The Sanctity of Hate

by Priscilla Royal

  As for the monks, they were few in number and, again, most had been in residence long before she arrived. Brother Thomas was more recent, but he had entered Tyndal shortly after she did.

  She had already spoken with Prior Andrew about those under his authority, both lay and choir brothers. After that trouble when Father Eliduc visited two summers ago, she was confident Andrew had thoroughly investigated the possibility that a monk might have killed Kenelm. According to the prior, no one knew this man who had come so recently to the village. Gossip always breached priory walls, but only one monk admitted he had heard the dead man’s name.

  That left the lay brothers, who labored in the fields or hospital so the choir monks might spend a greater portion of their hours on their knees. Beseeching God to save the souls of His flawed creation kept the latter too busy to harvest or tend coughs. Many courtiers had paid for this mercy, with land or other wealth given to the priory. There were many lay brothers at Tyndal as a consequence.

  Last evening, Andrew had questioned the eldest and most reliable of the lay brothers. Although Brother Beorn was quarrelsome and judgmental, the man struggled to be fair, humbly prefacing his remarks with a warning that he suffered many imperfections. After uttering complaints about the laziness of one lay brother and the garrulousness of another, Brother Beorn finally mentioned Brother Gwydo, the newest member at the priory. Prior Andrew told his prioress that Beorn was uncharacteristically reluctant to speak ill of the man, yet he had expressed some unease.

  Both she and Prior Andrew had approved Gwydo’s plea to remain here for the rest of his days. Having been a soldier, Andrew especially understood the need for a man to leave a warrior’s life, no matter how noble the cause of war. Eleanor’s eldest brother had joined King Edward on crusade, and she had seen the change wrought in her once joyful sibling. The decision to admit Gwydo was an easy one.

  When she asked the cause of Beorn’s discomfort, Andrew had shaken his head and confirmed that the elder lay brother could not explain it. “I have often thought Brother Gwydo to be of higher birth than he has claimed,” the prior said. “Once he responded when Brother Thomas used a Latin phrase as if he knew the language. That suggests more education than a common soldier might own.”

  “Or else his parish priest taught him, hoping the bright lad might find a calling with the Church,” Eleanor had replied.

  Perhaps they should have questioned Gwydo more about his past, she wondered, but he had come to their hospital to die, his eventual survival counting as one of the many miracles here.

  Now sitting in the garth and watching a bumblebee roll inside a bright pink flower, she could think of no good reason to suspect a man of murder because he might know a little Latin or be a soldier of undisclosed rank. A desire for humble service should be cause for celebration, not suspicion, especially if the supplicant was of high rank. A rare event perhaps, but there were examples to be found amongst the saints.

  Watching the bee fly away, she rose and began to stroll along the gravel pathways of the garth, keeping her thoughts still. Here and there, Eleanor paused to smell a sweet scent or wonder at the delicate beauty of the local wildflowers Sister Edith chose to intermingle with other flowers deemed nobler.

  She glanced behind her.

  Her cat followed, now accompanied by a brown-striped female of his ilk.

  Eleanor chuckled. Her beloved Arthur had shown extraordinary devotion to this particular cat, who served to keep the hospital free of offending rodents. This pair must have produced enough kittens over the last six years to rid all East Anglia of mice and rats.

  Had she truly been prioress that long? Naïve as she may have been when first appointed to the position by King Henry III, she had lost much innocence since her twentieth year. Although Brother Gwydo did not trouble her for the same reasons he did Brother Beorn, she could not assume he was completely innocent of any wrong. Since he was the newest member of the priory, and the one whose past was least well known, she must seek more information about the man. If there was anything pertinent found, she would consider the details with an uncompromising impartiality. Any error made in approving his entrance would be hers, a mistake she’d openly confess.

  Hearing the bells ring for the next office, she was thankful. Her prayers would include a plea that God grant her that clear and just mind she needed. In this, He had rarely failed her.

  And soon she would meet with Crowner Ralf, show him the latest findings, and pose her questions. In truth, what troubled her most was not that one of her religious might have sinned but that the crime had been committed on priory land. There was no doubt in her mind that there was a reason for that.

  Might the killer have such an extreme quarrel with Tyndal that he would ignore God’s wrath to shed blood here? That conclusion seemed unlikely, yet… She willed herself not to think further on that.

  Taking one last deep breath of the summer air, Prioress Eleanor turned into the path that led to the chapel.

  As she drew closer to God’s house, she felt lighter in spirit. Surely she had done all she could, given what she knew of Kenelm’s death. Sending Brother Thomas to visit the baker, Oseberne, and his son, Adelard, was a good decision. Of course her monk’s opinion on the suitability of the young man as a novice was crucial, but she also knew Thomas would take time to learn more about the dead man as she had suggested. Whether gossip or fact, something must cast light on why this slaying had been done and why in Tyndal. She should not worry about possibilities without cause.

  Just before she left the garth, she heard a noise and looked over her shoulder. Her cat and his lady were just slipping into the greenery, those loud meows suggestive of amorous intent.

  More kittens to terrify mice and serve God? Amused, she laughed quietly but suspected He might share her mirth.

  Chapter Twelve

  Standing behind his kneeling son, Oseberne stared without blinking at the monk and waited.

  Adelard’s eyes glowed with rampant hope.

  Thomas bowed his head to gain some time before continuing this difficult interview. Someone else ought to have been sent here. Of all people, he had no right to render judgment on any suppliant novice. Never had he had a true calling and, considering his ongoing quarrel with God, his own faith was questionable.

  Taking a deep breath, he avoided the father’s sharp gaze and turned his attention back to the youth. Looking upon him with feigned gravity, Thomas prayed he appeared sufficiently pious.

  The baker cleared his throat with undisguised impatience.

  Thomas fought against his dislike of Adelard. After his experience two summers ago, he had become uncomfortable around those who were too eager to convince others of their devotion to God. He preferred the faithful who quietly served with simple compassion, like Sister Anne and Sister Christina. The baker’s son crowed for attention.

  “I see so much evil in the world, Brother,” Adelard was saying, his eyes squeezed shut and his prayerful hands clenched so fiercely that the outline of the knuckles shone through the flesh.

  The father grunted approvingly, his red jowls trembling with fervor. Beside him stood his youngest son, a spotty-faced child approaching the cusp of manhood whose body stank more than most. The lad scratched at a round, scaly patch near his ear, and a drop of blood began to weave down his neck.

  “The final days of this wicked earth must be nigh. I expect soon to hear the trumpets declaring the End.”

  Although Thomas had no doubt that the world must end as the gospels proclaimed, he often wondered if the last day might come, not with the expected roaring but rather a preternatural silence. Man had always been so boisterous with wickedness that a sudden quietness might be more terrifying than the clashing of swords and belching of fire-spitting dragons. He blinked, realizing he had not responded. “Why do you say so, my son?”

  “Do not the Jews roam fr
eely amongst good Christian men?”

  An odd remark, especially after the king had just restricted all Jewish families to living in the small number of archa towns. That seemed more a constraint on movement than any increased freedom. Thomas did not try to hide his confusion. It was, after all, his purpose here to query, not to teach. “Explain that statement more fully.”

  Adelard seemed at a loss to reply and looked over his shoulder at his father.

  “What need is there to say more?” The baker stiffened. “I, myself, have seen the horns on their heads and smelled the Devil’s fetid smoke exuding from them. Their presence contaminated Tyndal village over the winter and early spring, and now their malignant influence befouls us again with the arrival of this current family. Surely your priory has felt their evil clawing at your own stone walls.”

  Thomas wrinkled his nose. The only odor he noticed came from the baker’s youngest son. No matter what Oseberne and his eldest son believed, Thomas most certainly had never seen horns or smelled Satan’s breath in his contacts with the king’s people.

  As a matter of fact, Thomas agreed with those Church leaders who urged patience over the slow conversion of the Jews to Christianity. Did Saint Paul not say in his letter to the Romans that all Gentiles must first be converted and then Israel? As far as the monk knew, there were many more people left in that former category.

  Adelard nodded with enthusiasm. “The Jews have overwhelmed our land!” His gaze grew distant and his face turned bright with passion. Although he lacked his father’s jowls, his face matched the paternal color well.

  “The roads have been filled with the creatures,” Oseberne added. “I fear for the safety of the children in this village! Remember how our sainted William was crucified by them in Norwich!” Sweat glistened in the furrows that crossed his brow, and he nodded pointedly at his youngest son.

  Bored, the boy had begun to rock from side to side.

  “And since no child here has suffered injury, Master Baker, your fears are for naught.” As far as Thomas was concerned, this exodus was no apocalyptical sign but the result solely of a secular, political decision. “After our king and his mother ordered the Jews to leave Cambridge, most came through here on the way to Norwich. They stayed no longer than one night before departing. The village gained in coin. The priory suffered no harm.”

  “We had children die of fever last winter,” Oseberne snapped.

  “We grieve for all parents who suffered a child’s death, but Sister Anne says fewer died here than usual.”

  The baker stared at Thomas’ feet, as if confirming that he lacked cloven hooves, then shook his head.

  “Was not Kenelm slaughtered on priory ground?” Adelard raised a finger heavenward. “And we have a Jewish family here now. Surely these facts together have meaning.”

  Thomas felt his earlier unease grow even greater. How swiftly that detail of Kenelm’s death had spread.

  Oseberne dropped a hand heavily on his eldest son’s shoulder. “If they cannot pollute wells, they will be driven to find some other way to profane our holy ground.”

  “How did you learn that tale?” Thomas frowned.

  “My son heard some women talking about it after they left my stall.” The baker squeezed his fingers around Adelard’s collar bone. “My special loaves are popular with many.”

  The lad winced, then nodded.

  Thomas felt a shiver of fear. These accusations of sacrilege, voiced by the baker, were becoming more common. The safer days of Henry II’s reign, a king who did not tolerate harassment of the Jewish community, were long past. This current king was pulling back both his favor and protection.

  As for these tales of fouling water, crucifying children, or drinking Christian blood, he knew they were slanders born of hate, and the stories were often used to explain unsolved murders and other violence. In this matter of Kenelm’s death, the myths suited those fearful of an unknown killer and longing to turn the accusing finger away from a village man and toward a much preferred scapegoat.

  The youngest son began to tug on his father’s sleeve.

  Oseberne growled at him.

  Grimacing, the child cupped his hand between his legs.

  Thomas hoped the baker would let the boy go relieve himself elsewhere.

  Oseberne grunted and waved his hand.

  The youngster fled.

  “Are you suggesting these travelers killed their own guard?” Thomas now welcomed the shift in discussion. He was straying from his obligation to dig deeper into Adelard’s longing for priory life, but Prioress Eleanor had also hoped he might gather useful information about the killing.

  Adelard looked amazed, as if the question lacked all reason. “Kenelm was undoubtedly full of sin, but wasn’t he still a Christian? They hate us as the Devil tells them they should. Of course they killed him!”

  Even if the family housed in Signy’s stable did hate Christians, Thomas thought, they would have been preternaturally stupid if they killed the one person hired to protect them. The Jewish men he had met in his clerical days had been neither better nor worse than those of Christian faith and certainly possessed the same measure of wits.

  Oseberne and Adelard gazed at the monk, eagerly anticipating his reply.

  “An odd thing to do, however. Surely they have heard how others of their faith suffered theft and harassment despite the king’s plea that they be allowed to travel in safety. Without Kenelm, they lacked any shield against violence.”

  Straightening his back, Adelard proved to be his father’s true son as he released a fulsome snort. “Knowing these people to be the Devil’s spawn, I watched them. Not long before his body was found, Kenelm mocked the Jew’s faith. Surely he was killed for the truth of his words.”

  Once again the father’s hand clutched Adelard’s shoulder and squeezed it. “My son heard the man called Jacob argue with the dead man. They scuffled.” Oseberne looked down at his son who tilted his head back to stare up at his father. “Did you not overhear the Jew threaten to kill his Christian guard?”

  Adelard looked back at the monk and nodded with enthusiasm.

  “It is not surprising that Kenelm was found dead in the priory mill pond. Is that not a sacrilege?” The baker hesitated, and then his scowl fled to be replaced with a delighted smile. “And a deliberate contamination of your water! The stream is like your well, is it not?”

  Thomas shuddered. His qualms regarding what these rumors might bring were coming to fruition.

  “Now you see, Brother, how these wicked people have committed violence against us.” Adelard lifted his silver cross and kissed it.

  “I shall report your words to our crowner,” the monk said. “He may wish to question you.” And he would alert his prioress as well. He could only hope that Adelard had not already spread this story amongst the villagers but suspected the damage had already been done.

  Oseberne was looking at his son’s cross with pride. “I gave him that,” he said to the monk.

  Does this man care only about his fine loaves and being perceived as a man able to buy a silver cross? Thomas was annoyed but knew he must now pull himself back from inquiring into Kenelm’s death and return to the stated purpose of his visit here.

  Glancing down at the youth, he saw a shadow pass over Adelard’s face as he contemplated that silver cross of which his father boasted. Then the monk looked back at the baker standing behind his son. The man was imposing in size, his son frail by comparison. It was easy to see how such an intimidating father could impose his will on the young man.

  It was an observation worth pursuing. Just how much of the youth’s proclaimed passion for the cloister came from Oseberne and how much desire for the religious life arose from Adelard’s own heart? If this youth’s calling was sincere, the monk hoped it had a gentler side that could be cultivated. That roug
h-edged fanaticism made Adelard sound like a younger version of his father. In Thomas’ opinion, hate might be better applied to pounding bread dough than taking on a monk’s life.

  “Whatever the resolution of this murder, the presence of Jews in Tyndal shall be temporary, but, if you are accepted as a novice at Tyndal priory, that shall last a lifetime. Surely you have reasons for longing to abandon the world other than a hatred of the Jews.”

  “Women! I can no longer bear their presence. By day, they play the honest virgin. At night, they whore. My dreams are so rife with succubae that I cannot sleep and instead war against the darkness with the sharp sword of prayer.”

  Recalling his own dismay at the same age when a light touch on his groin might transform him into a leering satyr, he suspected Adelard suffered a similar shame and fear. “Satan often sends his imps to torment men at night.” His voice was gentle with understanding.

  “But the whores are not just in dreams! They walk the earth and lure good men into their foul embrace.” He glanced back at his father. “Not all, of course. My mother was so chaste that she must be in Heaven now.”

  Thomas knew he had not imagined the baker’s wince before the widower lowered his gaze and nodded.

  “You have witnessed this evil yourself, my son?” The monk prepared to hear Adelard name every young woman in the village who might have shared a kiss with a youth.

  Adelard’s expression turned sly. “Lust infects many, Brother.”

  The monk froze as if the young man had caught him in some lewd act. Thomas quickly reminded himself that the subject was wanton women, a temptation to which he had long been immune. “You have proof?” he asked again.