Mistress of the Art of Death

He said, “I must tell you, Master Simon, that our people are much aroused against the Jews, they fear that other offspring may be taken.”

“My lord, what inquiry has been made? What evidence that Jews are to blame?”

“The charge was made almost immediately,” said Prior Geoffrey, “and, I am afraid, with reason…”

It was Simon Menahem of Naples ’s genius as agent, investigator, go-between, reconnoiterer, spy-he was used in all such capacities by such of the powerful as knew him well-that people took him to be what he seemed. They could not believe that this puny, nervous little man of such eagerness, even simplicity, who spilled information-all of it trustworthy-could outwit them. Only when, the deal fixed, the alliance sealed, the bottom of the business uncovered, did it occur to them that Simon had achieved exactly what his masters wanted. But he is a booby, they would tell themselves.

And it was to this booby, who had judged the prior’s character and newfound indebtedness to the last jot and tittle, that a subtle prior found himself recounting everything the booby wished to know.

It had been just over a year ago. Passiontide Friday. Eight-year-old Peter, a child from Trumpington, a village on the southwest edge of Cambridge, was sent by his mother to gather pussy willow, “which, in England, replaces the palm in decoration for Palm Sunday.”

Peter had shunned willows near his home and trotted north along the Cam to gather branches from the tree on the stretch of riverbank by Saint Radegund’s convent, which was claimed to be especially holy, having been planted by Saint Radegund herself.

“As if,” said the prior, bitterly interrupting his tale, “a female German saint of the Dark Ages would have tripped over to Cambridgeshire to plant a tree. But that harpy”-thus he referred to the prioress of Saint Radegund’s-“will say anything.”

It happened that, on the same day, Passiontide Friday, several of the richest and most important Jews in England had gathered in Cambridge at the house of Chaim Leonis for the marriage of Chaim’s daughter. Peter had been able to view the celebrations from the other side of the river on his way to gather branches of willow.

He had not, therefore, returned home the same way but had taken the quicker route to Jewry by going over the bridge and passing through the town so that he could see the carriages and caparisoned horses of the visiting Jews in Chaim’s stable.

“His uncle, Peter’s uncle, was Chaim’s stabler, you see.”

“Are Christians allowed to work for Jews here?” Simon asked, as if he didn’t know the answer already. “Great heavens.”

“Oh, yes. The Jews are steady employers. And Peter was a regular visitor to the stables, even to the kitchens, where Chaim’s cook-who was a Jew-sometimes gave him sweetmeats, a fact that was to count against the household later as enticement.”

“Go on, my lord.”

“Well. Peter’s uncle, Godwin, was too busy with the unusual influx of horses to pay attention to the boy and told him to be off home, indeed thought he had. Not until late that night, when Peter’s mother came inquiring to town, did anyone realize the child had disappeared. The watch was alerted, also the river bailiffs-it was likely the boy had fallen into the River Cam. The banks were searched at dawn. Nothing.”

Nothing for more than a week. As townsfolk and villagers crawled on their knees to the Good Friday cross in the parish churches, prayers were addressed to Almighty God for the return of Peter of Trumpington.

On Easter Monday the prayer was granted. Hideously. Peter’s body was discovered in the river near Chaim’s house, snagged below its surface under a pier.

The prior shrugged. “Even then blame did not fall on the Jews. Children tumble, they fall into rivers, wells, ditches. No, we thought it an accident-until Martha the laundress came forward. Martha lives in Bridge Street and among her clients is Chaim Leonis. On the evening of Little Peter’s disappearance, she said, she had delivered a basket of clean washing to Chaim’s back door. Finding it open, she’d gone inside-”

“She delivered laundry so late in the day?” Simon expressed surprise.

Prior Geoffrey inclined his head. “I think we must accept that Martha was curious; she had never seen a Jewish wedding. Nor have any of us, of course. Anyway, she went inside. The back of the house was deserted, the celebrations having moved to the front garden. The door to a room off the hall was slightly open-”

“Another open door,” Simon said, apparently surprised again.

The prior glanced at him. “Do I tell you something you already know?”

“I beg pardon, my lord. Continue, I beseech you.”

“Very well. Martha looked into the room and saw-says she saw-a child hanging by his hands from a cross. She was given no chance to be other than terrified because, just then, Chaim’s wife came down the passageway, cursed her, and she ran off.”

“Without alerting the watch?” Simon asked.

The prior nodded. “Indeed, that is the weakness in her story. If, if, Martha saw the body when she says, she did not alert the watch. She alerted nobody until after Little Peter’s corpse was discovered. Then, and only then, did she whisper what she had seen to a neighbor, who whispered it to another neighbor, who went to the castle and told the sheriff. After that, evidence came thick and fast. A branch of pussy willow was found dropped in the lane outside Chaim’s house. A man delivering peat to the castle testified that from across the river on Passiontide Friday, he saw two men, one wearing the Jewish hat, toss a bundle from Great Bridge into the Cam. Others now said they had heard screams coming from Chaim’s house. I myself viewed the corpse after it had been dragged from the river and saw the stigmata of crucifixion on it.” He frowned. “The poor little body was horribly bloated, of course, but there were the marks on the wrists, and the belly had been split open, as if by a spear, and…there were other injuries.”

There had been immediate uproar in the town. To save every man, woman, and child in Jewry from slaughter, they had been hurried to Cambridge Castle by the sheriff and his men, acting on behalf of the king, under whose protection the Jews were.

“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