The Fate of the Arrow Read online

  “I doubt it,” Henry said weakly. “I need someone who can cure me. The monks are useless. They do more harm than good.”

  “My poor husband. Do you want me to get someone else?”

  “There’s only one man who can help me.”

  “You mean Nehemiah, the Jew?”

  “Yes. Please hurry.”

  “Very well. I will send Bryce to get him.”

  Eleanor found Bryce and told him to get Nehemiah and describe the baron’s symptoms to him. After the entire York Jewish community was wiped out in the massacre of 1190, it took a few years, but slowly Jews returned and the community was rebuilt. The baron protected them, and no one would dare go against Baron Henry de Percy. Bryce was familiar with Nehemiah, as he had healed some of the men-at-arms’ wounds after bandits attacked them. He found his home and knocked on the door. Nehemiah soon answered. “Hello, Bryce, are there more wounded men to heal?”

  “No, the baron is quite ill, and no one has been able to cure him. He wants you to come to the castle right away.”

  “Do you know what is wrong?”

  “He’s had a high fever for several days. He’s very weak and has no appetite.”

  “I will get my bag and be right along.”

  Nehemiah was the only physician in York. While the monks tried to practice what they called medicine, their methods were quite rudimentary and rarely produced results. Bryce and Nehemiah hurried to the castle. As they approached the gate, one of the guards recognized Nehemiah.

  “Nehemiah. You’ve come to cure the baron?”

  “Hello, Alain. How is your wound? Do you have any pain?”

  “No pain at all. You completely healed me,” the guard said smiling.

  “I am very glad. Now to see if I can help the baron.”

  Bryce led him through the main gate, into the courtyard to the castle. They climbed a huge staircase and reached the baron’s chamber. The door was open.

  “My lord, Nehemiah is here as you ordered.”

  “Bring him in.” They both entered the chamber. Eleanor was sitting on a chair next to her husband.

  “Thank you, Bryce. You may go.” Bryce bowed and left.

  “Nehemiah, please come here and cure me,” Henry said in a low, struggling voice.

  Nehemiah approached the bed and bowed. “My lord, Lady Eleanor. I am sorry to see you in such a condition, my lord. Tell me what is wrong.”

  The baron coughed. “I’ve had this fever for over a week. One of the monks tried to cure me, but I think he made it worse. I have no appetite and am very weak.”

  Nehemiah felt the baron’s forehead. It was extremely warm. “My lady, we need to get him into a cold bath right away. His fever is very high. I will prepare something to help bring down the fever, but the cold bath is necessary.”

  Eleanor left the room to do as Nehemiah asked. He prepared a coriander paste, adding some water to make it easier to swallow. “Here, my lord, please take this.” The baron opened his mouth as the Jew placed the spoon in. It was not unpleasant, and he swallowed the entire amount. After a while, Bryce appeared. “My lord, your bath is ready.”

  Bryce and Nehemiah helped Henry get out of bed and supported him as they walked down the stairs to the wooden bath. Henry felt the water. “I can’t go in this. It’s too cold.”

  “Please, my lord, this will help break the fever. You will get used to it shortly.” Reluctantly, the baron took off his nightshirt and slowly climbed into the tub. He shivered as the cold water engulfed his body.

  “Nehemiah, this had better work or I’ll be very angry with you.”

  Nehemiah nodded, and smiled at the baron. “Please be patient. I believe you will feel better soon.”

  The water gradually warmed, and the baron grew more comfortable. Nehemiah continually monitored Henry’s fever by feeling his forehead. After several hours and twice refilling the tub with cold water, he could feel the fever was lower.

  “Well, my lord, do you feel better?” he asked.

  “Nehemiah, you are a wonder. I feel much better. May I get out now?”

  “Not quite yet. I want to be sure the fever will not return.”

  As the baron sat in the tub, his demeanor continued to warm with the water, while his temperature slowly returned to almost normal.

  “Tell me, Nehemiah, why are the monks so ignorant of what you know?”

  Nehemiah thought carefully how he would answer, knowing the baron was a religious man. “I do not know for certain, my lord. I believe the Church feels that illnesses are punishments from God. We believe our cures come from God, so why would the illness come from Him as well? Has He nothing better to do than create problems so He can solve them?”

  Henry thought about that for a moment. “The Church’s teachings are not always correct, I suppose. I also once believed illnesses were punishments from God. But when my first-born became ill with fever soon after birth and died, I stopped believing that. The child committed no sin. God would not punish him for something I did. That’s when I stopped believing such nonsense. There are diseases that anyone can get. I hope you will be around to cure whatever my family or I ever come down with.”

  “I will try my best, my lord, but not all conditions can be cured. One cannot blame the physician for something beyond his capability.”

  “Some call what you do witchcraft or sorcery.”

  “It is not. It is knowledge. Only the ignorant believe that.”

  “And there are so many who are ignorant.”

  After a few more minutes, Henry stood up and stepped out of the tub. Bryce gave him a fresh nightshirt and covered him with a wool robe. “I do feel much better.”

  “I am glad,” Nehemiah said, “but you still must rest. The fever may return if you do not.”

  The baron returned to his chamber, which he noticed had been freshened. A clean sheet was on his bed, and as he laid back down he felt like a new man.

  “Nehemiah, you will be rewarded for what you have done today. I will send my seneschal to you with a generous payment.”

  Nehemiah bowed. “You are very generous, my lord. I am happy to serve you, and I hope our two peoples can get along.”

  “I hope that as well. But if not, I will protect you. You have my word.” Nehemiah thanked the baron again, bowed, and left.

  As Nehemiah was leaving, Lady Eleanor stopped him. “Nehemiah, will he be all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady. I believe he will. Luckily, I was summoned before it was too late. His fever was dangerously high. He does not know how close to dying he came.”

  “I was not aware it was that serious. The monk said nothing of the sort.”

  “I am afraid it is true. Please watch him for a few days. If his condition does change back, please summon me. However, I do not believe that will be necessary. Good day, my lady,” he said, bowing.

  “Good day, Nehemiah, and thank you again.”

  As Nehemiah left the castle, he thought about the massacre seventy-six years earlier. Such a shame, he said to himself, sobbing. He prayed to God that would never happen again. He also prayed that if the conditions that caused it did reoccur, the Jews would have their own champion to protect them.

  IT WAS PAST MID-MORNING, but Baron Geoffrey Guernon remained in bed. His head was pounding from the vast amounts of ale and wine he consumed the previous night. While not normally an angry man, after drinking he was better off left alone. His page, Cyrus, waited patiently outside his door until called. Knowing what had happened last night, Cyrus worried the baron’s temper would be fierce, and his nervousness showed.

  The baron’s chamber was at the east end of the castle. If the baron ordered Cyrus to fetch something, he would have to hurry or perhaps suffer his wrath.

  As Cyrus waited, he heard footsteps approaching. He turned to see Lady Catherine, the baron’s wife.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing.

  “Is he still sleeping, Cyrus?”

  “I think so, my lady. I sometimes hear
his snoring, but then he’s quiet. He hasn’t called for me yet.”

  “I will check. Wait here.”

  The door to the baron’s chamber creaked as Catherine opened it, and quietly walked over to him. He looked up and smiled. She was exceptionally beautiful, with radiant blue eyes, long, blonde hair, and a shapely figure that complemented her medium height. Even if he was in a bad mood, her appearance always softened him. He was madly in love with her.

  “I see you are awake,” she said.

  “Barely. I don’t feel like getting up yet. Are our guests still here?”

  The previous night he had to provide lodging to Abbot Hubert and his cousin Alwyn, a priest. The baron hated them both. He thought they were mindless opportunists, using their titles and families for personal gain, and were perfect examples of what the Church did not stand for. Hubert had had Geoffrey’s brother, Peter, excommunicated two years before, who killed himself due to his shame. Hubert said he had witnesses to Peter’s heresy, but Geoffrey did not believe it. He was certain Hubert did it for his own personal reasons, although Geoffrey did not know what they were. One day he would discover them, and then he would avenge his brother’s death. Geoffrey would have reported his suspicions to Bishop Basil, but he did not have any proof, and Basil was Hubert’s cousin as well.

  “No, they left at dawn. Said they had to get to London.”

  “Good. I hope they’re waylaid on the road. I told them I couldn’t spare anyone for an escort. I don’t think they believed me.”

  “Well, you do make your feelings obvious. Maybe you should be a little more discreet?”

  “Never. Not with them. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d slit both their throats myself.”

  The baron sat up and belched. He walked over to the chamber pot and urinated. Then he filled the basin with water and washed his face.

  “Cyrus,” he yelled. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Come here!”

  Cyrus opened the huge oak door and entered the baron’s chamber.

  “Help me dress, then tell Theresa I want my favorite breakfast.”

  “I will leave you now,” said Catherine. “I have some household matters to attend to.”

  Baron Geoffrey Guernon of Northampton was forty-five years old, stood about six foot tall, with long, black hair and a full beard. He was slightly overweight, and his right arm was exceptionally muscular from wielding his long broadsword. He did not like short blades. Better to give one some room to overcome your opponent, he would say. He had fought for the king in the Baron’s War, earning him the everlasting gratitude of Henry III. That also earned him the enmity of the barons who did not agree with him. Geoffrey did not care. He had risen to knighthood, taking advantage of every opportunity to serve the king. Ironically, it was he who was described as the ultimate opportunist, but it had served him well so far. Despite being wounded, he saved the life of the king’s favorite cousin while rousing his men to victory. As a reward, Henry awarded him the title of Baron Geoffrey of Northampton, where he oversees a manor of over two thousand acres and several villages. His wife, Baroness Catherine, is the daughter of Sir Mortimer of Wigmore, another staunch supporter of the king.

  Cyrus helped the baron dress and hurried down to the kitchen.

  “Theresa,” he called out. “Where are you? The baron wants his favorite breakfast.”

  The baron’s cook emerged from the pantry. She was approaching forty years old and could hardly walk. She was extremely overweight from sampling too many of the baron’s favorite dishes and eating too much of the leftovers. She had pain in her legs whenever she moved and standing for long periods put her in agony. The baron considered replacing her, but she was such a fabulous cook, and her mother used to be the previous baron’s cook, so he felt obligated to keep her on as long as she still could perform.

  “Again?” she muttered to herself. That meant she had to bake his favorite oat bread, and she feared she was out of some of the ingredients. Lords of the baron’s stature usually ate manchet, a fine white bread made of the best wheat. The baron was different. He came from the lower classes and still preferred the coarser oat bread his mother used to make.

  While the baron insisted on it baked only occasionally, lately he was now asking for it every other day, and Theresa tried to make sure she kept everything she needed in stock. Luckily, she had enough this morning. The baron also liked boiled eggs and dried fish, both of which she had.

  “How’s his mood today, Cyrus?” she asked.

  “So-so. He was ranting about the abbot and his cousin again.”

  “I agree with him. Hubert is a leech and a lecher,” Theresa said quietly, crossing herself. “I’ve heard he tries to worm his way with every nobleman and king’s officer he can, and lusts after many a maid. Because he’s a bishop’s cousin, he thinks he can get away with anything. And he’s only a distant cousin at that. Alwyn, I’m sure, is no better. Would you like some breakfast, Cyrus?”

  “Yes, I would. I didn’t get to eat with the other servants. The baron wanted me to stay by his door until he needed me.”

  Theresa gave him some bread, cheese, and a cup of ale.

  “Thank you, Theresa. You’re very kind.” Cyrus wolfed down the food but drank the ale slowly.

  “Please hurry with his breakfast. He’ll be angry if it takes too long.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can. The oven’s hot, so the bread will bake quickly. But I must be sure not to burn it.”

  Cyrus brought the platter with the oat bread, three boiled eggs, some dried fish, and a mug of ale to the baron’s chamber. The door was open, and Cyrus could see he was alone. Lady Catherine had not returned.

  “Ah, Cyrus. Finally. Was Theresa angry with me? I know she doesn’t like making my oat bread. She told me it’s beneath me, but I still love it. Have you eaten? I know I kept you by me this morning, as I thought I might be ill from last night.” The baron’s foul mood had dissipated.

  “Yes, my lord. Theresa gave me something to eat.”

  “Good. I want you to run an errand for me today.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I want you to take a letter to the Jewish part of town.”

  Fear immediately came across Cyrus’ face. He had never met a Jew, although he had seen them. What he knew about them came from what he had heard from the priests, the men-at-arms, his parents, and some of the townspeople—stories of strange rituals, how they spoke a language that sounded like nothing they had ever heard and wrote with strange symbols that came from the devil. Some even said they killed little Christian children for their blood, though that he found hard to believe.

  “My lord,” he stammered. “Couldn’t you send someone else?”

  “Are you afraid, Cyrus? Afraid they might cast a spell on you?” Geoffrey said, enjoying his page’s discomfort.

  “I have heard of such things, my lord.”

  “Nonsense. I assure you they are people just like we are. They just have different beliefs and customs. They are no better or worse than we or any other Christians.”

  “But I’ve never been to that part of town.”

  “Then it’s time you did.” He handed Cyrus a sealed parchment. “Take this to Mordecai, the apothecary. You can ask around where his house is. Wait until he reads it and bring his response back to me. And don’t tell anyone about this, do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord. I will obey.”

  “Good. Now off you go, and hurry back.”

  “What shall I do if he’s not there?”

  “Wait for him unless he’s traveling. If that’s the case, come right back with the letter. Do not give it to anyone else or leave it at his home.”

  Cyrus’ heart raced as his fear increased. He still felt uneasy about his mission. The baron certainly is more knowledgeable then I am, he thought. But after years of hearing so many scary things about Jews, he still was apprehensive. He worked his way down several stairways to a side door of the
castle and began his journey to the Jewish quarter—West End.

  The streets were busy as the Sabbath was approaching, and women were buying vegetables and other foods for the Sabbath meal. A butcher was harking his kosher chickens. Cyrus had no idea what that meant and did not want to know. He saw men with strings hanging out of their shirts, and some had curls dangling near each ear. Many spoke a strange language he had never heard before. It sounded so foreign, nothing like the Latin in church. He asked a man where Mordecai the apothecary lived and was directed to a stone house in the middle of Green Street. He slowly approached it. His fear had subsided somewhat, but he still felt apprehensive as he knocked on the door. He noticed an unusual object attached to the doorpost with the strange symbols on it. He backed away from it, afraid of what might happen if he touched it. Then the door slowly opened, and a boy about his age stood in front of him.

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “I have a message for Mordecai, the apothecary, from Baron Geoffrey.”

  “He’s my father,” the boy said. “But he’s not here. I can take it for him.”

  “No. Baron Geoffrey said I must give it to him personally, or if he won’t be back soon to bring it back to the castle. When will he return?”

  “He should be back soon. Would you like to wait for him inside?”

  A chill descended Cyrus’ spine. What should he do? The baron will be angry with him if he did not deliver the message when Mordecai was going to be available. He looked up at the sky, which grew dark and gray as a storm approached. He could not wait outside in the rain. “All right,” he said. “But just for a short while. I have important things to do for the baron.”

  Cyrus slowly walked into the Jewish home. He looked around, noticing a candelabra and some small trinkets. There was nothing scary inside. He was not sure what he was expecting to see, but everything seemed normal.

  As he looked around a young girl came out of a back room. Cyrus thought she was very attractive and stared at her while the boy addressed him. “I’m Benjamin, and this is my sister, Rachel. What’s your name?”