Authors: Stephen Wheeler
A TIMELY WARNING
Finding
extra work for me to do just when I was hoping to slow down a little in order to nurse my aching jaw is a typical ploy of Samson. No doubt he’d noticed that I’ve been less busy of late, which is the real reason he’s chosen me to go to Ely, nothing to do with my negotiating skills. What negotiating skills? I’m a physician, what would I know about market charters? He’s probably hoping I’ll fail and then he can go to the king and say it wasn’t his fault - the Norfolk Trickster up to his games again. Well I’m sorry to disappoint, father abbot, but I have no intention of failing. When I meet Bishop Eustace I’ll be obsequiousness itself. I’ll fawn, I’ll flatter and I’ll charm - even if it cracks my jaw to do so.
Before I did any of this, however, I thought I should pay a visit to my brother Joseph. Samson may assert that the abbot-legate’s threats are nothing but hot air but I wasn’t prepared to take the risk. Despite having been born in this country Joseph is still a Jew and as such considered an outsider with few of the rights in law that protect native Christian folk. I’m sure if Abbot Eustache chose he could make a lot of trouble for him. No-one could forget the awful events of eleven years earlier when the mob turned on the Jews of Bury and dozens were massacred in the town. Fortunately that time Joseph was able to stay with my mother at her house in Ixworth, but he came back to find his business a burnt-out shell. I wasn’t expecting anything of that sort to happen this time but at the very least I could warn him of what the abbot-legate had been saying and let him decide on its significance for himself. Forewarned, as they say, is forearmed.
You may be wondering how it is the son of a Syrian Arab and a Damascene Jewess came to be my brother. The short answer is that he isn’t - at least, not my
blood
brother, Jocelin was right about that at least. My father and his met while they were both medics in the wars in the Holy Land, albeit on opposing sides. Each having been impressed by the other’s skills they returned to Suffolk together after the war and worked in my father’s house in Ixworth which was where Joseph and I were both born, him first and me three years later. As a result we grew up as one family and have always regarded each other as brothers despite the difference in our parentage. As children such differences hardly mattered, but once we became adults our lives began to diverge. Joseph would have liked to follow in his own father’s footsteps as I did in mine by becoming a doctor, but as an infidel in a Christian country that road was closed to him. Physicians are forbidden under pain of exclusion to administer healing without first calling upon the services of a priest for the spiritual welfare of the patient, and that a Jew could not do. I also converted to religion while still a student and that drew us even further apart. Nevertheless Joseph and I have remained firm friends and still call each other “brother”.
As far as I’m aware Joseph holds no rancour for the shameful waste of his talents - at least, he has never shown it to me. But it must disappoint. Still, becoming an apothecary was the next best thing to being a physician and at that profession he has excelled. Joseph supplies nearly all my medicinal requirements for no other reason than he is simply the best apothecary in Suffolk. His shop, rebuilt once he was permitted to return within the banleuca, is located in Heathenmans Street which, as the name suggests, is where others of his race congregate and where I went to see him immediately after leaving Samson’s study.
There is no door to Joseph’s shop just an opening where a door should be. Anyone can enter at any time of the day or night, an arrangement which I have always regarded as foolhardy. I once asked him if he was not fearful of being robbed or murdered in his bed. His answer was typical of the man. He said that in his shop are many substances, poisons as well as medicines. He labels none of them. If someone takes a medicine it is because they know what it is and are therefore welcome to it. But if they take a poison it is because they don’t know what it is and are likely therefore to be the author of their own demise. That seemed to him like natural justice. As for being murdered: if anyone was intent on doing that a locked door would not stop them.
Since there is no door to his shop Joseph signals his availability by means of a stick laid diagonally across the entrance. On this Sunday morning the stick was absent which meant he was open for business, and sure enough as I entered I found him standing this side of the screen that shields his preparation room from his private quarters. As ever I had the feeling that he had been expecting me although he could not possibly have known I was coming since I didn’t know myself until an hour ago. But that is just one of his many talents.
‘God bless all in this house,’ I intoned as I entered.
‘You know, my brother, you are the only person I know who says that.’
‘That, my brother, is because you surround yourself with heathens and schismatics. Someone has to look out for your soul since you refuse to believe you have one.’
‘Then I count myself fortunate that it is you. Welcome to my house.’
We embraced as we always do when we meet. Then he held me away from him.
‘You look worried, brother. Has something happened?’
‘Not to me.’
‘To who then? To me?’
I demurred. ‘Possibly.’
‘Then we had better share a cup of herbal tea while you tell me about it.’
We went into the back area of the shop and waited while the beverage was brewed. I never understand why he bothers to boil water to make this so-called “tea” of his. You have to wait an age while the water boils and then wait again for it to cool before you can drink it. It all seems a criminal waste of time to me not to mention good firewood. He claims it’s an ancient custom from the east although I’m not sure how far east you can go beyond the Holy Land before dropping off the edge of the world. I presume he means the fabled land of Prester John, that supposedly fabulously wealthy Christian prince of the Indies, though I suspect his existence to be a myth. Still, the taste is interesting. Joseph’s assistant, Chrétien, brought it in on a tray with two cups and a plate of almond biscuits.
‘I shouldn’t,’ I said eyeing the golden confection covetously. ‘Oh well, just one perhaps.’
I gorged on three whilst giving Joseph an outline of what had occurred that morning.
‘I have heard of this abbot,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘He is reputed to be a persuasive preacher and keen advocate of a new war against Muslims.’
‘I think what you mean is the campaign to recover the holy places stolen from us by the infidel,’ I said licking crumbs from my fingers.
Joseph inclined his head. ‘However you wish to interpret it. The last time it happened a great many of my countrymen died even though Jews are not Muslims - a distinction you Christians seem incapable of making.’
‘As you have never been further east than Lowestoft I’m surprised you know the difference either,’ I countered. ‘Anyway, it’s not holy war that brings the abbot-legate to Bury. His sights are set on more parochial matters. He wishes to put an end to trading on the Sabbath.’
His eyes lit up mischievously at that. He folded his arms. ‘Whose Sabbath are we talking about, now? Friday is the Muslim Sabbath. For Jews it is Saturday.’
‘You know perfectly well he means Sunday. You’re being deliberately obtuse.’
‘Not at all. I offer my services on whosever Sabbath it happens to be - Jew, Muslim, even Christian.’
‘That’s because you’re a godless heathen who doesn’t believe in the sanctity of anybody’s Sabbath.’
‘Oh, and would you refuse to bind a wound on a Sunday simply because it is your Sabbath and let your patient bleed to death?’
‘That’s different. We do have some discretion. It’s a matter of priorities. And anyway, I might refuse payment - at least until Monday morning.’
‘That would be like offering your services on credit, and I doubt the abbot-legate would approve of that either.’
I sighed. ‘Look, I’ve not come here to cross intellects with you - you always win. You are perfectly aware that it’s the defilement of the Lord’s Day that the abbot-legate objects to - that is to say
our
lord. The one true lord, Jesus Christ.’
‘You sound like you are making the abbot-legate’s case for him.’
‘I’m simply telling you what he intends.’
‘Very well. But what has any of this to do with me?’
‘He wants you to use your influence with the other traders to persuade them of the abbot-legate’s case.’
He frowned. ‘I’m not sure I have any influence.’
‘That’s what I told him. But you do, don’t you? You make loans to other shopkeepers and tradesmen. They are in your debt.’
‘It’s true I occasionally help my neighbours when they are in need - as they do me. We help each other. It’s part of good business practise.’
‘Yes, but you’re better at it than most. Abbot Eustache knows this.’
‘Oh? How does he know it?’
I shrugged. ‘The way he knows everything else. Through his clerk, Brother Fidele - a little man with a big book.’
‘A book about what?’
‘About everybody, as far as I can tell. I don’t know where he gets his information from - bribes and spies I imagine. But there’s very little he seems not to know. He provides the bolts for his master to shoot.’
‘In that case he’s a dangerous man indeed,’ frowned Joseph. ‘What does Abbot Samson say to all this?’
‘Ah well, there’s the rub. This visit of Abbot Eustache just happens to have coincided with a matter close to Samson’s heart and for which he wants the legate’s support. So Samson is being extra specially accommodating.’
‘
Happens
to have coincided? Rather convenient from Abbot Eustache’s point of view, wouldn’t you say?’
I hadn’t thought of it in that way, but of course he was right. Normally Samson would have sent Eustache away with a flea in his ear for even daring to interfere in abbey business. But he seems to have arrived just when Samson was at his most vulnerable. Quite a coincidence if that’s what it was. Was this Brother Fidele’s doing too I wondered?
‘Look,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Samson’s more or less already given the legate what he wants - he’s agreed to change the market day from Sunday to Tuesday. It probably won’t involve you at all. And your people are safe. I have Samson’s assurance on that.’
‘This is the same Abbot Samson who preached holy war and then did nothing when the mob came to burn down our houses?’
I cringed. ‘That’s not going to happen this time. But if it does I’m afraid I won’t be here to see it. Samson is sending me on a mission - to Ely, God help me.’
‘Well, thank you for the warning, brother, I’ll give it some thought.’ He started to rise. ‘By the way, how is your toothache?’
I looked at him with astonishment. ‘How did you know about my toothache?’
‘You’ve been holding your jaw ever since you got here. And you bit on that sweet biscuit as though it contained stinging nettles.’
I prodded my face with a finger. ‘Actually, it’s not as painful as it was.’ I looked suspiciously at my empty cup of herbal tea. ‘What have you given me?’
‘Just a mild sedative from the land of the infidel. If you are going to cross swords with the Bishop of Ely you will need something to deaden the pain.’
‘Samson doesn’t want me to deaden the pain. He thinks it will sharpen my wits. And who told you I was going to see the bishop?’
‘You did - just then,’ he grinned.
I frowned at him. ‘You know sometimes, my brother, you are too clever by half.’
His smile faltered only slightly. ‘Of course. It’s the only way I know to be a Jew and an Arab in a Christian country - and survive.’
A FLY IN THE MARKETPLACE
I
hope I’m not going to regret telling Joseph what the abbot-legate said about him. Joseph’s not the sort to sit idly around waiting for things to happen. There’s no saying what he might do, the least likely being that he’ll comply with Abbot Eustache’s demands. My hope is that he’ll quietly disappear for a few days until the storm has passed just as he did eleven years ago. That time the threat had been against the Jews of Bury in general. This time it’s specific to him personally which is why I’m not sure he’ll be so passive. Whatever he decides I’m glad I won’t be here to witness it - not that he’d tell me even if I asked him.
It was time I got back to the abbey. Abbot Eustache’s instruction was for Jocelin, Jocellus and me to meet him immediately after terce outside the Great Gate of the abbey. It was well past that by now. From Joseph’s shop I made my way over to the gate where I found Jocelin waiting alone. Poor old Jocelin. As usual when exposed to the wiles of the world he was looking vulnerable and apprehensive, more so than ever today. He seemed relieved to see me.
‘Ah, th-there you are at last, W-walter, thank God.’
‘All on your own, brother?’ I said cheerily. ‘Where’s Jocellus? Still busy with his fish merchants?’
‘B-both of you m-missed terce,’ he frowned. ‘I was beginning to w-wonder if I w-would be accompanying F-father Eustache on my own.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I had an errand to run. Not to worry. The abbot isn’t here himself yet.’
‘W-what do you suppose he wants us to do?’
‘Just to stand around looking supportive while he harangues the people of Bury, I imagine. If he’s expecting anything more from me he’s going to be disappointed. I’m not inclined to give a lecture on the immorality of Sunday trading. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘I should th-think the abbot-legate would be c-capable of d-doing that unaided.’
‘Amen to that. But he won’t be popular with the market traders if he does. Sunday is their most profitable day of the week.’
‘F-father Eustache didn’t strike me as being one to w-worry too much about p-popularity.’
‘You don’t say.’
He looked sheepish. ‘Brother, I’d like to apologize - for my intervention earlier when I spoke up about your brother Joseph. It was th-thoughtless of me.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. You didn’t reveal anything the good abbot didn’t already know - or rather what his clerk didn’t already know.’
‘Fidele, yes,’ Jocelin nodded. ‘A c-curious creature. Do you suppose he’s a mute? I haven’t yet heard him utter a s-single word.’
‘Well now’s our chance to find out,’ I said seeing him approach across the great court.
If it wasn’t for his robe and his tonsure Fidele could easily be mistaken for a child although a child with an exaggerated gait as he waddled across the abbey courtyard. As ever he was clutching his notebook to his chest.
‘Good day to you, brother,’ I smiled at him benevolently. ‘Is your master not with you? I thought you were inseparable.’
Fidele seemed surprised at being addressed directly. Perhaps he rarely was which might explain his reticence. But he did have a voice, and a surprisingly manly one despite his childlike features.
He shrugged. ‘
Je regrette, maître, je ne comprends pas
.’
‘Oh, I think you understand well enough. You followed what we were saying in Abbot Samson’s study all right.’ I nodded at his notebook. ‘Still got your little book of secrets, I see. What are they, recipes for disaster?’
He pulled the notebook even tighter against his chest. ‘The abbot-legate will be here presently,
maître
.’
Just as he said this Eustache appeared on the far side of the abbey grounds from the direction of the necessarium.
‘He seems to spend a lot of time in the latrines,’ I said to Fidele. ‘Water trouble is it? Come brother, you don’t have to be discreet with me, I’m a doctor. There’s nothing you can tell me I haven’t already heard.’
‘It is no secret that the
abbé
has
une pierre au rein
.’
‘Bladder stones!’ I pulled a face. ‘Nasty. There’s only one cure for that. You insert a metal hook up the male member, break the stone into pieces and then extract the shards one by one via the same route. Excruciatingly painful. Tell the abbot-legate I’d be delighted to attempt it for him if he wishes.’
Fidele looked at me blankly. ‘The procedure you describe,
maître
, is that of Ammonius Lithotomos, and it has already been attempted with limited effect.’
I was impressed. ‘Is there anything you don’t know, brother?’
‘Not much.’
‘W-where’s Jocellus?’ Jocelin said watching the abbot’s approach with trepidation. ‘He should be here b-by now.’
As he said it Jocellus suddenly appeared - just in time before Eustache reached us.
‘God be th-thanked,’ said Jocelin with relief.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, breathless. ‘Merchants!’
‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, brothers,’ said Eustache arriving. ‘We are all here, I see. Good. Then a quick prayer to the Saviour to bless our enterprise before we go, I think.’ He closed his eyes. ‘
Permettez, seigneur, que la lumière de votre sagesse doit briller sur ceux que nous affrontons aujourd'hui en votre nom.
’
We all responded with a subdued “Amen”.
‘Well if we are ready,’ smiled Eustache, ‘the market is this way I believe.’
The route to the market took us across the Mustowe and directly up the hill from the abbey gate. Mass was just finishing in the parish church of Saint James as we passed and worshippers were beginning to emerge onto the street. They watched in bemusement as five monks hurried past them like little piggies all in a row. The abbot-legate led the way followed by Fidele, then me, then Jocellus and finally bringing up the rear Jocelin, the oldest. The road was uneven and the jarring was doing nothing to help my toothache. Whatever concoction Joseph had given me in that herbal tea was beginning to wear off. It didn’t help my temper.
‘Father, is it really necessary to go so fast?’ I asked him.
‘We make haste to do God’s work, brother,’ the abbot replied without slackening his pace. ‘There is an infection in the body
ecclésiastique
and the sooner it is cut out the sooner it is cured. I should have thought you as a physician would know this.’
‘It’s only a market, father, not a canker.’
Eustache waved an arm in the direction of the gawping worshippers blinking at us in the daylight. ‘Do you see all these happy faces? They smile because they have just been filled with the word of God. It is all the nourishment they need.’
More likely amusement at the sight of us, I thought.
‘In all honesty, father, I doubt whether there will be anyone in the marketplace now. It’s mid-morning. The traders will be packing up to go home. Why not wait until a better day when more people will be about to hear your words or wisdom?’
He stopped dead nearly making us collide into one another like a child’s wooden soldiers. ‘Is this the servant of God speaking now or the brother of a shopkeeper?’
‘I’m merely concerned that you should not be wasting your time.’
Just as I said this the cloud suddenly parted and the sun swept rapidly over us bathing everything in its brilliant light. He looked up at the sun and smiled. ‘God hears your concerns, brother...’ he pointed to the sunlight ‘...and answers.’
We continued on up the hill. As we passed the end of Heathenmans Street I glanced along it hoping that Joseph had heeded my advice and closed for the day. From here I couldn’t see the entrance so I didn’t know if his stick was across the entrance or not. If he only kept away from the marketplace for today it would be something.
A little further up the hill the houses end abruptly and the street opens up into the market square. I never cease to be impressed by the vastness of this space that could easily swallow the abbey church and half the cloistral buildings, although these days it is being increasingly encroached upon by more permanent shops and workrooms. Like everything else in the town the great market at Bury had been laid out more than a hundred years earlier by Abbot Baldwin replacing the old Saxon market which used to lie just outside the abbey’s south gate. If the Mustowe, as the vast empty square in front of the Abbeygate was called, was the “Space for God”, this was surely the “Space for Man”, and today it thronged with humanity in all its diversity. There were stall-holders selling goods of every description: hucksters with their single baskets, hawkers, chapmen, smithies, pitchers, all vying with each other to attract the attention of customers. Different parts of the market specialized in different commodities. Drapers and spicers congregated together at the east end with ironmongers in the west. Food was concentrated roughly in the middle in rows of stalls each with its own “street” name - le Bocherye, le Fromagerie, le Bakersrowe - all intermingled with preachers, acrobats, jugglers, gangs of roving urchins, cut-purses, showmen and of course beggars. The whole world seemed to be here and the noise of all this activity assaulted our ears like the buzz of a swarm of wasps.
‘So much for your contention that the place would be deserted,’ smirked Eustache. ‘We are in the midst of an Arab souk!’
We threaded our way through the crowds to the market cross in the north-west corner of the square. This is a rectangular pyramid of stone steps rising five feet and surmounted by the cross of Our Saviour. Dating from the time of the town’s foundation, its original purpose seems to have been to proclaim the location of the market, although in Bury this was hardly necessary. These days its main function is for public announcements by the town criers and for the ringing of the curfew bell. At other times anyone can use the steps as a platform to air their views. This is generally frowned upon by the town fathers but popular with the people as a source of entertainment. Indeed, the more outlandish the speakers the better they are liked. As long as the message isn’t seditious or heretical the practice is tolerated.
Today the only occupant of the steps was a drunk whose ravings were as innocuous as they were incoherent, so the abbot-legate mounted the steps to the topmost plinth thus placing himself well above the heads of the milling throng. Jocelin, Jocellus and I took up our positions below him facing out. Then at the abbot’s signal Fidele took out a small horn and blew a loud hulloo. People turned to look. What was this, another soothsayer with a warning of dire consequences if we don’t repent our sinful ways? In a way it was. Having announced his presence Eustache launched straight into his peroration on the subject, predictably, of avarice.
Now avarice, as anyone who has ever paid attention to his parish priest will know, is one of the seven mortal sins. Since we none of us knows when we may be taken it is a wise man, and woman, who does not leave it too long to repent and make his or her peace with God. Eustache wasn’t the first to stand on this spot to decry against it, though none with quite the cachet of the pope’s personal representative, or indeed with Eustache’s fluency which was impressive considering English wasn’t his first language. I could see now that his reputation as a public speaker was well-deserved. He could out-bellow the most seasoned coster, although on this occasion he had some competition. One trader in particular seemed to have gathered a lively crowd about him bigger than his produce perhaps warranted since he was a seller of gloves - not an everyday essential for most shoppers. But he was certainly enthralling the crowd with his repartee. From his accent I could tell he was a Londoner:
‘’Ere you are, lady,’ he was saying to one well-dressed young woman at the front row, ‘try these on for size. Feel the softness. Nice ain’t they? That’s the finest kid leather, that is. You won’t find nothin’ better. Wear them next time you’re in bed fondling your ’usband’s member and he’ll think he’s got hisself a new wife.’
Laughter from the crowd at this.
‘Better still, you’ll think you’ve got yourself a new ’usband!’
More laughter and cheers this time from the crowd. The lady blushed and even I had to stifle a smile. Jocelin went as red as a cardinal’s hat. I don’t think he’d ever heard such banter before. Unfortunately it didn’t escape the trader’s notice:
‘What about you, brother?’ he called to him. ‘You look like a man who’s used to pulling a tit or two.’
The crowd guffawed.
‘Of a goat’s udder, I mean - gentlemen, please!’ he admonished them.
Poor Jocelin. He looked as though he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.
Abbot Eustache didn’t appreciate the joke either. He pointed an accusing finger at the man. ‘You!’ he boomed from his pedestal high above him. ‘No man can serve two masters, God and money, for either he will hate the one and love the other.’
‘Oh gawd!’ said the man shaking his head. ‘Looks like we got ourself a critic.’
‘You have indeed, my friend, and its name is greed. God sees your every action and hears your every word. Here we are poised ’twixt heaven and hell. One wrong move now could send you singing gloriously up into his loving arms or hurtling down into the black abyss below!’