‘There are too many strange stones in this part of Devon — sacred and profane!’ he muttered, crossing himself as he passed and reciting St Patrick’s Shield under his breath until he was out of the village.
Historical note
This story, including the names of the main characters and the places involved, is based on an actual case recorded in the rolls of the Crown Pleas of the Devon Eyre of 1238, the forerunner of the later Assizes and now Crown Courts. Though the later part of the story is fictitious, the records show that Matilda Claper’s complaint brought Walter Lupus before the King’s justices at Exeter Castle in June 1238 and that after initial denials he admitted that he had brought her back to Kentisbury in chains and that she was free. He was found guilty and fined twenty shillings.
The Devil’s Stone does lie outside the church in Shebbear and is turned by the villagers to the accompaniment of the church bells at eight o’clock in the evening on each 5 November, though this has nothing to do with Guy Fawkes!
Act Three
Norwich, May 1241, the Jewish month of Sivan, 5001 CE
The old merchant twisted around in the saddle of his horse and glanced back uneasily down the narrow street. He couldn’t see the Black Friar behind him, but with such a throng of riders and travellers all eager to crowd into Norwich before dark, it was hard to be sure that the tall, hunched stranger was not lurking somewhere in the shadows. Jacob raked his fingers through his long white beard and tried to ignore the tightening band of pain gripping his chest. He told himself that he was imagining things. There were a hundred reasons why a man might journey from Exeter to Norwich. The Black Friar wasn’t following him: why should he? What business would a friar have with a Jew? It was mere coincidence that they had travelled the same roads.
And yet the old man still felt a prickle of fear, for each night on the journey he had turned aside to seek lodgings with Jewish families in the towns along the way, but somehow, the next morning, the cowled figure on the grey gelding always appeared on the road behind him, creeping after Jacob like his own shadow. And however slowly or rapidly Jacob had ridden, the mounted friar always kept pace with him, never overtaking him. Was that nothing more than chance? Whatever it was, the merchant knew he would not feel safe until he was inside his own house with the door stoutly barred.
On any other day Jacob would have been carefully watching each person in the crowd for signs of mischief; you didn’t reach seventy years and five without learning to keep a sharp lookout for cutpurses and thieves. But on this particular evening the old man was too preoccupied with searching for the friar to notice that someone else was taking a keen interest in his progress through the busy streets. Three youths, slouching in the shadow of the tower by Nedham Gate, had signalled to each other as soon as they spotted Jacob entering the city, and as the merchant rode past them they peeled themselves off the wall and began to weave through the crowd behind him.
In his younger days Jacob had always felt a sense of relief as soon as he was within the walls of Norwich under the protection of the royal castle guards. Jews were after all chattels of the King, and though there had been riots against them from time to time, forcing them to flee to the castle for protection, for the most part Gentiles dared not risk attacking the Jewish merchants, for to do so would be robbing the King himself and the penalties for that were enough to make even the battle-hardened shudder.
But what Jew was safe anywhere these days, even in his own city? Since the Pope had commanded all Jews to wear the badge of shame, the two white strips on their clothing over their hearts, which represented the tablets of stone, they couldn’t even hope to pass unnoticed on the road as once they did.
Last year monks had stormed into Jacob’s house and burned his books and scrolls in front of him, declaring them the work of the devil. They had even destroyed the scrolls of the Old Testament, because they were written in Hebrew, not Latin. The monks had tried to toss the old merchant on their bonfire, too, but the soldiers from the castle had at least prevented that, for now anyway. After they’d gone, Jacob had offered up prayers of gratitude that the men had not discovered his most precious books and scrolls stored in the genizah, a concealed cupboard in the upper chamber of his house, though he was at a loss to understand why the Eternal One should have spared his books when so many of his fellow Jews had lost everything.
Then, just a few weeks ago, Jacob had received word from Leo, a Jewish pedlar in Exeter, concerning a strange and wondrous stone that had come into his possession. As he read the message, the old merchant’s hands began to tremble with excitement. He found himself on his feet dancing and swaying around his chamber like a young bridegroom at a wedding. Jacob had waited his whole life for such a sign, praying for it, longing for it, without ever knowing what form it would take.
In these last few years, with old age gnawing at his bones, Jacob had begun to fear he would never see the sign in his lifetime. But as soon as he read Leo’s words he knew for certain that this stone was what he had been searching for, and he, Jacob, had been chosen to deliver it to his people. Now he understood why the Eternal One had hidden his books from the eyes of the monks. The books had been spared so that he could use them to buy that stone. And he would use them. He would give all he owned if he had to, just to bring that stone home.
It had not been an easy journey to Exeter. No honest man was safe from cutpurses and outlaws on the lonely tracks and roads that spun a tangled web through heath and forest, hamlet and marsh. Once Jacob would have joined a band of fellow travellers for such a journey, but now few Christians were willing to be seen in the company of a Jew, and he was as much in danger of having his throat cut by other merchants as from any outlaw on the road. So the old man had been forced to make the long journey alone, seeking out the hospitality of fellow Jews in towns such as Thetford to at least give him a place of safety to sleep and food that had not been spat in or worse by a surly innkeeper.
Jacob had found the pedlar waiting for him in his filthy lodging in the very worst quarter of Exeter. They were old acquaintances, but still Leo had driven a hard bargain for the stone, not that Jacob blamed him for that. Leo had once been a merchant himself with a dozen men working for him, and Jacob had done much business with him over the years, but the massive taxes against the Jews, the community fines and the ever-increasing restrictions on their trade had combined to ruin the man, so that when finally pirates seized a ship carrying his cargo to Flanders, Leo had been left with nothing but debts. Now he was forced to tramp from village to village hawking cheap buckles, thread and anything else he could sell for the price of a night’s lodgings. The man was bitter — and little wonder.
The pedlar had carefully unwrapped the stone and laid it on the rough wooden stool between them. At first Jacob could see nothing unusual about the stone except perhaps its shape, but when Leo tilted it at an angle to the candle flame, Jacob gasped in wonderment. He stared at it, not daring to touch it, suddenly aware of his unwashed hands.
‘Where did you find it?’ Jacob whispered, unable to tear his gaze away.
‘Shebbear. You’ll not have heard of it — a piss-poor village, full of lice-pickers,’ Leo said sourly. ‘I was selling door to door, or trying to, but those muck-grubbers wouldn’t part with a clipped farthing. Finally, this woman at the end of the village took pity on me and invited me in for a bite to eat. I thought the angels were smiling on me; for once you get inside a house you can usually persuade a woman to buy something just to get rid of you.
‘Anyway, that’s when I spotted the stone up on a shelf above the door lintel. Noticed it straight off, strange shape, bit like a bird if you squint at it the right way, but even so, not what you’d expect to find on a shelf. Those crofts are so small there’s scarcely room for their pots and pans. Who’d waste space on a stone? So I looked closer, and that’s when I saw the marks. I could tell the woman had no idea what they were; doubt she’d even noticed them. Those villagers can’t even read their own names. So I told her an alchemist in Exeter might pay a few pennies to melt it down for iron. It feels like iron, and those crofters will believe anything you tell them about a city.’