London - Edward Rutherfurd [163]
Mabel, therefore, was too lowly born to serve God in any formal capacity.
But she was persistent. She heard of a nunnery that took lay sisters to perform menial tasks. Some of the crusading orders were even using women nurses. Finally, a place was found for her in the hospital attached to the rich priory of St Bartholomew. No donation was required.
And she was happy. She liked tending the sick. She knew every herbal cure, real or otherwise, that the hospital used, and was always on the lookout for more. In the larder she kept a veritable treasure-trove of jars, pots and boxes. “Dandelions to clean the blood,” she would explain, “cress for baldness, wort for fever, water lilies for dysentery.” For the truly sick, she would bring holy water from the rich canons regular in the priory, or she would help a struggling invalid across London to touch some holy relic that was, she knew, his only hope of a cure or, better yet, of eventual salvation.
And then there was Brother Michael. From the moment she had set eyes on him early that June, she had felt sure he was a saint of some kind. Why else should a rich merchant’s son desert Westminster Abbey not for the rich priory, but for her poor sister, the hospital? How she admired his quiet, stately ways, the fact that he read books and was wise.
Yet as one month passed, and then a second, she realized that not everyone shared her opinion of him. Some, like his wicked brother, even thought him a fool. This made her angry. “He’s just too good for them,” she would mutter. So that while she continued to revere him, she also began to feel protective.
But now Brother Michael was looking towards the city gate and waving.
“Here he is,” he remarked pleasantly, as Alderman Bull strode towards them.
The wickedest man in London was in a very bad temper indeed.
He would not have come there at all if it had not been for his mother. For weeks now she had been begging him, “Be reconciled with Michael before I die.” When he replied irritably that she was not dying, she would only answer: “You never know.” Finally, he had been able to stand it no longer.
Why did his mother always take Michael’s side? She had done so ever since his brother was born. Personally he had never thought so much of his younger brother. When he had gone into the monastery at Westminster, he had been contemptuous. But when he had left that June, his fury had known no bounds. “The donations we made,” he shouted, “completely wasted!” He had not spoken to Michael since.
But that was not the real reason why his mother had plagued him to see Michael. He knew the true cause very well.
It was Bocton. Despite the delay caused by the kiddles, his ship had completed her voyage successfully. Negotiations with Abraham had taken time, but tomorrow the agreement would be concluded. Which was exactly what so shocked his pious mother.
“Can’t you see it’s a crime?” she had protested. “You’ll be damned for all eternity.” And many in London would have agreed with her.
A crusader was a holy pilgrim, ready to suffer martyrdom in God’s righteous war. In the eyes of the Church, his crusade absolved him from his sins and gave him a place in paradise. Though the repossession of the estates of bankrupt crusading knights was one of the commonplaces of that century, many considered it a serious moral crime and sought laws to protect crusaders from their creditors.
“To take advantage of a crusader like that. And to do it with a heathen Jew!” She had thrown up her hands in despair.
And then, having had no success, she had secretly gone to see Michael.
At first it seemed to Brother Michael that things were going well.
Sampson Bull, whatever his