Each year, on March 16, an intimate, simple, memorial service takes place in the city of York. It’s not publicised, not a tourist attraction and few realise it happens – which is just the way it should be. A short word, prayers in both English and Hebrew, time for silent reflection and the laying of a sheath of lilies on a small, rectangular plaque. This quiet time of remembrance takes place at Clifford’s Tower, the keep of York’s medieval castle, the site of the most horrifying event in the history of English Jewry.
Although much of York’s layout is the result of Roman and Viking construction, Clifford’s Tower is distinctly Norman. It was originally built with a timber structure at the top, by William the Conqueror in 1068 as a statement of his power over the area.

 In 1190, anti-Semitism was rife, throughout the country. Those envious of Jewish wealth, people indebted to the Jews, a fanatical clergy and Crusaders heading for Jerusalem to fight the Saracens, all conspired to exterminate the Jewish population. In York, one manifestation of this was that homes were set on fire, including that of the late Benedict of York, a leading, wealthy Jew who had been caught up in riots at the coronation of Richard I, Henry II’s successor, had been compelled to confess Christianity and had died as a result of his injuries. Benedict’s widow and children were murdered and his riches were stolen.

  One hundred and fifty Jews, led by Joseph of York, sought shelter in the tower of the royal castle. This was a provision that had been set up for them when the previous monarch, Henry II, a Jew protector, was on the throne. For a few days they had sanctuary, but their place of safety soon became a place of imprisonment.

On March 16, the feast of Shabbat ha Gadol, the warden  of the tower  was away and on his return, the Jews were too afraid to unlock the doors to let him in. The warden called in the sheriff, a man called Richard Malebys, who was a noble deeply in debt to the Jews. He commanded a siege. A mob gathered at the mound and were whipped up in their rage by the exhortations of a white- robed monk who celebrated mass, every morning, in front of the tower. In the furore, a stone was dislodged from the battlements, fell and killed the monk. The mob blamed the Jews and wanted revenge. They surrounded the mound and  the wooden tower began to burn. It is not known whether the fire was started by the masses baying for the blood of the Jewish community or by the Jews themselves, in their desperation. The Jews knew that there was no way out.  Led by Yom Tob of Joigny, many tore their clothes in mourning, and blessing each other, joined in an act of mass suicide. The father of each family killed the women and children of his household. The Rabbi then took his own knife to those who remained before killing himself. As the timbers fell, others died in the flames. The following day, the burning tower was captured and those  Jews who were still alive were lured out with false promises of mercy. On leaving the castle, they were killed by the crowd outside. 

The mob, recognising that all the Jews of York – apart from a remnant who had fled into the countryside at the first signs of unrest – were exterminated, went straight to the Minster where the records of debts due to Jews were kept. The guardians were compelled to turn over the records to them and these were burned then and there, in the sanctuary. This done, the unrest subsided and the city was restored to order and quiet.

It wasn’t in the Crown’s interests for the barons and burgesses to have rid themselves of  their debts to the Jews. When King Richard, returned home from the crusades, the Jews had contributed three times as much as the whole city of London towards his ransom. One of the first things he initiated was a system of registering in duplicate all debts held by Jews. This meant that the taxes due to the king were safeguarded and the profit accruing to the Crown was a silent partner in all usurious transactions. Under Richard’s successors, the Jews continued to be subject to all kinds of taxes not required of others. These took the form of ‘tallages’ on goods, chattels, debts, gifts, offerings, licenses and a system of fines. If they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, pay they risked imprisonment, confiscation of property, eviction, the seizing of women and children and cruel tortures, including having their teeth extracted, their ears cut off or their eyes gouged out.   

 As for the tower? The timber was virtually destroyed in the massacre. Between 1190 and 1194, it was repaired, at great expense, and the mound was raised to its present height. In 1245, this second structure was destroyed by a storm. Under pressure from his wars with the Scottish, Henry III ordered the tower to be rebuilt and strengthened, this time in stone.  The task of designing it went to Master Simon of Northampton and Master Henry of Reynes, the senior carpenter and stonemason, respectively, in Windsor Castle.  

The result was a tower some 50ft (15m) high and 200 ft (61m) in diameter.  Its design is ‘quatrefoil’, with four overlapping circles, resembling a four leafed clover.  This design pattern was unique in England but has comparisons with one built at about the same time, thirty miles south of Paris, the Chateau d’Etampes. The express purpose of this shape was that any fires could be cornered and dealt with before they took hold and consumed the whole tower.

 After being decimated by fire, wind, and even water (the castle sunk into the moat causing the walls to crack in the 1350s) the next challenge came from a very unlikely source – the castle’s jailer, Robert Redhead.  In 1596 he began demolishing the tower and selling the stone as building material ‘for his own profit’.  He was only stopped after prolonged protests by the city council.

 The tower’s last military role began with the Civil War when, in 1642, it was again occupied by troops - first Royalists, then Parliamentarians.  A garrison of soldiers stayed in the tower until it was burnt out in a fire in 1684.

 It still isn’t entirely clear why it is called, ‘Clifford’s Tower’ today. Until 1596, it was known simply as the King’s Tower.  The name may be a reference to the fact that Roger de Clifford was hanged at the tower in 1322 for opposing Edward II, his body left hanging there for many years and seen everyday by those who passed by.  It may be because the Clifford family claimed that they were the hereditary constables of the tower. It may be the result of some quirky story that we are yet to discover.

In 1902 – 1903, an excavation was done. Some 12 feet (3.7metres) below the surface of the mound, a number of charred timbers were found and dated back to the massacre. Tangible reminders of the flames lit as the York Jews faced their darkest hour.  The massacre hasn’t been forgotten over the centuries. It has been immortalised in elegies by several Hebrew authors, including Ephraim of Bonn and Joseph of Chartres.  It was a long time in coming, but in recent years a plaque marking the event has been installed. No documentary evidence has been found of a cherem, a Jewish order of excommunication, on York, but it is widely accepted within the Jewish community that such an order existed. This cherem forbade Jews from settling within York’s city walls, and reflects the distaste with which they viewed the city.

On March 16, 2010 – 820 years later – a dignified service and a sheath of lilies reminds us, again, of the night that the York Jews refused to renounce their faith and the subsequent consequences, and, Clifford’s Tower stands as a potent reminder of religious and racial intolerance.

    ‘ Let them give glory unto the LORD, and declare his praise in the islands.’

                                                              -   ISAIAH XLII 12