In the end it was Molly who drove me out of the tavern. She was breaking my heart all over again. I couldn’t forget those love letters she had so recently sent, promising to be a different woman for me, a better and more constant lover, the woman I wanted her to be. Strange promises. Some I longed to believe. Others mystified me. I wanted so much to be there in our rooms together, experiencing that idyll. I wanted my past back and my future restored. All she could offer was a compromised present. And I couldn’t forget Helena and the girls. One relationship made me weak. The other strengthened me.
I slipped out of the inn unnoticed and crossed the square. The abbey was in darkness, but I knew there would be a gatekeeper. Almost as if he expected me, Friar Ambrose let me in. I offered him a silent goodnight. To reach my room I had to go through the chapel. Pushing the door to enter, I heard low voices and realised some kind of service was in progress. All I caught was the term ‘Ketchup Cove’ or something like it in a foreign language. Closing the chapel door very quietly behind me I couldn’t see very clearly. Billowing light, alternately pale and rich, raced to embrace me. I turned to run. I looked towards the altar. The Fish Chalice writhed and flickered in its own glorious, extraordinary light. That light passed out into the chapel and back again, filling the place with soothing colours. The colours shaded into the tones of the song performed by the congregation singing gently in an unfamiliar language. I felt that the combination should be addressed to an entirely new sensory organ.
Although I hadn’t heard it when outside, all this music was measured by the tolling of a single, sonorous bell, deeper and richer in tone than anything I had heard here in the past. Surely they were mourning the king. There was nothing I could do now but join the rest of that strange little congregation gathered in the abbey. To my surprise, not all were monks. Where were the newcomers from? I saw men with locks, thick black beards and long black kaftans. Although I didn’t recognise individuals I was sure they were the Orthodox Jews I had seen earlier! They did not separate themselves from the monks but sat among them in no apparent order. Again I didn’t know the language they used. Not Greek, Hebrew or Latin, it was probably Aramaic. I had learned a bit of Aramaic for my Behold the Man novel about a man looking for the historical Jesus in the Holy Land.
But then the language of their prayer changed, resembling the scraps of ancient Egyptian some radio linguist had spoken when I heard him trying to make a point about how the language must have sounded. Whatever it was they spoke it sounded closer to an African language than a European one. Perhaps Coptic?
One individual looked out of place. I was bewildered. There he sat as if in prayer, a figure I believed I had imagined! An armoured knight. His metal was Syrian or possibly Persian, of a kind I remembered from the Wallace Collection. His silks were all various shades of rich green and veiled his face so that all I made out were those expressionless eyes, so dark as to be almost black. On horseback he had led us along the silver roads. He had saved our lives.
Friar Theodore, the jolly, rotund monk who reminded me of Friar Tuck in the Robin Hood comics I used to write, saw me standing there and gestured for me to join them. Unable to refuse, I hesitantly went forward and sat in the pew furthest from the altar. Some of the monks and the Jews looked up. They smiled a welcome. The Green Knight turned, the veil falling away from his bearded face. I looked full into his intense dark eyes. He smiled. A substantial man. Then he looked back to the altar and bowed his covered head.
Though the Jews wore yarmulkes, the tonsured monks remained bareheaded. Breathing in the sweet incense, they were swaying in time to the bell. Why did they pray? To whom were they praying? Back and forth. Jahweh. Jehova. Jahweh. Allah. I recognised other names. Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Mahomet. I had never heard of Jews or Moslems praying in a Christian church together or Christians in a temple or a mosque. Only as my eyes grew accustomed to the dancing light did I see two more men partially obscured by an arch. Both had their heads covered, not by cowls or shawls, but by the Arab chequered keffiyeh headdress. They reminded me of Saudi princes Christina’s stepmother used to have to her parties.
With no familiar imagery to help me I sat quietly amongst the worshippers, watching the radiant chalice and listening to that beautiful music. As the congregation began to sing, a wonderful feeling of pleasure suffused me. The air grew warmer. The voices rose and fell in superb, unforced harmony. The colours of the chalice grew deeper, more intense, then became pastel again. His expression ecstatic, the abbot didn’t direct the service but remained among the worshippers. I was surprised by the clarity and complexity of the singing. As if they had rehearsed for years. Those old Greek chants which had been popular for a while in the 1960s were my only comparison. I had visited the big Greek Orthodox church in Bayswater more than once, just for the pleasure of the choral music and the impressive intensity of the service. This was even better. Sublime.
The chant rose to a climax and then subsided, resolved. I got up and began to leave, making for the far door which would open on the corridor leading to my cell. The door opened before I reached it. There in the shadows stood what I took at first for a child. I then realised I saw a tiny and very ancient man held firmly between Friar Sholto on one side and Friar Erasmus on the other. Although old men themselves, they looked young in comparison. He was tiny, scarcely more than four and a half feet tall. Dressed in a simple red, black and green robe, the ancient wore a yarmulke on his completely bald head. There was nothing else to indicate his religion or his race, unless it was the thin silver beard falling to his chest.
The old man’s smile was utterly benign. I knew he had experienced all the world’s pain and most of its pleasures. All his earthly experience had added to his great store of accumulated wisdom. He was unimaginably old. His almost invisible skin was mottled yellow, taut over his delicate bones. His costume looked almost mediaeval. He was even smaller than the others, most of whom were only an inch or two above five feet. Standing over him I felt like some Nordic explorer meeting pygmies for the first time. He was not actually supported by the monks but walked under his own volition. When he smiled up at me his deep blue eyes held a quality I could only describe as divine. Amiable, certainly, and full of wisdom, yet he had another aspect I had rarely seen before. I guessed Gandhi and similar people had the same charisma, an empathy with the whole world in its sorrowing.
Was this appearance illusory, just something I wanted so painfully to believe? I found it almost impossible not to be convinced by those eyes. I was not looking at some hyped-up preacher with a message of salvation for those who agreed with him. He had a quiet integrity about him, a calmness and a self-confidence I had never encountered before. He certainly didn’t need to persuade me of his authority. Who was he? With his thin, frail appearance, his sunken eyes, I thought at once of a Holocaust survivor. Why on earth would he be here in what was at least nominally a Christian church?
As if he recognised my confusion, the old rabbi stepped forward and reached out to touch my hand. I felt a shock of something. I never did understand it, but his smile was full of humour, almost as if I had just told a joke he appreciated. I was pleased to see this. He had all the qualities people ascribed to their ‘guru’, whether it be the sad little Maharaj Ji or the jolly old gent the Beatles took up with. Yet I instinctively trusted him as I had never trusted anyone like him. I felt I was in the presence of something I could only describe as ‘divine’. Instinctively I knew he would reject any attempt by me or anyone else to call him that.
The abbot came from the front of the chapel to introduce me to the old man. ‘Master Moorcock of Brookgate, may I present Master Elias ben Moses, His Excellency the Chief Rabbi of London?’
I felt awkward. I didn’t know how to address an ordinary rabbi, let alone the chief. I know my face was burning when I bowed and said: ‘Master Elias, I’m glad to meet you, sir,’ and felt a bit foolish.
He smiled and put his hand out for me to shake. His fine, delicate fingers at once felt power
ful and very fragile. I was hit by a strange emotion which made me want to laugh and cry. His accent wasn’t in any way foreign. It was old-fashioned like the abbot’s. ‘So ho—thou art the young fellow who comes to help us restore the balance of our lives!’ He spoke in a light, vibrant, musical voice full of character. I, of course, hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about. I was, however, utterly fascinated by him. I had never met anyone so evidently ancient. I felt his delicate hand settle on my arm as he led me along a passage and into a chamber filling up with the rest of the abbey’s occupants.
The Chief Rabbi asked me to sit beside him. I was a little embarrassed by the honour. Arriving in some disorder, Prince Rupert was the next to appear. ‘Marvell and his men sit like logs, refusing to leave the inn.’ He was seated on the other side of the old man. Asked if his day had been good, the prince replied gravely that, with certain exceptions, to his surprise it had been. I knew he had not expected the king to reject his attempt at rescue. I also knew he grieved for our Jemmy. His old gravitas never failed him.
‘You’re glad that your kinsman lost his life?’ One of the Jews had obviously heard the recent news. Had one of our company carried it here? St Claire? No!
‘Of course not.’ Prince Rupert’s gaze was steady. ‘I wish with all my heart that he had lived. And that some compromise could be established between church and state. I have to say, I had begun to hold a rather unhappy view of the king’s character. In the end he died with dignity.’
‘And how, Your Highness, was that death?’ asked Friar Balthazar, his eyes twinkling as usual, no matter what the subject. I sometimes wondered what, if anything, he hid behind that expression.
‘King Charles believed that he died, Friar, to save others. Therefore he at last displayed true Christian qualities. He allowed his own sacrifice in support of the common good. I think he came to understand his faults and realised that he was paying a fair price for his sins. He died humbly, before God.’
I confirmed what he said. ‘The king could have saved his own head but believed in the end that his death as a man was justified. The office of king being what it was, he had already passed on his birthright to his son, who became king the moment Charles’s head fell into the basket.’
‘But you risked so much to save him, Your Highness,’ said the abbot. ‘You wanted him to live.’
‘Of course I did, Father Abbot. He was my kinsman. I promised his wife that I would do all I could to save him. He released me from that vow while going to his death with such courage. I still serve the Crown. Tonight I leave for France so that I might swear my allegiance. Charles II is my king now.’
‘So you believe, do you, Prince Rupert, that kings rule by divine right?’ The old rabbi’s voice was strangely vibrant, yet at the same time frail.
‘I do, my lord. But I also believe in God’s wisdom. I believe He moves mysteriously and deviously to accomplish His will. I believe that this land had indeed, as the Puritans insisted, become ruled by Satan. Our kingdom was given to self-indulgence, grown unjust. The king lost all regard for his people. King Charles was the Realm and God’s representative. That is my belief. Now that he stands before his Creator, I suppose it is fair to say the nation has been reduced to anarchy. I hope, for the nation’s sake, Oliver Cromwell will soon see fit to restore the monarchy, albeit one ordered by Parliament. Stability is what we crave now, your honour, and consistency. We are neither rich enough nor secure enough to continue with that bloody business which my uncle, in his obstinacy, would have prolonged. For a while he had forgotten the whole of his duty.’
The old man nodded his head. ‘As have others, I believe. Think you Oliver will become our king?’
‘It is one of the things I fear,’ Prince Rupert replied, ‘but if God wills it then let it be so. Unlike other usurpers Oliver is reluctant to take the throne. Or says he is. He has no right of inheritance, of course. He would rather a kind of Episcopal system of elected ministers. He denies any other ambition pretty fiercely, I gather. But in like vein Julius Caesar refused the laurel leaves of Rome only to wear them when the security of the realm was at stake. Sometimes we must accept that our Creator’s will is stronger than a nation’s.’
Everyone there agreed. Our conference was to discuss ongoing plans. I had now promised Duval I would help them, but I was also hatching a scheme of my own.
* * *
Master Elias, as Chief Rabbi of England, was to attend the Amsterdam conference which would be held in secret. He had waited decades for this. ‘Once the Jews are admitted back into England, my great vow to remain in London until that time will be fulfilled. I shall no longer be needed here.’ Apparently a number of marranos and others had resettled in England for some years; they were ostensibly Christians but practised in secret. Almost all were regular visitors to the abbey. The few remaining English Jews and their descendants, officially expelled from England by Edward I in 1290, had lived and attended synagogue here in secret for some three and a half centuries!
Now I was beginning to understand some of the things mystifying me at the Sanctuary! A rabbi by the name of Judah ben Har, scarcely older than me, very young and enthusiastic, told me how the time had come for Jews to petition Oliver Cromwell for the right to return openly, to practise their religion unhindered and continue their traditional trades, arts and services. Like many Puritans, Cromwell was known to favour the idea of admitting Jews and not merely for practical reasons. The Jews, as usurers and traders, brought greater flexibility to any economy. But more profoundly, the Protector identified with certain Old Testament teachings. They brought a religious scholarship and a rigorous intellectual tradition the country dearly needed after the prolonged and ruinous civil war. This idea sounded good to me. I asked Chief Rabbi Elias how long he had held his office. He was amused, knowing he would surprise me.
‘About three hundred and fifty years,’ he said. ‘The former Chief Rabbi of London made me his successor. I became Chief Rabbi of England until such time as the edict should be revoked. As soon it shall be.’
In spite of everything else that had taken place, I still could not believe Master Elias was some four hundred years old! I looked from face to face. Not a man there, Christian or Jew, showed any surprise or incredulity. Why on earth did they come openly to London, albeit Alsacia? What went on here?
I responded a little weakly. Some of the others laughed, enjoying my expression.
Just as I was coming to a grudging belief in the supernatural, every day brought some new test of my credulity! Now I was supposed to accept that the ancient Chief Rabbi at our table was only a bit younger than Methuselah! There was no question the rabbi was very old indeed; no question that he had an extraordinary charisma. He spoke almost in a whisper, yet his voice was thrilling. His accent was soft, even gentle; controlled and precise, as if he conserved his strength.
‘You must remember, young sir, that I was from a very long-lived line even before I came to the Sanctuary.’
Did he mean that the Sanctuary had extended his life? I knew Alsacia somehow preserved life because I had seen that with my own eyes. Disturbingly, the dead might even be resurrected. But could the place actually prolong life? Hadn’t Methuselah, Enoch, Noah and all those others in Genesis lived almost a thousand years? Abraham was ancient when he begat Isaac. Maybe there was something in the diet? I seemed to be getting even deeper into the swamp of gullibility, a growing belief in the supernatural. I was in a kind of fugue, I suppose, carried along by events possibly created by my own imagination. Because of my familiarity with drugs, my usual scepticism kept kicking in. In Notting Hill in the 1960s you had to develop a certain habit of mind or go crazy like one of those poor acid-burned freaks wandering up and down Portobello Road, their unblinking eyes glaring into some hellish private fantasy. I knew people whose brains had been wiped and replaced by a bunch of pretty pictures and the crazier aspects of the world’s great religions.
I had to admit this old man was pretty convincing. Tha
t pale, yellow skin stretched over his bones was the thinnest ever seen, but it wasn’t proof he was as old as he said he was. Were all these people perhaps delusional? Including me? I really didn’t want to believe what my logic forced me to believe.
I asked the Chief Rabbi why he had chosen to stay in anti-Semitic London. He might have been better off going somewhere like Prague where there were active synagogues to support him. He didn’t need to live in secrecy. I think he found my question a bit naïve. I had to bend forward a little to hear his response which was almost a whisper.
‘My duty was here. I was not the only Jew to disobey the king. Our duty was to remain here until called home. In truth there are fewer now than there used to be. But to them I have passed on my knowledge of the Torah. After the great concordance, I will discover the next stage of my journey. God can always use another rabbi somewhere.’ And he smiled the sweetest smile I had ever seen.
I continued to be curious. ‘Sir, have you always lived in London?’
‘I was born in York but my parents moved soon to Leeds and from there to London. I went once to Lisbon. It was a common experience for Jews in my day to be like our nomad ancestors. We were forever pulling up stakes and moving on. But we made many friends among the English scholars.’ He smiled toothlessly at me through his thin white beard. ‘Fewer in the Lords or Commons. The English were not the first to persecute Jews. I gather your mother’s family is Jewish. But you are not a Jew by religion?’
‘I have no religion. No belief.’
He laughed. ‘You have what my friends call the “second sight”? A Sufi? You are an adept. A magi. You can see the roads?’
‘Does that involve belief in God?’
‘I think you know that answer. If you believe in the supernatural you’d be wise to believe in God, but that’s my opinion. I hope we can continue this conversation. It has been some time since I spoke with someone who found their faith.’
The Whispering Swarm Page 48