Angel Time (The Songs of the Seraphim 1)

The houses on either side of this street were of stone, and I remembered that the Jews had built the very first stone houses in England, and with reason.

I could hear Malchiah's intimate voice as I approached.

"The priests in white are from the cathedral priory," he said, as I looked to the three heavily robed men closest to the door of the house. "The Dominicans are gathered there around Lady Margaret, who is a niece to the Sherriff and a cousin of the Archbishop. That's her daughter beside her, Nell, a girl of thirteen. They are the ones bringing the charge against Meir and Fluria that they've poisoned their child and secretly buried her. Remember, Meir and Fluria are your charges, and you are here to help them."

There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask. I was reeling from the statement that a child might have been murdered. And only dimly did I make the obvious connection: these people were being accused of the very crime I myself had committed habitually.

I pushed into the midst of the crowd, and Malchiah was gone and I knew it. I was on my own now.

It was Lady Margaret who pounded at the door as I approached it. She was stunningly dressed in a narrow robe with dagged leaves, all trimmed in fur, and she wore a loose hooded mantle of fur. Her face was stained with tears, and her voice was broken.

"Come out and answer!" she demanded. She seemed utterly sincere and deeply distressed. "Meir and Fluria, I demand it. Produce Lea now or answer for why she's not here. We'll have no more of your lies, I swear it."

She turned around and let her voice ring out over the crowd. "Tell us no more fanciful tales, that this child has been taken to Paris."

A great chorus of approval rose from the crowd.

I greeted the other Dominicans who moved towards me and told them under my breath that I was Br. Toby, a pilgrim, who had traveled through many lands.

"Well, you've come at the right time," said the tallest and most impressive of the friars. "I'm Fr. Antoine, the Superior here, as you no doubt know, if you've been to Paris, and these Jews have poisoned their own daughter because she dared to enter the cathedral on Christmas night."

Though he tried to keep his voice down, this brought an immediate sobbing from Lady Margaret, and her daughter Nell. And many shouts and cries of agreement from those around us.

The young girl, Nell, was as exquisitely dressed as her mother, but infinitely more distressed, shaking her head and sobbing. "It's all my fault, all my fault. I brought her to the church."

At once, the white-robed priests from the priory began to quarrel with the friar who'd spoken to me.

"That's Fr. Jerome," Malchiah whispered, "and you'll see he leads the opposition to this campaign to make another Jewish martyr and saint."

I was relieved to hear his voice, but how could I ask him for any further information?

I felt him push me forward and I suddenly found myself with my back to the door of the large stone house in which Meir and Fluria obviously lived.

"Forgive me, as I'm a stranger here," I said, my own voice sounding completely natural to me, "but why are you so certain that a murder has taken place?"

"She's nowhere to be found, that's how we know," said Lady Margaret. She was surely one of the more attractive women I've ever seen in my life, even with her eyes reddened and wet. "We took Lea with us because she wanted to see the Christ Child," she said to me bitterly, her lip trembling. "We never dreamed that her own parents would poison her and preside over her deathbed with hearts of stone. Make them come out. Make them answer."

It seemed the entire crowd started shouting at these words, and the white-clad priest, Fr. Jerome, demanded silence.

He glared at me.

"We have enough Dominicans in this town already," he said. "And we have a perfect martyr already in our own cathedral, Little St. William. Those evil Jews who murdered him are long dead, and they did not go unpunished. These Dominican brethren of yours want their own saint as ours is not good enough."

"It's Little St. Lea whom we want to celebrate now," said Lady Margaret in her hoarse and tragic voice. "And Nell and I are the cause of her downfall." She caught her breath. "All know of Little Hugh of Lincoln, and the horrors that were--."

"Lady Margaret, this isn't the town of Lincoln," insisted Fr. Jerome. "And we have no evidence such as was found at Lincoln to believe in a murder here." He turned to me. "If you've come to pray at the shrine of Little St. William, then we welcome you," he said. "I can see you're an educated friar and no ordinary beggar." He glared at the other Dominicans. "And I can tell you right now that Little St. William is a true saint, famous throughout all England, and these people have no proof that Fluria's daughter, Lea, was ever even baptized."

"She suffered Baptism of blood," insisted the Dominican Fr. Antoine. He spoke with the confidence of a preacher. "Doesn't the martyrdom of Little Hugh tell us what these Jews will do, if allowed to do it? This young girl died for her faith, she died for entering the church on Christmas Eve. And this man and woman must answer, not merely for the unnatural crime of killing their own flesh and blood, but for the murder of a Christian, for that is what Lea became."

The crowd gave him a loud roar of approval, but I could see that many bystanders did not believe in what he'd said.

How and what was I supposed to do? I turned and knocked on the door, and said in a soft voice, "Meir and Fluria, I'm here to defend you. Please answer to me." I didn't know whether or not they could hear me.

Meantime half the town it seemed was joining the crowd, and suddenly there sounded from a nearby steeple the clang of an alarm bell. More and more people were crowding into the street of the stone houses.

Suddenly the crowd was thrown in disarray by oncoming soldiers. I saw a well-dressed man on horseback, his white hair flowing in the wind, with a sword on his hip. He brought his horse to a halt several yards from the door of the house, and there gathered behind him at least five or six horsemen.

Some people immediately ran away. Others began to shout: "Arrest them. Arrest the Jews. Arrest them." Others drew closer in as the man dismounted and came up to those who stood before the door, his eyes passing over me without any change of expression.

Lady Margaret spoke before the man could.

"My Lord Sherriff, you know these Jews are guilty," she said. "You know they were seen in the forest with a heavy burden, and no doubt buried this child right by the great oak."

The Sherriff, a big husky man with a beard as white as his hair, looked around himself disgustedly. "Stop that alarm bell now," he shouted to one of his men.