ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS I'VE READ

During my book tour for Lionheart, we had a discussion of one of the saddest episodes in English history—the tragedy at York in March, 1190. So often anti-Semitic outbursts followed when a crusade was preached; there were bloody pogroms in Germany at the time of the Second Crusade and England was the site of some ugly occurrences in 1190. After the London rioting at the time of his coronation, Richard had sent writs to the major cities of his realm, warning that the Jews were not to be molested, and peace held—until he sailed for Normandy after Christmas. But like a virulent virus, anti-Semitism soon broke out again in East Anglia, spreading to Bury St Edmunds, Stamford, and Lincoln. Mobs rampaged through the Jewish quarters in these towns, forcing the Jews to flee to the royal castles for protection.

Eventually the madness reached York. But the rioting there differed from the violence in the other English cities; in York, the mob was urged on by men of rank, men who owed money to Jewish money-lenders. As in other towns, the Jews took refuge in the royal castle, but apparently they did not trust the castellan, for as soon as he left the castle, they overpowered the garrison and refused to allow him back in.

The castellan panicked and summoned the sheriff of Yorkshire, who happened to be the brother of the celebrated William Marshal. He foolishly decided to assault the castle, and the mob was only too happy to join in, egged on by a demented hermit who assured them they were doing God's Work. By the time the sheriff and castellan realized their mistake and tried to call it off, it was too late; the mob was in control. The Jews held out for two days, but when siege engines were brought out, they knew they were doomed. Rather than be murdered by the mob, drunk on wine, ale, and blood lust, they chose to commit mass suicide. It is thought that about one hundred fifty men, women, and children died in Clifford's Tower on the Eve of Palm Sunday. There were a small number who did not kill themselves and sought mercy from the mob, offering to convert to Christianity, and they were promised that their lives would be spared. Instead, they were brutally slain as soon as they emerged. The leaders of the mob then forced their way into York Minster, where the Jewish money lenders kept their debt bonds, and compelled the monks to turn them over. They then burned the bonds right there in the nave of the church.

Richard was in Normandy, making preparations for the crusade, when he heard what had happened. He at once sent his chancellor, Longchamp, back to England, and the latter led an army north. But the citizens of York swore they'd played no part in this atrocity, claiming it had been done by strangers and soldiers who'd taken the cross. Longchamp did what he could, dismissing the sheriff and castellan and imposing such steep fines upon the city that there would be no further outbreaks of violence in England, but the killers escaped the punishment they deserved.

I've often discussed medieval anti-Semitism in my books and my blogs, the ugly underside of life in the Middle Ages. It was a bias people breathed in from birth, and the vast majority were infected by it to some degree. But there was something particularly horrifying about the slaughter in York; it haunted me for years and I welcomed the chance to help publicize it in Lionheart. In my discussion with readers on my book tour, I told them how shocked I was when I first learned about it, after moving to York to research The Sunne in Splendour, and said that it has often been called a medieval Masada.

Not all of them were familiar with the story of Masada, and I had to explain that in the first century, nearly a thousand Jewish Zealots had taken refuge upon the mountain fortress at Masada after the fall of Jerusalem. Masada was thought to be impregnable, but the Romans were as skilled as they were ruthless when it came to waging war, and after a siege of several months by the Tenth Legion, the trapped Jews realized defeat was inevitable. Rather than surrender, knowing that meant a brutal death for many and slavery for those who survived, they chose to commit suicide. When the Romans finally entered Masada, they encountered a city of the dead, the bodies of 960 men, women, and children lying in streets dark with blood. Israeli soldiers today take an oath that Masada will not fall again, and it was said that one of the most heroic rebellions of World War II, the uprising in the Warsaw ghetto, was inspired in part by an epic poem about the tragedy of Masada.

When I discussed the medieval Masada with my readers on the tour, I had not yet read The Dovekeepers, a powerful, compelling account of the events in that mountain citadel in the Judean Desert. The author is one I've long admired, Alice Hoffman, but this was a departure from her usual work. It is obvious that she did extensive research, but it is her unique talent that brings Masada and its people alive for us. For a story so shadowed by tragedy, it is a remarkably lyrical novel. Alice Hoffman can send words soaring like swallows; her phrases are so vivid, so evocative, that you can feel the scorching desert heat, see the bleached-bone white of the sky over their heads, hear the soft cooing of the birds in their dovecotes. Her characters seem as real as the arid, unforgiving land around them. And therein lies the problem. I came to care about them, and knowing the horror that awaited them, my reading slowed. It took me days to read the last fifty pages, just as it took me three weeks to get Richard III out of his tent and onto the field at Bosworth when I was writing Sunne. But Alice Hoffman was up to the challenge, one of the greatest a writer can face. She manages to make the final tragedy bearable while still staying true to the history of Masada,

Is this a book for everyone? Probably not. A dear friend told me that she did not want to embrace so much pain, however brilliantly it was depicted. I can understand that. But I am glad I was willing to take this journey, to go back in time with these doomed women and their men and share their world for five hundred haunting pages. It is always hard to choose a "favorite," be it a book, a film, a flower, or even a color. I inevitably want more choices. But when I am asked to name books that have lingered in my imagination years after reading them, books that I need to reread and to remember, I round up "the usual suspects," to borrow one of my favorite lines from one of my favorite films, Casablanca. To Kill a Mockingbird usually tops the list. I also include Mila 18, Lonesome Dove, Jane Eyre, Angel in the Whirlwind, And No Birds Sang, A Thousand Splendid Suns, and Schindler's List. Now I will add The Dovekeepers.

October 16, 2011