The Sanctity of Hate

by Priscilla Royal

  “Of course, the Jewish family has been accused,” Eleanor said, “condemned by a false legend in which they poison wells. Even if we were inclined to wonder if this one instance might be true, the facts disprove it. Not only why but how could one woman about to give birth, another with hands so twisted she could not assist in the birth, and a frightened husband slay the sole person who protected them from theft and other forms of persecution? So we must ask: who would profit by casting suspicion upon them, an accusation least likely to be questioned as evidenced by the village riot?”

  “We have also not resolved the question of why the silver cross was found by Brother Gwydo’s body. With great zeal, Adelard joined the rioters,” Thomas said. “He might have killed Kenelm because the man protected the very people the youth believed were infidels. Since he thought our lay brother had sinned, he may have strangled him as well, and yet…”

  “You believe him to have changed. When you spoke of Pope Gregory’s letter, you said his certainty in the right to kill Jews was shaken.” Ralf shrugged to suggest he found this explanation a thin one.

  “He was attacked himself,” Thomas added. “That is a stronger argument against his guilt.”

  “You are both reasonable men.” Eleanor smiled, although the knuckles of her folded hands were white from gripping them together. “Might we conclude, for good cause, that Master Jacob is innocent of killing Kenelm and Brother Gwydo as well as the attack on Adelard?”

  “To do any of those things would have put his family in danger, and he is not a fool,” Ralf said.

  Thomas nodded.

  “Adelard may have had reason to kill Kenelm or even Brother Gwydo.” The prioress looked at Brother Thomas.

  “But he could not have attacked himself. I think he would have confessed murder to me, my lady. He is deeply troubled by fear of having offended God in light of what both Pope Gregory and St. Bernard have said. He also worries that his father has led him into sin by insisting he help with the thefts. Had he committed murder, his current state of mind would have driven him to cleanse his soul even at the cost of the hangman’s noose.”

  “I do not share your belief that he would care more for his soul than his neck, but you have spoken to him. I have not.” Ralf gnawed his finger.

  “He has begged admission to the priory, Crowner,” Eleanor said softly.

  “You have never allowed a known murderer to take vows, my lady!”

  “Nor would I now, but I mention it to suggest that some men do care more for their souls than their necks. Considering his prior interest in a monastic life, this one might.”

  He bowed with deference.

  Eleanor acknowledged the gesture with grace but also knew that he had not changed his opinion. “Let me suggest another path to follow for a moment,” she said. “Is Oseberne, the baker, our killer?”

  “He stole from the Jews,” Thomas said.

  “So his son claims and further states that his father required him to spy on the travelers to determine what wealth they carried,” the crowner replied. “Is the son’s word trustworthy?”

  “I believe it is,” Thomas said. He had no proof, but Adelard could have accused his father of both stealing and murder earlier if he wanted to save himself. Instead, he had refused to talk to the crowner without first seeking a priest’s advice. The youth’s torment over his filial duty was convincing, and the only crime he said his father had committed was robbery.

  “Is there a connection between the thefts and Kenelm’s murder?” Eleanor gestured to the monk. “Can you see an argument in favor of that premise?”

  “Kenelm was hired to protect the families after they suffered from thievery. He could have caught the baker stealing. Since the guard was reputed to love coin above honor, perhaps he demanded payment to remain silent.” Thomas looked up at the ceiling.

  Eleanor thought for a moment. “If he killed Kenelm, surely he was the one who pushed the body into our mill pond. He is a strong enough man to have done both. But why? He is a man of faith.”

  “To suggest that the Jewish family did it to poison our water, thus draping his crime in the robes of common myth. Kenelm was not liked here. Master Jacob and his family are hated for their faith. No one wanted a village man to be condemned.” Thomas’ face colored with anger. “Men are so easily turned away from displeasing truths by more satisfying lies.”

  “And Brother Gwydo might have been killed because he saw the baker kill the guard?” Ralf did not sound satisfied with the idea.

  “If he had witnessed it, he would have come to me,” Eleanor said. “He might have seen Oseberne do something that troubled him, but I doubt he saw him push the body into the pond. Again, he would have told me about that. I suspect he did not recognize the baker. Our lay brother knew few in the village.” She turned to Thomas. “He took you to the place where the body entered the water but did not name any man.”

  The monk confirmed it. “Oseberne may have feared Brother Gwydo saw more than he actually did. Perhaps our brother heard a loud splash and only saw some man walk back to the road? He had no cause to question this further until he found the body floating in the pond. Then, as Brother Gwydo told me, he did examine the area further.” Thomas clenched his fist. “In truth, there was no reason at all for the murderer to have killed our lay brother. Brother Gwydo saw nothing!”

  “There is still the silver cross,” Ralf said.

  “What father casts blame on his son, knowing he might hang for a deed he did not commit?” Thomas’ expression showed his outrage over such an act. “If the baker found the cross his son had lost, why would he drop it next to our lay brother’s body? I may not like Oseberne’s thievery, and may even believe him to be a killer, but I cannot accept that he would want his son to face a hangman’s noose!”

  “We do not know why the cross was dropped there,” Eleanor said. “We could continue to speculate, but there is little value in that until we have more facts.”

  “I did find it some steps away,” the monk said, unwilling to set this problem aside. “It is possible that the cross was never intended to cast guilt upon Adelard. Yet how can we accept that a father would strike his son so brutally and leave him for dead?”

  “He might not have intended to kill his son,” Eleanor said. “The attack took place near Master Jacob’s stall.” She turned to Ralf. “As you told me after you arrested him, if the village believed him guilty of killing Kenelm, a crime that took place some distance away, the villagers would be more likely to condemn him for a villainy committed just outside his door.”

  “Once again suspicion is cast upon the Jews,” Ralf said, “as it was when the corpse was dropped into your pond.”

  “If the baker is guilty of Kenelm’s death, he seems to have killed the one he thought might have witnessed the deed. We have no other reason for his assumed violence against our lay brother.” Eleanor looked at each of the men, waiting for a response.

  Thomas paled.

  Ralf stared at the monk. “Which leaves one more in danger.” He turned to the prioress, horror painting his face gray. “Where is Mistress Gytha?”

  “Not within the safety of our priory,” Eleanor said, color fleeing her cheeks as well. “Because we believed all danger was over, I gave her permission to visit her brother. She has left to…”

  Ralf roared a curse that might have offended had it not been born of terror.

  Eleanor leapt to her feet.

  The heavy door of the chambers crashed against the wall.

  The crowner had fled the room.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Nute had directed Gytha to the cooking shed behind the inn. As she turned the corner, she saw Signy in conversation with the inn’s cook, a woman of impressive heft, a ruddy face, and autumn brown eyes. Her plump arms waved in the air like a fat bird attempting flight.

&nb
sp; The innkeeper tossed her head back and laughed.

  Although she had long known Signy, Gytha often marveled at the woman’s beauty, a reaction shared by men and women alike. The red highlights of the innkeeper’s blonde hair flashed in the sun. Her breasts promised intense joy, then soft ease to a fortunate lover. Yet this woman kept men at arms’ length, dressed plainly, and devoted all her love to two adopted orphans and any villagers in need. The cook was one of the latter, a widow whose fisherman husband had drowned in a sudden gale.

  Signy turned to see the prioress’ maid and bid her join them. After sharing jests over one well known village sot, the cook pointed to the bubbling pot and asked for a critical tasting of her rabbit stew. Although Gytha never thought the cook had cause for worry, her skills adding to the reasons this inn was a favored stop on the road to Norwich, the maid dutifully sipped the broth and considered the flavor for a convincing moment. “The seasoning is perfect,” she said with a broad smile.

  The cook put a hand to her heart, looked to scudding clouds overhead, and exhaled with relief as if granted a miracle.

  “Come,” Signy said, taking Gytha’s arm. As they walked away, the innkeeper bent toward the maid’s ear: “You are troubled,” she murmured.

  “I need your advice.”

  “Stop for awhile, and you shall have my opinion, plain as it always is. Are you hungry or thirsty?”

  Gytha shook her head.

  “Not thirsty in this heat? Then your problem is no small thing. We shall talk in my room.”

  As they approached the small hut, a large dog rose to his feet and wagged his dusty tail. Signy greeted the happy beast with a soft touch, then gave him an even more welcome gift from the cooking shed. With a grunt of joy, he settled in to enjoy the meal.

  The innkeeper invited Gytha to enter and shut the huge wooden slab of a door behind them. After she inherited the inn, she had replaced the small space allotted her as the inn’s serving wench. Her uncle might have found an enclosed portion of the loft suitable for his needs, but his niece required a strong door and thick walls.

  She pulled a bench away from the wall and offered Gytha a seat. The room was small but adequate for a woman with two small children. Against one wall, a few toys were neatly placed out of the way, as were the rolled-up bedding and straw-stuffed mattresses on which the children slept.

  “It is Ralf,” Gytha said with her accustomed directness.

  Signy smiled. “Is he still unable to admit his love for you?”

  The young woman blushed. “He has decided I am not suitable for him.”

  Looking down her nose, the innkeeper scoffed. “Now what has that foolish man done?”

  Gytha hesitated, and then told the innkeeper about the struggle with Kenelm and her escape into the forest.

  Taking her friend’s hand, Signy expressed sympathy. “And you kept this to yourself? Not even telling your prioress? How you have suffered!”

  “I was ashamed but would have confided in Prioress Eleanor had Kenelm not been murdered. Then I grew fearful, but she saw my turmoil and drew the truth from me. Because the man was killed, she said I must tell Ralf. Without doubt she was right, but the conversation with him turned cruel.” Gytha spoke of his angry manner and rude questions. “Prioress Eleanor berated him for insulting my virtue,” she said. “He sputtered and fussed, but she silenced him.”

  “Our prioress may be convent-raised, but she is no innocent,” Signy said. “And the crowner will suffer from the wounds her sharp rebukes gave him.” Nodding, she added, “Each pain is one he well deserves for his cruelty to you.”

  “Then I should not forgive him and am a fool to love him.” Gytha looked away.

  “All lovers are fools. It is our mortal nature, but that is no reason to turn your heart into stone.” She reached out with gentle hand and made Gytha face her, noting her damp cheeks.

  “But I must now seek another as husband.”

  “I did not say that. Ralf is a Norman and is no different from his ancestors who conquered our land under William the Bastard. He is rough, crude, and takes when he ought to beg leave.”

  That produced a brief smile from the prioress’ maid.

  “But his heart is tender, and he suffers when he hurts those he does not mean to harm.”

  Gytha sighed and waited for her friend to continue. She had never asked Signy if the crowner had once been her lover and had treated her ill, as rumors suggested. Nor would she mention it, for she felt no jealousy and loved Signy like a sister. What may have happened was long ago and long over. Like most women, Gytha believed that all Eve’s daughters had the right to keep secrets in a world where truth often hurt women deeply.

  “He loves you, lass, as does his daughter. He would marry you for Sibley’s sake, if not his own, but it is the love he bears you that makes him draw back from confessing it. As he should, Ralf thinks he is too rough a man for the tender creature he sees in you.”

  “I am not bruised so easily,” Gytha protested.

  “Few of us are, but, when he looks at you, he sees skin as pink and soft as a rose petal in early morning. He studies his callused hands and worries they will mark you. He longs to wake up with your hair soft against his cheek, then rubs his prickly beard and fears it will scratch if he kisses you.”

  The innkeeper patted the young woman’s hand, then stood, fetched a jug of cooled ale with two cups, and set them on the bench between them. She poured and passed a mazer to the maid. “And he should have qualms about marrying you, Gytha, for he will hurt you in many ways, some of which he cannot help.”

  “If you mean childbirth, I do not fear it.”

  “That was not all I meant. He is crowner here, a position that is honorable and appropriate to his birth but dangerous because of the crimes he must solve.”

  “It would be less perilous were he dishonest and accepted bribes, but I love him almost as much for his integrity as I do for his broad shoulders.” Gytha blushed with a self-conscious smile.

  “And aren’t they though!” Signy laughed, then turned solemn. “That pursuit of true justice may bring him more trouble. King Edward rightly abhors the laxity allowed by his father in matters of law, but he may require an obedience that does not suit our crowner. Ralf has always kept to his own path. When his father died, he turned over his small inheritance to his eldest brother and became a mercenary, choosing to earn his own wealth. He came back a man of some means, more than any here would know from his stained clothes and scuffed boots, and is just as stubborn as he was before he exiled himself.”

  “Tostig says the brothers have made peace, and Sir Fulke frequents the king’s court. Surely that provides Ralf some protection.”

  “Do not assume Sir Fulke would shield our Ralf. He was one of the few sheriffs to keep his post after King Edward returned to England and may believe that the king has granted him all the favor he dare expect. As for Ralf, we both know he is not a man who speaks softly or practices a graceful bow. He has refused to return to court or to marry another lady of rank. Instead, he remains here, chooses his friends amongst us and most probably his wife as well.”

  “That I shall not be. My brother may be honored with his friendship. He scorns me.”

  “Without doubt he has insulted you, but it was done in private. Most men would have shouted to all and sundry on market days that you were a whore, then called themselves virtuous for doing so. He did not do that.”

  “He has never treated me dishonorably until now.”

  “Although you are both virtuous and of worthy ancestry, Ralf stands higher in rank. Another man of his birth would have tried to make you his leman with no promise of wedding vows even if you quickened with his child.”

  Gytha flushed. “He has never begged me to share his bed, let alone lain with me against my will.”

  “Like most of hi
s sex, Ralf wants to take a wife who is a virgin.”

  “As I remain.”

  Signy bent closer. “Of that I have no doubt, nor does your prioress, but consider what Ralf thought when he heard your story. He has behaved honorably, although I am sure it was with difficulty. Then he learned that another man tried to couple with you even if that was against your will. He was unable to think beyond the possibility that Kenelm might have stolen what he had wanted but denied himself. His rage blinded him to both truth and reason.”

  “Prioress Eleanor reminded him that virginity can be proven. He chose not to accept that or take my word. I find that intolerable.”

  Signy sipped her ale. “Ralf sinned against you. The difference between him and many others is that he regrets it and does not know how to beg forgiveness. For all his flaws, and he suffers many, he wants to be a good man and longs for a wife who knows him well, will listen to his doubts, forgive his weaknesses, but will keep all his secrets safe within her heart. That woman is you.”

  “You think he will ever ask my pardon?”

  Signy’s expression grew vague for a brief moment as if a forgotten memory had returned. She shook it away and smiled at the younger woman. “It will take him a while but he will. If he does, I advise you to forgive him. There are many men with greater wealth and softer hands that would wed you, but few of them are Ralf’s match in other ways.”

  “I shall think on it as I go back to Tyndal,” Gytha said. “You are a wise and good friend.”

  “Neither sage nor worthy, I am afraid, but merely selfish,” Signy replied with a laugh. “If you married some fine merchant from the north or the south, I would lose your companionship.”

  Gytha bent over to kiss the innkeeper’s cheek. The two women rose, and Signy accompanied her to the door. Outside, the dog panted in contentment after his fine meal. He wagged briefly when Gytha spoke to him as she passed by.

  ***

  Walking slowly back to the priory, she pondered what the innkeeper had said. Signy was wise, and she ought to take her advice. Although Gytha believed in charity, she never thought it prudent when reason suggested caution, but Ralf would not ridicule, beat her, or be disloyal. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy her teasing ways and blunt speech. Their times together had been warmed by good humor and easy conversation. He often sought her opinion and listened without disparagement. A goldsmith might drape her in rich ornaments. Ralf would give her gifts she valued more, even if he did lack in certain courtesies.