The Lord in Heaven has taken Lea from me, my child who remained with me, my faithful, timid, and loving Lea.
He has taken her, as my father in Oxford refuses even to speak to me, and mourns for Rosa who is yet alive.
Has the Lord passed judgment on me?
Surely my father has learned of the death of Lea. Surely he knows what we face here in Norwich and how the town has made of Lea's death a great cause for our condemnation and possible execution, how the evil hatred of our Gentile neighbors may break out against all of us once again.
It is a judgment on me, that I let Rosa become the ward of the Earl and go with him and Godwin to Paris. It is a judgment, I can't help but believe it. And my father, my father has not spoken a word to me, nor written a word since that very hour. Nor will he even now.
He would have left our house that very day, if Meir hadn't taken me away immediately, and if Rosa had not gone that very night. And poor Lea, my tender Lea, she struggled to understand why her sister was leaving her for Paris, and why her grandfather sat silent as one made of granite, refusing to speak even to her.
And now my tender darling, brought to this strange city of Norwich, and beloved of all who laid eyes upon her, has died, helplessly, of the iliac passion as we stood by unable to save her, and God has placed me here, imprisoned, until such time as the town breaks out in riots and we are all to be destroyed.
I wonder if my father is not laughing at us, bitterly, for we are surely undone.
Chapter Twelve - The End of Fluria's Story
FLURIA WAS IN TEARS AS SHE FINISHED. AGAIN I WANTEDto put my arms around her but I knew this wasn't proper, and wouldn't be tolerated.
I told her once more in a low whisper that I couldn't imagine her pain in losing Lea, and I could only do quiet homage to her heart.
"I don't believe the Lord would take a child to punish anyone for anything," I said. "But what do I know of the ways of the Lord? I think you did what you thought right when you let Rosa go to Paris. And Lea died in the course of things as a child might die."
She softened a little when I said this. She was tired and perhaps her exhaustion calmed her as much as anything else.
She rose from the table and went to the narrow slit of a window and appeared to be looking out at the falling snow.
I stood behind her.
"We have many things to decide now, Fluria, but the chief thing is this. If I go to Paris and persuade Rosa to come here, to act the part of Lea ..."
"Oh, do you think I haven't thought of this?" she asked. She turned to me. "It's much too dangerous," she continued. "And Godwin would never allow such a deception. How could such a deception be right?"
"Wasn't it Jacob who deceived Isaac?" I said. "And became Israel and the father of his tribe?"
"Yes, that's so, and Rosa is the clever one, the one with the greatest gift for words. No, it's too dangerous. What if Rosa cannot answer Lady Margaret's questions, or recognize in Little Eleanor a close friend? No, it can't be done."
"Rosa can refuse to speak to those who've abused you," I said. "Everyone would understand this. She need only appear."
This hadn't occurred to Fluria obviously.
She began to pace the floor and to wring her hands. All my life, I'd heard that expression: to wring one's hands. But I'd never seen anyone do it until now.
It struck me that I knew this woman better now than I knew anyone in the world. It was an odd and chilling thought, not because I loved her any less, but because I couldn't bear to think of my own life.
"But if it could be done, for Rosa to come here," I asked, "how many in the Jewry know that you had twins? How many know your father, and knew you in Oxford?"
"Too many, but none will speak of it," she insisted. "Remember, to my people, a child who converts is dead and gone, and no one even mentions her name. We never made mention of it when we came here. And no one spoke of Rosa to us. And I would say it is the best-kept secret in the Jewry right now."
She went on speaking as if she needed to reason through it.
"Under the law, Rosa might have lost all her own property, inherited from her first stepfather, simply for converting. No, there are those who know here, but they know in silence and our physician and our elders can see that they remain quiet."
"And what of your father? Have you written to tell him that Lea is dead?" "No, and even if I did he would burn the letter unopened. He promised me that he would do this if ever I wrote to him.
"And as for Meir, in his sorrow and misery, he blames himself for Lea's taking sick because he brought us here. He imagines that, snug and safe in Oxford, she might never have taken ill. He has not written to my father. But that does not mean that my father does not know. He has too many friends here for him not to know."
She began to cry again.
"He will see it as God's punishment," she whispered through her tears, "of that I'm sure."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked. I wasn't at all sure we would be in agreement, but she was obviously clever and reflective and the hour was late.
"Go to Godwin," she said, and her face softened as she spoke his name. "Go to him and ask him to come here and calm the Dominican brethren. Have him insist upon our innocence. Godwin is greatly admired within the order. He studied with Thomas and Albert before they left to begin their preaching and teaching in Italy. Surely Godwin's writings on Maimonides and Aristotle are known even here. Godwin will come on my account, I know that he will, and because ... because Lea was his child."
Again her tears flowed. She looked frail standing there in the candlelight with her back to the cold window, and I could hardly bear it.
For a moment I thought I heard voices in the distance and some other errant sound in the wind. But as she did not appear to hear it, I didn't say anything about it. I wanted so to hold her as my sister, if only I could.
"Maybe Godwin can reveal the entire truth and be done with it," she said, "and make the Black Friars understand that we did not kill our daughter. He is a witness to my character and my soul."
This obviously gave her hope. It gave me hope too.
"Oh, would it be a great thing to be rid of this terrible lie," she said. "And as we speak, you and I, Meir is writing for sums of money to be donated. Debts will be remitted. Why, I would face utter ruin, all my property gone, if only I could take Meir with me away from this terrible place. If only I knew I had brought no harm to the Jews of Norwich, who have in other times suffered so much."
"That would be the best solution, no doubt of it," I said, "because an imposture would carry dreadful risks. Even your Jewish friends might say or do something to undo it. But what if the town won't accept the truth? Not even from Godwin? It will be too late to insist upon the old deception. The opportunity for an imposture would be lost."