Chapter 172: The Third Informant
Witch, this is a complete witch through and through, the servant shouted in his heart, while fearfully grasping the Cross on his chest, hoping that God and the holy commandments could protect him from the witch’s curse. Seeing him like this, Witt’s mother laughed even more maniacally. “Let me go spy on that traitor, that ridiculous hermit Isaacite goldsmith. Fine.” She stretched out a pair of skinny, bony hands. “Give me money.”
“This is just a very simple job.”
“No matter how simple, it’s still a job. I’ve never heard of you asking someone to do something without paying them.”
“Fine, how much do you want?”
“I want ten gold coins, not Christians’, Byzantines’.”
The servant almost screamed upon hearing this. “Are you mad? It’s just to go to that Isaacite craftsman’s workshop and see what he’s really doing. That’s worth ten gold coins!?”
To him, ten silver coins would be enough to hire a crowd to empty that workshop. Their demands weren’t high: “If you really can’t understand what he’s doing, just dictate it to us.”
Him saying this was already a tactful warning, but Witt’s mother didn’t take the hint and wasn’t willing to owe him this favor: “If it’s so easy to just take a look, why don’t you go yourselves, or send some other people?”
Why, of course because of her special status. She was Lego’s sister. Lego was Haridi’s close friend and benefactor. He had sheltered Haridi who had fled all the way from Fustat to here. If Haridi hadn’t insisted on going back, he would have given Haridi a job.
For the sake of friendship and favor, Haridi wouldn’t refuse his visit. Others? Others weren’t familiar with Haridi, and Haridi was such a reclusive person. He had no woman or companions around him. Even his own people thought his temperament was strange.
A stranger suddenly approaching him, even under the pretext of custom-ordering jewelry or vessels, would hardly get any concrete information from his mouth.
However, before the servant set off, his master had instructed him to handle this matter properly.
Knowing full well that this Isaac woman was extorting him, he still had to grit his teeth and take out his money bag, counting out ten gold coins for her.
He saw the woman’s eyes still fixed tightly on that money bag which still jingled audibly, and couldn’t help but scold her in disgust, “A heathen like you who only sees money is surely destined for hell.”
But that Isaac woman just let out a hoarse laugh, then her face suddenly changed to a hideous and terrifying expression. She glared at the servant and hissed lowly: “Oh, if your master can really find the one who harmed my son and capture them, whether hanging or beheading.
If he can do it, God, I swear to Him, whatever he asks me to do—even walking barefoot on red-hot charcoal, or fishing in a frozen river—I will go, and I won’t even take a penny!”
She jumped up, literally jumping, her feet leaving the ground, her shoe soles slapping loudly on the floor.
The Isaac woman roared in that utterly venomous tone: “I agreed to work for your master, but where’s my payment? What about the things he promised me? Hey! I only see them eating and drinking their fill, enjoying themselves day after day, while my son has turned into a pile of white bones.
Go tell your master: give me my enemy’s flesh and blood, or give me warm gold coins. Without these two things, I won’t say a word for him or take a single step. Go! Fool!”
She shoved the servant out the door with one push, and then with a bang, the door was tightly shut.
Crude complaints came from the next room. The servant quickly grabbed his hat, put it on his head, and slipped away hurriedly. He still had to report back to his master.
Moments later, Witt’s mother came out too. The innkeeper saw her and couldn’t help frowning. Many guests had been complaining to him—this woman, though he had arranged her in the most remote room, was constantly crying and laughing, shouting and yelling, making all sorts of noises in her room, no one knew what she was up to, disturbing others from resting properly or quietly doing their own things.
But he was somewhat helpless too. He was also an Isaacite, but not yet qualified to enter the synagogue. Lego and Jacques were prominent figures in the city.
Even if their status was now precarious, this woman had enough money.
His rooms only cost fifteen copper coins a day, but Witt’s mother gave him a silver coin every day. He didn’t know where this woman got the money from, and he didn’t care.
Anyway, he had once sneaked in when she left the room and confirmed she wasn’t doing any witchcraft. He’d also heard his relatives were preparing to send her away soon. Once she left and he cleaned the room, it would have nothing to do with him. Why not make a quick profit?
Haridi’s apprentices knew this woman. Though she had been expelled from the Isaacites’ community, her brother and his daughter didn’t dare care for her directly. The child from that marriage had also died, but she might still have some money.
She stayed at the inn, always acting nervous. She wandered every street and alley in Bethlehem, glaring viciously at everyone, occasionally cursing or crying at corners.
Some said she was mad, others that she might be a witch. If she weren’t Lego’s sister, she might have been tied up and burned long ago. And their parents had instructed them: if they encountered this woman, don’t contact her, don’t speak to her, and don’t accept any gifts from her. This is the proper end for every converted Isaacite.
But today she came, and when she opened her palms, they were full of candied fruit.
The apprentices had parents and families, but their family situations weren’t great; otherwise, their parents wouldn’t have sent them to be apprentices. For families like theirs, such expensive food they might not even get during New Year.
They were torn between doctrine and desire, showing expressions of both longing and wariness.
“Eat. Children.” Witt’s mother said. “You should have some good things today—dried apples pickled in honey and sugar. This doesn’t violate doctrine. Even if your master or parents were here, they have no right to blame you. This is the power God grants you.”
The apprentices had to admit they weren’t that greedy. Haridi wasn’t harsh on them and occasionally gave them a few copper coins for pocket money. But the woman’s words undoubtedly stirred up the most heartbreaking matters in their hearts.
That was, even during such a New Year, apprentices couldn’t leave the workshop to reunite with their parents at home. The workshop was their home, not the place with their parents and brothers and sisters.
“Just a little.” One apprentice said hesitantly.
“Fine, just a little.” His companion said.
The two apprentices, only eleven or twelve years old, didn’t know what came over them. In retrospect, they only dared say that this witch had cast magic on the food or mixed in medicine, making them dazed and unclear-headed as they accepted her gifts and brought her into the house.
When she heard that Haridi had accepted a new order, commissioned by that Knight of Bethlehem, Witt’s mother didn’t easily abandon her goal.
She went to Haridi’s room, wanting to knock on his door, but suddenly stopped. If it was really something important, Haridi would surely hide it well or keep it in his head.
She couldn’t see anything, and she didn’t understand goldsmiths’ drawings or secret notations. Even if she saw them, she could hardly figure out what they were.
The woman stood quietly at the door thinking for a moment, then tiptoed back to the hall for receiving guests without alarming anyone in the room. The two children were still savoring the food she brought.
Besides the honey-soaked dried apples, there was wine, originally for Haridi, but now she gave it all to these two children.
Children’s mouths are the easiest to open, especially with wine.
She sat there, speaking to them warmly, stroking their hands, their hair. She understood these children’s minds too well—after all, her poor Witt had been sent to the castle at this age.
How reluctant she had been then. But out of love for the child, she wrongly believed her husband’s brother and thought that making him the Prince’s attendant in the castle would let him rise smoothly, free of worries.
In the future, he might even become a Knight Master like his father—or that was what he deserved. But after her husband died on the battlefield, those shameless Christians, out of greedy desires, refused to acknowledge that marriage.
They drove her and Witt out, took all their property, and wouldn’t even tell her where her husband was buried, because he had been with an Isaac woman—it was truly a shame to him and his family.
At that time, she was nearly in despair, and the aid from her husband’s brother truly became her only hope.
When Witt first arrived at Holy Cross Castle, he wasn’t used to it. His father had been a knight no matter what, and before his death, there were servants at home. Witt had always been served, not serving others.
His mother had spoiled him so much that only at eight or nine did he start learning reading and writing with her. His father should have taught him to be a knight, but unfortunately, the former was always fighting with the King and rarely home.
Moreover, neither his colleagues nor his master wanted to accept a child with half Isaacite blood. He couldn’t send Witt to any castle.
After being taken by his uncle, Witt often sneaked out of Holy Cross Castle to meet his mother waiting outside. He blamed her and cried in her arms.
Any child in a strange place, surrounded by people who despised and rejected him, having to do endless work every day, and beaten with a club if he did poorly or was slow.
When he rolled up his sleeves and trouser legs to show his mother the marks on his body, her heart nearly broke.
But the situation soon changed. Her child proudly told her he had found that his master, Prince Baldwin of Ayyarasa Road, was a weakling like a woman. He never scolded them harshly, let alone beat them with whip or club. He even got money from the Prince.
But at the same time, he had another kind of resentment.
He said he saw red spots and rashes on the Prince’s body. Yes, he was a leper, punished by God. “He should be serving me! Wiping my feet with a cloth!”
The woman clearly remembered how Witt clenched his fists, stomped his feet, and shouted fiercely.
“But just because he’s a prince—and I’m a knight’s son too—why must I serve him? What’s the reason for that?”
If Witt’s mother were a reasonable, grateful good person, she would surely comfort her son, tell him not to be greedy or delusional. But how could she? She wasn’t that kind of person to begin with.
Though she had married a Christian knight, it was because he was young, handsome, brave, and rich. Deep down, she still saw herself as an Isaacite—God’s chosen people, forever above other groups.
For Witt’s ravings, she not only didn’t scold him but fully agreed, thinking he had a point.
At least half of Witt’s tragedy was her doing, but Witt’s mother didn’t see it that way.
Now she was using the same method on these two children. And blind indulgence and pandering were like honey candy, silently corroding the heart.
The two children were coaxed into laughing heartily, completely forgetting she was someone they shouldn’t contact or speak to. Like Witt, they complained to her about everything.
