Reuben’s daughter Ruth brought us bread, cheese and wine. She was a comely girl about my own age; tall, slender but full-breasted, veiled, of course, but with huge liquid brown eyes, and I sensed that she was smiling at me behind the thin white curtain of fine cloth that covered her face. I smiled back at her, then dropped my eyes uncertainly, as she continued to gaze at me boldly over her veil.
‘That will be all, Ruth,’ snapped Reuben, and his daughter turned away and dutifully left us to our meal.
‘I should beat the sauciness out of her, I know,’ said Reuben, ‘but as she is my only child, and she reminds me so much of her mother, may her soul rest in the bosom of Abraham, that I cannot bring myself to chastise her.’ He ushered the two of us over to a great table in his hall, and invited us to sit. For a townhouse, it was huge, and I wondered whether the decision by the people of York to exclude Jews from living inside their walls had not, in some way been beneficial to Reuben and his tribe: compared with the cramped rows of houses in town, the Jews had the space to build themselves large, stout houses with spacious gardens between the wall and the river Foss, and yet they were still only a quarter of an hour’s walk from the centre of York.
‘These are bad times to be a Jew in a Christian land, my young friend,’ said Reuben, half-apologising with a smile as I handed his throwing knife back to him. It had been stuck nearly an inch deep into the oak gatepost, and it had taken a considerable amount of force to remove it from the grip of the wood. For such a thin man, Reuben was extremely strong, and I knew this, but his ability to throw a knife so far and so hard still amazed me. He tucked the blade away into a fold in his robe and poured Robin and myself a cup of wine.
‘You heard what happened to us in London?’ he asked Robin. My master nodded: ‘A terrible business,’ he replied gravely. At Richard’s coronation in September of the previous year, a delegation of Jews had attempted to make a gift of gold to the new King. Due to some confusion at the entrance of the palace of Westminster, a riot had broken out and the Jewish delegation had been cut down by Richard’s men-at-arms. Worse, the rioting spread through the whole city like a plague of hatred and many Jews had been hunted through the streets of London and mercilessly slaughtered.
‘But the King has since decreed that your people are under his personal protection,’ said Robin. ‘Does that not reassure you?’
‘The King is in France,’ said Reuben darkly. ‘And soon he will be on the road to Outremer. He does not care for us; we are merely his sheep, to be shorn whenever it is his royal whim. Last night the mob came out of the city and burnt down my friend Benedict’s house. He’s dead, you know, he died on the way back from London after being wounded in Westminster in the riot, but now, so too are his wife and family, dragged from the house and hacked apart in the street like animals. His treasure has been stolen; the records of his debts have been destroyed. I fear that when night falls, we — Ruth and myself — will be next. But I will kill her myself before I let her fall into the hands of a Christian mob.’ He spoke with very little emotion in his voice but a muscle jumped in his cheek, betraying his true feelings.
‘But what of Sir John Marshal?’ I asked. ‘As Sheriff, surely it is his duty to keep the King’s peace in Yorkshire.’
‘He is a weak man and he too owes money to Jews,’ said Reuben. ‘I do not think he would be too tormented if we were all murdered and his debts were wiped clean. But perhaps I am being unfair. These days I cannot tell friend from foe; these days, all Christians seem alike to me,’ he smiled at Robin to make it clear that he was speaking, at least partly, in jest. ‘But you came here to discuss money,’ he continued, ‘let us talk of gold and silver, not of death. How can I and my friends be of service to you?’
Robin nodded at me and I excused myself from the table — Robin preferred his financial conversations to be private — so I went over to the far side of the hall to examine a particularly beautiful tapestry that was hanging there: it showed the Holy City of Jerusalem, high on a hill, with depictions of the angels, archangels and ancient prophets, and I pondered how much, in matters of faith and tradition, the Jews and Christians had in common. Tuck had told me that the much of the Bible was sacred to the Jews, too. Of course, I believed then, as I still do to this day, that all Jews are eternally damned because they have not accepted Our Lord Jesus Christ into their hearts. But I also knew in my heart that Reuben was a good man, a kind man, and a loyal friend to Robin, and I could not see any reason for him or his people to be hunted down and murdered. I turned to look at Robin and Reuben, their heads bent close together, talking quietly out of earshot at the other end of the hall. I knew what Robin’s opinion would be about the murder of Jews: he had little time for religious dogma, and he would not care a jot if a thousand Jews — or Christians — were to die, if he did not have a personal connection to them; but Reuben was his friend, and erstwhile partner, and he would defend him to the death against all comers, Christian, Jew, pagan or Saracen.
Looking over at Robin and Reuben, I noticed a curious thing. Reuben was showing Robin a small packet of whitish crystals. Robin picked one up and sniffed it before handing it back to Reuben. Reuben took the small yellow-white lump in a pair of silver tongs and held it to the flame of a candle on the table. There was a crackle and a burst of white smoke, a small cloud formed over the table and a few moments later the scent reached me — it was a rich, sweet fragrance, like burning flowers, and familiar — I knew I had smelled it before in a totally different context. But where? I could not think.
Robin saw me looking at them and the fast disappearing cloud of smoke, and he frowned at me. I turned away again and resumed my study of the beautiful tapestry. What was this mysterious fragrant white substance, and why would Reuben and Robin be so interested in it?
Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, Robin called me over. The package of white crystals had disappeared, I guessed into one of the folds of Reuben’s voluminous robe, and Robin and Reuben were clasping hands solemnly.
‘So, it is settled then,’ said Robin. ‘Alan, we have a little errand to do before we go home — we are going to escort Reuben and Ruth to the castle. They will be safe there until this religious foolishness is over.’
While Reuben gathered his rolls of parchment, his account books and valuables, and Ruth packed food and clothing, I stared out of a window on the second floor. I had a fine view of the broad street outside and the gatehouse down by the bridge over the Foss. Far beyond the city wall to my right, I could see the Minster glowing in the evening sunlight; as I gazed on it in wonder, the great bells of the cathedral began to ring out for Vespers, and they were immediately followed by the chimes of every other belfry in York. The golden evening rang with the music of God, calling all to evening prayers, and the sound filled my heart. How could one think of hatred and death with that glorious din in your ears?
‘Come on, Alan, stop daydreaming or they’ll close the gatehouse,’ shouted Robin from below. He had the horses’ reins in his hands, including a packhorse for Reuben’s possessions, and I scrambled down and joined my friends.
We got to the gatehouse just as the man-at-arms was beginning to swing the great wooden doors shut. He let us through with a grumble and a dark look at Reuben and Ruth, who, even though they were well swathed in cloaks, were somehow almost instantly recognisable as Jews. As we entered the town and made our way southwest towards the castle, I noticed with growing alarm that there were still far more folk in the streets than was natural at this hour. Some passers-by shouted insults at Reuben and his daughter, but more worryingly, some began to follow us as we walked our horses down the narrow streets towards the castle. In the darkening streets, we began to attract an ugly train. I put my hand on my sword hilt, but Robin caught my eye and shook his head. One angry youth in a red-brown peasant’s tunic lifted his garment and made an obscene gesture, jerking his hips towards Ruth. ‘Jew-lovers,’ he yelled at us, and the rest of the gathering crowd repeated the call: ‘Jewlovers, Jew-lovers’. A passing man spat a great gobbet of phlegm at us, which splattered on the rump of the packhorse. I wanted to break into a trot, but again Robin signaled that we would continue to proceed at walking pace. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another man pick up a loose cobblestone, and, with a shout of ‘Death to the Christ-killers,’ hurled it at our party. It hit Ruth square in the middle of her back and she gasped in pain. Immediately, I dug my toe into Ghost’s shoulder, turned him towards Ruth’s assailant and spurring back, I charged my horse straight into the wretch. Ghost’s chest smashed into his shoulder and he spun round and went down under the hooves of my mount. I heard clearly the crisp snap of bone, and a muffled scream, and then drawing my sword and pausing above his groaning body, I tried for a moment or so to catch the eyes of anyone in the growing crowd who would match my stare — nobody would. So I turned Ghost again and trotted back to my place in our little cavalcade.
I was feeling pleased with myself but, by riding down the stone-thrower, I had unleashed something even worse. The shouting from the crowd changed from individual taunts to massed yells, growing louder and louder.
