CHAPTER 7:RECEPTION IN YORK

CHAPTER 7: RECEPTION IN YORK

Copyright: Thomas Hoskyns Leonard, Edinburgh, October 2017

                                                                              

After several days of tough riding across Northumbria, County Durham, and North Yorkshire, Duncan Cotter, as was Sir Richard's adopted name, cantered southwards from Thirsk while finalising his plans. He approached the great city of York from the north-west by putting Xanthos into a gallop along the old Roman road, past Grosvenor House, the palatial home of the highly learned Lord Roderick and Lady Margarita Silvereaglet.

Duncan entered the ancient walled city through the gateway in the Bootham Bar. That accomplished, he let Xanthos stroll at a leisurely pace along High Petergate.

Duncan was impressed by the handsome popinjays flaunting themselves outside the Jorvik Tavern, and even more so by the pilgrims pouring through the magnificent west doorway of York Minister like tiny toy dolls. Upon deciding to attend Vespers in the daunting, white minster, he headed first for the Shambles where the butchers and their minions were feverishly selling their cuts and joints from hooks and tables outside their shops and slaughterhouses.

“Where may I buy supper, lassie?” Duncan asked a butcher's girl who was hacking a carcase of beef with her cleaver while her master ripped tripe from a sheep.

The silly girl looked up and gave him an insolent stare.

“Cock and Robin,” she slurped, pointing her grubby thumb towards a narrow street of shops to the right.

Half-way down the jam-packed Cock Lane, Duncan saw a brass cock and a silver robin hanging from a wrought iron rail above an archway between a tailor's shop and a pawnbroker's. Upon alighting from Xanthos, he discerned that the archway led to a small, shady courtyard beyond.

When Duncan entered the courtyard, he saw a lantern in a window on the far side.

What a novel place to hide a tavern, he thought, and after tethering Xanthos to a post near the door, he cautiously entered the hostelry.

Duncan was wearing his peasant's tunic, covered partly by his shabby woollen shepherd's cloak, and he was quite dishevelled from his journey. He didn't even think about changing into the smarter garments in his travelling bag. Moreover, he was none too aware of the possible influence of his new appearance and his Scottishness on others.

The interior of the dimly lit tavern was by no means as well-furbished as indicated by the sign outside. The floor was filthy with mud and pieces of dropped food, there was a metal chamber pot and a large cauldron in the corner under a shelf heaving with pewter tankards, and four dusty beer barrels lined the wall.

A grizzly fellow was sitting at one of the tables. He took one look at Duncan, gulped down his beer, and left. Duncan sat down at the table by the window and whistled to himself.

A bulky woman emerged through the kitchen door, holding a ladle and a rolling pin.

“Huh?” she grunted.

“A potage pie and some cheese, please,” said Duncan, putting three pennies on the table, “and a tankard of your home-brewed ale, if it's cool enough.”

The woman stirred the contents of the cauldron with her ladle, threw out a shrivelled mouse, and dipped a tankard into the ale. The tankard was about three-quarters full of lukewarm fluid when she plonked it onto Duncan's table and snatched the pennies. She gave Duncan a furtive look, and retreated into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, the proprietor, a lean man with a goatish beard, emerged through the same door. “Yer Scots?” he grunted.

“I'm a shepherd from Linton in East-Lothian, Sir,” Duncan courteously replied, “searching for honest work in this fair city.”

“Bullshit!” snarled the proprietor, vanishing into the courtyard.

He could be a Brummy from Brummagem, thought Duncan, with a smile. They're always out for a cheap deal.

A while later, the woman re-appeared with a bit of hard cheese and a tiny pot-pie on a wooden board. The pot-pie wasn't hot and Duncan wondered from the smell whether the potage had been mixed with entrails. He consoled himself, after a mere nibble, by taking a gulp of his insipid beer.

When the proprietor returned, he was accompanied by two red-necked mates who sat down opposite Duncan at his table and stared rudely at him. The proprietor brought his friends mugs of malt wine, grimaced, and left.

“That yer horse outside?” asked the newcomer with warts on his eyebrows.

“Yes, it is,” Duncan replied, civilly enough, “and he's been my faithful steed for ten years and more.”

“I'll give yer a copper piece for the poxy old ox,” said the one with the slit nose. “Me and Frag are going to chop him up, ee bah gum, in my uncle's slaughterhouse to sell off our hooks.”

Michty me! lamented Duncan. They're both butchers from the Shambles,

“Thank you for your kind offer,” he replied, shaking his head, “I regret I have to respectfully decline it, as I still need a horse on which to ride my errands.”

Frag's eyes narrowed.

“Why're yer 'ere, yer bloody pagan jock-a-nape?” he burbled. “Yer send the wraiths of Wallace to pillage our towns, and yer kings haunt Humbria and put our young un's in slave gangs to toil and heap dung on your farmland. And still yer come down over the fucking damned border. Don't they, Jip?”

The blockhead's missing a shilling, thought Duncan. Methinks I should humour him with a Christian message.

Duncan clasped his hands in friendship. “But I have travelled in peace, expecting to share bread and salt with my welcomers, and planning to live amicably in this Christian city.”

Jip ground his teeth. “Yer must be a fugitive. With that horse yer'll be a reiver. They should burn yer, quarter yer and hang yer at the Tyburn in Knavesmire and then tar and feather yer for good measure.”

He's not totally off the mark, realised Duncan, mopping his brow.

“Prithee, kind Sir,” he protested. “I'm merely a simple shepherd, down on his luck.”

Frag and Jip stared pensively at Duncan for a full minute. He was wondering what they'd say next when a huge, leathery imbecile from the slaughterhouse suddenly burst in, wielding a hefty mallet around his pot-shaped head.

“Hi ho, Knut,” exclaimed Frag. “Here's a bit of shitty Highland grist for your gander.”

“Hope t'worms come and eat 'im up,” added Jip, with a snigger.

Knut picked his snot and ate it, gave Duncan the once over, and grinned.

“Please haul the heathen bugger outside before you beat the shit,” demanded the skinny proprietor, stroking his pet rabbit.

Now in fear of his life, Duncan leapt to his feet and went to draw Vindicta from its scabbard as in times of old, but his proud sword and its shining sheath were no longer there and his dagger was out of reach.

Knut chortled like an archbishop in an animalistic orgy and felled the courageous Scot with a single blow of his mallet.

Without further ado, the three evil shysters dragged Duncan feet first through the door and beat him to pulp in the courtyard. Xanthos reared high in the air, neighing frantically, only to be lanced in his hind leg with lolodium, and hauled, part comatose, to the slaughterhouse to be sliced for sale in many pieces in the Shambles on the morrow.

While Duncan was losing consciousness, Jip spat in his face and stamped on his chest Thereupon, Frag ripped the leather money bag off Duncan's waist belt and ran back to his miserly uncle, gloating with his spoils. Knut laughed like the mute Manx maniac he was, and put in the boot.

Duncan regained a semblance of reality during the crisp early hours of the morning. He'd been left for dead among the rotting pigeon carcases in the gutter of Cock Lane, and he suffered from an extreme version of the brain fog nebulosis cerebri caused by the blows to his head from Knut the Manxman's murderous mallet. Moreover, Duncan's body and limbs had turned to jelly during his pummelling by Frag and Jip, and ached horrendously, bone upon bone, sinew by sinew.

“Hi ho, dickie bird,” mumbled Duncan, as his face rolled into the smelly remains of a spent starling. “Time to get up...Jesus!...Yuck!”

Duncan flapped around on the ground trying to regain his bearings, but crashed onto his back in desperation. Twenty minutes later, he contrived, after several vain attempts, to struggle to his feet. Thereupon, he staggered, reeling all over the place, down Cock Lane and towards carefree Newgate Market.

Meanwhile, Samuel Hart of Bremen was stashing the shelves of his apothecary shop on Pack and Saddle Street with a new selection of spices and herbs. They'd been delivered the night before by a couple of Cistercian monks from Jevaulx Abbey in the divinely beautiful Vale of Ure. The monks had only just left for home after staying overnight in the storage room, having indulged in the wine and the bread before falling asleep.

Samuel also mixed some of the Anglo-Saxon recipes listed in Bald's Leechbook. He'd just prepared a slimy batch of bullock's gall, which was excellent for curing infected eyelashes of their follicles and for ridding the body of all sorts of bugs, though the recipients stunk for days afterwards.

Samuel sold anything else in the shop that could turn a profit: trinkets, bright scarves, bones of the Saints, Irish whiskey distilled in County Cork, and toy storks from Oldenburg.

Samuel's father had taught him the ways of the world while he was growing up in the Free City of Bremen. Now aged twenty-eight, Samuel was confident in himself, having also grown a touch more fond of the crucifix which hung limply around his neck.

Samuel's fourteen year old brother Jonathan came blinking down the stairs, his shirt twisted around his neck and his trousers reeking of stale sweat. He hid his eyes behind his hands, and danced his jig around the shop.

“I'll eat an apple to break my fast today, dear brother,”he yelped, “if I cannot find a fish.”

“Don't forget to deliver the bags of spice to the physicians in St. Leonard's, kleiner Schmuchkopf,” said Samuel, with a stern look, “and give my good tidings to Brother Alfonso Fernández.”

Handsome Jonathan ran to the corner and hid his face in the cobwebs. “Not Brother Fernández! He has a face like a poltergeist.”

Samuel chuckled at that witticism. “And after that, guard the shop. I have to visit Lady Silvereaglet in Grosvenor House with another potion for her dear husband's indigestion.”

“Yes, dear brother, seven bags full, brother dear. Seven, seven, seven,....”

'Tis one of the many faceted ways and spectra of the Ashkenazim, Samuel once again deliberated. Such spectra, while rare, were well understood by King Solomon's high priest, as I remember from the scrolls. I can see my Jonathan in our Great Uncle Joseph. All praise to Yahweh!

Galenorides of the Mycenae called Jonathan's talent 'Apomonoménos eaftós', meaning 'isolated self', though that's only according to my bubbe, and she sometimes burbles like a vampire cat.

Mercy! Mercy! Jonathan and I must keep thoughts of our proud ancestry well hidden within the deepest recesses of our minds, lest the King's men come and tear us to shreds. Methinks such thoughts should not even be thought. Should they discover our hidden secret then all parts of us will be surely tortured and dead.

A few hours later, Duncan found himself floundering onto the side of the Castle Mound, without recognising that Clifford's Tower even existed as it rose high in the air above him. That eternally cursed tower was where the entire Jewish community of York met their wretched deaths in AD 1190, when the rioters 'acted without any scruple of Christian conscientiousness'.

Samuel Hart was well aware that Edward Longshanks, a malignant, narcissistic king, had in 1290 signed the Edict of Expulsion which summarily expelled all the, long-since much-persecuted, Jews from the Kingdom of England. During the following decades of Plantagenet rule any foreign wretch suspected of being a Jew faced immediate torture and an ignominious death, and Samuel and Jonathan lived in continuous fear of that fate.

Few of the inebriates and hermits whose bodies congregated on and around the grassy mound felt any sympathy for the many unfortunates of differing religious or political persuasion who'd died within the tower over the years. In verity, they felt very little emotion at all. When Duncan rolled over, he found himself grappling with an inert, rank-scented creature. He put his head on its chest, snorted, and fell back into incongruous, head-splitting sleep.

During the late afternoon, Samuel Hart sent his gifted brother Jonathan on an errand to Common Hall to collect a payment from a city official for his herbal medicine for gout. Jonathan was walking back along the banks of the Ouse, imagining that the bishop's barge was a shipload of Vikings with crimson faces, golden swords and round purple shields, when he accidentally bumped into the pretty Sylvia de Gasgogne, who was not quite as colourful, red, green, and blue, as she looked.

To Jonathan's grave disappointment, Sylvia was accompanied by her older brother Percival de Gasgogne, a motley-minded braggart if ever there was one. Jonathan sunk to his knees and covered his eyes, imagining that eighteen year old Percival would disappear in a puff of yellow dust.

“You're looking dapper in your freshly washed tunic today, Jonathan,” said Sylvia, puckering her slanted lips. “Will you be attending the Masque of the Faerie Queen in the Abbey gardens tomorrow?”

“Yes, I will,” blurted Jonathan, struggling to his feet. “I hope that I can dance the Carole of the Tree of Life with you.”

Percival chuckled and chortled. “That carole's not in this masque. Perhaps you would prefer to dance the Jig of the Night Wolves… with me.”

The expression of exaggerated horror on Jonathan's face fully emphasised what he thought about that.

“I would simply love to dance with you,” said Sylvia, with a glint in her bright brown eyes, “but don't forget to change your filthy, green stockings. My papa, Baron Sheridan will be there with the other civic leaders, and mama too. Please try to not to fall head over heels, and keep your dirty hands off my new dress!”

Percival leered at plump Jonathan, and gave him the wink. “He'd fall rump over breast, given the opportunity.”

“Begone, ugly Cyclops!” shrieked Jonathan, in a fluster. “Your scales are as black as a beetle's and your nose is as red as a fox's.”

Percival eyed Jonathan up further, and grinned. “Methinks he's possessed by a disorder of the mind which congeals his brain.”

That put Jonathan totally on his guard. “No disorder! I am God's own creation.”

“That does you credit,” said Sylvia, more kindly. “Methinks we should pray together in St. Crux this Sunday.”

But Jonathan was already hotfooting it for home. The memory of Sylvia's petite figure and silver-tinted, blonde hair remained transfixed in his eclectic mind.

The following day, a toothless, one-eyed hag called Drag guided Duncan, swaying to and fro, over Castle Mills bridge on the River Foss and onto a pathway beyond the city walls which led towards the open countryside down the eastern bank of the Ouse.

If Drag and Duncan had retained more of their sense of smell then they would have savoured a mighty stench when they reached the three ash trees. This was where many of the citizens of York came in the carts to dump their refuse in one big heap.

The street and river-wise Drag scavenged through the refuse heap for bits of food, which she gobbled noisily. She gave Duncan a piece of rotting fish, which he slowly devoured before crawling back to the heap on his hands and knees and dozily searching for more.

Meanwhile, Samuel Hart sold a fragment of the femur of Saint George to a gullible pilgrim from Bedford, and asked Jonathan to bring more pieces of blue quartz from the storage room.

“They look bright red and green and black to me,” enthused Jonathan, rotating like a chain dancer as he rushed and dithered, hither and thither.

“We need to talk, dear brother,” said Samuel, when Jonathan finally calmed down. “It's time to start planning your studies at the University of Oxford. Lord Silvereaglet has agreed to recommend you, and Lady Margarita believes, in her devotions, that Merton College is most suitable for your disposition.”

“I'm scared of the mob squad,” gasped Jonathan, covering his eyes. “The other students would verily bully me too much.”

“But I'll be able to find you a quiet, calming room by the Chapel of St. Mary and St. John, where you'll be able to study to your heart's content.”

“Only if I can read Natural Philosophy and the Law since those ideas already spring into my red-hot head.”

“I will travel with you to Oxford in July, dear brother. Your education is, as ever, close to my own heart.”

Thank goodness I can afford to pay Jonathan's expenses from our family's treasure chest, mused Samuel. That was why we returned from Bremen pretending to be worthy Christians five years ago. How clever it was of me to unearth the treasure from under the gravestone in Lincoln where it had been hidden by my ancestor Ezekiel Hart. That was in 1266 when the disinherited knights attacked the synagogue on Steep Hill and burned the records registering debts. Poor Ezekiel was expelled to Flanders during 1290, another 'annus horribilis' if ever there was one, and now Jonathan and I are, it seems, the only Jews in the whole of hell-damned England for our pains.

[Author's Note: The attack on the synagogue in Lincoln is well-documented. See, for example,

Encyclopaedia Judaica http://www.geschichteinchronologie.com/eu/GB/EncJud_juden-in-Lincoln-ENGL.html]

For Duncan, days turned into weeks, and weeks into months while he scarcely retrieved any consciousness of who he was and what he was about. He scavenged up and down the east bank of the Ouse, surviving the cold and icy spells by wrapping his heavy coat tightly around him while he slept in the ditches and the stanks. He occasionally begged for alms with crafty Drag, though with scant success even when they staggered as far as Common Hall.

Duncan retained strange, distant memories of being refused entry to St. Leonard's Hospital by the snooty Brother Alfonso because he was Scottish riff raff, of being thrown out of the Minster, while praying for mercy at the High Altar, because he hadn't paid his groat, of being ejected from the Roman baths for stinking too much, and of being kicked in the bollocks by a sheriff's officer because he didn't move quickly enough.

However, Duncan's mind was largely blank, as blank as a john mule.

On St. Florentius's Day in April, Duncan was begging for alms with Drag on the grassy river bank by Common Hall, when the petite, spiteful Sylvia and the sarcastic Percival de Gasgogne wandered up.

“Alas, poor beggar,” said Sylvia, flicking her eyelashes, “you are so poor. I must take you home with me, so that I a purple coat can weave for thee.”

“When?” grunted Duncan.

“Bitch!” shrieked Drag, catching the flow.

“That's no way to speak to a fine lady,” said Percival, squeezing his rumbling belly. “I will invite a sheriff's officer to cut out your serpentine tongue, wretched mumblecrust that you are.”

“Sard to you!” howled Drag. “Knobs and all.”

Unimpressed by the excessively foul language, the clean-limbed Percival gave the unfortunate Drag a hearty kick. She fell into the water, gurgled, and struggled to keep afloat.

“Devil's flotsam!” she raged, flailing her arms.

At that very moment, the pear-shaped Lord of Fulford sailed jauntily by in his skiff. One of the oars struck Drag in her head, and the wretched woman disappeared under the waters of the Ouse never to be seen alive again.

Duncan blinked, and stared vacantly into space.

“How wondrous to have met you, handsome knight,” cooed Sylvia, unperturbed, as she and Percival left. “If fortune permits, we will meet again at the Midsummer Ball.”

Duncan was still staring into space when the loony lad Jonathan Hart wandered up.

“How fare thee, my fine fellow?” said Jonathan, with a broad grin. “Methinks you need a good Samaritan for a friend. Unfortunately, I'm a Saxon from Bremen with a coat of many colours, as you can well see from my red and purple eyes.”

“Ale!” gasped Duncan.

“Here, drink from my flask,” said Samuel Hart, walking up.

Duncan peered upwards while taking a mighty gulp. “You're Him!”

And Samuel, with his trim beard, did possess a passing resemblance to Christ himself.

“You're welcome, my good man,” he replied, as the dreaded de Burgogne siblings drifted off. “and which of God's talents did He bless you with?”

An orange light seared through Duncan's head. “Marmelada!” he blurted.

“Marmelada?” exclaimed Samuel, in amusement. “What sort of witch's potion is that?”

Duncan made a grab for his waist pouch. It was still there even though his leather money bag was long gone. He fumbled when he delved into the pouch, and drew two parchments out together. One was his recipe for marmelada, and the other was the signed and sealed accreditation of Duncan Cotter's birth in Linton.

Samuel perused both of the documents cautiously. “You're an interesting person, Duncan Cotter. Why don't you come with us to our shop for a bowl of soup before we put you on your way? We could talk about your marmelada quince further together today.”

“Marmaduke's marmalade,” growled Duncan, as a vision of the enormous Brother Marmaduke Wartle appeared before his left eye, eating a huge hunk of bread.

“And I'll be able to show you my fossil of a fish,” said zany Jonathan, stepping on his own foot.

When the Hart brothers served Duncan a bowl of parsnip soup in the storage room behind their shop, they also mixed some St. John's Wort in a tumbler of milk as a remedy for his foggy head.

“It's also called Fuge Demonum,” said Samuel, “since it drives the Devil away.”

“We're celebrated apothecaries with robes of many colours,” announced Jonathan, with aplomb, “and skilled in the arts of medicine and the secrets of the East.”

Duncan blinked as if he almost understood.

“I like this recipe for marmelada,” said Samuel. “But I'd prefer to chop up and boil whole oranges marinated with Madeira wine and spice them with honey. The quince paste should be even richer to the palate than Brother Marmaduke's and the oranges will be more efficiently disposed of.”

Jonathan nodded inanely, in apparent agreement. “I'll purchase a bag of oranges and several pots of honey in the market at crack of dawn when I collect the seven remedies for the purple and yellow pox from the Scarlet Witch of Sandal Magna, and her lovely maid in purple ermine with black and orange striped eyes.”

“Good, and there are several bottles of Madeira in a crate in the cellar. I do believe that we can afford to pay Duncan a commission of three small loaves of bread for the first hundred jars of marmelada we sell. Is that a fair exchange, Duncan?”

“Ya!” grunted Duncan, slurping his soup.

Samuel threw up his feet and relaxed. “Have you only recently travelled here from the Lothians, Duncan?”

“Ya,” grunted Duncan, rubbing his eyes.

“And where did you live in Scotland?”

“Derr...mansion.”

“What!” exclaimed Jonathan, collapsing into laughter. “He's the Lord of the Macdonalds!”

“Cottage,” grunted Duncan. “Me shepherd.”

“I understand now,” said Samuel, smiling politely, “and did you live near this House of the Holy Trinity in Roxburgheshire which Brother Marmaduke mentions in his document?”

“Soutra,” grunted Duncan, rolling his eyes.

“So you lived on the Soutra Hill? Do you have anything else to say for yourself, my fine fellow?”

“Derr...er... Lilium Medicinae.”

“Amazing! But I'm sure you don't know the name of the author of those wondrous documents.”

An image of Friar Francis Philpott appeared before Duncan's right eye waving his fists in encouragement.

“Le professeur Bernard de Gordon of Montpellier,” burbled the brain-afflicted fellow.

“What!! Only a gentleman and a scholar should possess such knowledge. Whereby do you understand medicine?”

“Derr...herb garden.”

“Which herb garden?”

“St. Clotilde's, of course.”

“Methinks he's the High Priest of Fife,” chuckled Jonathan. “Beware, or he'll cast spells upon us.”

Samuel wiped his brow. “Methinks we should invite Duncan Cotter to stay the night so that we can understand him better. Please be so good as to fill the bath in the outhouse with hot water. It will be good to see the clean side of him.”

An hour or so later, handsome Jonathan came into the shop flashing his dark eyelashes and looking most confused.

“Duncan has a coat of arms tattooed low on his back and close to his flaming orange posterior, dear brother,” explained the strangely imaginative youth, squeezing his ears, “with colourful depictions of a crazy dormouse and a wild-eyed hedgehog. And the name Horatio P. is inscribed by God Almighty beneath the crest. Maybe the P stands for Pelicanfalconforth.”

Samuel scratched his chin. “We'll need to ask Horatio, or Duncan as he calls himself, about that later.”

“How much later? When will we ask him to leave?”

“Our Brother in Christ has been sent to us by the mystical Yahweh and the living Baal in their almighty unison, dear Jonathan. We must take care of him.”

“I will lay him a straw mattress in the outhouse,” replied Jonathan, rubbing his rumbling tummy. “May Gabriel, in purple plumes and his shining silver armour, defend the guest right as he wields the mighty Sword of the Tree of Life.”

That night the Rabbi of Dene appeared once again in Duncan's dreams. “Shalom, my son. The good Arab you met in Gowkshill is no Elijah, but his prophecies are turning out to be partly correct.”

“Shalom Rabbi, my teacher,” replied a voice. “In what way is the soothsayer once again correct?”

“You have been saved from the streets by two Jews, who are living secret lives. Listen to them, and you will build your life afresh.”

“But what of Ishmael's other prophesies?” asked the voice. “Will the Levites and Benjaminites visit me in Gibeah?”

“Not that, my son, but methinks you could be visited in your bed by several Jews of various shapes and sizes. Be kind to them, and Yahweh will be kind to you too.”

“Perchance they will beget me children,” said the voice.

“Methinks it could be more complicated than that,” said the rabbi, with a wry smile, as he vanished in a puff of multi-coloured smoke.

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