Lights flickered in the windows up and down Steep Hill. Shutters were flung open. Worried faces appeared, anxiously demanding to know the source of the noise.
Someone knocked urgently against Esther’s bedroom door. She turned away from the window and snatched her nightgown from its peg.
“A moment, Miriam,” she called out, pulling on the gown. She remembered there was a dagger in the chest on her late husband’s side of the bed. She hadn’t touched the chest since his death, but now she turned the heavy iron key in the lock and heaved up the lid. The dagger was still there, resting in its leather sheath on a neatly folded pile of his clothing. Esther snatched it up and stuffed it into the belt of her robe.
Shouts and panicked yells drifted through the open window. She hurried to the door and lifted the bar to admit her servant.
Miriam had been in her service for six years. She was a plump, reliable woman, about forty, and normally kept her head in a crisis. Now her seamed face was grey with fear.
“What’s the matter?” snapped Esther.“A little noise doesn’t bother you, surely? Some thieves have probably tried to get into the town. The garrison will deal with them.”
“I fear it is more than thieves,” Miriam replied nervously. “There have been rumours of outlaws in the woods. Rebels. What if they storm the gates?”
“Don’t be foolish.” Esther tried to sound brave, yet felt her courage dissolve as she strode out onto the landing.
The Jews in England had been attacked before. Many times. One of the worst incidents occurred in Lincoln, just twelve years previously. The body of a little Christian boy, Hugh, had been discovered at the bottom of a well on Steep Hill. A Jew named Jopin was executed after admitting his guilt under torture.
That wasn’t the end of it. Stories circulated that Hugh had been ritually crucified by a cabal of Jews, in grim parody of the death of Christ. Ninety suspects from the Jewish community in Lincoln were arrested and sent to London for trial. Eighteen of them, including three of Esther’s kin, were executed after refusing to throw themselves on the mercy of a Christian jury.
Esther grimaced at the memory. Little Saint Hugh was elevated to the status of martyr, and his remains placed in a shrine inside the Cathedral. Since then the Jews, including Esther, had lived in terror of Christian retribution.
She reached out to take Miriam’s hand. “I’m sorry for being sharp with you,” she said. “I’m frightened.”
Miriam smiled. A horn echoed through the streets, followed by the clatter of hoof on cobbles. Esther’s heart pounded.
“They can’t get in here,” said Miriam. “There are stout locks on the door, and no windows on the ground floor. I’ll go and fasten the shutters in your room.”
Esther didn’t respond. Why would the Disinherited attack the Jewish quarter? she thought. What do we have that they want?
The answer hit her. Ignoring Miriam’s frantic protests, she hurried downstairs, unbarred the door and ran outside.
Here all was chaos. A host of riders, armoured knights with their squires and sergeants, had flooded the street. Behind them came soldiers on foot. Moonlight glinted off burnished mail and steel helms as these hard-faced men hammered on the doors of houses and bawled at the inhabitants to open up.
Some of the doors had been forced. Esther’s neighbours were dragged out and subjected to beatings. Terrible screams came from an alleyway as one man was flogged.
“Where’s your money, Jew?” the soldiers who abused him spat. “Where do you hide the gold? Tell us, Jew, or we’ll hang you up by the balls.”
Esther tried to slip through the mob. She stifled a yell when a rough hand seized her arm, and slashed wildly at it with her husband’s dagger. Blood spurted over her sleeve.
“Hebrew bitch!” a man shrieked. Esther ignored him and ran on, heading for the bureau a little way up the street.
She stopped when she saw armed men clustered about the door. Some held torches while their comrades tried in vain to beat it down with swords and axes. A knight came lumbering down from the direction of the cathedral.
“Leave it!” he shouted. “I’ve found one of the gatekeepers!”
The knight was a big man, and dragged a much smaller one behind him by the hair. As Esther watched, he held his feebly struggling prisoner’s head up to the light. She drew in a sharp breath: Yosef, the clerk of the bureau. He had been dragged from his bed and wore just his nightshirt. The clerk’s wan face was contorted with pain and terror.
His captor tossed Yosef towards the door. “Open it, unless you want to see the colour of your liver,” he growled.
Yosef fell on all fours. He whimpered as one the Christians booted him in the ribs.
Esther crept closer, staying next to the wall, as the terrified clerk crawled to the door. His hands shook as he lifted the set of iron keys from his belt. When the door was unlocked, his captor kicked Yosef aside and barged inside. The soldiers crowded after him.
Esther peered through the doorway. The Christians had formed a ring of torches in the middle of the long chamber. Four of them set about smashing down the door to the strongroom with axes. No easy task, since the timbers were thick and studded with iron nails.
“Drink your fill, lads,” cried the big knight. “Tonight is thirsty work!”
He unstoppered the water bottle at his belt and gulped down the contents. Esther gasped in shock when she recognised his fleshy, sweating face and the arms on his surcoat. Sir John d’Eyvill, the fierce Yorkshire knight and captain of the Disinherited. Also one of her late husband’s most chronic debtors. The last time Esther had seen d’Eyvill, he was holding Simon up against the wall by his throat.
She remembered the soft growl of his voice, laden with menace. “I’ll pay when I choose, Jew. Not before.”
Finally the door splintered under the axes. D’Eyvill and his men cheered. Four of them broke into the strongroom to look for the Archa.
Esther’s grip tightened on her bloodied dagger. Yosef was on his knees, clutching his head in his hands and rocking back and forth as the precious ironbound chest was dragged forth. One of the Christians had found a set of iron keys on a ring. He dropped the keys on the floor and pushed them towards Yosef with his foot.
D’Eyvill cuffed the back of Yosef’s head. “Open it,” he snarled. The weeping clerk did as he was told. Meanwhile d'Eyvill grabbed a torch from one of his men.
Esther crouched by the door and called down silent curses on the heads of the Christians. There was nothing she could do to prevent the destruction of the deeds inside the Archa. The sense of powerlessness curdled her anger to despair.
Yosef obediently turned the key in the third and final lock. Then, as one of d'Eyvill’s followers reached to open the lid, he sprang to his feet and plucked the astonished man’s dagger from its sheath.
“Back!” he yelled, brandishing his stolen blade at the ring of torches and fierce faces.
It was the bravest and most absurd thing Esther had ever seen: a thin, pinch-faced clerk, who had never wielded anything more deadly than a quill, defying a gang of trained fighting men with murder in their hearts.
One of the Christians stepped forward, his face distorted with rage.
“Move aside, you little turd,” he growled.
Yosef was unwise enough to try and stab him. There was a blur of movement and the dreadful sound of cracking bone. Yosef dropped the knife and collapsed with a squeal of agony. His right hand hung from his wrist at a sickeningly crooked angle.
Esther could endure no more. She darted into the room and stabbed at the nearest Christian’s back. Iron fingers closed on her wrist. The dagger dropped from her hand. She cursed in Hebrew and kicked uselessly at the one who held her fast.
Her cries died away at the sight of Yosef’s lifeless body, his skull smashed to bits by d'Eyvill’s mace. Dark red blood pooled around the pulp of his head.
D’Eyvill stepped over the corpse to approach Esther. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “I kn
ow you,” he rumbled.
“You should, you devil!” she cried, “my husband was Simon ben Aaron!”
He paused before replying. A slow grin spread across his heavy features. “Simon ben Aaron. Yes. I remember him. Inherited his debts, have you? Let me relieve you of the burden.”
D’Eyvill dropped his torch into the open chest. A shout of triumph burst from Christian throats as the stacks of dry parchment inside burst into flames.
“This absolves you of nothing,” said Esther when the noise had died down. Her voice was icy calm, her words slow and deliberate. “You can burn as much parchment as you please. The King will enforce your debts.”
“King Henry will bow to our demands,” d'Eyvill replied carelessly, “if he wishes to preserve anything of his kingdom. But you’re right. Burning the deeds here does not wipe the record clean. I know how clever you Jews are. Only the copies are held in the Archa. The originals are kept locked away in your houses.”
Esther drew in breath, but the man holding her clapped his hand over her mouth. “Keep your mouth shut,” he hissed into her ear, “unless you want to end up like your friend.”
“Take her if you wish, Robert,” said d'Eyvill, “she’s pretty enough, even if her blood is impure. Keep her out of my sight.”
He lost interest in Esther, and turned to the soldier who had broken Yosef’s wrist.
“Fire every house,” he ordered. “Begin at the top of the street and work your way down. Smoke the Jews out. Kill any who resists, except those wealthy enough to be ransomed. We’ll take them as captives.”
The soldier nodded and signalled to the other Christians. They tramped out after him, leaving d’Eyvill alone with Esther and the man he called Robert.
Wisps of burnt parchment whirled about d'Eyvill’s head. He laughed and spread his arms to catch a few.
“All our debts, brother mine!” he shouted, “all gone up in flames! Every deed, every bond, every God-cursed fine. And we stand to make a profit in ransoms, too, once we sell those Jewish leeches back to the King.”
He laughed again, a gruff and primitive noise, like the grunting of an excited bear. Esther froze at the sound of screams from outside.
The massacre had begun.
13.
Nottingham
Hugh kept his horse at the gallop for five miles beyond the ambush. When it became obvious there was no pursuit, he let her slow to a canter. The forest had thinned out, and miles of cultivated land opened before him. His way led past fields of ripened wheat, barley, oats and peas. Serfs toiled at their reaping under the hot afternoon sun.
Nottingham was visible in the distance. He stopped to shade his eyes and peer at the city’s timber walls; the grim Norman keep glowering over the streets below on its high sandstone crag. Shortly after dusk he trudged through the gates of the city, footsore and weary, leading his exhausted horse by the reins.
Master John had told him to seek out the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Reynold de Grey. Hugh wasted no time and made straight for the gatehouse of the castle, two drum towers and a high archway looming over the market square. The guards eyed him suspiciously, but their manner changed when he showed them the royal commission with the red wax seal dangling from it.
Soon he found himself ushered into the Great Hall, escorted by a soldier. The hall was a whitewashed cavern, smaller than the great chamber at Westminster, warmed by the greater part of an oak tree burning in the enormous hearth. Grey himself sat at high table, picking at the remains of supper and gloomily squinting at a letter.
Hugh’s escort coughed. “The envoy, milord,” he said. Grey looked up in annoyance and swallowed his morsel of bread.
He was a much younger man than Hugh had imagined. Grey had hard eyes, and deep lines carved into his youthful face that shouldn’t have been there for another few years. Much like his master, the Lord Edward, he dressed carelessly in plain working gabardine. In body he was strongly-built and muscular, and carried no fat.
No clerk, thought Hugh, but a fighting man born and bred. I shall be wary of this Sheriff.
Grey looked his guest over for a moment. “Let me see that commission,” he said at last, extending an arm and opening his hand, palm upwards. Hugh approached the table, bowed slightly and placed the roll of white vellum in Grey’s hand.
The sheriff inspected the wax seal, then unrolled the sheet and read over the contents. Hugh was impressed: many noblemen were illiterate, and had clerks to do all the painful business of reading and writing.
Grey carefully laid the commission down on the table. “So you’re one of the Savoyard’s people. I’ve had dealings with his creatures before. Animals, most of them. Brute beasts.”
He spoke in the clipped, businesslike tones of a man with much to do and little time to do it. “King’s orders, however, so am obliged to obey. A nuisance, but there it is. Why are you in Nottingham?”
Hugh recited his mission as Master John had outlined it. He also informed Grey of the ambush on the highway north of Coventry, and the loss of Brother Stephen. The Sheriff listened with interest.
“Well,” he said when Hugh was done, “I can’t say I envy your task. Join the outlaws in Sherwood and spy on them. Only a brave and clever man would attempt such a thing. Or a great fool. Master John must rate you very highly.”
He rubbed his short beard and gave Hugh another appraising look. “Or your life is cheap to him. More than one man has met his death in Master John’s service.”
“He said you would help me,” Hugh replied politely.
Grey raised an eyebrow. “Did he? I am a busy man, Hugh Longsword. The people of this town depend on me. No-one else can defend from the outlaws of Sherwood. I was appointed in March. My first duty was to repair the walls of the town. A few days before I arrived the outlaws got through the palisade at night. Ever seen a fox go mad in a chicken coop? So it was here. Terrible mess, corpses everywhere, houses burnt, shops looted. Women and children among the slain. I arrived to find rows of shallow graves waiting for me.”
"I took horse and went into the forest to hunt down the outlaws. Killed eight, took six prisoner, lost five of my own men. I’ve been chasing and killing ever since. The men in Sherwood are dangerous, Master Longsword. Have no doubt of it.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You could pass for an outlaw easily enough. Big, strong, rough-looking. Peasant stock.”
Hugh held his temper in check. “No shame in that, milord.”
“Really? I should be ashamed. You know d’Eyvill has sacked Lincoln?”
The sudden change in subject took Hugh by surprise. “No, milord,” he
admitted. Grey waved it away.
“Master John will know all about it. Yes, d’Eyvill and his crew stormed Lincoln at night and laid waste to the Jewish quarter. Carried off rich Jews for ransom, murdered others, torched houses. Deeds, contracts, and charters all burned to nothing. The sheriff made no attempt to give chase. Should be stripped of his office and knighthood. Shameful.”
“So,” he added, steepling his fingers, “your quarry has bolted, I’m afraid. D'Eyvill shifted his headquarters twenty miles south. He’s holed up in the Isle of Ely now. Heard of it?”
Hugh nodded. “Vaguely, milord.”
“It’s similar to Axholme, only bigger. An island surrounded by marshes. God help anyone who ventures in there without knowing the way. Terrible place to try and take by storm, or starve into surrender. I wouldn’t care to try, not with less than ten thousand men.”
“Plenty of outlaws left in Sherwood, though. Lots of work for you. D’Eyvill left his cousin in charge. Nicholas. A good soldier, like all his kin, but a beast. Orders his followers to smear human shit on their arrow-heads. A few of my men have died horrible deaths with those arrows inside them.”
Grey’s face darkened. “If I caught John d'Eyvill, I would hang him, quick and clean,” he said quietly, “but if Nicholas d'Eyvill fell into my hands, as I pray to God he will, I would feed him to my dogs.”
Hugh swallowed. “How do I get into Sherwood?” he asked.
“Difficult. You can’t just wander into the forest and volunteer. The outlaws don’t trust strangers.”
An idea came to Hugh. “Why not stage a man-hunt? Some of your men could chase me into the forest. The outlaws might notice and come to my aid.”
Grey looked thoughtful. “Not bad,” he said after a moment. “Not perfect. Can’t think of anything better. I like it. Wait!”
He snapped his fingers. “You were ambushed about a mile north of Coventry. Did they see your face?”
“Briefly. I didn’t tarry.”
“No blame to you. The men who attacked you may be in contact with the outlaws in Sherwood. No way of knowing for certain. Just have to take the chance.”
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