You crucified the Son of God, the prior thought. Poor booby. Admit to being a Jew where you are going and they will tear you to pieces. And your doctor with you.

Damn it, he thought, I shall have to take a hand in the business.

He said, “I must tell you, Master Simon, that our people are much aroused against the Jews, they fear that other offspring may be taken.”

“My lord, what inquiry has been made? What evidence that Jews are to blame?”

“The charge was made almost immediately,” said Prior Geoffrey, “and, I am afraid, with reason…”

It was Simon Menahem of Naples ’s genius as agent, investigator, go-between, reconnoiterer, spy-he was used in all such capacities by such of the powerful as knew him well-that people took him to be what he seemed. They could not believe that this puny, nervous little man of such eagerness, even simplicity, who spilled information-all of it trustworthy-could outwit them. Only when, the deal fixed, the alliance sealed, the bottom of the business uncovered, did it occur to them that Simon had achieved exactly what his masters wanted. But he is a booby, they would tell themselves.

And it was to this booby, who had judged the prior’s character and newfound indebtedness to the last jot and tittle, that a subtle prior found himself recounting everything the booby wished to know.

It had been just over a year ago. Passiontide Friday. Eight-year-old Peter, a child from Trumpington, a village on the southwest edge of Cambridge, was sent by his mother to gather pussy willow, “which, in England, replaces the palm in decoration for Palm Sunday.”

Peter had shunned willows near his home and trotted north along the Cam to gather branches from the tree on the stretch of riverbank by Saint Radegund’s convent, which was claimed to be especially holy, having been planted by Saint Radegund herself.

“As if,” said the prior, bitterly interrupting his tale, “a female German saint of the Dark Ages would have tripped over to Cambridgeshire to plant a tree. But that harpy”-thus he referred to the prioress of Saint Radegund’s-“will say anything.”

It happened that, on the same day, Passiontide Friday, several of the richest and most important Jews in England had gathered in Cambridge at the house of Chaim Leonis for the marriage of Chaim’s daughter. Peter had been able to view the celebrations from the other side of the river on his way to gather branches of willow.

He had not, therefore, returned home the same way but had taken the quicker route to Jewry by going over the bridge and passing through the town so that he could see the carriages and caparisoned horses of the visiting Jews in Chaim’s stable.

“His uncle, Peter’s uncle, was Chaim’s stabler, you see.”

“Are Christians allowed to work for Jews here?” Simon asked, as if he didn’t know the answer already. “Great heavens.”

“Oh, yes. The Jews are steady employers. And Peter was a regular visitor to the stables, even to the kitchens, where Chaim’s cook-who was a Jew-sometimes gave him sweetmeats, a fact that was to count against the household later as enticement.”

“Go on, my lord.”

“Well. Peter’s uncle, Godwin, was too busy with the unusual influx of horses to pay attention to the boy and told him to be off home, indeed thought he had. Not until late that night, when Peter’s mother came inquiring to town, did anyone realize the child had disappeared. The watch was alerted, also the river bailiffs-it was likely the boy had fallen into the River Cam. The banks were searched at dawn. Nothing.”

Nothing for more than a week. As townsfolk and villagers crawled on their knees to the Good Friday cross in the parish churches, prayers were addressed to Almighty God for the return of Peter of Trumpington.

On Easter Monday the prayer was granted. Hideously. Peter’s body was discovered in the river near Chaim’s house, snagged below its surface under a pier.

The prior shrugged. “Even then blame did not fall on the Jews. Children tumble, they fall into rivers, wells, ditches. No, we thought it an accident-until Martha the laundress came forward. Martha lives in Bridge Street and among her clients is Chaim Leonis. On the evening of Little Peter’s disappearance, she said, she had delivered a basket of clean washing to Chaim’s back door. Finding it open, she’d gone inside-”

“She delivered laundry so late in the day?” Simon expressed surprise.

Prior Geoffrey inclined his head. “I think we must accept that Martha was curious; she had never seen a Jewish wedding. Nor have any of us, of course. Anyway, she went inside. The back of the house was deserted, the celebrations having moved to the front garden. The door to a room off the hall was slightly open-”

“Another open door,” Simon said, apparently surprised again.

The prior glanced at him. “Do I tell you something you already know?”

“I beg pardon, my lord. Continue, I beseech you.”

“Very well. Martha looked into the room and saw-says she saw-a child hanging by his hands from a cross. She was given no chance to be other than terrified because, just then, Chaim’s wife came down the passageway, cursed her, and she ran off.”

“Without alerting the watch?” Simon asked.

The prior nodded. “Indeed, that is the weakness in her story. If, if, Martha saw the body when she says, she did not alert the watch. She alerted nobody until after Little Peter’s corpse was discovered. Then, and only then, did she whisper what she had seen to a neighbor, who whispered it to another neighbor, who went to the castle and told the sheriff. After that, evidence came thick and fast. A branch of pussy willow was found dropped in the lane outside Chaim’s house. A man delivering peat to the castle testified that from across the river on Passiontide Friday, he saw two men, one wearing the Jewish hat, toss a bundle from Great Bridge into the Cam. Others now said they had heard screams coming from Chaim’s house. I myself viewed the corpse after it had been dragged from the river and saw the stigmata of crucifixion on it.” He frowned. “The poor little body was horribly bloated, of course, but there were the marks on the wrists, and the belly had been split open, as if by a spear, and…there were other injuries.”

There had been immediate uproar in the town. To save every man, woman, and child in Jewry from slaughter, they had been hurried to Cambridge Castle by the sheriff and his men, acting on behalf of the king, under whose protection the Jews were.

“Even so, on the way, Chaim was seized by those seeking vengeance and hanged from Saint Radegund’s willow. They took his wife as she pleaded for him and tore her to pieces.” Prior Geoffrey crossed himself. “The sheriff and myself did what we could, but we were outdone by the townsfolk’s fury.” He frowned; the memory pained him. “I saw decent men transform into hellhounds, matrons into maenads.”

He lifted his cap and passed his hand over his balding head. “Even then, Master Simon, it might be that we could have contained the trouble. The sheriff managed to restore order, and it was hoped that, since Chaim was dead, the remaining Jews would be allowed to return to their homes. But no. Now onto the floor steps Roger of Acton, a cleric new to our town and one of our Canterbury pilgrims. Doubtless you noticed him, a lean-shanked, mean-featured, whey-faced, importunate fellow of dubious cleanliness. Master Roger happens”-the prior glared at Simon as if finding fault with him-“happens to be cousin to the prioress of Saint Radegund, a seeker after fame through the scribbling of religious tracts that reveal little but his ignorance.”

The two men shook their heads. The blackbird went on singing.

Prior Geoffrey sighed. “Master Roger heard the dread word ‘crucifixion’ and snapped at it like a ferret. Here was something new. Not merely an accusation of torture such as Jews have ever inspired…I beg your pardon, Master Simon, but it has always been so.”