Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [340]
As the clouds streamed across the bay, they retired to a little hut they had built in the lee of a sand dune, and waited out the rage of the storm.
An hour later, as the winter skies began to clear, they ventured out of their shelter again.
There was no sign of Aaron and his party.
Sometimes, in later years, the fishermen at the harbour would point out from the headland to the spot where the sandbank lay, and tell their children:
“That’s where they stood. That’s where the Jews were drowned.”
And it was said, for a generation or more:
“When a storm’s about to blow, if you listen carefully, you can hear their voices, crying in the waves.”
The expulsion of the Jews from England took place swiftly and quietly. Apart from a few isolated incidents, for which the culprits were mostly punished by the authorities, they were not molested.
The Church, it was agreed by everyone, had triumphed.
To mark this triumph in Sarum, the dean and chapter declared that a fine statue should be erected – a figure representing the True Church with an infidel blindfold beneath.
Osmund the Mason was briefly considered for this work; but after his outburst about the tower, it was decided to give it to another.
Mary Shockley did not hear about the death of Aaron until several days later, and when she did, she only shrugged.
“He’s lost his soul anyway,” she stated flatly. “I tried to save him,” she explained, “so I know.”
Only one matter continued to puzzle her. A week after her journey to Christchurch, the Shockley family went to the Saturday market in Salisbury, and after she had refused to buy some brightly coloured silk slippers that Alicia had pointed out, on the grounds that there was nothing wrong with her boots, she noticed a figure standing by the sheep market that she had never seen before. He was dressed in a long black robe edged with fur; his head was bald and he was more wonderfully stout than any man she had ever seen before. His flowing robe stretched out over his huge stomach and reached to the ground in such ample curves that he resembled nothing so much as one of the mighty cathedral bells. His clean-shaven face appeared to be built up in layers of polished fat out of which his small black eyes shone and his full lips were formed into an expression of perfect serenity.
She strode across to him.
“What are you, fat man?” she enquired pleasantly.
“A merchant, lady,” he replied. His voice was a rich, melodious tenor, heavily accented.
“You’re from Italy,” she guessed.
He inclined his head. “From Lombardy.”
“What do you sell?”
“Money, my lady, only money. It’s what everybody wants.” His eyes had already taken her in at a glance and now flicked back and forth across the market place.
She frowned.
“Does the Church allow you to sell money?”
“Of course,” he answered serenely. “I am an agent, lady, for a great Lombardy money house. The pope blesses us every day, for his Church is our greatest customer. We make many loans,” he added dreamily, “many loans. Do you wish a loan?”
She stood in front of him with her arms akimbo, looking at him severely.
“Tell me your terms, fat man.”
“They are easy, lady.” His eyes rested on her for only a moment. “If you borrow twelve marks, I will advance you ten now. In a year, you will repay me the twelve.”
She glared at him.
“And the other two?”
“My fee.”
“It’s interest.”
For a second his smile departed and he looked pained.
“We call it a fee.”
“Call it what you like. Same thing. It’s usury.”
He shook his head, then recovered his beatific smile.
“Money must work, lady. Money always works.