The Sanctity of Hate

by Priscilla Royal

Gwydo hesitated. “I did not rush to tell Prioress Eleanor, if that is what you meant. Although I am not an expert in these matters, I did consider whether or not the killer was still nearby.”

  Surprised, Thomas stared at the man. “You surely did not seek him out with no weapon to protect yourself?”

  “I am cautious by nature and stealthy by practice, Brother. Having learned to slip up on the beast with which I longed to fill my empty belly, I can walk silently enough to hunt a man.”

  “And did you find anything of interest?” The monk tried to conceal his surprise at hearing an unexpected coldness in the man’s voice.

  “No killer waited for me to catch him, so I then hurried to alert our prioress.”

  “And later?”

  “You have caught me out, Brother.” Gwydo slapped the monk on his shoulder. “I was not satisfied when Crowner Ralf said the deed must have been committed outside our walls. Had he included our grounds in his search for clues, I would have been content. He did not. I found that troubling.”

  Thomas nodded. Prioress Eleanor was equally unwilling to let that conclusion lie without challenge, but he did not say so aloud. Although she had no quarrel with the crowner, it was her duty to make sure there was no doubt about jurisdiction between secular and religious authority.

  “After I sent Brother Beorn to our sub-prioress, I again abandoned the bees and perused the bank above the mill. Come with me up the path and see what I found.” Gesturing for the monk to follow, he strode off.

  Thomas noticed that Gwydo now breathed with ease. As he followed along the banks, he realized how little he knew of this lay brother, a man who had arrived at the priory with a high fever and a festering wound from which no one expected him to survive. Many deemed his recovery a miracle so none were amazed when he begged entry to the priory as a lay brother. Thomas had also learned that Gwydo was once a crusader. That such a man, weary of war and cured by God’s grace, would eagerly take vows did not surprise the monk. What did was the latent excitement this new and fatal violence seemed to have awakened in Gwydo.

  Thomas found that both interesting and troubling in a man, unlike himself, who was truly pious.

  Gwydo had stopped. “There,” he gestured as if the significance was obvious.

  Thomas studied the path to the gate that led toward the village, noting only that the grass between path and stream was well-trampled. “Many travel this way,” he said and confessed that he failed to see what the lay brother meant.

  “But they don’t leave blood.” Gwydo asked the monk to come closer, then knelt in the grass at the edge of the stream just above where it flowed over the wheel into the pond below.

  Thomas crouched beside him and frowned. “Now I see. Someone has pulled up the grass and weeds here.” Then he bent closer to look at the spot indicated by Gwydo. He dug his fingers into the earth, and, when he looked at his hand, he saw stains of a rust color. “Blood,” he confirmed.

  “I think the victim was killed here,” Gwydo said. “Then he fell or perhaps he was pushed into the stream.”

  Thomas sat back. “Neither Cuthbert nor the crowner have seen this?”

  “To my knowledge, neither examined this area. As I said, the crowner believes the killing took place beyond the priory and is probably still looking for evidence upstream.”

  Thomas looked toward the gate. “Why did you not send word to our prioress?”

  “The bells rang for the last office. I obeyed them to offer prayers. I found you here soon after returning.”

  The explanation was reasonable. As Thomas recalled, both he and the prioress had missed the office due to their discussion of Kenelm’s death. “Crowner Ralf’s conclusion about how the body arrived in the pond would have been plausible had this killing only been a quarrel between angry mortals.” He looked sadly at Gwydo. “But no man would blacken his soul by killing a man here for such a petty matter. Shedding blood in the priory violates the sanctity of God’s ground. This evidence suggests the crime may be a far darker one than any have thought.”

  Gwydo drew back, his expression inscrutable. “I fear that you and our prioress will be drawn into investigating after all.”

  Thomas rose to his feet and brushed the dust off his robe. “Prioress Eleanor may not be pleased that the crime has ceased to be the king’s sole problem, but she will thank you for discovering this.”

  As he glanced again at Gwydo, however, he caught a fleeting look in the man’s eyes that made him uneasy. In a man he thought so gentle, he was quite sure he had seen a flicker of hate.

  Chapter Five

  Ralf gulped his dark ale, ran a hand across his mouth, and belched. “Will you sit with me?” he asked, looking up at the golden-haired, buxom woman standing across from him. Sheepishly, he smiled.

  Signy, the innkeeper, folded her hands. The gesture suggested a virtuous femininity, as did her simple black robe, but the corners of her eyes crinkled with merriment, revealing that she was well-accustomed to the vagaries of men. From this fleeting hint, the wise would know that any who tried to deceive her would, at the very least, suffer deep wounds from her wit’s sharp edge.

  “I do not sit with those who drink at my inn, Crowner. Gossip feeds on such things in the village.”

  “Surely nothing would be said if you spent a few moments with me?” He spread his hands. “I am an old friend, Signy.”

  “Friend? I might once have granted you that title, but you have long since lost the right. Now you ask to speak with me only when murder has been committed.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is not my virtue for which I fear but rather my neck.”

  He hit the table with his fist. “Will you never forgive…?”

  Sliding onto the bench opposite him, Signy bent closer and whispered: “Not ever, Ralf.” She quickly leaned back with a hearty laugh. “Now what do you seek?”

  The crowner took refuge in his ale, deliberately savoring the remaining drops as an excuse not to acknowledge all the meanings hidden behind the intense blue of her eyes. “A killer,” he muttered after hesitating too long.

  “Whose?” Signy’s tone announced that she had ceased jesting.

  “Kenelm’s body was found in the priory mill pond this morning. His throat was cut.”

  The news caused a flutter of surprise to cross her face. “No one will weep when he hears that news,” she said. “I pray the killer did not have just cause for his deed, else many will protest his hanging for it.”

  “I know he was disliked, yet he must not have been without some merit. You told me you had hired him when the Jews traveled through here on their way to Norwich after their expulsion from nearby towns.”

  “And hired him again when another small party of them arrived a few nights ago.” She shook her head with contempt. “You speak of merit, but Kenelm’s merit lay solely in his broad shoulders, strong cudgel, and deep love for shiny coin. Many in this village have no tolerance for the Jews. Since my wages were high enough, he was willing to guard them against injury and theft.”

  The Crowner scowled. “Why is there so much ill-will here against the king’s people? They have never lived in Tyndal, nor are they ever like to do so. No one has suffered from their practice of usury. Men of higher rank were the ones to quarrel with the Jews over debts, not ones like our blacksmith, Hob, or the new wheelwright.”

  Signy glanced quickly over her shoulder. “As I learned from a merchant passing through, the king ordered that the Jews give up usury and earn their bread by other labor. One of his unfortunate suggestions seems to have been that they might toil in the fields. The rumor spreads that Christians will be forced to sell or even give up land and other property to them without due recompense. One fisherman has hidden his boat so he won’t have to surrender it.”

  “That is untrue! When King Edward declared that the Jews might take land, he meant that they c
ould buy it with proper compensation and only from willing sellers. No one will be forced to give up anything.”

  “Then you know the exact words of this statute?”

  He nodded. “When I was in Norwich, my brother and I discussed the implications at length. It was our duty to administer the statute as the king intended.”

  “The villagers are not so well informed, Ralf, and, as you should know, good sense rarely wins after rumor surrounds men with thick walls of fear.”

  Lifting his pitch-coated leather jack, Ralf swallowed the last of his ale and stared around the inn. Other than the pilgrims and traveling merchants, he knew the men here, some from childhood but the rest for years enough to know they were neither better nor worse than God’s average creation. And that meant they were as capable of hate as they were of love.

  He rubbed his hand over his bristled cheeks and turned back to the innkeeper. “Yet you gave safe haven to the Jews on their way to Norwich. Why not tell them to pass on, that there was no room in your inn?”

  Signy did not reply and turned instead to gesture to a boy who was carefully transporting a jug through the crowd. The child nodded in acknowledgement, delivered his burden, and quickly wove through the groups of men to her side.

  “Bring our crowner a half jug of the best ale, Nute,” she said and smiled at her foster child.

  “I would be most grateful.” Ralf added a comradely wink.

  Blushing with happiness, the boy disappeared.

  Ralf looked back at Signy and waited to see if she would reply to his question or continue to avoid the subject.

  She was studying him with amusement. “It is time you married again and had a son of your own, Crowner.”

  He was not ready for this. Turning scarlet, Ralf croaked a protest.

  “Shush.” She swatted at him as if waving aside a fly. “Do not prove yourself more of a fool than I know you are. If you do not soon take Mistress Gytha to wife, she will wed a merchant who will thumb his nose at you as he takes her far away. You have delayed unreasonably, and the maiden is too worthy to remain unwed much longer.”

  The crowner’s mouth became too dry for speech.

  Signy held his gaze for a long moment, then she twisted around to watch Nute at the far side of the inn. When she looked back, her eyes had softened. “That boy and his sister are my joys,” she murmured. “He is eager to learn the business of inn-keeping. I have just set him the work of collecting empty pitchers for cleaning and bringing the occasional order of small jugs.”

  “A good’un you have.” Ralf said and waited for his answer. Signy had delayed long enough to consider her reply.

  “You asked why I housed Jews when the village would have praised me for telling them to sleep in the outlaw-infested woodland instead.”

  Ralf knew Signy had meant no harm with that sharp jab about Gytha, but he also suspected she was uneasy over the question about the Jews. The concern for her friend may have come from the heart, but it had also succeeded in putting him off-balance and less able to pry when she did answer his question. He quietly forgave the stratagem and nodded.

  Signy tilted her head and let silence again fall between them. After a quick glance to see who might be seated nearby, she leaned closer to reply. “They asked only for shelter from the bitter wind and dry straw on which to sleep one night.” She studied the palm of her hand. “God has blessed me with prosperity, and I had just bought much of the land surrounding this inn, before their exodus to Norwich, but could do little with it because of the winter season.”

  Nute suddenly appeared at Ralf’s side, his expression grave as he lifted the jug as high as he could. The crowner quickly relieved him of his burden and whispered thanks in the lad’s ear, taking the opportunity to slip a shiny object into the small fist. Nute grinned and rushed off, carefully avoiding Signy’s eyes.

  “That coin was unnecessary, Crowner, but any gift from you is cherished. He’ll save it, not spend.” Pressing a finger into the corner of one eye, she smiled. “He worships you.”

  For all the sins he had committed against this woman in the past, cruelties she had reasons never to forgive, he knew he would always be bonded to Signy in ways undefined by any known word. Nute had certainly earned a place in his heart, but any kindness he showed the lad was meant for this woman as well.

  She blinked, as if a dust mote had stung her eyes, and then stiffened her back. “In brief, Crowner, I saw something to gain from their need and charged them for each service. I hired a guard to keep them safe, their animals were cared for, and I offered wine to banish the cold. For all this, I found profit in land that would be otherwise useless until spring. To anyone who criticizes me in this, I reply that my actions were nothing more than good business.”

  “Or else it was charity,” Ralf whispered.

  Signy gripped her hands until the knuckles turned bone-white.

  Although her quiet kindness to the unfortunate had made her beloved in the village, he was sure she must have been condemned, her faith even questioned, for sheltering a despised people. This was not the first time he had cause to admire her courage.

  Leaning forward, the inn-keeper replied, her voice so soft he could barely hear the words: “I will tell you this, my Lord Crowner. Never once did a Jew feel up a serving woman, vomit on my floor from too much drink, or fail to pay what was owed and with courtesy. There are many Christian men for whom I could not say the same.”

  “I must still ask why you hired Kenelm to be a guard, a man known to cheat and, aye, steal from honest men.”

  “I never paid him until he performed the task, and I paid him more than he could get elsewhere. Had I found any other man willing to do the work, I would never have hired him.”

  “And you again asked him to do the same for these latest arrivals, a group that must have hurried on by now for they have long delayed obedience to the king’s orders.” He frowned. Need he chase after these people and investigate that matter, too?

  “The family of Jacob ben Asser is still here, and I shall be hard-pressed to promise them safety now that Kenelm is dead.” The innkeeper sighed. “They cannot travel yet.”

  “And the cause for this?”

  “The wife is close to term in her pregnancy. Giving birth on the road to Norwich, without any skilled woman to aid in the labor, would be dangerous for both babe and mother.”

  Ralf shuddered as if the ghost of his own wife, who died after childbirth, had just laid an icy hand on the back of his neck. “Sister Anne…”

  “I mentioned her skills, but the husband will not allow his child and wife to be tended by a nun. I may have to help the woman myself, inexperienced as I am, even though I must swear not to christen the newborn in secret.” Her mouth tightened.

  “I shall tell Cuthbert to protect the family,” he said.

  “I am grateful. He will be reliable. Kenelm was not, although I now know he may have been dead when he did not arrive for the work two nights ago.”

  Ralf noted that fact. “Did he fail to appear on other occasions?” Perhaps that answer would reveal some pathway to solving this crime. With luck, he might discover that Kenelm did have a woman…

  Signy’s lips formed a thin smile. “In the winter, he would sometimes fail to arrive, later claiming it was too cold for him or the pay was not enough to suffer villager abuse. If thefts occurred, or other damage done, I refunded money paid for protection. With this family, however, he was quite reliable but took especial pleasure in mocking them for their faith. I often heard the husband shouting at him.”

  Ralf lifted his jack of ale and quickly downed the contents to ease his growing discontent. The list of suspects had just increased.

  Chapter Six

  Prioress Eleanor crouched on the bank by the mill pond and brushed her fingers through the grass.

  “It was ther
e.” The monk pointed to a spot just to the left of her hand.

  Sister Anne watched, hoping that Brother Thomas would be wrong for once.

  The prioress dug into the ground and brought up a handful of russet-colored earth.

  “Might the blood have come from a wild animal?” The sub-infirmarian’s expression suggested she already knew the answer to her own question.

  “The high walls keep them out,” the prioress said, “although some might still slip in.” She bent over to look more closely at the place where Thomas believed grass had been pulled up. “If I am not mistaken, that is a footprint.” She gestured for the two monastics to view the mark in the ground.

  Sister Anne nodded. “Some force was required to make that deep a gouge.”

  “I saw it, my lady,” Thomas said, “but concluded it might have been made at any time.”

  Eleanor stood. “In that, I would agree, for this is a well-worn path, but we had a heavy summer downpour late the day before last. Gytha said that kept her from returning earlier. This print is both distinct and deep, which suggests it was recently made, when the earth was still wet.”

  “Few would step off the path after that rain. The mud would be slippery and a misstep might cause someone to fall into the water,” Anne replied.

  The prioress considered the possibilities in that, then shook her head. “A man might slip into the pond and drown but not slit his throat while doing it.”

  “That patch.” Thomas bent down and sketched a wide circle above the spot with his hand. “I think the killer and Kenelm struggled there. In fact, I’d say those were heel marks near the footprint.”

  Eleanor frowned. “Or else the body was dragged off the path. See those marks over there. Yet we cannot prove whether a fight occurred or something quite benign.”

  “I think he was killed here. That patch of blood would suggest it.” Thomas walked to the edge of the bank and looked into the water. “It is not far from here to the mill wheel.”

  “We must tell Ralf about this,” Anne said. “If Cuthbert has found no stronger evidence upstream to prove where Kenelm went into the water, the sergeant might not have to look further than this place.”