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“WHAT YOU TOLD me the other day wasn’t the complete truth, was it?” Drake said. “You left something out.”
“Not entirely,” the Jew answered as one who has much at stake. Yacob ben Yosel’s amicable manner did not sway. “You look worse for the wear, mon ami.” Nor was he troubled by Drake’s accusation or the tone of his voice. He brought out the ever-ready flask of wine. “To wash away bitterness between bon amis. Sit, I beg you.”
Drake awakened in Tilda’s bed to bright sunshine. He was alone. Sexte was ringing. His back was sore but the throbbing had subsided. Food waited on the sideboard. He quickly ate, dressed, and made straight for ben Yosel’s dwelling. The wine did not wash away the bitterness between bon amis but did bring to mind Tilda’s talented tongue. Drake spoke slowly, thinking it out as he went along. “The only way a lender ... of local and substantial resources ... can get away with moneylending practices ... that is, hide it from knowing eyes and skirt the Church’s edict against usury ... is to use a Jew like yourself ... perhaps many Jews like yourself ... in other towns and villages ... who have close business ties and mutual interests.”
Yacob took a thoughtful sip. “You are a surprising man. Not boy. Man.”
“You’re the first to make the distinction.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Only because you have recently stepped over the line. You’ve matured in a matter of days.”
“And Gervase des Roches? What are your dealings with him?”
“Ah, you’ve made further inquiries.” He took another sip and set the tumbler down.
“The Jews,” Drake continued, “act as beards, do they not? Buffers who stand between the church and the king, and hide what is really going on. The money passes through you, and your backing is ...?” He wanted ben Yosel to finish the conjecture.
“The Royal Winchester Treasury. There. It is said.” He got up and returned the flask to its perch. “When King Richard visited the treasury less than a fortnight ago, he found it woefully depleted and took with him a paltry sum: less than forty-thousand marks in silver.”
“Forty-thousand marks is by no means paltry,” Drake said.
“But is to a king sparing no expense on a lavish coronation while mounting an ambitious crusade. Unfortunately, Richard took away with him the major portion of said backing. Gervase des Roches owes this particular beard, as you say, rather a lot.”
His concussed head spinning and his back aching, Drake contemplated the wine at the bottom of his cup. When he glanced up, the Jew’s mellow eyes met his. “Then you’re in danger of your life.”
“I rather think murder the best expedient to wipe out a considerable obligation. That ... or expulsion ... or imprisonment.” His voice said the statement impersonally, but his expression said otherwise.
Drake’s eyes took in the sparse furnishings of the front office while his mind’s eye recalled the comfortable compartments above, where a young family prospered.
Ben Yosel’s thoughts visited the same images, his eyes filling with unshed tears. He lifted the palms of his hands in a helpless shrug. “Ours is a precarious position. When a man finds himself short of funds, we Jews are the only ones with a compassionate ear and an open purse. Yet, in time, that same man comes to hate us for answering his call. Moreover, the king believes us to be repositories of unlimited wealth that can be tapped at will. Only last year, King Henry took a fourth of our chattels to finance the Crusade while taking only a tenth from our fellow Christians. When we reach the end of our short lives ... ah then ... then our belongings are wholly forfeited to the Crown, leaving nothing for our wives or children. But what can we do? We rely on the favor of the king for our safety and our livelihood. And we rely on our Christian neighbors for understanding and tolerance.”
Drake studied the goblet in his hand, now empty.
“Have you never met Monsieur des Roches?” ben Yosel asked. Drake shook his head. “You must. You must always know your enemy. Before he sends you to your Maker.”
