London - Edward Rutherfurd [175]
Men were running through the streets. Brother Michael made his way swiftly along the West Cheap and up Ironmonger Lane, from where he could hear shouts. One of the timber and thatch houses had been set alight. He found the dead body of a man lying in the street. Then he came to them.
There were about a hundred – men, women and children. Some were ruffians, but he saw two respectable merchants he knew, also some apprentices, a tailor’s wife and a pair of young clerks. They were breaking down the door of a house. Someone had just thrown a lighted torch on to the roof, and a rough voice was crying out, “Round the back. Don’t let him get away.” When he asked one of the merchants what was happening, the man replied: “They attacked the king at Westminster. But don’t worry, Brother. We’ll get them.”
It was the Jews.
The London riot of 1189 began as a simple, stupid mistake. While Richard and his knights were feasting, the leaders of the Jewish community had, with the best intentions, arrived at Westminster Palace to make a presentation to the new king. Since women and Jews had been forbidden to attend the coronation, the men at the door mistook this for some kind of attack and started shouting. Some hot-blooded courtiers rushed out, swords drawn. They struck. Several Jews fell. The commotion spread, and within the hour men were gathering in the city.
It did not take much to start a riot. In this case, as the whole city was in a fever for the Lionheart’s crusade, the excuse was obvious.
“What’s the use of a crusade if we let these foreign infidels live off the fat of the land right here in London?” the merchant now demanded angrily. Turning around, he shouted: “It’s a crusade, lads. Kill the infidels!”
It was at exactly this moment that the Jew came out of his house. He was an elderly man with pale blue eyes, a narrow face, and a long grey beard. He wore a black cloak. As he looked at the mob before his door, he shook his head in disgust and mumbled a prayer. It would not save him.
A roar went up. The crowd surged forward.
Only then did Brother Michael realize who the old man was. It was Abraham, the Jew who had sold his brother the Bocton estate.
It did not take Brother Michael long to decide. It seemed to him there was nothing else to do. He rushed forward. The crowd, seeing he was a monk, let him through and a moment later he was standing beside the old man, his hand raised as though to restrain them.
“Well, Brother,” a voice cried, “will you kill him, or shall we?”
“No one shall kill him,” he shouted. “Go home.”
“Why not?” they cried. “Isn’t it right to kill an infidel?”
“Yes, Brother,” he heard the merchant’s voice. “Tell us why?”
And for a moment, to his own surprise, he could not remember.
Of course his humanity told him it was wrong, but that would not protect the old man now. Wasn’t all Christendom supposed to fight the unbelievers, Muslim, Jew and heretic alike? What was the proper reply? Stumped for a moment, he looked helplessly at the old man, who softly murmured: “We’re waiting, Brother.”
Then, thanks be to God, it came to him. The great monk Bernard of Clairvaux, that indefatigable founder of monasteries, the man who had inspired the previous crusade and who all Christendom declared a saint, Bernard himself had formulated the doctrine concerning Jews:
It is written that at the last the Jews also shall be converted to the true faith. If, however, we kill them, then they cannot be converted.
“The blessed Bernard himself said the Jews must not be harmed,” he shouted. “For they are to be converted.” Triumphantly he smiled at the old man.
The crowd hesitated. The two men could feel its mood in the balance.