“I have sent Brother Beorn to seek out our crowner.” Shading her eyes, Eleanor gazed down the path. The gate into the priory was not far from the mill, allowing villagers to carry their grain with ease from the road that passed by.
She frowned and turned to the sub-infirmarian. “You have looked at Kenelm’s corpse. If the murder took place here, so close to the mill, surely the dead body would have been found sooner. Ralf thinks the body was in the water for a couple of days. Might the death have occurred outside our priory as he believes?”
“I agree with Ralf about the length of time the body was in the water. Although there were cuts on Kenelm’s face, our crowner did not see the ones on his back. I cannot be sure about the cause, but they could mean his body was trapped by something underwater and only went over the mill wheel when the current finally pulled it loose.”
“Might those hidden marks have been caused by a fight?”
“The ones on his face perhaps,” the nun replied, “but the scrapes on his back suggest that something large hit him several times. If the body was trapped under the wheel, that would explain those wounds.”
“We must ask why anyone would kill another here.” Thomas looked around. “It is a crime only the impious or the mad would commit.”
They fell silent, and Eleanor felt cold despite the hot day. The monk was right, and she feared the answer.
Tyndal Priory had suffered violence within its walls before, but surely God’s servants had given Him no cause to curse them again. She required all her monks and nuns to obey the Rule on diet, labor, and prayer. The priory was respected for charity given and vows kept. Her own private transgressions she acknowledged and did hard penance. All mortals sinned, but, as far as she knew, her religious were no worse than those in other pious communities. Why must this priory endure so much bloodshed?
As if to belie the gravity of blood spilled on sacred ground, peace felt as tangible to Eleanor as this dense heat. She looked up at the sky. A growing number of clouds scudded overhead, hinting that another summer cloudburst was imminent. Birdsong was muted. Leaves rustled briefly as a sudden gust of sea breeze brought a hint of coolness down from the northern regions. If God were so angry, wouldn’t He give her some sign, something to point out the offense that must be corrected?
The prioress looked back at her two companions, regretting the question she must ask. “Do either of you know whether any of our monks, lay or choir, might have had a quarrel with Kenelm?”
“None of whom I was aware,” Thomas replied. He looked at Anne.
“Those within these walls had little opportunity to suffer injury from him. The dead man only arrived here after the harvest was taken in,” the nun said. “As our crowner suggested, Kenelm was not well-loved by the villagers who did have contact with him. I never met the man, but I have overheard resentful comments about him made by some coming to us for care.”
“Since his arrival, have any of our religious been given leave to go outside our walls?” Thomas asked.
Eleanor denied it.
“I have, and I never met him,” he said.
“When the lay brothers brought the body to the hospital, those who saw it assumed he was a traveler found dead on the road.” Anne paused for a moment. “Not all dwelling in our priory did see the corpse, but our nuns are sequestered and we have few monks.”
“Brother Gwydo is the only one who has not been here long,” Eleanor said.
Thomas shook his head. “Surely he could not have had anything to do with this.”
“It is unlikely, Brother,” Sister Anne said. “He has only just recovered enough strength to oversee the honey production, a light enough task for him. I do not think he would have been able to kill a man as strong as Kenelm, even if he had had cause.”
“There was the blow to the head,” the monk said, his reluctance in mentioning this quite evident. “If Kenelm was stunned, a weaker man could have cut his throat.”
“Brother Thomas and I examined the body.” Anne turned to Eleanor. “I concluded that the skull may have been cracked, but the blow did not kill him. Why the killer did not strike him again but instead cut his throat is a fair question.”
“The murderer wanted to make sure he was dead?” Thomas looked doubtful. “He was so angry he both struck him and cut his throat?”
“It is odd to do both. A man suffering frenzy will stab more than once, if he uses a knife, or hit his victim repeatedly, if he first struck him,” Anne said. “We know very little, in fact. I grieve that I could not find anything of especial note from my examination. I doubt the corpse has more to teach us.”
“Then we shall bury him,” Eleanor replied. In the summer heat, quick burial was obligatory. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Sister Anne.
After their return from Baron Herbert’s castle last winter, the sub-infirmarian had grown gaunt. Now, for the first time, there was a healthy blush in Anne’s cheeks and a long absent interest hovering in her eyes. “Your observations may own more merit than you think. I am grateful, and our crowner shall be as well,” the prioress said, feeling relief at the change in her friend.
Thomas, on the other hand, looked uneasy. “Do you still believe this matter belongs to the king’s justice?”
“The crime was committed on priory land,” Eleanor said. “Although we may feel confident that none of our religious were involved, I must still look more deeply into the question. Even if all of us are innocent, I must be kept informed and may wish to assist our crowner.” She smiled. “Ralf has always welcomed our assistance, so we shall freely offer our help.”
“But why did the crime occur at this spot?” Thomas rubbed sweat off his forehead. “It is but a short walk to the gate. If a quarrel burst out between two men, they would have left the priory to settle their differences. The forest or the road would have been the most likely place to fight. Why shed blood on God’s earth?”
“Like you, I am troubled by that,” Eleanor replied. Her gray eyes now matched the color of the darkening clouds. “I fear murder was not done within our walls by accident. There was a reason.”
Chapter Seven
Belia squeezed her mother’s arm with all her strength. Sweat ran down her face in rivulets.
Ignoring the pain of her daughter’s grip, Malka crooned to her with soft love, although she had just looked with dark anger at her son-in-law, Jacob ben Asser.
The young woman could not have owned more than twenty summers on earth, but her features resembled those of an ancient crone, sharp-edged and hollow-cheeked. When she opened her eyes, terror glittered from them. Death’s touch was one all mortals know. Belia stood at the edge of a grave and knew the space would fit her well.
“Sleep, my dove,” the mother said. “The pain shall pass. This is but any woman’s trial. Did I not bear you and your three brothers?” She shrugged. “And here I sit beside you, no worse for it all. You will soon forget this labor when the babe lies safely in your arms. That, I promise.” Smiling, she kissed her daughter’s cheek.
Belia nodded weakly, her jaw briefly setting with determination before her eyelids, once again, grew too heavy. The pain must have lessened. She fell into an uneasy sleep.
Slipping away from her child’s loosening grasp, Malka rose and motioned for Jacob to step away from the large-bellied woman who was his suffering wife.
They walked just outside the stall, more suited to housing a horse than three adults. One young servant leapt to her feet in anticipation of some request. Jacob shook his head and asked her to stand some distance away so he and his mother-in-law might speak in private.
“She needs more than I can give her,” Malka said.
“And you are all she has,” he replied in a broken whisper. From his eyes, tears rolled down his smooth-shaven cheeks like a flash-flood. He gestured discreetly at the servant. “That o
ne is but a child.”
“Tell me how I shall aid her in birth with these?” The mother stretched forth her hands. The fingers were bent, some backwards and others sideways, the knuckles were huge, and the skin red. “I would kill her and the babe, even if I had the strength to pull the child into the world. She needs a midwife.”
“Had we reached Norwich, we’d have had our choice of skilled women.” He pointed toward the opening in the unfinished wall. “Here we are surrounded by those who hate us.” He grimaced. “The innkeeper offered to send for a nun. A nun! One who would have baptized the child, stolen the babe before he could suck his own mother’s milk, and passed him to a Christian family to raise. How…” He buried his head in his hands.
Malka turned away, her jaw set with anger, looking much as her daughter had before falling asleep.
From inside the stall, Belia whimpered, and the mother now lost her resolve as well. Tears wound their way through the creases in her cheeks.
Jacob put his arm around her shoulders. She rested her head on his.
Quietly, the two wept.
From outside the partially completed stable, a man’s voice suddenly roared. “Let the scales of the Devil’s blindness drop from your eyes. Listen to God’s Will. Hear His Son’s cry. Be not a stiff-necked people and embrace the truth! Accept baptism. Be saved from Hell!”
The young servant cried out and braced herself against the wall, her widening eyes black with helpless terror.
A cry of anguish escaping from his lips, Jacob leapt to his feet.
His mother-in-law tried to grab his robe, but her hand found only air. “Do not go out there!”
Jacob looked down at her, fury turning his face as bright as fire. “No sooner do I rid us of one abuser than another takes his place. I will kill him!”
She took a deep breath. “Stay calm,” she whispered. “We dare not fight back, except with reason and gentle courtesy.”
“Those who scream such things at us own neither,” he hissed.
Again the man outside shouted: “Cease your dance with the Devil and accept the cleansing of baptism. Your willful denial of His truth corrupts all you touch. How long do you think God and good Christian men will tolerate this before you are destroyed like the evil ones in Sodom and Gomorrah?”
From the stall, Belia groaned.
Jacob put the heel of his hands against his eyes, then threw his head back and shook his fist at the door leading to the inn yard. “I cannot allow that fool to destroy what little peace my wife has! She bears a child. If she must do so in a horse stall with neither a gentle midwife nor a decent bed in which to nurse the babe, surely she should be allowed to sleep without this bellowing.”
Malka looked up at him, and her expression changed to weary resignation. “If you must go forth, do so with humility and a calm voice. Men who shout condemnation at us often hold swords and pitchforks with which to pierce our breasts, but a meek man has been known to soften even a lion’s heart. If you leave here with fist raised, you court death as surely as if you faced a wild beast. Shall your child never know his father?”
“All I want is for him to cease his ranting. Belia must gather her strength.” Jacob groaned. “But you are right. Shall I promise to listen to his preaching after the child is born? In Cambridge, I was forced to do so once a week. Another few hours of that is worth an hour of quiet for my wife.”
“And speak of charity, on your knees if you must, and say that you will ponder his words. Beg him for merciful compassion while you do.” Malka ran her hand along the seam of her robe as if considering the quality of the stitches. “Christians think they invented the virtue,” she said, glancing back at Jacob with a quick smile. “If it helps us all survive, let the man outside continue to believe it.”
Jacob bent down to kiss the top of his mother-in-law’s head. “It shall be as you say. You are wiser than I shall ever be.” His voice was soft with love for this woman, one who had not only given birth to his adored wife but had also embraced him as a son after his own mother had died.
Then he straightened, touched the yellow badge sewn on his robes by the order of King Edward, and walked out into the courtyard.
Chapter Eight
Ralf strode from the inn. The sun was bright in his eyes, but his mood darkened as he looked down the road at the crowds milling around the merchant stalls.
It was marketing day, a time for families to visit with friends and see what wondrous things had come with Norwich merchants or even from Cambridge. Women argued with butchers, men debated the merits of one tradesman’s wares over another’s, and laughing children ran around the legs of all.
A father holding his laughing son caught the crowner’s particular attention. He rubbed a hand over his eyes.
Signy was right. Although he loved his daughter to distraction, he had yet to remarry and produce an heir as he had promised his eldest brother. Fulke’s wife had long been barren, yet the man refused to find cause to divorce her, a choice that had warmed Ralf’s heart for just an instant. And in that regrettable moment of weakness, he had given his word that he would produce the requisite, legitimate heir as long as his next wife was of his own choosing.
Ever since, he had found innumerable reasons to avoid keeping that ill-advised oath. The problem was not in making his choice of wife. He knew the woman he would ask, but approaching his friend, Tostig, for permission to marry his sister made Ralf tremble like a virgin on the wedding night. He had grown to love Gytha; indeed he adored her too much.
A cloud passed over the sun, and the daylight faded to match his grayer mood.
He had already suffered rejection from the last woman he longed to marry for more years than he dared count. First, she had chosen another over him, then God. As for his late wife, she had been a good woman, but there had been no love between them. She had died birthing their daughter.
He shook his head and concluded that it was not only prudent for him to reject ties with all women, they were wise to avoid him as well. In silence he complained to God, protesting that He should never have created Eve. That apple aside, Adam’s life would have been far less complicated without her.
The question always came down to this: why would Gytha want to join with such a rough man as he? She was tender-hearted; he had grown cynical. Although he had some wealth, she could find merchants with softer ways and more coin than he. In short, he had nothing to offer, apart from one promise never take her away from the village she loved and another to worship the earth wherever she set her feet.
Maybe she would consent if he phrased his plea as a kindness to his daughter, a child she loved as much as if she had borne Sibely herself. But his throat went dry when he tried to ask and the words died in his mouth. Another opportunity would pass. He feared Gytha would flee if he told her how much he loved her, and his daughter would lose the warmth of the maid’s love. He did not dare chance that.
But today he had intended an innocent outing with Gytha. All he had planned to do was carry her basket while she shopped for Prioress Eleanor’s table. Oh, he had hoped to surprise her with a small gift as well, but only to thank her for the happiness she brought his daughter. At no point would he even hint at how much joy her company brought him too.
He growled like a cornered dog. Instead of an enjoyable afternoon, he had a murder to solve, and a popular one at that. Gytha’s pleasant image fled his soul, replaced by that of a butchered corpse.
He knew no one would cooperate and could already hear the village response to his queries: “’Twas a stranger that did it, Crowner! I swear I saw him, dagger in hand, running down the road. Why did I not stop him? Do you think me daft? He had a knife! Do I remember how he looked? Maybe short. Brown hair, perhaps light, nay, dark…”
Ralf cursed. Now he must talk with the Jewish family and decide if their quarrel with Kenelm was sharp enough for a
killing. And the wife was close to giving birth? He did not like this situation at all.
Then he remembered he had offered to loan the innkeeper his sergeant to guard this family. His spirit instantly brightened. He could leave the inquiry of them to Cuthbert!
As if called in answer to his prayer, the sergeant walked around the corner from the inn. Ralf began to smile, then felt his stomach fill with fire. Either the man’s grim expression meant something unpleasant, or else that last jack of ale he had drunk with the innkeeper had been unwise.
Cuthbert raised a hand in greeting. “Brother Beorn met me on the road and sent news you must hear.”
Ralf grunted.
“Brother Gwydo and Brother Thomas found blood that suggests Kenelm was killed on priory grounds.”
Kicking a stone with such force that it almost hit a passing villager in the back, Ralf uttered a colorful oath.
“Need I continue looking upstream? I have found nothing of value and…”
“I have another task for you, one that will better merit your time.” Looking back at the inn, Ralf wondered how much of that good ale was still left. As he considered the implications of this new information, the prospect of another jug of the inn’s finest regained appeal. “As for the priory, I had hoped not to trouble them with this death.”
“Prioress Eleanor also sent word that she would meet with you and shall assist as much as possible.”
“Which means she will investigate the matter herself if she suspects the involvement of any of her religious.”
Cuthbert nodded, his expression wisely void of meaning.
“I will seek an audience with her later,” Ralf said. At least the visit might bring him a moment with Gytha. “Come.” He put a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder and aimed him along the path leading to the partially completed stables behind the inn.
The Sanctity of Hate Page 4
