Sanctity of Hate mm-9

by Priscilla Royal

  Dragging himself out of the prickly branches, he twisted around to feel his tender ankle and asked why God would allow some monster to kill a virtuous, good-hearted and beautiful woman like Gytha, one who deserved only blessings for her kindness. It was a question to which he found no answer as he reached out to a branch and began pulling himself upright.

  Something behind him snapped.

  The blow that struck the back of his head threw him into a night no darker than the one in which his soul had already plunged.

  30

  Thomas closed the mill gate and looked east toward the village, then back down the road to the west.

  The crowner had disappeared.

  Considering what he should do, the monk decided that Ralf must have gone to Tostig’s house in case Gytha was there. Perhaps he would even stop at Oseberne’s bakery to see if he could catch the man burning bloody clothes in his oven. To duplicate all that seemed a waste of time. If the crowner had found Gytha, he would soon be bringing her back to the priory. If he found Oseberne, he would take the baker into custody and question him. So where should he begin? Where might the crowner not yet have looked? With luck, he would meet Ralf somewhere.

  At least Prioress Eleanor had sent him to offer what help he could. If she had not, he would have begged her to allow it. Until Gytha was found, he could not remain at peace. When his fellow religious went to chapel for the next Office, his spirit would have remained tethered to this earthly worry. He knew he should at least pretend to find complete comfort in prayer, but God would know him for a liar if he feigned to be better than he was.

  He shuddered. There was another reason to join in the search for Gytha. Were the maid found dead, Thomas could at least offer her hovering soul the comfort of forgiveness. The prioress may have concluded the same when she sent him off.

  “Please be merciful to those of us who love her,” he murmured, “and to Mistress Gytha for her own sake.”

  Suddenly the monk heard something and looked down the road in the direction of the village.

  A man was singing.

  From around the bend, a chapman approached, his light stride suggesting that his pack of supplies was diminished and his travels were profitable. When he saw the monk, he raised his arm in greeting and evident pleasure.

  “A blessing for a poor man who does not own a roof to keep the sun and rain from his head?” He rubbed the sunburned pate and grinned. “And perhaps a prayer to bring back the hair that once protected me from the weather?”

  “I know of no remedy for the latter,” Thomas replied with a laugh and gave the man’s soul the ease he had begged.

  The peddler dug in his pouch for a coin.

  “The answer to an urgent question would be payment enough,” Thomas said.

  Looking surprised, the man replied: “If my poor wits are able.”

  “Did you see a tall man in the village, a man who wore a sword?”

  “Aye. He was in a great rush to flee the place and preceded me here.” He frowned, as if trying to remember something. “Near a clearing, he left the road.”

  “Was there a hut close by where he turned away?”

  “Now that you have mentioned it, I did notice the place. Seemed odd that a man with a sword was walking into the forest. Common sorts don’t own swords, and honest knights have horses.” He looked over his shoulder toward the village. “Not an outlaw, is he?”

  “He’s our crowner.”

  “After a felon?” He still looked uneasy. “I hid for some time until I was sure he’d not return. My rounded pouch might tempt some.”

  “Looking for his wife, I think. She wasn’t with him by any chance?” Thomas folded his hands and tried to look as if there was a marital issue here of which he did not quite approve. As for calling Gytha a wife, the title was only a matter of time in coming and thus no true lie.

  The chapman grinned with relief. “Nay, he was alone. I hope he wasn’t looking for a man who had put horns above his ears!”

  Thomas shook his head and pointed to the leather bag at the peddler’s waist. “I’d starve that pouch,” he said, “if you wish to journey without fear of theft. As for the crowner and his wife, I shall find them and bring their discord to an end. You have given me the help I need to find them.” Smiling, he bade the man farewell and walked off. At least he knew that Ralf was still hunting for the maid. He would look for him in the forest.

  Glancing back, Thomas watched the chapman hide coins, until his pouch had grown thin, and then disappear over a small rise on the road running alongside the priory wall. Quickly, the monk slipped into the brush, seeking the footpath that led to the village. It was a route he knew well since he had lived in that small hut, named for a poor woman now dead, when he chose to live in contemplative solitude away from the community of Tyndal Priory.

  The sunlight faded as he went deeper into the thick brushwood and trees. Dry leaves had already begun to drop on the earth long softened by their decay. Thomas walked carefully and listened for voices above the humming of insects and the whistling of a soft sea breeze that moved through the branches above him.

  Then he stopped and held his breath.

  He had heard a laugh.

  Slipping to the ground, Thomas hoped he had not been seen. From just a short distance ahead of him, he was now certain he heard more voices.

  One was a woman’s.

  Like a cat stalking a bird, he slid on his belly and inched toward a large rock near a tree, both of which provided good cover. From between the two, he could safely look into a small clearing.

  Gytha and Ralf were sitting on the ground. Both were bound.

  Oseberne stood over them, a glittering knife in his hand. “I would not mock, if I were you,” he said to Gytha. “I am master here.” He glanced down at Ralf and nudged the crowner with his boot. “A traitorous sort you are, protecting infidels when you should have used the flat of your sword to send them on their way.”

  “They are under King Edward’s protection.” Ralf shifted away from the baker’s foot.

  “The king has no love for Jews,” Oseberne snapped. “He fought unbelievers in Outremer. Do you think he does not know how they defile the very earth they touch?”

  “Say what you will, but the Jewish family here did not cut Kenelm’s throat and dump his body into the mill pond, befouling priory water.”

  “They might have done!”

  “You did it and cast blame on innocents.”

  “No unbeliever is innocent. Saying otherwise tells me that you have taken the Devil’s hand, Crowner.”

  “Why kill Kenelm?”

  Oseberne crouched and flicked his knife back and forth in front of Ralf’s face. “He caught me stealing from the Jews when the innkeeper gave them shelter last winter. Thereafter, I paid him a reasonable fee to turn his back on occasion when I took from those people what they had stolen from Christian men. He got greedy when this new family came and demanded more, threatening to tell you.” He pointed the knife at Ralf. “I saw no need to suffer the penalty of an unjust law when all I did was recover illegally obtained goods.”

  “You were only enriching yourself.” Gytha pushed herself up against a tree trunk.

  The baker pointed his blade tip at her. “I would not cast such an accusation at a respected man, whore. You struck Kenelm first, a blow he did not deserve after you had driven the man into unlawful lust. Was he unwilling to pay your usual fee?”

  “He followed me. I did nothing to encourage him.” Her face turned scarlet with fury.

  He licked his lips. “I’ve watched you flaunt yourself on market days. Had I been as weak-willed as Kenelm, I might have lain with you myself, but God has kept me chaste since my wife’s death.”

  “With impotence, most likely,” Ralf growled.

  Oseberne leapt to his feet, his face turning purple. “Do you long to become a gelding, Crowner?”

  In his hiding place, Thomas winced. He had no doubt that the baker would kill Gytha and Ralf.
How Oseberne planned to stage this crime did not take much imagination. All he need do was spread the rumor that Gytha had whored with Kenelm and that Ralf had slain her out of jealousy, then killed himself in shame and grief. There were few in the village who did not know that the crowner hoped to make this maid his wife.

  Thomas knew he must do something, but Oseberne, who was his match in height and strength, had a knife. Glancing around, he found nothing to use in defense. He clenched a fist and wished it held a mace.

  Ralf said something too soft to hear.

  “Fool! Say rather that I was clever and took the chance to remove the midge that was bleeding me of coin and, at the same time, cast blame on a wicked people. After I saw this whore running into the woods, I heard Kenelm groan and helped him to rise. There was a bloody rock nearby. She must have stunned him with it, I thought, and suddenly I knew God had shown me favor! He had given me the perfect opportunity to render proper justice on those deserving punishment.”

  Rather it is Satan who sings sweetly into the ears of men who want God to justify the cruelties they wish to commit, Thomas muttered to himself.

  “I told him I would get him to the hospital and so supported him into the priory grounds. There I slit his throat and threw him into the pond. Unfortunately, as I was leaving, I noticed the lay brother some distance behind me. Although I concealed myself in the shadows of the outside wall, I feared he had recognized me.”

  “So you killed Brother Gwydo? He was a good, kind man…” Gytha squirmed in outrage.

  “Good? He fled the priory that same night! How can you praise one who claimed piety but surely left to commit hidden sins?” He snorted. “Did you lie with him too? My son thinks so.”

  “If gentleness has become a transgression, then Brother Gwydo excelled in wickedness,” she hissed at him. “I know of no other evil he ever did.”

  “God did not agree. When the riot started, I feared my bakery might suffer harm, no matter how righteous the cause against the Jews. So I came to the priory to bring back this lackluster crowner.” He kicked Ralf forcefully in his ribs. “I saw the Devil’s creature slip once more into the woods, followed him, and sent him to Hell. If God had not wished the death, He would not have let me see the man again. Not only did I eliminate a witness to Kenelm’s death, but I served God by punishing a sinful monk.”

  The crowner gritted his teeth, not wanting the baker to know how much pain he had caused. “And made sure your son was blamed for Brother Gwydo’s murder. Brother Thomas found the silver cross near the corpse.”

  “I had picked up my son’s cross where it had fallen on the ground near my house. Another proof that God favored my deed, for I had the cord ready to strangle the lay brother. I granted him a mercy, despite his sins, and briefly dangled the cross in front of his eyes so he might die in the knowledge of what he had betrayed.”

  Gytha sobbed.

  Suddenly, the glow of certainty faded in Oseberne’s eyes. “I did not realize I had dropped it and grieve that the accident has cast suspicion on Adelard.” He frowned. “Yet he must deserve punishment, for he dared to question the truth I had so carefully taught him about hating sinners and unbelievers. This was wisdom taught to me by a holy man of God! Instead, my son chose to believe lies about a pope and a saint, told by a man who had so little faith he could not remain a hermit.” He spat.

  Thomas eased himself into a crouch. He had little time to stop the baker. He must use surprise as his shield and pray that God gave him the strength to overpower the man.

  Oseberne smiled and looked carefully at one of his prisoners, then at the other. “Now I shall complete God’s will and kill you both. Pity that there is no priest to hear your confessions, but no one who gives comfort to the Devil’s people, as you both have done, deserves a chance to escape Hell.” He raised his knife. “First, the whore!”

  Ralf roared and, with amazing strength, threw himself headfirst at the baker’s legs.

  Oseberne laughed, easily stepped aside, and drove his knife into the crowner’s back.

  Then he turned to the wide-eyed Gytha.

  31

  Thomas leapt over the rock and charged into the clearing. Roaring with the fury of an enraged demon, he lunged at Oseberne.

  The baker stumbled back. Seeing the monk in a shaft of sunlight, his red hair glittering like fire, Oseberne screamed, dropped his knife, and fled. He crashed into the woods, shrieking like a terrified beast.

  Thomas tried to follow, but he slipped in the decaying leaves and fell. By the time he had scrambled back to his feet, the baker had disappeared. Then he looked at his bleeding friend and knew he must let the killer go.

  Thomas knelt by the crowner’s side.

  “Catch that Satan’s spawn,” Ralf hissed through clenched teeth.

  Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck rose, and Thomas knew that someone was standing behind him. He grabbed the fallen knife, jumped upright, and spun around.

  It was Gytha. “Cut this last knot, Brother. I’ll stay. The baker must not escape.” She showed him her loosened bindings.

  “He was no sailor to tie this poorly,” Thomas said as he swiftly freed her.

  “I was not fast enough but had worked them loose against the tree trunk.” Gytha fell to her knees beside the crowner. “Leave this rooster to me,” she said, pressing a handful of her robe against his wound. “Our crowner is too tough to die just yet.” The tone may have been abrupt, but the tears on her cheeks spoke of caring.

  Ralf groaned.

  “Go quickly,” Gytha begged as she began ripping strips of cloth from her chemise.

  For an instant, Thomas hesitated, then ran toward the woods where the baker had fled. With luck, he might find men to help him catch the killer. Oseberne was too strong to subdue without assistance. After his experience at Baron Herbert’s castle, the monk was loath to use violence, but, if God was willing to grant only one favor, Thomas would choose the capture of this killer.

  Shoving aside branches and jumping over shrubs and scurrying creatures, the monk raced through the forest. When he finally emerged onto the road, he looked toward the village.

  The baker stood panting at the mill gate.

  “Stop!” Thomas knew his command would be ignored but hoped that someone nearby would hear his cry.

  Oseberne pulled open the gate, slipped inside, and slammed it shut.

  Had the baker locked it? Thomas kicked the gate. It flew open, and he ran through. Why was the baker trying to escape through priory grounds?

  The baker fled down the path by the mill pond, shoving aside a young woman who had her child by the hand.

  Thomas paused by the fallen mother and stretched forth his hand.

  The woman waved him on.

  Now he had to run faster to catch up. “Surrender!” he shouted again, but the effort took too much breath.

  This time, Oseberne turned his head. He pointed in the direction of the church. “Sanctuary!” he screamed. “I shall throw my arms around the altar. You cannot have me arrested! God sees fit to protect me.”

  “You’ll hang for murder,” Thomas roared and found strength to gain speed. “Never will I let you escape punishment for killing gentle Brother Gwydo, casting blame on innocent people, and trying to send your own son to the hangman,” he gasped. Suddenly, his feet felt so light he doubted they touched the ground. Had God given him wings?

  Abruptly, the baker veered off the path and fled down into the grove of fruit trees.

  It took Thomas a moment to understand that the man was taking a shortcut to the church, thus avoiding anyone else on the path who might slow or stop him. The monk slid down a low rise from the road to follow and was outraged when he saw the baker running into the place where Brother Gwydo had set up his bee skeps.

  The change in direction cost him momentum, and Thomas found it harder to catch his breath. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to continue. The baker must not reach the safety of the church.

  Oseberne looked o
ver his shoulder to see how close Thomas was. He shouted again.

  Thomas neither understood nor cared what the baker had said. Entering the meadow, he cursed. Here the ground was rough, and he was forced to watch his footing.

  He heard something and glanced up.

  Oseberne had stumbled. Stretching out his arms to keep his balance, his hand struck a skep. The woven basket turned over and bumped another, causing both to topple to the ground.

  The baker fell to his knees.

  Thomas cried out in triumph.

  Suddenly a cloud of bees erupted from the damaged skeps. The buzzing grew louder as they flew toward the baker.

  Thomas froze.

  Oseberne struggled to get to his feet. The swarm landed on his head and neck. His face turned dark with their churning black bodies. He screamed once, gasping for air, and clawed at his face and throat. Then he collapsed on the ground.

  Some of the bees dropped beside their victim. Others flew away.

  Oseberne did not move.

  Thomas stood quite still. Fearing he would be attacked by the bees as well, he waited until the swarm dispersed. Then he moved slowly forward.

  The baker lay where he had fallen.

  The monk edged closer.

  Oseberne’s eyes bulged, staring as if he had just seen the maw of Hell. His swollen face was pocked with scarlet wounds from the bee stings, and his tongue protruded obscenely from his mouth.

  Thomas had no doubt that the baker was dead when he knelt beside him. Out of duty, he uttered a perfunctory offer of forgiveness to the hovering soul for any sin truly repented, then he jumped to his feet.

  As he ran to the hospital to bring help for Ralf, he acknowledged that he cared little about the baker’s soul. God might choose to forgive Oseberne’s sins. Thomas would not.

  32

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Black clouds from the sea covered the blue sky in mourning. The sun hid, and grey shadows slipped into the audience chamber, bringing their attendant gloom.