"I nursed the child," he said. "True, she entered the church on the very night of Christmas, yes. True, she wanted to see the beautiful pageants. She wanted to hear the music. Yes, she did this, but she came home to her parents a Jewish child as she had left them. She was only a child, and easily forgiven! She took sick, as any child might in this inclement weather, and soon became delirious in her fever."
It seemed the shouting would break out again, but both the Sherriff and Fr. Jerome gestured for silence. The old man looked about him with a withering dignity, and then continued:
"I knew what it was. It was the iliac passion. She had sharp pain in her side. She was burning hot. But then the fever cooled, the pain went away, and before she left these parts for France, she was herself again, and I spoke with her, and so did Fr. Jerome here, your own physician, though you can hardly say that I have not been a physician to most of you."
Fr. Jerome assented to all this vigorously. "I tell you as I've told you before," he said. "I saw her before she left for her journey. She was cured."
I was beginning to realize what had happened. The child had probably suffered appendicitis, and when the appendix burst, the pain naturally lessened. But I was beginning to suspect that the journey to Paris was a desperate fabrication.
The old man was not finished. "You, Little Mistress Eleanor," he said to the young girl. "Did you not bring her flowers? Did you not see her calm and collected before her journey?"
"But I never saw her again," cried the child, "and she never told me she was making any journey."
"The whole town was busy with the continuing pageants, busy with the plays in the square!" said the old doctor. "You know you were, all of you. And we don't attend these things. They are not part of our way of life. And so her cousins came and took her and so she went away, and you knew nothing of it."
I knew now that he wasn't telling the truth, but he seemed determined to say what he had to say to protect not only Meir and Fluria but his entire community.
A few young men who had been standing behind the Dominicans now pushed through their ranks and one of them shoved the old man and called him a "filthy Jew." The others pushed the old man to one side and then the other.
"Stop this," the Sherriff declared, and he gave a signal to his horsemen. The boys ran. The crowd parted for the riders.
"I will arrest anyone who lays a hand on these Jews," the Sherriff said. "We know what happened in Lincoln when things got out of hand! These Jews are not your property, but that of the Crown."
The old man was badly shaken. I put out my hand to steady him. He looked at me, and I saw that scorn again, that withering dignity, but also a subtle gratitude for my understanding.
More grumbling came from the crowd, soldiers or no soldiers, and the young girl began to cry again miserably.
"If only we might have a dress that belonged to Lea," she whimpered. "This would confirm what has happened, because at the mere touch of it many might be healed."
That idea was astonishingly popular, and Lady Margaret insisted they were likely to find all the child's clothes in the house because the child was dead and had never been taken away.
Fr. Antoine, the leader of the Dominicans, threw up his hands and demanded patience.
"I have a story to tell you before you proceed with this," he said, "and my Lord Sherriff, I ask that you listen as well."
I heard Malchiah's voice in my ear. "Remember you are a preacher too. Don't let him win the argument."
"Long years ago," said Fr. Antoine, "a wicked Jew in Baghdad was stunned to find that his son had become a Christian and threw the child into a roaring fire. Just when it seemed the innocent boy would be consumed, down from Heaven came the Blessed Virgin herself, and she rescued the boy, who came out of the flames unharmed. And the fire consumed that wicked Jew who had tried to do his Christian son such wicked harm."
It seemed the crowd would storm the house after this.
"That's an old tale," I shouted at once, infuriated, "and it's been told all over the world. Every time it's a different Jew and a different city, and always the same outcome, and who among you has seen anything like it with your own eyes? Why is everyone so willing to believe this?" I continued as loudly as I could, "You have here a mystery, but you don't have Our Blessed Lady and you don't have proof and you must stop."
"And who might you be, to come here and speak on behalf of these Jews!" demanded Fr. Antoine. "Who are you to challenge the Superior of our own house?"
"I mean no disrespect," I said, "but only that it proves nothing, this tale, and certainly not any guilt or innocence here." An idea came to me. I raised my voice as high as I could.
"All of you believe in your little saint," I cried. "Little St. William whose shrine is in your cathedral. Well, go to him now and pray for guidance. Let Little St. William guide you. Pray to him to discover the girl's burial place, if you're so set on it. Won't the saint be the perfect intercessor? You couldn't ask for better. Go to the cathedral, all of you, now."
"Yes, yes," cried Fr. Jerome, "this is what must be done."
Lady Margaret looked a bit stunned by this.
"Who better than Little St. William," said Fr. Jerome, flashing a quick glance at me. "Who was himself murdered by the Jews of Norwich a hundred years ago. Yes, go into the church to the shrine."
"Everyone, go to the shrine," said the Sherriff.
"I tell you," said Fr. Antoine, "we have another saint here, and we have a right to demand of the parents that they give over to us what clothes this child has left behind. Already a miracle has been worked at the oak. Whatever clothing remains here should become as holy relics. I say, break in this door, if need be, and take the clothes."
The crowd was going wild. The horsemen drew in closer, forcing them to scatter, or back up. Some people were jeering, but Fr. Jerome stood firm with his back to the house and his arms out, crying, "The cathedral, Little St. William, we should all go now."
Fr. Antoine pushed past me and the Sherriff and he began to beat on the door.
The Sherriff was furious. He turned to the door. "Meir and Fluria, prepare yourselves. I mean to take you to the castle for safekeeping. If required, I'll take every Jew in Norwich to the castle." The crowd was disappointed, but there was confusion on all sides, with many crying the name of Little St. William.