London - Edward Rutherfurd [165]
But not to Mabel. She knew Bull was avaricious; she knew he scorned his saintly brother; she knew he planned to rob a crusader with the help of a Jew. Here, now, was the final proof of his absolute wickedness.
It was, for Brother Michael, one of the charms of Mabel’s character that it had never in her life occurred to her not to say what was on her mind. But even he was a little startled when, fixing the burly alderman with her straight eye, she burst out: “You’re a very wicked man. You’ll go to hell with the Jews. You know that?” She wagged her finger, not afraid to admonish the Devil himself. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why don’t you give money to the hospital instead of robbing pilgrims who are a lot better than you could ever hope to be?” And she stared at him so hard it seemed she expected him to give in.
It was a mistake.
For months Bull had listened to his mother’s complaints. Now he was not only being lectured at by Michael, but he was being attacked by this madwoman whose brother had almost destroyed his ship. It was too much. The blood rose to his face; his head hunched down like a bull about to charge; his shoulders bunched with rage. Then he exploded.
“Damn your hospital and your lepers, and your old hags covered in their own filth. Damn your monks and your stupid crusaders and your hypocritical priests. Damn you all. I tell you this, Brother,” he roared at Brother Michael, “if ever I need a religion, then by God I’ll be a Jew.”
It was not original. It was exactly what King William Rufus had once threatened to do when some complaining bishops were boring him. But it served to shock Mabel well enough. She had already crossed herself seven times before he reached the word “Jew”.
He had not finished, though. His parting shot, after only a second’s pause, was reserved for his brother.
“You were born a fool. You’re a fool now. What do you do with your life? You make no money because you took a vow of poverty. You never have a woman because you took a vow of chastity. You never even think for yourself because you took a vow of obedience. What for? Who knows?” And then, as if suddenly inspired: “What’s more, I don’t even believe you can keep your stupid vows.” He grinned furiously. “So I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll even put it in my will. Send for me, or my successors, on your deathbed. Swear before God and a priest that you have never broken your vows from this day to your ending, and by God I’ll give Bocton to Bartholomew’s. There now.”
And with this astonishing challenge, he wheeled round and stamped away towards the city gate.
“Oh dear,” said Brother Michael.
During the autumn of 1170, news of an unexpected event began to filter back to England.
Days after his encounter with poor Silversleeves, King Henry II of England had hurried over to Normandy, where he had met with the exiled Archbishop of Canterbury. There, Becket, probably spurred by the humiliation of knowing the heir to England had been crowned without him, had at last become reconciled with his king. Soon, there were rumours that Becket was coming back. But he did not appear.
For the Silversleeves family it was an anxious time. Pentecost did not dare show his face at the Michaelmas Exchequer. What did the new turn of events mean? Had the king agreed not to prosecute criminous clerks, or would Becket hand them over? They tried to get information from Normandy, but no one knew. October passed. Then November. Finally, at the start of December, the news came flying up from Kent: “He’s here.