Sanctity of Hate mm-9

by Priscilla Royal

  “Rot.”

  “Sibely needs her father.”

  “I am here for her.”

  “The father she loves? Nay, rather a thing that looks like a wild boar and acts like a lumbering bear. You must frighten the child.”

  “I am unworthy of her love.”

  “And which man is not from time to time? But you are not without some merit. If I remember correctly, you would not be sitting there with that gash in your back if you hadn’t tried to save my life.”

  He looked away and scratched at his beard.

  “Very well, then, choke on your black bile. In the meantime, whether you want it or not, I have come to change your dressings. Sit on that bench. I refuse to stand on a stool to do this.”

  He obeyed, eased the clothes off his back, and muttered something that might have been a phrase of gratitude. Somewhere outside, he heard bright voices and recognized his child’s laugh. Did he truly scare her?

  “The wound is healing well,” Gytha said, tossing the old binding aside and examining the deep cut. “No thanks to the care you have taken of it.” She pushed him forward and poured wine into the injury without warning.

  He yelped.

  “Have you considered the possibility that God must have meant you to live for some purpose? Had the knife entered here rather than here, you would be dead.” She reached over to get something out of the basket. Her arm brushed against his.

  The soft touch was more than he could bear. Ralf bit his lip.

  Gytha rebound the wound in silence.

  Suddenly, a little girl flew through the door, ran up to Gytha, and threw her arms around the young woman’s legs. “You have come back!” she squealed. “Da! Mistress Gytha is back! Tell her she must stay now. You missed her too. You said so.”

  Gytha reached down and lifted Sibely into her arms, covering the child with kisses. Then she put her down and the two of them danced in a circle, the little one giggling and Gytha singing a familiar song.

  From the doorway, the child’s nurse peeked around the corner, laughed in delight, and then quickly disappeared.

  Stopping to catch a breath, Gytha bent down to place another kiss on the child’s head. Sibley refused to release her hand and pointed with the other to the red berries still in the dish. “You haven’t eaten them, Da. Did you not like them?” A worried frown creased her smooth brow.

  Ralf could not bear to see the innocence of her face marred with any worry. “I was about to ask Mistress Gytha to bring them to me.” He looked at the maid with a sheepish expression. “If she would, that is?”

  Gently releasing her hand, Gytha smiled at Sibley and reached for the dish. “Your father has been resting, as he was told he must by Sister Anne. I am sure he just awoke and not seen your gift ’til now.” She shot the crowner a playful look, then handed him the glistening plump fruit. “He shall love the taste. These are just what he should have to regain the strength needed to lift you to the heavens as he was wont to do. Did you and your nurse pick these?”

  Sibley nodded vigorously and proceeded to tell Gytha just where and when the fruit had been found, then how it had been picked, berry by berry.

  As he watched, Ralf wanted to both laugh and weep. These two were the ones he loved most on this earth. In truth, he would die before he let anyone hurt either, and yet he had caused great pain to the one who now knelt in front of his daughter and asked for even more details about all she had done to harvest the fruit.

  Finally, Gytha stood, then bent again and kissed the little girl’s cheek.

  Sibely grabbed her hand. “Stay,” she whispered. “I did not like it when you did not come every day.” Then she turned to her father. “Please tell her not to leave again like she did?”

  Ralf swallowed hard. “Go find your nurse,” he said gently, “and I shall speak with Mistress Gytha in private.”

  As if summoned by some invisible messenger, the nurse slipped through the entrance, knelt, and held out her hands to the child.

  Sibely hesitated, still looking at Gytha.

  “I must speak with your father, but I shall come soon for a kiss.”

  Dutifully, but with evident reluctance, the child went to her nurse, and the pair disappeared. There were no sounds of laughter outside.

  Ralf put the berries down and cleared his throat. “Whatever quarrel you have with me, will you not visit my child? She is an innocent in all that has happened between us and loves you dearly.”

  Gytha bowed her head. “You ask something that I would be most willing to do.” Then she looked back at him with sadness. “But I must ask if you think it wise to expose her to one whom you find contemptible.”

  Ralf slammed his fist on the table, then cried out in pain.

  Gytha reached out and grabbed his arm. “You will reopen the wound!”

  Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he stretched out his hand. “In answer to your question, I pose this one to you: why care whether I live or die, a man who insulted you with no cause and cast dishonor on you, a woman whom he holds in the greatest respect?”

  She moved away from him. “It is my Christian duty to pardon those who injure me, but I would lie if I claimed to be strong enough in faith. I do not forgive easily.”

  “Shall you never pardon my transgressions against you?”

  Gytha folded her arms and tilted her head as she gazed at him without speaking.

  “I have long wished to plead for a far greater favor but dared not,” he whispered. “Perhaps I never had a right to beg it of you, but now I have no hope.”

  “Voice it, my lord,” she replied, her voice steady but soft. “I promise to listen, even if I cannot grant your request.”

  “Marry me,” he murmured and bowed his head.

  She cupped her reddening ear and bent forward. “Speak louder for I cannot understand you.”

  “I love you,” he said, only slightly louder.

  “I cannot have heard you correctly.”

  “Shall I kneel before you as I ought to one I worship?” Ralf reached out an imploring hand.

  “Do not injure yourself by doing so. I am but a frail woman and unworthy of gestures meant only for lords and saints.”

  “Despite all my foolish words, I adore you, but I am a rude man, undeserving of your love. My offer is honorable. I swear the vows would be public and blessed by a priest from Tyndal, for I hold you in higher esteem than my own life.” He waited.

  Gytha lowered her eyes and said nothing.

  “If you cannot otherwise bear the prospect of marriage to me, then think of my innocent child who loves you like the mother she never knew. Would you marry me for her sake?”

  “Cruel man to have said that!”

  “You saw how she missed you. Promise you will not abandon her again, whatever your answer to me.”

  “You would have me marry you for Sibely?” Her voice trembled.

  He covered his eyes. “Nay, I truly cannot ask that you share my bed and life, a man whom you rightfully hate, even for my daughter. Refuse me with gentleness. I do beg for that mercy. As for my child, I only ask that you visit again, as you have, for her sake. I shall stay away from you…”

  “But why ask me to be your wife at all? We are not of equal rank…”

  “Because I honor you above all other women,” he whispered.

  “Then I shall marry you, Crowner, despite your faults and rough ways.”

  He gasped and his eyes shone as if he had just seen a vision.

  “But I have two conditions.” She took his hand and put it against her cheek.

  “I will swear anything!”

  “Eat those berries and shave.”

  35

  “We are grateful for your protection and charity.” Jacob ben Asser bowed to those gathered to see the family safely on the way to Norwich. From the fat, broad back of one of Tostig’s more mature donkeys, Belia smiled. Little Baruch, soon to be formally granted the name, slept peacefully in his mother’s arms as if the world held no
harm for him.

  Prioress Eleanor gazed at the impressive party of armed and mounted men who would protect this small group on the road. Ralf had gotten word to his brother, the sheriff, and Sir Fulke had dispatched the needed soldiers. “I grieve for all you suffered in our village,” she said, turning her attention to Mistress Malka.

  “If it had not been for your fine apothecary, my daughter would have died.” Malka smiled at Sister Anne. “Instead she lives, and I have a grandson.”

  “And I, too, would be returning to Norwich, blinded by tears, had we not met Sister Anne here,” Jacob added, then spoke again of his gratitude for the protection given his family, the kindness of the innkeeper and even his temporary jailer, as well as the diligence of Crowner Ralf in seeking justice.

  Thus you teach us all the true meaning of forgiveness, the prioress said to herself, but she kept her thoughts private as they grew more uneasy. The violence against this family continued to anger her, but she had more cause to be troubled after Oseberne’s death.

  Although the murderer was dead, his body had been buried in sanctified ground. He had died untried for his crimes and never pronounced guilty of murder. As she well knew, some claimed that Oseberne had confessed any transgressions in the hearing of a priest and died a good Christian, forgiven all sins. A few others even whispered that what he had done had been no wickedness at all.

  Eleanor shut her eyes to hide her musings. What she could not disguise was the flushing of outrage that painted her cheeks.

  To her mind, the man had only bragged about the murders and thefts and never showed remorse. This was not her concept of a true confession, and she also suffered dissatisfaction with the lack of both trial and hanging. Opening her eyes and looking upward, she forced herself to remember that God must still judge the man’s soul and would not be lax in due punishment where no repentance was felt. This time it was harder for her to feel comforted by this, but she was determined to be so.

  Yet there had been a form of justice in the manner of his death. The bees, who had enjoyed the gentle care of Brother Gwydo, had wielded their special weapons against the man who had murdered their caretaker. In that, she found an odd contentment. Scripture did teach that vengeance must always belong to God, perhaps because mortals were too imperfect to judge without selfish motive. The bees had acted well on behalf of their Creator. She caught herself smiling.

  But the moment of peace was brief. She suddenly felt lightheaded standing in the hot summer air. Might she be sickening? Her head ached as if someone was pushing a hot metal rod into her temple. Eleanor took a deep breath. Most likely her courses were due, a condition that always make her uncomfortable in the heat.

  She looked up at the sky. The sun was expanding with painful brightness, and the intensity of its power sucked strength from her. Her eyes began to hurt as well as her head. She longed to escape to the quiet of her cool and shaded chambers.

  Determined not to let herself fall victim to self-indulgent weakness, Eleanor turned her attention again to the family of Jacob ben Asser. How relieved they must feel that they had only a few hours left of their journey back to the comfort of kindred and friends in Norwich.

  Although their faith was not hers, they were of kind heart and gentle manner. If Jacob ben Asser and his family had been Christians, she would praise them for holding to their beliefs despite threatened slaughter. Indeed, most would condemn them for this obstinacy, but she confessed to God that she admired them anyway. In truth, it was a pity that they had not converted, but surely they would never forget Tyndal Priory. Perhaps one day…

  With no warning, dizziness struck her hard. She staggered.

  Sister Anne grasped her elbow, steadied her, and then asked with concern if all was well.

  Forcing a bright smile, Eleanor denied illness, but her arm began to tingle as if needles were pricking it. A horse whinnied and she started. The sound hurt her head. Again, she stiffened her back, patted her friend’s hand, and turned to matters other than this inconvenient frailty.

  “Did not Mistress Malka promise to send you a precious manuscript on breathing difficulties for your collection,” she murmured to the sub-infirmarian, “one written by a Jewish physician named Moshe ben Maimon?”

  “This gift is in gratitude for saving her daughter and grandson. I told her that we had no need of thanks,” Sister Anne replied, “but she insisted, saying that the work was a translation that my father, Benedict of Norwich, would have cherished.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Then we shall accept the offering with gratitude,” she said, but the sound of her own voice was painfully loud and she fell silent.

  Turning to look behind her, the prioress noticed that only Tostig and Signy, with her foster son by her side, had come from the village to see this family off. Gytha was tending the wounded Ralf, but they had sent their prayers for a safe journey. Was it shame that kept others away because they had unjustly accused Jacob ben Asser of murdering Kenelm? Or was it due to hatred for the family that still festered in their hearts?

  The reaction of the villagers to Oseberne’s crimes of theft unsettled her. Because the victims had been Jewish, few cared that the baker robbed these innocent travelers to enrich himself. As for Kenelm, no one had liked the man. Some still regretted that a villager had been guilty, but no one grieved over the guard’s murder. The only crime the village lamented was the murder of Brother Gwydo. Yet Gytha told her that some men believed he had betrayed his faith by slipping out of the priory to ask pardon of a Jew, and thus God had punished him.

  She took a deep breath to calm herself, but the air seared her lungs like molten lead and the faint smell of her own sweat made her nauseous. Feeling lightheaded again, she shook her head, hoping to chase the dizziness away, and shut her eyes against the intense sunlight. When she opened them, she saw that the armed guard had surrounded the family, and the party was about to depart. As the prioress looked into the distance, the road to Norwich shimmered. Even the stones and trees glowed as if the sun had set them afire.

  Just in time, Eleanor stopped herself from giving Jacob ben Asser and his family a blessing and instead wished them a safe journey, as did Prior Andrew and Brother Thomas. Sister Anne opened her arms and stepped forward to hug Mistress Malka, then kissed a finger and placed it against the cheek of the babe she had brought into the world. When the nun walked back to her side, Eleanor saw tears in her eyes and then noticed that the cheeks of Mistress Malka also glistened.

  As the family slowly rode off, the mother and her babe on the donkey with the young father walking beside them, Eleanor saw extraordinary, shimmering circles of light begin to flow around each of their heads. The lights were unbearably bright, and her eyes watered with the pain. But she could not bear to look away and stared without blinking as if compelled by a force far greater than her own will.

  With no warning, the prioress fell to her knees and pressed her hand against her heart.

  Sister Anne knelt by her friend’s side. “You are ill!” she whispered, frightened by the prioress’ staring eyes and sudden pallor.

  Eleanor grasped her friend’s shoulder and pointed down the road. Her hand trembled. “The Holy Family,” she murmured. “Do they not look like the Holy Family?”

  ***

  Years hence, the tale was told that the village of Tyndal had been honored to receive a visit from Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary. There, in a stable, the wonder of the Bethlehem story had been recreated, an event intended to bring solace and reverent awe to the hearts of all who witnessed it.

  But instead of humble joy, the villagers greeted the family with hate and violence, as the inhabitants of Sodom did God’s angels. As a consequence, no one was allowed the privilege of seeing the miracle. Only the Prioress of Tyndal was found virtuous enough to receive the blessing of the vision, the story went, and so her reputation continued to grow as one especially favored by God.

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e9

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  Priscilla Royal

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