by Angus Donald
‘The Devil is here, I say, among you, at this moment. You do not need to go to far Outremer to fight the good fight. You do not need to risk life and limb on the long road eastwards. There are evil heretics, unbelievers, demons shaped like men who dare to reject Christ, to spit in the face of Holy Mary Mother of God ... and they are right here in York; living among good Christian folk like human rats. You know of whom I speak; you know this form of mankind; they are the ones who steal the bread out of honest men’s mouths; who with their God-cursed debt payments ruin the lives of honest men; they are the race who defy Christ, who murdered our Blessed Saviour on the Cross; who even today kidnap little Christian children and slaughter them for their foul Satanic rituals ...’
The growls from the crowd had been growing and then somebody shouted: ‘The Jews! The Jews!’ and the crowd took up the chant, drawing out the long syllable into a deep booming ‘Oooooooh’. It was a sound to freeze the blood, the deep roaring of the crowd chanting: ‘Jooooooos; kill the Jooooooos; kill the Jooooooos,’ low and reverberating, like the base howling of a crazed beast.
‘It is God who wills it; God wills it, I say; it is God Almighty who demands that the Jews, that race of degenerate fiends, be wiped from the face of the Earth ...’
Robin was watching the monk’s performance with a grim face. The white-robed man had flecks of spittle at either side of his mouth as he exhorted the crowd to hatred. ‘Someone should cut down that madman before he drowns the world in blood,’ Robin said quietly, almost to himself.
I looked at him, worried by his tone. He meant it; and yet to kill a monk or a priest, it was sacrilege of the worst sort. As a youth Robin had been outlawed for killing a holy man; surely he could not be contemplating another gross mortal sin of that magnitude. ‘I’ve heard more than enough here,’ said Robin. ‘Let’s ride on. We need to warn Reuben.’
There was no need to warn Reuben: when we approached the Jewish quarter, which was just outside the town’s earth and wood ramparts, we could clearly see that the area had already been attacked. The street was filled with burnt and broken chattels. What had been the large stone building of a wealthy man was now a smouldering ruin; Christian looters scurried in and out of the building with armfuls of smoke-blackened goods; pots and pans, blankets and chairs, small items of low value mostly but I saw a man making off with a small iron-bound chest that looked as if it had been used for storing jewels.
‘That is Benedict’s house; or rather, that was his house,’ said Robin grimly. ‘He is the leader of the Jews in York, if he still lives. But Reuben’s place seems untouched - so far.’ He led us to a stout two-storey wooden structure a hundred paces from the bumt-out shell, set in a large garden filled with strange exotic shrubs, and huge beds of herbs, for Reuben was a healer as well as a moneylender. We stopped and dismounted at the gate. The smell of the herbs was intoxicating: I could detect fine whiffs of sage and borage, rosemary and marjoram ...
I was just stepping through the gate in the garden, and looking up at the tightly shuttered windows and studded oak door, when suddenly I felt a great shove in my back and I sprawled on the brick paving of the garden path. There was a thud behind me and I turned to see the neat black handle of a throwing knife vibrating in the gatepost.
‘Reuben, it is me, Robert of Locksley, and young Alan Dale. We are your friends. We mean you no harm,’ called Robin, who was crouched behind a small bush behind me. ‘Reuben, you know us! Let us enter!’
A window shutter opened a fraction on the first floor, and I saw a brown face peering out suspiciously, curly brown hair and oak-tough brown eyes. ‘What do you want with me, Christian?’ said a hard voice.
‘Actually, I want to borrow some money,’ said Robin and his face creased into one of his finest smiles.
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. Another cobble stone whistled past Ghost’s neck, and another, then one hit Robin on the thigh with a meaty smack. He made no sound, merely drew his sword and signaled to me that now we should pick up the pace. We began to trot, the horses’ steel shoes making a sharp rattle on the cobbles, forcing angry folk out of our path. A few more stones flew, splintering on the road ahead of us, but although we swiftly outdistanced the angry mob behind us, there were more folk appearing in front. One misshapen fellow, his back unnaturally twisted, who was supporting himself on a large wooden crutch, was capering directly in our path, pointing a finger at our party and shouting: ‘Jews ... Jews ... Jews ...’ As we approached at the trot, he swung his crutch up at Robin who was nearest to him in a vicious scything blow that would have crushed his skull if it had landed. But Robin front-blocked the blow easily with his sword, and then chopped down in a classic move that Little John had made me practice hundreds of times. The blade sliced into the twisted man’s scalp, there was a spray of bright blood and he dropped as if boneless to the cobbles.
There was a roar of rage from the crowd behind, a deep, animal sound that lifted the hairs on the back of my neck, and they surged forward in a pack. ‘Close up,’ said Robin, raising his voice above the tumult; he sounded calm, icy, as he always did in battle. ‘Close up, Alan, and feel free to take out anyone, anyone who stands in our path.’ I grinned at him nervously.
As he spoke, a man suddenly leapt from the open window of the house we were passing. He launched himself from a position almost level with me and nearly knocked me from the saddle; he grabbed me around the waist and, before I had time to react, he had straddled Ghost’s hind quarters and was punching a short knife into my back, trying for my kidneys. Praise God, my chainmail hauberk under my cloak kept the blade from my flesh. Without thinking, I swivelled fast and elbowed him hard in the side of the head. I felt his grasp loosen, so then reversing my grip on my drawn sword, pointing it towards my own body, I drove it backwards, through the gap between my own left arm and my left side, and deep into the flesh of his side. He fell away, screeching and spurting blood. We spurred back and shot out from the press of folk, and suddenly we were clear and moving fast, bloody swords in our fists, galloping towards the castle, the gates of which were only two hundred yards away. Behind us the mob howled like a wolf pack and broke into a run.
I saw a big, dark-haired man, directly in our path, cradling a great Dane axe and swaying his weight gently from foot to foot. He smiled broadly, madly, and waited for us to thunder down on him; no doubt planning to dodge at the last moment and slash the legs of one of the horses as they passed, bringing one of us tumbling to earth. Suddenly his expression changed, the smile drained away and his face sagged like a candle put too close to the fire. I noticed in the same instant that the black handle of a throwing knife had sprouted from his broad chest; he sank to his knees, the axe clattered to the ground, and then we were past. A spearman appeared on my left and stabbed a rusty point at me, but I swept his spearhead out of my way, and slashed back at him with my poniard; Robin effortlessly cut down a man wielding a huge ancient two-handed sword and then we were
through the gates and safely into the bailey court-yards of York Castle.
Panting, we hauled our beasts to a halt in the centre of the broad space - and immediately noticed that something was wrong. There were no mounted men-at-arms to greet us, to ask us our business - there were almost no people in sight at all, and those we could see were in the garb of servants. Where was Sir John Marshal? We had expected to have the gate shut behind us by trained soldiers, determined to hold the castle in the face of the deranged mob. But the place seemed almost deserted. I turned to look at the gate. It was still wide open, and a column of furious, shouting citizens, filling the street, hundreds of them, was rapidly approaching. Torches had been lit to counter the gloom, and in the flickering light I caught a glimpse of a dirty white robe in the leading ranks of the throng. Then I ducked instinctively as a hail of sticks, stones, even a few arrows came showering towards us.
‘To the Tower, to the King’s Tower,’ said Reuben breathlessly. ‘All the others are in the Tower.’
I looked to my right, at the grim, brooding height of the King’s Tower, the strong, square wooden keep of York Castle. And we all spurred towards it. It was built on a great mound of earth nearly thirty feet high, and the high, stout walls added another twenty feet to its grandeur. It looked strong enough to stand until Judgment Day, and as we cantered over the narrow rammed-earth causeway that linked the Tower to the bailey, I began to feel a little safer. Leading our horses up the steep set of wooden steps that was the final approach to the keep, and through the narrow, thick iron-studded door at the top, we were welcomed by a tall balding man wearing a black skull cap, with a kindly lined face and grey beard.