Paris

But Renard had not been mistaken. The king had indeed been planning to strike at the Jewish community—but not in the way that he and Jacob had expected.

  For in the year of Our Lord 1299, Philip the Fair announced that he would no longer protect the Jews from the Inquisition. The blow was as cunning as it was vicious.

  What had the king done? Nothing. What might the Inquisition do? Anything. Was the king losing any revenues he might collect from the Jews? No. Was he proving his piety? Yes.

  And what did this mean for Jacob?

  “That I converted, thinking that my own people would be thrown out of Paris. Whereas now they remain here, and hate me more than ever. That I converted to be safe. Whereas now, the Inquisition will be encouraged to watch me like a hawk, and if they decide that my conversion was not sincere, they will say that I am a Jew after all, and they will attack me for perjury, and who knows what else. For all I know, they will burn me alive. That is what the king’s action means for me,” he said miserably to his wife.

  “For us,” she corrected, grimly.

  But the Inquisition had left him alone. In his favor was the fact that the Jews of Paris so clearly hated him, and that, thanks to Renard, the congregation of the Saint-Merri parish continued to embrace him as one of their own.

  The family settled into a Christian life. It was strange to them not to celebrate the Sabbath on a Saturday anymore. The observance of the Christian Sunday was a far more lax affair. He missed the passionate intimacy of the Jewish Passover. He missed the haunting, melancholy sound of the cantor in the synagogue. But the Christian services had their beauty too.

  “Our life,” he told his family, “is not so bad.”

  Whatever she thought, Sarah saw no use in complaining. Little Jacob, growing up in an extended circle of the Renards and their friends, was too young to have known anything else. As for Naomi, she seemed to adapt. She made new friends. As far as Jacob knew, she never saw any Jewish children at all.

  Jacob rented a storehouse nearby where he kept the great bales of cloth in which he now dealt. He took on an apprentice, who slept in a loft over the store to guard its contents. A year after converting, he had bought the orchard of apple and pear trees by the hamlet on the slopes to the northeast of the city, and on Sunday afternoons the family, often accompanied by the Renards, would usually walk out there and, after inspecting the orchards and gazing down upon Paris, return by another path that led them past the fortress of the Temple Knights and thence into the city. It was pleasant exercise.

  Five years had passed in this manner, without incident.

  Perhaps because it developed slowly, he never saw the crisis with his daughter coming.

  He had taken the greatest care never to seem to neglect her for the baby. He continued to read and write with her and to teach her simple mathematics. He told her stories just as he had before. As little Jacob began to talk, he’d put the child on his knee and tell him a story, saying to Naomi, “Do you remember how I used to tell this story to you?” And sometimes he would get halfway through and say, “You finish it now, Naomi,” praising her when she did—so that soon she was proud of the fact that the little boy looked up to her as a second mother.

  Naomi would help Sarah dress the child, and take him for walks.

  “It’s good for her,” Jacob would say contentedly to his wife. “She’ll make an excellent mother one day.”

  He was also pleased to observe that his daughter was going to be a beautiful young woman. As a little girl, the most noticeable thing about her had been her wide-spaced blue eyes, set in a round face surrounded by a mass of dark curls. But by the time she was eleven, her face was already turning into a lovely oval. The curls were becoming rich tresses that fell thickly below her shoulders. Men were starting to turn to look at her in the street.

  He had often wondered if she would make a good bride for Renard’s eldest son, who was five years older. He didn’t like to suggest it to his friend, who had already done so much for him. “If he doesn’t like the idea, I don’t want to embarrass him,” he explained to Sarah. And Renard, so far, had never broached the subject himself. Jacob was also constrained by the fact that on the one occasion he had gently asked Naomi what she’d say if the offer were ever made, she’d said simply: “I like him very well, Father. But I think of him as a friend, not a husband.”

  “Friendship is the best basis for a marriage,” her father had responded. “Your feelings might change.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  And though he naturally had the right to choose her husband, Jacob loved his daughter far too much to make her unhappy.

  “I’ll never give you to any man against your will,” he’d promised.

  There was no shortage of offers from other families. He’d received three inquiries from worthy merchants in the city. He’d put them off for the time being, but there seemed little doubt that Naomi would have the chance to marry well.

  Meanwhile, she displayed a wonderful understanding that delighted him. For having treated her more like a son than a daughter when she was young, he had found he couldn’t suddenly change his intellectual relationship with her just because she had a brother. Often, therefore, he would discuss his business with her, or the events of the day. It was especially enjoyable for him because she not only grasped matters quickly, but her questions were probing. She asked not what had occurred, but why. He remembered one conversation in particular. It had been a little before her thirteenth birthday.

  “Why is it,” she’d asked him, “when the land of France is so rich, that the king is always short of money?”

  “For two reasons,” he told her. “First, because he likes to go to war. Second, because he likes to build. When he’s finished enlarging the royal palace on the Île de la Cité, it will be the envy of all Christendom. And nothing in the world costs more than war, and building.”

  “But why does he do this? Is this for the good of his country?”

  “Not at all.” Jacob had smiled. “You must understand, Naomi, that when a simple man, a merchant let us say, inherits from his father, that inheritance is his personal property. He seeks to enlarge his fortune and to become more powerful. Often, he also wants to impress his neighbors.”

  “This may be foolish.”

  “Undoubtedly, but it is human nature. And kings are the same, but with this one difference. Their inheritance is an entire country. But they still view it as their property, to do with as they please. So, King Philip desires to enlarge his kingdom, especially at the expense of his family’s rivals, the Plantagenets of England. Down the generations, his family have pushed the Plantagenets out of Normandy, in the north, and both Anjou and Poitou, in the west. Now he hopes to press farther down the Atlantic coast of Aquitaine, and push them out of the great wine-growing lands around Bordeaux in Gascony. The king has also done very well in his marriage. His wife has brought him control of the rich plains of Champagne. This is a wonderful addition to his realm. But beyond Champagne he sees the lands of Flanders, with their rich towns, and he hopes to get some of Flanders as well.”

  “This is all for his personal glory, then?”

  “Certainly. He is just a man. In fact, rich kings often behave no better than spoiled children.”

  “You think that wealth and power make men childish?”

  Jacob laughed.

  “I had never formulated the thought in quite that way, but you may be right.”

  “So these things are not done for the good of his people?”

  “Kings always say they are. But it’s not true. Or if it is, then it’s purely by chance.”

  “But what of God?” she demanded. “Shouldn’t kings serve God? Aren’t they afraid for their immortal souls?”

  “Intermittently.”

  “I think that rulers should be good men.”

  “And it does you credit,” her father replied. “But I will tell you something. A good man may not be a good king, Naomi. It all depends on the circumstances. T
here is something better than being good, in a ruler, and you will find it in the Bible.”

  Naomi frowned, and thought for a moment.

  “You mean King Solomon?”

  “Exactly so. When Solomon became king, the Lord asked him what gift he would like to have. And Solomon asked for wisdom. I am happy if a ruler is a good man, but I would rather he were wise.”

  “You do not think many kings are wise?”

  “Not that I have observed.”

  Jacob could see that the conversation had saddened his daughter, and he was sorry for it. But he wasn’t going to lie to her.

  Looking back, however, he sometimes wondered whether he’d been wrong to speak to her so frankly on that day. Had this been the start of that disillusion that was to lead to tragedy?

  It might be so. But there had been no sign of it for more than a year after that.

  During that time King Philip of France, as usual, had been trying to raise money. He’d tried all the usual expedients. He’d taxed the Jews. He’d even debased his own coinage. But nothing had been enough. So he’d tried another ruse, sudden and unexpected.

  “We’ll tax the clergy,” he declared.

  There had been an uproar. The bishops had protested. The pope himself had told King Philip to remove the tax at once.

  “Why did he do it?” Naomi had asked.

  “The simple answer is because the Church has so much money,” her father replied. “Perhaps a third of the entire wealth of France is owned by the Church.”

  “But the Church doesn’t pay taxes?”

  “The Church may make a voluntary contribution to the king. But it is exempt from the usual taxes.”

  “Because the Church serves God.”

  “This is the idea.” He paused. “But you must also understand that there is more at stake. It’s a question of power.”

  “Please explain to me.”

  “It’s been going on a long time. Essentially, because they say they represent the divine power, the Church claims that it is a heavenly kingdom, not subject to earthly kings. That’s why there are Church courts, which often let people in Holy Orders off with a light penance for crimes that might lead to execution if they were ordinary folk. We see this in Paris every day, and many people resent it.”

  “The students at the university are protected in this way.”

  “Exactly. And at the highest level, popes have sometimes claimed that monarchs should answer to them for their kingdoms. A pope might even try to depose a king. As you can imagine, this idea is not popular with kings, even the most pious ones.”

  “I did not realize it went so far.”

  “It depends on the pope. Some popes have more lust for power than others.”

  “But are they not acting for God?”

  “That’s the idea.” He considered. “The great cathedral of Notre Dame is a monument to God, is it not?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You know, there was a cathedral there before the present one. But the great Bishop Sully said that the old church was not big enough, and so he built it again, in the new style. It cost a fortune.”

  “It is very fine.”

  “Yes. But do you know that Bishop Sully also told a lie. The old church was almost the same size. But Sully wanted something more splendid, so that Paris would be proud, and men would say, ‘Look what the great Bishop Sully built.’ To the glory of God, of course.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Two things may be true at the same time. The Church is there to bring men to God. But bishops and popes are men, like kings. They experience the same passions. In the old days, the days of Saint Denis, for instance, when Christians were persecuted, as Jews are now, their faith was probably more pure. But now that the Church is rich and powerful, there will be some corruption. I think it’s inevitable.”

  Naomi looked down thoughtfully for a few moments. Then she turned her blue eyes on him.

  “If the Church is corrupt, Father, why did you leave your faith to join it?”

  He stared at her, taken aback. She had never asked him this question before. Of course, when he had first converted, he had given the expected reasons—that Christ was indeed the Messiah that good Jews had been waiting for. And he had often pointed out to his children, at appropriate times during the year, how closely the Christian Church was following this or that aspect of the original Jewish faith. But beyond that, the subject was never discussed. He was sure that Sarah had seen to that.

  So had Naomi been brooding about it all these years? It sounded as if she had. And was this the moment of reckoning, when he should tell her the truth? “I converted to save your skin, and that of your brother, and your mother and, yes, my own as well.” Could he say that? He dare not. She was still a girl.

  “Because I believe Jesus Christ was the Messiah,” he said. “You know this, Naomi.”

  She continued to stare at him, but said nothing more, neither then nor for many months. Whatever her feelings, she kept them to herself. He hoped it was because she loved him.

  And perhaps she might have kept silent forever—who could tell?—had it not been for an extraordinary event that took place in 1305, when Naomi was fifteen.

  The dispute between King Philip and the pope remained at a furious stalemate until, quite suddenly, the pope had obligingly died. Within months his elderly successor had followed him to the grave—poisoned, probably. A new election was to take place in Rome, and Parisians waited to see whether the next pope would be any more friendly toward their master. The election was delayed. Word came that there was confusion in the Holy City.

  It was mid-afternoon on a day in June when Renard arrived at Jacob’s house. The little family were all there.

  “I believe I am first with the news,” he declared. And seeing this to be the case, he quickly continued. “We have a new pope. Can you guess who it is? The bishop of Bordeaux.”

  “He’s not even a cardinal!” Jacob cried.

  “No. But he’s French. He’s King Philip’s man. Our king must have been working behind the scenes.”

  Kings often tried to influence papal elections, to get a pope who’d favor them, but this was an extreme case.

  “He’s just a puppet,” said Jacob.

  “Then listen to the most extraordinary news of all. The new pope is not going to live in Rome.”

  “Not at the Vatican?”

  “He won’t even be crowned in Rome. They’ll do it in Burgundy. After that he’s moving the papal court to Poitiers, right here in the domains of the King of France. There is talk of his moving down to Avignon in a year or two, but not to Rome. As of today, King Philip of France owns the papacy.”

  He left them soon afterward to spread the news. When he had gone, Jacob shook his head.

  “In time of danger, popes have sometimes left Rome before,” he remarked, “but this … I don’t know what to say.”

  Sarah’s face was a mask.

  Then Naomi spoke.

  “I am not surprised at all.” She looked steadily at her father. “The Church is corrupt. You have told me so yourself. I don’t think the Church has anything to do with God at all. In fact, it disgusts me.”

  “Don’t speak to your father like that,” said Sarah sharply.

  But Jacob was not angry. He was grieved.

  “You must be careful what you say, Naomi,” he said quietly. “Such words are dangerous. And for a convert, they are more than dangerous.”

  “I am not a convert,” Naomi cried bitterly. “It was you who made me a Christian.”

  “But you are a Christian now. No one, not even a servant in this house, must hear you say such a thing. It could place us all in great danger.”

  Naomi was silent for a moment.

  “I will say nothing,” she answered. “But now you know what I think, Father, and that will never change.” Then she went out of the room.

  What could he do? There was nothing he could do. He understood her feelings. In many ways h
e shared them. She was shocked at the corruption. So was he.

  And she was young. By the time she reached his age, she might accept that the best to be hoped for were small adjustments to an imperfect world. But for the time being, her mind was made up, and he must respect it.

  He was grateful also that she kept her promise not to reveal her feelings. She went about her daily business, helping her mother, in her usual quiet and cheerful way. She accompanied her family to church without complaint. She still joined him when he told stories to little Jacob, and she even started to teach the child to read and write herself. He would have preferred to reserve this task for himself, but he was pleased if it gave her an occupation, especially in the dark winter months.

  For her greatest pleasure was to go out. She took little Jacob for a walk each day. Whenever her father went out to his orchard, she would always gladly accompany him. She would walk across to the Île de la Cité and light a candle in Notre Dame. And since these visits appeared to the world as acts of religious devotion, her father did not discourage them.

  “I think it helps her to get out of the house,” he remarked to Sarah.

  And so their family life continued quietly, through the winter and into the spring. As the weather grew warmer, Naomi was able to walk a little longer. One day, she told him, she had crossed over to the Left Bank and visited the lovely Church of Saint-Séverin. With the warmer weather, her mood also seemed to lighten. Perhaps she had gotten over her shock of the previous year.

  “The time is approaching,” Jacob said to his wife one day, “when we may have to start thinking about a husband for her. As long,” he added uncertainly, “as she isn’t going to start airing her views on the pope to any prospective husband.”

  The visit from the rabbi came in the middle of June. He arrived at Jacob’s house a little before noon. Naomi was out with her little brother.

  The rabbi had put on weight in the last few years. He sat down heavily on the bench in Jacob’s counting house.

  “What can I do for you?” Jacob asked warily.

  “What can you do for me?” The rabbi stared at him. “What can you not do for me?” He sighed, and shook his head. “You do not know why I have come to your house?”