The Devil is Loose

by The Devil is Loose (retail) (epub)

* * *

  Although all Jews had been barred from the coronation and the banquet, they were anxious to find favour with the new king. The first Jewish merchants had come to England with William the Conqueror and had immediately shown a natural talent for all forms of financial business. They controlled much of the shipping, and the manufacture of cloth, and they were not bound by the Church’s condemnation of usury.

  Saxons and Normans came to them to borrow money, but the springs of gratitude often ran dry when repayment was due. Furthermore, the settlers made few attempts to involve themselves in the community. They had their own way of life, and were content with it, and prospered. They helped new arrivals set up shop, and they prospered, and the chasm widened between the Jews and their Christian neighbours. It made bad blood, and it was bound to be shed.

  Now, acting in innocence, or ignorance, or with an insolent disregard for the crowd, a Jewish deputation donned their finest yellow robes and brought gifts to the palace. They did not expect to be admitted, but they hoped to be received. Aware of Richard’s tastes, many of them brought money or plate or jewels, carrying the gifts openly through the streets and under the noses of the impoverished citizens. The banquet was well under way when the deputation reached the palace.

  They hesitated on the steps, and delivered a speech of loyalty to the stone-faced guards. Then they requested that King Richard, or one of his commanders, come out and accept their gifts. Someone in the crowd told them to get off the steps, they were not welcome at a Christian feast.

  Whatever their motives, the Jews could not have chosen a worse time, nor a less likely setting, for a display of wealth and largesse. The excitable crowd had watched Richard stride from the palace to the Abbey, and had heard reports of his bellowed vows. He had sworn to serve the people of England, and seek out evil in all its forms. Fired by his words, and a day’s drinking, his subjects were determined to prove themselves worthy of the giant. They would serve him, and they, too, would smite Christ’s enemies. And for the want of a Saracen army, under the command of the great Sultan Saladin, there were the Jews…

  * * *

  The banquet hall was filled with smoke from the central fires, and the roar and chatter of the six hundred guests. Servants edged between the tables, replenishing wine pitchers, dragging away empty dishes, setting down more venison, another suckling pig, a spluttering side of lamb. After the initial cautious survey, the diners had changed places, and now a senior overlord imparted the wealth of his experience to some eager knight, while his wife entertained a neghbouring chatelaine, or risked a brief moment with her lover. There were no more complaints about spilt wine, for the tables were stained red, and the rush-strewn floor was awash. Enemies cracked mugs with each other, or peered through the firesmoke, hoping to salute their king. Musicians played, their music lost, while jugglers showed their finest tricks to wolfhounds and servants. Everybody shouted to make themselves heard, then screamed to vault the shouts. A table collapsed amid shrieks and laughter, and a dozen guests were carried from the hall, their howls of pain adding to the tapestry of joy. Had the roof of the palace fallen in, showering its heavy slates on the diners, it would have gone unnoticed by all who were not maimed. The dead would have been removed, and the dust would have settled and the banquet continued beneath the night sky. Or so it seemed.

  * * *

  The man who had told the Jews to get off the steps had been joined by another. He had grunted at their reluctance, then struck the nearest Jew in the face. The man had staggered, dropping his gift, and the steps had suddenly rung with coins. The sound acted like a carillon of bells, summoning the people to war. The massacre had begun.

  * * *

  The guard eased his way along the hall. He was a common soldier, and he had never before rubbed shoulders with so many important people. Earl and lady, baron and count, knight and heiress, they all lurched in his path and grinned at him as he edged by. Christ on the Tree, he thought, I could enjoy myself with these flapping women. They lead a treasured life, our long-nosed nobility. I swear, I could pass myself off as the Lord of Bootheel, and take half the women here. Look at them! I’ve touched twenty breasts in as many steps. And not one of them thinks to send some ale out to us. Hell, why should they, they don’t know we’re at the door. And by the looks of them, they don’t know where they are either!

  He reached the steps that led up to the platform and was stopped by one of the sergeants. Any message for those at the high table would be passed on.

  But the din was so great that after a moment the sergeant shook his head with irritation, and urged the guard up the steps. He followed closely, dagger drawn. It would not do for the soldier to become an assassin.

  At the top of the steps the guard’s courage gave way, and he gazed terrified at the row of faces. The Bishop of Durham, Hadwisa of Gloucester, Archbishop Baldwin, King Richard himself, Ranulf Glanville, Queen Eleanor, Prince John, the mournful Alais of France, Geoffrey FitzRoy, other Churchmen, other nobles. He chewed his lip until blood ran down his chin. Behind him, the sergeant snarled, ‘Go on, curse you! You’re not here to eat with them!’

  The guard had almost lost the will to move. How was he supposed to alert the king – touch him on the shoulder? Shout down at him? Lean over the table like some intimate friend?

  The sergeant was still herding him forward when Richard turned in his chair. His gaze moved from the guard’s bloody lips to his hands, empty of weapons, then to the sergeant, to his hand, gripping the dagger. He saw the sergeant nod that it was safe, and beckoned the guard forward. ‘Here. Shout your best. What? They are what!’

  ‘The crowd is rioting, king! The Jews came, and the people set upon them! There’s killing outside!’

  Richard’s reply was lost in the noise. He gestured to the guard to wait, then clamped a hand on his justiciar’s shoulder. ‘Get out through the front, Ranulf. There are some Jews, I don’t know, I’m told they’re being murdered. See to it for me. Clear the ground if you can. Go on, as a friend.’

  The austere Ranulf Glanville was one of the few sober men in the hall. He did not like drink, or banquets of this size, or the howl of wine-sodden guests. But neither did he like his meal interrupted by news of murder. With a word of apology to Queen Eleanor, he made his way to the end of the platform and down the wooden steps. Then, followed by the guard, who had only just thought to staunch his bitten lip, he pushed his way through the hall. He shoved aside all who stood in his way, men and women. To Ranulf Glanville, a drunken lady was a contradiction in terms. It was bad enough when a man lurched and blathered, but one wished better of a woman. He had seen his own wife dress in a wineskin, and it had not improved her looks.

  * * *

  The palace steps were slippery with blood and littered with broken money-boxes and torn lengths of silk. Five yellow-robed bodies lay at the foot of the steps; four old men and a woman. The crowd had withdrawn from the palace, or, more accurately, forced the Jews to retreat. The populace made less noise than Richard’s guests, for killing is a serious business, but Ranulf was guided across the courtyard by the light of torch and the moans of pain.

  The guard who had brought the news had been joined by two more from the door, and they ran to overtake the justiciar. Their lives would not be worth a spark in water if Ranulf Glanville was struck down, yet he had still not identified himself to the rabble. It was with this in mind that one of the guards roared, ‘Make way for the justiciar! Christ help you, get out of the way!’

  They reached the fighting ground and saw yellow cloaks spattered with red. Men and women had been bludgeoned to the cobbles, while others scrabbled in search of coins, a broken necklace, a shattered brooch. The crowd did not join the Jews in their search, but waited until they had reclaimed some trinket, then snatched it from them. They were not yet in the mood for indiscriminate killing, but were happy to deal with the Jews, one by one.

  Ranulf Glanville had never in his life had cause to defend the Jews, and he shared much of the Ch
ristian suspicion of this intelligent, exclusive race. But he would not see them butchered, and felt nothing but revulsion for their assailants. This was not a war, nor even a street brawl between well-matched ruffians. None of the Jews was armed, and they had made themselves conspicuous in their yellow robes. Their only crime was to have paraded their wealth, and believed themselves inviolable. They should have known better, and spent some of their coins on a bodyguard.

  Flanked by two of the guards, his back protected by the third, he moved to the centre of the circle. He had the advantage for the moment, and knew he must keep it.

  ‘For those of you who do not recognize me, I am Ranulf Glanville, Justiciar of England. Any man who raises his hand against me will be peeled alive. Your king was crowned today, and yet there is blood on his banquet hall. He has made wine and food available to you, and yet there are bodies in his yard. If this signifies your displeasure in him, he will want to know. Shall I tell him so? Because, if I do, he will come among you, I promise you that!’ While he spoke, he sought out the most likely ring-leaders, then suddenly stepped forward, directing his anger at the largest of them. ‘You! You tell me the reason for this. And meanwhile—’ He leaned forward, wrested the man’s club from his hand and threw it to the ground. The circle contracted, and other men hefted their clubs. The darkness lent anonymity to the scene. It would not be difficult to kill the four intruders, then escape into the night. And whoever slew the justiciar would earn himself a reputation, at least among murderers.

  But Ranulf did not give them the time. He knew that the slightest hesitation would be fatal, but that the rabble must not feel trapped. He went forward again, snatched another club from its owner, then tossed it aside. It dawned on them that he had not yet drawn his sword, but seemed ready to tackle each of them in turn, then discard the confiscated weapons. It tipped the scales too much in their favour, and robbed them of all self-respect. They chose to forget what they had done; what they had contemplated doing to the justiciar. God knew, they were not murderers. They were citizens of London, and they had merely allowed themselves to be carried away by the excitement of the occasion. As for the Jews, well, they had brought it on themselves, flaunting their riches before those who loved their king. Oh, a Jew could afford to be generous – with the money squeezed from Christians!

  Ranulf went at them again, but this time the men let their own clubs fall.

  ‘I want this place cleared. Go home and stay there. If any of you are found in this area, we’ll start tomorrow with some hangings. You’ve thrown enough blood on the crown, wouldn’t you say?’

  They abandoned the rest of their weapons, and the circle widened and broke. Ranulf and the guards remained with an island of dead and injured Jews, and the lucky few who had not yet been robbed or beaten.

  ‘You have nothing more to fear,’ he told them. ‘The king’s soldiers will escort you home, and I shall see to it that the injured are attended by his physicians. This has been a tragic day for your people, and more so since you came here in peace, to honour the king. But you are safe now.’

  Other guards appeared, and the dead and injured were taken into the palace. Several of the Jews murmured their gratitude to the justiciar, but they also voiced their doubts. Yes, they were safe now. But did he really believe they had nothing more to fear?

  * * *

  There were eighteen dead in the immediate precincts of the palace, and perhaps forty wounded. The crowd had dispersed, leaving the silent yard ringed by guards. Peace had been restored, though, when Ranulf had completed his report, he advised Richard to curtail the banquet. The king refused.

  ‘These people have come from every corner of England. This is a gathering they will remember all their lives. How can I dismiss them? A few Jews have been murdered, and it’s to be regretted, but you cannot expect me to alienate the entire nobility. Anyway, you said yourself, the trouble’s over.’

  ‘No, king. I said I had cleared the yard.’ Nevertheless, he resumed his seat, and gazed unsmiling at the revellers. He did not think this was something they would remember all their lives. He did not think they would remember it when they awoke next morning. They were far too drunk.

  No one in the hall was aware that anti-Jewish feeling had already been rekindled in the city, or that a number of Christian priests had stationed themselves at street corners, where they exhorted the crowd to kill any Jew they found. Or that it was rumoured that King Richard had offered ten silver marks for every yellow-clad corpse. Or that several serious fires had been started. Or that the plague of hatred would eventually spread to Norwich, Lincoln, Stamford and then to York, where one hundred and fifty Jews would be burned alive, seeking refuge in the royal castle.

  Ranulf Glanville had done what he could, and was not to. know what others would do, when the curb was off.

  * * *

  The massacre was abhorred, or condoned, and then forgotten. Outbreaks of violence were not rare in England. This time it had been the Jews; next time it would be those suspected of witchcraft, or Arab merchants thought to be spies, or some local family, accused of cannibalism. For a while, Richard was embarrassed by the spread of anti-Jewish feeling, and he authorized the sheriffs of Norwich and Lincoln to deal severely with the malefactors. But he issued no public condemnation, for fear that it would merely fan the flames. He did not like the Jews, but he needed them for their money – money for his Great Crusade.

  King Henry’s long war in Normandy had all but emptied the royal coffers, and what was left had been spent on the coronation. It had happened in the past, and would happen again: the King of England was almost bankrupt.

  His advisers suggested a tax on wealth and property, but he rejected it on the grounds that, by the time each individual amount had been assessed and collected, he would be too old to ride a horse.

  ‘I need something now. I promised to meet Philip of France before the year is out, and accompany him to Palestine. But first, I must raise an army, and equip it, and hire ships to carry it, and that means money. Also, messires, let us not forget my father’s debt of 20,000 marks. Philip will not start for the East until he gets it, and I’m not such a fool as to leave him behind. I would not be halfway to Palestine before he invaded Normandy and Anjou. So, 20,000 marks, if you please, messires. And the expenses for my army. Come on now, there must be ways. How does anyone raise money?’

  It was Eleanor who provided the answer. ‘You seem to forget,’ she told him, ‘you are the king. You own more than any single man, and have more to sell than the Church.’

  ‘I’ve said this often enough,’ Richard laughed grimly, ‘and I shall repeat it again. I’d sell London itself, if I could find a buyer. But that apart, where are these valuable assets? I have any number of forests and swamps, but the Church own most of the good ground. And with Archbishop Baldwin and John at each other’s throats—’

  ‘Forget Baldwin. Your wealth is in your head, and in the air, and on the scrolls. You badger the council, but you think, my sweet. If I was a bishop, what could you sell to me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t— Oh, yes. Yes, I do!’ He slammed his hands together, and his roar of delight made her hum. ‘I could sell you a title, couldn’t I? Archbishop Eleanor?’

  ‘And to a merchant?’

  ‘A concession? Yes— The only man in the district to market wine!’

  ‘And what if I were one of the nobility, and a home-lover. I am only pretending, of course, but what if I, as a baron, did not wish to go on Crusade? What would you do with me then?’

  The question defeated him. ‘If you would not fight for God, I’d throw you into gaol.’

  ‘I have had my share of that,’ she smiled, ‘and I could not pay you, from a prison cell.’

  ‘I could demand a ransom.’

  ‘Perhaps. But like the tax, it’s time consuming. Would it not be better if you let me – what shall we say – purchase my vows? I could give you my purse in lieu of my person. Then I would retain my honour and stay at h
ome, and you would be so much the richer. If a baron is to keep warm by his fire, he must pay high for his logs, why not?’

  ‘You be my council,’ he said. ‘I don’t need the others. God’s legs, I never thought of it, but I do have things to sell. Advancements and privileges, titles, absences, concessions—’ It was time to control his excitement. ‘It is not an auction,’ Eleanor warned. ‘You must sell to the right man. And if that man cannot pay your price, don’t exclude him. I am showing you a way to raise money, not sell England. Ranulf Glanville, for example; you may ask him to pay something for his next term as justiciar, but you must not replace him. He is the best we have, and not to be valued in coins. And another name I want borne in mind. William Marshal.’

  ‘Yes, mother, I know your feelings for him. I shan’t leave him begging by the roadside.’

  She strode towards him, and his smile fled. ‘Don’t condescend to me, Richard Lionheart! I am not seeking a favour. I am telling you to give him what he wants, for the sake of England. Set a price, yes, fair is fair, and he can afford it now, but don’t let me hear that John has entered where Marshal is barred. That would reduce my love for you. Am I clear?’

  He shifted awkwardly, and his face reddened. He knew exactly what she meant, and told her, ‘John has already approached me about Leinster. I deferred a decision until—’

  ‘Yes, well, now it’s made. But at a reasonable price, my sweet.’

  ‘John will be incensed. He is Lord of Ireland now, and—’

  ‘He’ll understand,’ Eleanor murmured. ‘I shall speak to him about it. He’ll understand.’

  Richard nodded, half-shrugging as he did so. He could never mimic his mother’s tone, but it so often combined warmth and warning. A word or two from Eleanor could make a man’s heart sing. Or stop.