Unholy Innocence (13 page)

De Saye laughed softly at my words clearly enjoying my discomfort. ‘I thought you monks liked that - a bit of
man-handling
.’

Those merchants nearby who heard this comment sniggered and nodded at the joke to my increased fury. I was too stunned to reply.

‘Go on,’ sniffed de Saye looking me up and down with contempt. ‘You’re free to go. But look sharp! The King is an impatient man and will not be kept waiting. So run, bone-breaker,
run
!’

He made as if to chase me and in spite of my anger I ducked out of his way,
much to the amusement of the merchants. But there was little point in continuing a fracas I could not hope to win and I was already late for the King. John would not be interested in my excuses. Lifting up my robe I stumbled up the stairs as best I could.

Seething still with anger and shame and with my legs still wobbly from my encounter I arrived outside the King’s bedchamber, breathless, confused and hot, not at all in a fit state to greet my monarch, which no doubt was de Saye’s intention. More hopeful merchants were waiting at the top of the stairs, richer than the ones downstairs judging from their attire, and mingling this time with some minor nobility. I collected myself as best I could, straightened my robe and presented myself to another armoured guard on duty outside the bedchamber door. He frisked me once more though peremptorily and professionally this time before turning the handle and pushing open the door.

*

Inside the room there was a fetid stench of sweat and stale sex. Though a hot day no shutter was open and the temperature was uncomfortably high. King John was sitting before a dressing table wearing nothing but a blue silk dressing-gown, his hairy thighs shamelessly on display, whilst plucking tunelessly at a lyre that was resting on his knee. The bed which had been the centre of attention a week earlier when the King was rolling about on it in agony was even more unkempt today. But this time its occupant was a girl – she could not have been more than fourteen – lying on top of the bedclothes completely naked and propped up on one elbow, her long dark hair hanging loose and covering one alabaster-white shoulder. She was quite indifferent to my presence not bothering to cover her nakedness. I felt my face go hot again but this time
with embarrassment.

I don’t know why I was so shocked. Samson had warned me about this girl who had been keeping the King in his room for days on end. With her free hand she was choosing from a tray of miniature almond macaroons, each topped with a single red cherry and which are known among the abbey servants
– disgracefully - as Venus Nipples. I blushed to think of the significance of that soubriquet in the present circumstances. Seeing them, I could not but reflect on the irony that they had almost certainly been baked in our own kitchens by Brother Alric, the very same monk who John had earlier accused of poisoning him. Had he truly wanted to poison the King this would have been the perfect opportunity to do so. But the girl was popping the little golden delicacies into her mouth one after the other with no ill effect.

But the most incongruous part of the entire scene was the statuesque figure propped on a chair against the wall. From its dress it was evidently female with a long dark smock and linen wimple, but its features thus framed were so ugly with a huge nose above a heavy moustache and a thin slash for a mouth that it could have been either sex. It was evidently alive but sat bolt upright and absolutely motionless the expression on the face one of utter disdain. If the mouth had ever smiled it had  long ago lost the habit of doing so.

My discomfort at being confronted by the naked girl clearly amused her. She laughed coquettishly before popping yet another macaroon between her perfectly even, white teeth and chewing lasciviously. I had only a second to take all this in before dropping to one knee and remaining there, head bowed, until bidden to rise.

Not that the king acknowledged my arrival directly. ‘Lovely instrument, the lyre,’ he said whilst continuing to pluck the strings. ‘I wish I could play it. Never had the time to learn. I borrowed this one from those
jongleurs
who played at my banquet last week. Were you there?’

‘I was indeed, sire,’ I said licking my lips which, I noticed, had suddenly gone dry.

‘Instrument of the gods, the lyre. Apollo played it, you know? He was the god of music - also of healing, interestingly enough. But then you’d know that already being a physician yourself.’

‘I – er - yes indeed, sire. Apollo. Yes. A fellow physician. And a fine musician too.’ My throat was also dry. I swallowed hard and licked my lips again.

John continued to pluck away unperturbed. ‘He was also a pansy, of course - liked a bit of cock up him. That’s what you get for all that nude wrestling.’

Behind him the girl stopped chewing
at this and looked up, her dark eyes wide in amazement. She covered her mouth with her hand and let out a weird squeal of laughter.

John ignored her. ‘They said the same about my brother Richard,’ he sighed. ‘But never to his face.’ He strummed the instrument one more time with relish before propping it against the wall. ‘Well, bone-breaker, what have you to tell me?’

‘Tell you, sire?’ I felt myself grinning like an idiotic monkey.

‘Yes yes. Come along, keep up. Tell me something. Report.’ He looked
down at me expectantly.

‘I – er -’ I began desperately trying to think what to say. ‘Is your Highness feeling better?’

He frowned. ‘Feeling better? What are you talking about, you oaf?’

‘Your – erm – bowels, sire. Isn’t that what you brought me here to, erm…discuss…?’ My voice trailed away.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘My bowels? My bowels
?
Good God, man, I didn’t bring you here to talk about my
bowels
. Are you trying to make a fool of me? Is that it? Because I’m not a fool. People think I am but I’m not.’ He stood up and started pacing up and down. ‘That buffoon of an abbot, now he’s a fool. He may have his spies but so do I. He thinks I don’t know what’s going on, but I do. What I want to know is,
did he do it
?’ He had stopped pacing and stood arms akimbo staring fiercely down at me still on one knee before him.

So it was the murder then, that was why I was here. I had dreaded as much. I swallowed again noisily. ‘It’s too early to say, sire.’

He frowned now like a child whose just been told he can’t have his favourite toy to play with. ‘Well, when will you be able to say?’ he pouted. ‘I can’t stay here for ever, you know? I’ve got things to do.’

‘Indeed, sire.’

‘And remember this,’ he said leaning closer. ‘I can be as generous to those who help me as I can be
un
generous with those who do not.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I trust I make m’self clear?’

‘Perfectly, sire.’

His meaning was clear all right. He wanted Isaac found guilty so he could get his hands on his property. I was praying he would not ask me to commit myself to this conclusion for I truly did not know at that moment how I would answer if he did, or what his reaction would be. Fortunately the girl saved the moment and very possibly my neck. All the while John was speaking she had been making lewd gestures at me behind his back trying to unnerve me. It was indeed very distracting. Now she got up on her knees to play peek-a-boo with the silk cloth she had wrapped around her. I inwardly groaned wondering how and when I would be able to get out of this madhouse.

‘I’ve got a good idea,’ she mooed. ‘Why don’t we do it in front of this monk?’

From my position at John’s feet I saw his left eye twitch. ‘I am trying to have a sensible conversation here, madam,’ he said without turning round.

‘Yes, but wouldn’t it be a laugh?’ She giggled and thrust out her pert little breasts towards me making me wince once more with embarrassment. ‘I bet he’s never done it. I bet he’s never even
seen
a naked woman before.’

‘He’s a doctor,’ said John. ‘Of course he’s seen a naked woman before.’

‘Yes, but never one with bubbies like these.’ She thrust the under-developed things up as high as she could and licked her lips salaciously, making me cringe again.

John slowly turned, went over to the bed and smiling, leaned across and kissed the girl fully and sensuously on the mouth. Then with a deft twitch of his wrist he pulled the silk cloth from beneath her sending her sprawling off the bed and landing on the floor with a heavy bump. She screamed more from surprise than hurt which must have been heard in the corridor because the door was immediately flung open to reveal the guard and a dozen pair of minor nobility eyes peering anxiously in.

‘Get out!’ he bellowed at them.

The door instantly closed again.

John was apoplectic with rage. ‘How dare you?’ he screamed at the girl. ‘I am the King, you foul-mouthed little trollop. You can get out too. Go on, out -
now!
’

Red in the face and shaking with anger, John threw the tray of macaroons at her head making her yell in pain. He chased her screaming and naked to the door and out into the corridor into the gaggle of astonished courtiers and merchants who now scrambled over each other to escape the fleeing girl’s path.

‘And take your mother with you!’ he yelled, at which point the gargoyle that had been sitting so stoically by the wall suddenly came to life, growled something incoherent, picked up her skirts and followed her daughter out of the room. ‘And don’t come back!’ John boomed at the top of his voice slamming the door so hard dust fell from the rafters.

He stood for a moment panting deeply
with spittle actually foaming on his lips as he tried to recover his composure. All the while this performance had lasted I had not dared move a muscle and remained on one knee terrified lest he turn his anger on me next. Gradually I heard his breathing return to normal.

At last he seemed to remember where he was and that I was still in the room behind him. ‘Your father,’ he said quietly without turning round, ‘was William de Ixworth, I believe.’

‘That is correct, sire.’ I had no idea he knew my family. What horror was he now about to perpetrate on me?

He merely nodded. ‘There was a William de Ixworth on crusade with my mother. Before my time. Before yours, too.’

He was referring, as I knew, to his mother, the celebrated dowager Duchess Eleanor of Aquitaine, married to two kings and mother of two more, whose fame and beauty the troubadours had been celebrating for decades. She had indeed been in the Holy Land at the same time as my father on the abortive Holy War to Acre, Damascus and Jerusalem. A very elderly lady now, she had been married to King Louis of France, not yet to John’s father Henry, as I’m sure John knew only too well.

‘We are of an age, you and I, Master Physician,’ he said wearily still without turning round. ‘We could almost be brothers.’

‘Indeed we could, sire.’ The suggestion appalled me but I would have agreed the Moon was made of oatmeal had he said so just to get out of that room as quickly as possible.

‘Except I am King of England and you are an impoverished monk.’ He turned round and I could see he looked tired, drained. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can go. But remember what I
said.’ He fixed me fiercely with his stare before going back to his seat by the desk and picking up the lyre again.

I have never been so relieved to leave a room in my life. ‘Thank you, sire,’ I mumbled bowing all the way to the door. ‘
I will indeed. Thank you. Thank you.’

‘By the way,’ he said as I was about to open it. I froze with my hand inches from the latch. ‘You’re doing a grand job. Keep it up.’ He began once again plucking at his tuneless song.

Bowing continuously, I backed through the door, closed it with the gentlest of gentle clicks, and then let out a long-held sigh of relief.

Turning, I was confronted by a sea of faces - courtiers, merchants and town dignitaries - all staring at me in silent horror.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ I mumbled politely as I stepped through them.  ‘Thank you – excuse me - thank you.’

As I got to the top of the stairs and about to descend, I heard the King bellow one last thing through the door:

‘And send up my steward of the bath! It smells like a tart’s boudoir in here!’

Chapter 12

TEMPTATIONS & TREACHERY

I
have just spent a wretched night. I confess it: I could not get the image of that naked girl out of my head. It was a shock to discover that I still had such feelings because I thought that part of my life had been over a dozen years or more. The King was right, of course, I have seen many a naked female body in the course of my professional career, how could I not? But the girl was also right in that this was no mere medical examination when one’s mind is filled with compassion for the patient and the cold determination of a cure and all baser thoughts are forgotten. All women patients flirt - they can do no otherwise since their Fall in the Garden of Eden. But never before have I been so brazenly beguiled by such an accomplished temptress, and one so very young. Where did she learn such skills? No wonder Adam had such difficulty resisting the charms of Eve.

My mind was in turmoil all night, racing with unworthy thoughts as I tossed and turned on my cot, longing for sleep. When it wouldn’t come I got out of bed and knelt to pray earnestly to a merciful God to relieve me of my turmoil. And when this didn’t work I returned to my bed and lay on my back with my arms firmly held by my sides outside the sheets just as our novice master had taught us in the seminary all those years ago in order to avoid the tem
ptation of Onan. Mercifully it was near to midsummer when the nights are at their shortest and dawn is not long in coming.

Of course I am aware that such feelings are natural in any man and they don’t go away just because we monks give our bodies to Christ - monks are still men after all. The test is not the abandonment of those base instincts but the rising above them and weak mortals like us try to emulate as best we can the impossible perfection of our lord Jesus Christ
, always being aware just how hopelessly inadequate our efforts will be.

Well, that’s the theory anyway. Happily I made it through the night unpolluted. But this is not the first time my sacrifice has been thus tested and as I lay trying to divert my mind from these unworthy cravings my thoughts strayed once more to the more honourable side of human desire and specifically to a certain young lady with whom I had been emotionally intimate in my student days. This was in the south of France where all life celebrates love and beauty. I was a much younger man then, with a younger man’s passions which are not always so easy to subdue as they are later in life. The young lady concerned was called Emeline and she was the youngest daughter of the Comte de Céret, a friend of my father and a fellow Crusader on that same campaign the King had referred to. The Comte had been badly wounded at the siege of Damascus in July 1148 when his horse was shot from beneath him and had fallen on his leg. My father managed to save the leg although the Comte walked with a limp ever thereafter. In consequence the two men became lifelong friends. Nothing would have delighted either man more than to see their two families allied in the next generation. In truth, I think both our fathers were more keen on the match than we were ourselves although Emeline and I were extremely fond of each other. Of course, the prospect of having a wife did present me with something of a problem if I was to obey my other calling and become a monk. It was still possible then to both marry and to take holy orders despite the papal prohibitions invalidating all such marriages. Indeed, even today I know of several older priests who still keep female “house keepers”.
But I was ideological in those days. I wanted to save people from both earthly disease and eternal torment. Besides, if my memory serves me correctly Emeline had a young man of whom she had been fond prior to our acquaintance and who had not quite given up hope of a return to favour, as indeed it turned out to be. So in the end the grand alliance came to nought, amicably I’m pleased to say, and everyone got what they really wanted.

Cock crow came just as I was at last beginning to drift into troubled sleep and I dragged my exhausted limbs out of bed and down to the lavatorium to wash before lauds. Had I known just what sort of day it was going to turn out to be I might have stayed in bed and pulled the covers over my head.

*

Jocelin was as bright and jolly as I was dull and languorous this Thursday morn when he once again sat across from me in the refectory eager to know how I’d got on with the King. Half asleep still, I gave him an edited version of my audience, omitting mention of either the young damsel in the bed or my encounter with the odious Geoffrey de Saye. I did, however, repeat what the King had said about the murder.

Jocelin listened with concentrated attention. ‘W-what do you think he meant by that:
He can be as generous to those who help him as he can be ungenerous with those who do not
?’

‘He meant he wants Isaac to be found guilty of the murder so that he can inherit his property,’ I said gloomily. ‘And he expects me to deliver it to him.’

Jocelin swallowed hard. ‘W-what will you do?’

‘Pray, brother,’ I yawned. ‘I’m going to pray.’

‘Y-yes indeed,’ nodded Jocelin thoughtfully. ‘Well, all may not be lost. I’ve been r-reading up about all this in the l-library and I think I m-may have something.’ He reached into his sack and took out his notebook which I could see was filled with jottings.

My heart sank. I was in no fit state this morning to deal with these copious annotations of Jocelin’s. They always depress me since nothing could more graphically illustrate just how disorganized my own system of record-keeping is. He writes so much and so often that there can be little ink left in the scriptorium for the copying of manuscripts, although it wouldn’t surprise me to hear he had a stock of oak apples in his office from which to manufacture his own.

He found his place in his notes and raised a senatorial finger. ‘You remember F-father Abbot told us that all Jewish property goes to the King on the death of the owner? In fact that’s n-not quite right. It’s only property obtained through
usury
that is forfeit. Everything else he can keep - I m-mean his s-survivors can keep,’ he corrected himself sheepishly.

I could tell he was not to be discouraged with yawns and sighs. I closed my weary eyes. ‘All right. So how is it possible to tell which property is the product of usury and which is not?’ It was a superfluous question. I had no doubt he was going to tell me whether or not I wanted him to.

He licked his lips and shuffled enthusiastically to the edge of his bench. ‘Nine years ago there was a m-massacre of Jews in York Castle – er, you perhaps have heard of it?’

I recalled with a shudder Isaac’s clinical description of the incident. I nodded. ‘A hundred-and-fifty innocent souls. What about it?’

‘Well, King Richard was v-very angry about it.’

‘I should think so too,’ I snorted tucking my head into my robes and pulling them up around me. ‘It was a disgraceful episode.’

‘Oh, n-not about the Jews being murdered,’ Jocelin corrected himself. ‘I mean, of course he
was
angry about that. B-but what he was more concerned about was their bonds of debt which were b-burned on the floor of the Minster church at the same time. You see, without them there was no proof of how much he was owed.’

‘So King Richard was thwarted for once from getting his hands on his – or rather
Jewish
- money.’ I sniffed. ‘Good. There is at least some justice in the world. Now, what’s your point?’

‘M-my p-point,’ said Jocelin lowering his voice further, ‘is that in order to prevent it happening again – losing the proof of ownership I mean - R-richard decreed that a record of all f-future transactions by the Jews was to be kept by his officials and he passed a law to that effect.’ He looked at me expectantly but I just shrugged unable to see the point he was making. ‘Don’t you s-see? It would make an excellent m-motive for Matthew’s m-murder.’

I nodded sleepily. ‘By anyone who could benefit from Isaac’s death – yes, I see that.’ I suddenly woke up. ‘Good God. You’re not suggesting…’ I too lowered my voice now. ‘You’re not trying to suggest
King John
is Matthew’s
murderer
?’

Jocelin blushed. ‘No no, of course n-not.’ Then he grinned slyly. ‘B-but it’s an intriguing theory, d-don’t you think?’

I did not. The suggestion was preposterous, treasonable indeed and I told him in no uncertain terms that if he valued his neck he should not repeat it to anyone. The very idea that a King of England would be complicit in the murder of a twelve-year-old boy - whatever next?

However, Jocelin’s ferreting did put paid to my own pet theory about Isaac’s testament, for if it was a bond of debt that Isaac had wished me to preserve, as up till then I had been assuming, then under this law of King Richard a record of it would be held somewhere by one of the royal officials. In that case it hardly mattered what happened to the original. Yet Isaac had been adamant that I should keep his document safe. So it followed that it must be something other than a bond of debt, something important enough for him to want me to protect it as though his life depended on it.

But if not a bond of debt then what was it?

There was only one way to find out. I resolved to do what up till now I had been so reluctant to do: I would go to my cell, break the seal on the document and read it, whether Isaac wished it or not. It was
clearly more than a mere testament; it was evidence material to the murder and I therefore needed to know what was in it.

Jocelin was busy scrutinizing another set of his voluminous notes and muttering to himself. ‘V-very interesting all these old laws. Did you know that w
hen an abbacy becomes v-vacant the King is entitled to its revenues? That would explain why there was a t-two-year gap between the death of Abbot Hugh and the appointment of Samson. I’d often wondered why that was.’

‘Yes, I suppose it would,’ I said distractedly.

‘I bet Samson didn’t like that,’ he chuckled to himself.

‘I imagine not.’ I wasn’t really listening anymore. I was paying more attention to the scene outside the window. Samson and the Prior were just arriving on their mules and from the expression on Samson’s face he was not the happiest of men. They must have ridden since first light from Mildenhall to get here by now. I couldn’t resist a slight chuckle. I didn’t envy those monks who had tricked him into going to Mildenhall on a wild goose chase. And when he finds out the reason they did it - to get him out of the way while they interrogated the murdered boy’s mother and then to manufacture that false oath - he’s going to be absolutely furious. Another poke in the eye for Jeremiah and his cohort of conspirators, I thought with glee. Oh yes, things were definitely beginning to look up.

*

I had about ten minutes before Chapter and it wasn’t an occasion I wished to miss. I’d guessed Samson was going to use the meeting to accuse, berate and then punish those monks who had been agitating to get the boy Matthew canonized, among them in particular the five who had hijacked my interview with Matthew’s mother the previous day. I could just picture all five of them – Jeremiah included despite his age and his arthritis – lying prostrate on the floor of the chapterhouse before the entire congregation, contrite and begging forgiveness. No doubt they thought the mother’s oath made the deception worthwhile. But they miscalculated. Oh yes, Samson was going to wipe the floor with them - literally. Of course, such degradation of one’s brother monks is something shameful to our order and to be abhorred – but it was going to be fun to see nevertheless!

On our way back to our cells I noticed some activity near Matthew’s newly-dug grave. Among a group of about a dozen people I could see the same four Knieler women I had seen outside the house of Isaac ben Moy three days before.

‘God preserve us, what are they doing here?’ I said to Jocelin. ‘They’re like the chorus in a Greek tragedy turning up everywhere unannounced and wailing away. We must get Samson to exclude them from the abbey grounds. Their presence only serves to further inflame prejudices.’

‘B-better here than outside the Moy house,’ said Jocelin.

I nodded in reluctant agreement to that. It occurred to me again that I hadn’t yet been able to find out how they knew to come to Bury in the first instant. With all the other chicanery that had been going on I wouldn’t put it past Egbert to have arranged their presence from the very outset. No, I shook myself. I really must stop seeing conspiracies everywhere. There were other explanations for their presence. I just had yet to discover them.