Figuring out the reasons for accusations of ritual murder against Jews in twelfth-century Norwich (1144)—the first of more than one hundred similar incidents—seems, at first sight, not too difficult a challenge. The “renaissance” of this great century was not only that of intellectual achievements, economic expansion, and the revival of urban civilization: it was also marked by an increased attachment to the cult of saints and by the intensive pilgrimage to holy sites in search of medicinal or spiritual relief. The tombs and relics of innocent boys allegedly murdered by the Jews were part of a host of scared localities that were venerated by members of all classes of society. More difficult is to offer an explanation to the persistence of allegations throughout the nine centuries that followed, and to describe how it became one of the most shameful features of Western civilization. In The Murder of William of Norwich: The Origins of the Blood Libel in Medieval Europe, E. M. Rose avoids discussing this second issue. Rose is not satisfied, however, with explaining the emergence of the five first “blood accusations” exclusively in the framework of the cult of saints. Instead, Rose looks beyond generalizations and delves into a detailed search for the social and economic conditions that drove leaders of the society, religious or secular, to legitimize each of these stories.

Of the five cases ever raised (Norwich 1144, Gloucester 1168, Blois 1171, Bury St. Edmund 1181 and Paris c.1170–82) none created a massive or lasting pilgrimage tradition. Quite the contrary. People seem to have been indifferent to—perhaps even skeptical of—claims of Jewish guilt. It was the public authorities, in most cases, who took advantage of the crisis that these incidents created to further their agendas. Most demonstrative of these occurrences are the two cases that erupted in France. In Blois, where a body of a nameless innocent boy was never found, the feudal lord was experiencing a grave financial crisis. For him the unexpected liable was a heaven-sent opportunity to extort money from the small Jewish community. As it happens the Jews negotiated their case badly (a point not stressed enough by Rose) and as a result close to three dozen lost their lives, cremated on the stake. In Paris in 1182, the young King Philip Augustus took advantage of the story of a “Saint Richard of Pontoise,” to expel the entire Jewish community of the city and the royal domain. He used the fortune that fell into his hands to rebuild part of the city and create a “modernized” capital for his ever-extending kingdom. Both French rulers, once things went their way, were reported not to have given any additional attention to the story of the saintly boys.

In England, it is also not clear how concerned or even conscious the inhabitants of Bury St. Edmund and Gloucester were of the events that occurred in their localities. In each of these cases the written information that survives consists of only one sentence. Nevertheless, it is possible to tentatively imagine how much local authorities could have gained from these extraordinary religious events. Gloucester was in bad economic shape in the wake of the Second Crusade. Those who survived the failed enterprise became heavily indebted to, among others, the Jews. They also argued for the conquest of Ireland, against the interests of the monarch. The Jews, whose allegiance was traditionally with the king, found themselves in a difficult position. They opposed the militant aristocracy, as accusations of Harold's ritual murder hovered over their heads. They obviously rejected the allegation that they or anyone of them had murdered “Little Harold.”

In Bury St. Edmund, on the contrary, the small Jewish community was living in a prosperous locality. Minting coins, a very lucrative industry, was an occupation of the local abbey and some Jews. Things worsened in the year 1180, when Henry II annulled the privilege of the monks as part of his effort to further centralize governance. Relationships between the monks and the status of the Jews subsequently deteriorated. Ten years later, Richard I relaxed the Liable of 1181, thereby putting the abbey in an advantageous position in the negotiation and in 1190 the Jews were expelled from Bury St. Edmund.

Twelfth-century Norwich and its Jewish community was second only to London in size and importance. The martyrdom of “Saint William” is not only the earliest we know of (1144) but also the best documented. A monk in the city's Benedictine Priory, Brother Thomas of Monmouth, who arrived to the city five years after the event, made it the project of his life to look for every piece of evidence and to write down a captivating report of the wickedness of the Jews and of the miracles produced by the saint. However, he could not boast of a great success; it took great effort to keep alive the Cult of Norwich and it survived only a few years.

Nevertheless, the limited reputation of Saint William played a decisive role in a legal procedure that took place in 1149. The story saved a distinguished person of Norwich, Sir Simon de Noves, from the gallows. Sir Simon was indebted to Eliezer the moneylender, the leader of the Jewish community and its richest member. Sir Simon, unable to make payment, in his despair arranged the murder of Eliezer. The trial took place first in Norwich and then in London, with King Stephen serving as the judge. The brilliant Bishop William Turbe, who defended Sir Simon, brought up the alleged role of the murdered Jew in the martyrdom of Saint William. It turned out to be the winning argument, for King Stephen could not, or would not, dismiss the sacred story.

Rose is right in avoiding the issue of the persistence of the “blood libel” throughout the nine centuries that followed the murder of Saint William. Social historians, rich as their archives may be, are unable in my opinion to untangle the persistent attachment of Western civilization to this story. Only interdisciplinary campaigns may uncover one day this hidden thread in western civilization.