Ariana Franklin - Mistress of the Art of Death

“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.

Prior Geoffrey sighed. “Master Roger heard the dread word ‘crucifixion’ and snapped at it like a ferret. Here was something new. Not merely an accusation of torture such as Jews have ever inspired…I beg your pardon, Master Simon, but it has always been so.”

“I fear it has, my lord. I fear it has.”

“Here was a reenactment of Easter, a child found worthy to suffer the pains of the Son of God and, therefore, undoubtedly, both a saint and a miracle-giver. I would have buried the boy with decency but was denied by the hag in human form who poses as a nun of Saint Radegund.”

The prior shook his fist toward the road. “She abducted the child’s body, claiming it as hers by right merely because Peter’s parents dwell on land belonging to Saint Radegund. Mea culpa, I fear we wrangled over the corpse. But that woman, Master Simon, that hellcat, sees not the body of a little boy deserving Christian burial but an acquisition to the den of succubae she calls a convent, a source of income from pilgrims and from the halt and the lame looking for cure. An attraction, Master Simon.” He sat back. “And such it has become. Roger of Acton has spread the word. Our prioress was seen taking advice from the money changers of Canterbury on how to sell Little Saint Peter relics and tokens at the convent gate. Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames! To what do you not drive human hearts, cursed craving for gold!”

“I am shocked, my lord,” Simon said.

“You should be, Master Simon. She has a knuckle taken from the boy’s hand that she and her cousin pressed on me in my travail, saying it would mend me in the instant. Roger of Acton, do you see, wishes to add me to the list of cures, that my name might be on the application to the Vatican for the official sainting of Little Saint Peter.”

“I see.”

“The knuckle, which, such was my pain, I did not scruple to touch, was ineffective. My deliverance was from a more unexpected source.” The prior got up. “Which reminds me, I feel the urge to piss.”

Simon put out a hand to detain him. “But what of the other children, my lord? The ones still missing?”

Prior Geoffrey stood for a moment, as if listening to the blackbird. “For a while, nothing,” he said. “The town had sated itself on Chaim and Miriam. The Jews in the castle were preparing to leave it. But then another boy disappeared and we did not dare to move them.”

The prior turned his face away so that Simon could not see it. “It was on All Souls’ Night. He was a boy from my own school.” Simon heard the break in the prior’s voice. “Next, a little girl, a wildfowler’s daughter. On Holy Innocents Day, God help us. Then, as recently as the Feast of Saint Edward, King and Martyr, another boy.”

“But, my lord, who can accuse the Jews of these disappearances? Are they not still locked in the castle?”

“By now, Master Simon, Jews have been awarded the ability to fly over the castle crenels, snatching up the children and gnawing them before dropping their carcasses in the nearest mere. May I advise you not to reveal yourself. You see”-the prior paused-“there have been signs.”

“Signs?”

“Found in the area where each child was last seen. Cabalistic weavings. The townsfolk say they resemble the Star of David. And now”-Prior Geoffrey was crossing his legs-“I have to piss. This is a matter of some moment.”

Simon watched him hobble to the trees. “Good fortune, my lord.”

I was right to tell him as much as I did, he thought. We have gained a valuable ally. For information, I traded information-though not all of it.

THE TRACK TOWARD the brow of Wandlebury Hill had been made by a landslip that breached part of the great ditches dug out by some ancient peoples to defend it. The passage of sheep had evened it out and Adelia, a basket on her arm, climbed to the summit in minutes without losing breath-to find herself alone on the hilltop, an immense circle of grass dotted currantlike with sheep droppings.

From a distance, it had appeared bald. Certainly the only high trees were down its side, with a clump along one easterly edge, and the rest was covered with shrubby hawthorn and juniper bushes. The flattish surface was pitted here and there with curious depressions, some of them two or three feet deep and at least six feet across. A good place to wrench your ankle.

To the east, where the sun was rising, the ground fell away gently; to the west, it dropped fast to the flat land.

She opened her cloak, clasped her hands behind her neck, stretching, letting the breeze pierce the despised tunic of harsh wool bought in Dover that Simon of Naples had begged her to wear.

“Our mission lies among the commoners of England, Doctor. If we are to mingle with them, learn what they know, we must appear as they do.”

“Mansur looks every inch a Saxon villein, naturally,” she’d said. “And what of our accents?”

But Simon had maintained it was a matter of degree that three foreign medicine peddlers, always popular with the herd, would hear more secrets than a thousand inquisitors. “We shall not be removed by class from those we question; it is the truth we want, not respect.”

“In this thing,” she’d said of the tunic, “respect will not be forthcoming.” However, Simon, more experienced in deception than she, was the leader of this mission. Adelia had put on what was basically a tube, fastened at the shoulders with pins but retaining her silk undershift-though never one to swim in the stream of fashion, she’d be damned if, even for the King of Sicily, she tolerated sackcloth next to the skin.

She closed her eyes against the light, tired from a night spent watching her patient for signs of fever. At dawn the prior’s skin had proved cool, his pulse steady; the procedure had been successful for the moment; it now remained to be seen whether he could urinate without help and without pain. So far so good, as Margaret used to say.

She started walking, her eyes searching for useful plants, noticing that her cheap boots-another blasted disguise-sent up sweet, unfamiliar scents at each step. There were goodies here among the grass, the early leaves of vervains, ale-hoof, catmint, bugle, Clinopodium vulgare, which the English called wild basil, though it neither resembled nor smelled like true basil. Once she had bought an old English herbal that the monks of Saint Lucia had acquired but couldn’t read. She’d given it to Margaret as a reminder of home, only to reappropriate it to study for herself.