"Forgive me that I've gone on so. There is no place safe for us. Paris is no different, even with so many studying our ancient tongue. Paris is perhaps an easier place to live in some respects, but Norwich seemed peaceful, or so it did to Meir."
"Meir spoke of a man in Paris who might help you," I said. "He said only you could decide if you wanted to appeal to him. And, Fluria, I must confess to you. I know that your daughter, Lea, is dead." She broke down again and turned away from me, her handkerchief covering her face.
I waited. I sat still listening to the crackle of the fire, and letting her get over the worst of it, and then I said, "Long years ago, I lost my brother and sister." I paused. "Yet I cannot imagine the pain of a mother losing a child."
"Br. Toby, you don't know the half of it." She turned towards me again, and clenched her handkerchief tightly in her hand. Her eyes were soft and wide now. And she took a deep breath. "I have lost two children. And as for the man in Paris, I believe he would cross the sea to defend me. But I cannot say what he would do when he finds out Lea is dead."
"Can't you let me help you make this decision? If you decide you want me to go to Paris to this man, I will."
She studied me for a long moment.
"Don't doubt me," I said. "I am a wanderer, but I do believe it's the will of the Lord that I'm here. I do believe I have been sent to help you. And I will risk anything to do just that."
She continued to ponder and rightly so. Why should she accept me?
"You say you've lost two children. Tell me what happened. And tell me about this man. Whatever you say to me can't be used to hurt anyone, but only to help you think the matter through."
"Very well," she said. "I will tell you the whole tale, and maybe in the telling we'll find the decision, because this is no ordinary tragedy we face, and this is no ordinary tale."
Chapter Nine - Fluria's Confession
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO, IWAS VERY YOUNG AND VERY rash and a traitor to my faith, and to all I hold dear. We were in Oxford then where my father was studying with several scholars. We went to Oxford often, because he had pupils there, students who wanted to learn Hebrew and paid him well as a teacher.
Scholars for the first time, it seems, in those days wanted to learn the ancient tongue. And more and more documents from olden days were coming to light. My father was in great demand as a teacher, and much admired by Jews and Gentiles alike.
He thought it a good thing for Christians to learn Hebrew. He disputed with them in matters of faith, but all this was friendly.
What he could not know was that I'd given my heart entirely to one young man who was just finishing the Arts at Oxford.
He was almost twenty-one, and I only fourteen. I conceived a great passion for him, enough to give up my faith, and my father's love, and any wealth that was to come to me. And this young man loved me as well, so much so that he vowed he would give up his faith, if that's what was required of him.
It was this young man who came to warn us before the Oxford riots, and we warned as many other Jews as we could to escape. If it hadn't been for this young man, we might have lost a great deal more of our library than we did, and many valuable possessions as well. My father was devoted to this young man on account of that, but also in general because he loved this young's man inquiring mind.
My father had no sons. My mother had died giving birth to twin boys, neither of whom survived.
This young man's name was Godwin, and all you need know of his father is that he was a powerful earl, rich, and furious when he discovered that his son had become enamored of a Jewess, furious when he learned that his studies had put him in the company of a Jewish girl for whom he was ready to give up everything.
There had been a deep bond between the Earl and Godwin. Godwin was not the eldest, but he was his father's favorite, and Godwin's uncle, dying childless, had left to Godwin a fortune in France all but equal to that which his older brother, Nigel, was to inherit from their father.
Now his father took vengeance on Godwin for this disappointment.
He sent him to Rome to remove him from me and be educated there in the Church. He threatened to expose the seduction, as he called it, unless I never spoke the name of Godwin again and unless Godwin left immediately, and never spoke my name again aloud either. In truth, the Earl feared the disgrace that would come on him if it was known that Godwin had a great passion for me, or if we were to attempt marriage in secret.
You can imagine the disaster that might have followed for all had Godwin really come over into our community. There have been converts to our faith, yes, but Godwin was the son of a proud and powerful father. Talk of riots! There have been riots for less than a nobleman's son converting to our faith, and in these restless times when we are constantly persecuted.
As for my father, he did not know what we would be accused of, but he was as wary as he was enraged. That I might convert was unthinkable to him, and soon he made it quite unthinkable for me.
He felt that Godwin had betrayed him. Godwin had come under his roof, to study Hebrew, to talk philosophy, to sit at my father's feet, and yet he had done this dastardly thing of seducing the great teacher's daughter.
He was a man with a tender heart for me, as I was all that he had, but he was in a rage against Godwin.
Godwin and I soon realized our love was hopeless. We would bring riot and ruin no matter what we did. If I became Christian, I would be excommunicated, and my inheritance from my mother confiscated, and my father deserted in his old age, which was a thought I couldn't bear. Godwin's disgrace would not be much less than if he had converted to become a Jew.
So it was set and determined that Godwin would go to Rome.
His father let it be known that he still had dreams of greatness for his son, a bishop's miter, certainly, if not a cardinal's hat.
Godwin had kindred among the powerful clergy in Paris and in Rome. Nevertheless this was a severe punishment, this forcing of vows on Godwin, because Godwin had no faith in any Lord whatsoever and had been a very worldly young man.
Whereas I loved his wit and humor and his passion, others admired the amount of wine he could take in an evening and his skill with the sword, on horseback, and in the dance. In fact, his gaiety and charm, which so seduced me, were wound up with great eloquence, and love of poetry and song. He had written much music for the lute, and he had often played this instrument as he sang to me when my father had gone to bed and did not hear us in the rooms below.
A life in the church was something utterly unappetizing to Godwin. In fact, he would have preferred to take the cross and go crusading to the Holy Land, and find adventure there and along the way.