“Many a time, you fox.”
But Crispin now pondered what Nicholas had not said, trying to ferret out what it might mean. He kept his features neutral.
“You wish to know of their customs,” said the abbot. “But to understand that, you must understand why they were banished from these shores in the first place. I can assure you, it was wholly justified. Have you never heard the tales of Saint William of Norwich or Saint Hugh of Lincoln?”
“These saints are familiar to me,” said Crispin vaguely. He pushed one of his pawns forward. “But I confess, I do not recall the details.”
“I shall enlighten you, then. William of Norwich was a very devout boy, singing the praises of our Lady both night and day. He was a tanner’s apprentice and was forced to frequent the Jews’ Street in Norwich. His holy praises angered the Jews and they rose up as one and slew him, tossing his body upon a dungheap. But even in death, he continued to sing the Alma Redemptoris Mater. This was his first miracle. The Jews were accused of his torture and murder and many were slain that day in just retribution.” He toyed with his castle and, finally realizing it was in his hand, set it back on its square.
Crispin frowned at the board. He could well see how the townsfolk would be angered by such an act, but it was not well to rise up as a mob. Best to let the authorities handle the situation. The crown was, no doubt, unsettled by the affair. “And what of this other, this Saint Hugh?”
“Little Saint Hugh. Another child, an innocent. Slain by a Jewish child who confessed that it was the custom to crucify a Christian boy once a year at the Passover.”
“I thought Little Saint Hugh was found in a well.”
“Perhaps he was crucified and then tossed into the well.”
“If this was so, then why were there not more stories of Christian boys crucified?”
Crispin watched Nicholas move his castle. “What makes you think there were not?”
“Because I have never heard of such.”
“I am certain the stories are somewhere.” Nicholas shook his head. “Those were difficult times, Crispin. I am not sorry they are over. It is best that Jews remain exiled from England so the taint of usury and godlessness can no longer thrive here.”
No, indeed, thought Crispin with a scowl. Godless murder and thievery certainly do not thrive in London. But Abbot Nicholas had gone on, heedless of his guest’s discomfiture.
“The edict gave them ample time to prepare, to sell their lands and gather their goods.” Crispin could well imagine. Selling their land to Englishmen who could demand any price, knowing the Jew had to sell and had to leave. What bargains there must have been that summer of 1290.
Not that he was sympathizing. He, too, found the matter distasteful. The image in his mind of the greedy Jew and now the blood-lusting Jew ran deep, even though, he admitted grudgingly, it did not complement the portrait of the benign physician who had hired him.
“In Avignon, the Jews thrive,” Crispin heard himself saying.
Nicholas shrugged. “Yes. But ways are different in France.”
“Would you send them packing again to some other place or simply slay them all?”
“I do not like to speak of death. And our venerable Saint Bernard of Clairvaux once said, ‘Whosoever touches a Jew to take his life, is like one who harms Jesus himself.’ ”
“Hmpf,” said Crispin. “Do you believe that?” Nicholas shrugged again. “A bitter potion, then. One cannot slay them and one cannot live beside them. What, then, should one do?”
“Allow the crown to deal with it, as it has.”
“Let it be someone else’s problem?”
“Precisely.”
Grunting his reply, Crispin moved his knight, grasped the goblet into his hand, and took a sip before he declared, “Check and mate.”
“What?” Nicholas’s head swung back and forth as he studied each piece scattered upon the board. His frown wrinkled his forehead up to the feathery gray hair and down again to his thick brows. “Bless me!” he breathed at last. With a finger, he tipped his king and it fell to the board, rolling into the bishop and nearly toppling him. “Bless me. That was well played.” He snatched up his goblet and comforted himself in the wine.
“Facts, my Lord Abbot,” said Crispin and set his goblet aside. “Not pride.”
Nicholas shook his head and began to replace his pieces into their proper starting points. “The oddities of their Jewish customs,” he continued. “We cannot reconcile it. Do they not see that they condemn themselves for their demon ways? That they crucified our Lord was enough to tie the millstone about their necks. But to continue this atrocious sin of killing innocent boys—”
And more, thought Crispin, but he was unwilling to discuss it. “My Lord Abbot, have you ever heard of a Golem?”
“A goblin?”
“No, a Golem. Part of their Jewish magic.”
The old man shook his head. “No, no. Best stay clear of that, Master Guest. It is unwise to mix yourself in their monstrous ways. We can little understand the mind of the Jew let alone his magic.”
Frowning, Crispin agreed. Ultimately, he was not interested in their rituals. Only if such things were possible. And then he chided himself. He had never believed in its like before. Why should he toy with the notion now?
“You have given me much to contemplate,” said Crispin. “These rituals of crucifixion. I wonder if any other torture might have been mentioned.”
“I have the text of Thomas of Monmouth who related these and other tales. Would you like to borrow it?”
Crispin stood. “Very much so.”
The abbot lifted himself from his chair and bustled to his shelves, looking over the leather-bound manuscripts before he found the one he wanted. Carefully, he lifted the book from its place and returned to Crispin, handing it to him. Crispin grasped it in both hands, feeling the weight of it. He missed having books. He had gathered a fair few in his library at Sheen. Many of them had been given to him by the duke of Lancaster. He knew how precious such a thing was and how much the abbot trusted him. He bowed to the old monk. “I am deeply grateful, Abbot Nicholas.”
Nicholas waved him off. “Anything to find the murderer of that child.” He laid his hand on the leather cover. The etched designs were dark from age. “Thomas was a contemporary of those events almost one hundred years ago. His writing is very clear.”
“Thank you, Nicholas. I will take good care of this.”
“I know you will. Here. Let me give you a scrip.” The abbot retrieved a leather pouch hanging by its strap near the door. Crispin slipped the book inside and slung it over his shoulder, the strap cutting diagonally across his chest. “Until next time, Crispin. And perhaps I will best you on the chessboard.”
Crispin glanced at the board with all its players carefully arranged to begin a new match. He smiled as he bowed again. “You can certainly try, my Lord Abbot.”
* * *
Armed with this new information, Crispin left the abbey and stood on the snow-pocked square. And so. There was precedent for the ritual blood-letting of Christian children by Jews. He hefted the book, thinking. Jews no longer lived in England. He didn’t hold much store in Abbot Nicholas’s rumors. It wouldn’t be easy for Jews to hide themselves, the food they ate, or their houses of worship. Londoners lived too close together. Each parish knew the doings of each of its citizens. But Jews did live in certain areas of France and Lombardy, and Crispin had frequented those places in his travels with Lancaster. He had never heard of such murders before and certainly there would have been an outcry.
Still, his mind seized on images of the sour Julian. A ritual murder. Yes, the boy was angry enough. But if only one a year was needed, why had there been four deaths? And there was never a mention on the Coroner’s rolls of signs of crucifixion in these murders, even if other unspeakable acts had been committed.