise hand. The author, I had no doubt, was the man now hovering at Samson’s elbow, hands clasped behind him, his pointed nose twitching like a weasel that had just located its supper – the excellent and devoted Brother Jocelin. Could this be the famous chronicle of St Edmund’s Abbey, about which we had heard so much but which no-one had ever been allowed to see?  If so, whose nemesis was I about to meet? Not, I hoped, my own. I tried surreptitiously to read the thing while Samson had it open but the hand was so spidery it was impossible to read upside down. Besides, Jocelin’s writings seemed to be interrupted with odd little quotations from other texts every few lines as a sort of faltering commentary, making it impossible to follow. Good God, I thought, the man even writes with a stammer.

The sound of hooves on the cobbles below drew our attention to the open window.

‘The Justiciar,’ Samson grimaced without looking up. ‘Returning to London. With Earl William and the Archbishop already gone he doesn’t want to be the only member of the Council remaining. The last rat deserting the sinking ship.’ He sighed then shook himself. ‘It is of no consequence. We have adequate resources to protect the King.’

From where I was standing I could see into the courtyard below. Earl Geoffrey was just mounting his fine-looking dappled grey gelding with its harness of blue and gold silk. Already mounted and raring for the off were a dozen troopers dressed in the Fitz Peter livery of red and yellow ochre. Once in the saddle and with the briefest of backward glances the Chief Justiciar spurred his horse and the entire posse set off at a brisk canter towards the Abbot’s Gate, tails swishing in the mid-morning sunshine as they went.

But what drew my attention was the man left standing on the cobblestones watching the Justiciar go: Lord Geoffrey de Saye. My heart sank. Why could he not have accompanied his nephew back to London? With the Justiciar gone there was no-one left to exercise a restraining hand on the man, a situation that de Saye no doubt would be relishing. Was it my imagination or did he glance up at the Abbot’s window before turning on his heel and returning to the lodging house? I frowned with dismay.

Samson was tapping his desk to regain my attention. ‘Walter, what do you know about Saint Robert of Bury?’

I had to think. ‘Erm, only what everyone knows, that he is one of a number of boy-martyrs who have been venerated in recent years,’ and then I added and immediately regretted: ‘To the honour of Saint Edmund.’

Samson nodded. ‘Out of favour these days, alas, but a decade back it was a different matter. Pilgrims flocked to his shrine and he performed a great many miracles both before and after his death.’ Without looking up he lifted an imperious finger. ‘Jocelin here wrote an account of his life. He died in…’ Samson squinted at the page in front of him his nose nearly touching the page. ‘Jocelin,’ he said impatiently. ‘I cannot decipher this scribble for ants. When was it?’

‘Er, e-eleven-eighty-one, f-father,’ stuttered Jocelin bending low.

‘Eighteen years,’ Samson mused stroking his neatly clipped white beard. ‘Was it so long ago? It came at a bad time, I know that. A year before my election.’ He glanced up at me. ‘We had no moral guide then you see, Walter, Abbot Hugh having died the previous November and the abbacy vacant.’ He frowned into blank space. ‘That was part of the problem. Prior Robert was in charge until a new Abbot could be elected. A good man, Prior Robert
- devoted, gentle, but a little…’ he groped for an appropriate word.

‘Lax?’ suggested Jocelin.

‘Overwhelmed,’ corrected Samson. ‘Matters got out of hand, which is something we cannot allow to happen this time.’ He focussed back on me again. ‘That’s why I want you to take charge of this. Liaise with Jocelin here. Look for similarities between the two cases, anything that can give a clue, then report back to me.’

My mouth dropped open in astonishment. I must have looked as bewildered as I felt as I glanced helplessly at Jocelin.

‘Father Abbot,’ said Jocelin softly in his ear. ‘If you c-could just explain…?’

Samson raised his eyebrows. ‘What? Oh yes. I’m sorry, Walter. I didn’t manage to get to bed at all last night. Events have been unfolding so fast I am losing track of who knows what. All right, let’s go back to the beginning. Boy martyrs, yes.’ He winced and shifted his weight to his other buttock. ‘As you say, there have been a number of them in recent years – William of Norwich was the first, I think. Then there was the child Harold in Gloucester - I believe he was the youngest. And our own blessed Saint Robert the most recent of all. There have been others here and in France. They had certain attributes in common – all were boys, all pre-puberty and all killed in a grotesque parody of Our Lord’s Passion, it has always been assumed, by Jews.’