even one who fervently hoped that her new husband would never return from the Holy Land. She was too shrewd to continue fighting a battle already lost, though, and shared such heretical thoughts with no one. “My liege . . . I recently received a troubling letter from my steward at Skipton-in-Craven, regarding the unrest in Yorkshire since the slaughter of the Jews in the city of York. Men are concerned that violence will break out again once you have left for Outremer. Can you assure me that measures have been taken to keep the King’s Peace?”
Her bluntness raised a royal eyebrow, but did not kindle the royal temper, for Richard was in a good mood now that the time for his crusade was finally nigh. Reminding himself that this irksome female was also a great landholder and she therefore had a legitimate concern, he said, “You may rest easy, my lady countess. As soon as I got word of the York massacre, I dispatched my chancellor to England to restore order and punish the guilty. Bishop Longchamp led an armed force to York, where he discovered that the culprits had fled into Scotland. He took strong measures, though, to make sure such an outrage will never happen again in my domains, dismissing the Yorkshire sheriff and the castellan, imposing heavy fines, and taking one hundred hostages from the city.”
“I am gladdened to hear that, my lord.” Hawisa still feared for England’s peace in Richard’s absence, but she knew better than to raise these doubts with the king. She could only hope that Longchamp’s swift action would put the fear of God into Yorkshire’s lawless and masterless men.
Jaufre glanced uneasily toward his wife, for he knew she’d not heard of the York massacre and he preferred to keep it that way, believing that a pregnant woman needed to be sheltered from strong emotions. Moreover, he did not trust Richard to give Richenza a suitably censored account of the York atrocity, for no son of Eleanor of Aquitaine could fully understand the fragility of the female sex. And as he feared, Richenza was quick to ask, “What happened in York, Uncle? Was the Jewry attacked?”
“That was the least of it, lass.” Richard sat up, scowling. “There are times when I think most men have less brains than God gave to sheep. I thought we’d quenched the fires after the London rioting, but apparently some embers still smoldered.”
“When was there rioting in London?”
“On my coronation day. You did not hear of that?”
“On your coronation day,” Richenza reminded him with a smile, “Jaufre and I were being married in Rouen.”
“Ah, yes, so you were.” Richard returned her smile, but it soon faded as he called up memories of the ugly incident that had marred what should have been a sacred event, the day when he’d been consecrated with the holy chrism, crowned as England’s king and God’s Anointed. “In the past when campaigns were proclaimed against the Saracens, they often stirred up hatred against the Jews, the ‘infidels in our midst,’ as I’ve heard them called. I’d hoped to avoid any such outbursts by forbidding Jews to attend my coronation. But two affluent Jews, Benedict and Josce of York made the journey anyway. They came bearing gifts in hopes of winning royal favor. Instead they unwittingly caused a riot. A crowd had gathered outside the palace gates, and some of them fell upon the Jews, began to beat and curse them. Josce was able to escape, but Benedict was grievously wounded and then terrorized into accepting baptism. The mob was now drunk with blood lust and they surged back into London, where they attacked any Jews they found, killing at least thirty, and setting the Jewry afire.”
Richenza was frowning. “It is shameful when men commit murder in God’s Name. Scriptures say plainly that Jews are not to be killed, ordering us to ‘Slay them not,’ for it is ordained that they will one day come to salvation through Our Lord Christ and bring about the Second Coming. Were you able to punish the guilty ones, Uncle?”
“We arrested some, hanged three, but it is almost impossible to identify members of a mob. The Archbishop of Canterbury and I interviewed the Jew Benedict, who recanted his conversion. The archbishop was wroth with him for that, unable to understand why he’d rather be ‘the Devil’s man instead of God’s,’ but a baptism done at knifepoint surely cannot please the Almighty. My main concern was making sure