The Sanctity of Hate

by Priscilla Royal

  He looked over his shoulder at the entrance to their tiny shelter. “Meanwhile, a lay brother from the priory stands outside to keep the villagers from killing us, that at the order of a prioress.”

  “My mother finds members of this priory to be honorable and kind. Of all the villagers, the innkeeper came to comfort me in my travail.” She smiled at him. “You know that my mother seeks the true nature of any mortal in the eyes’ light. Did I not follow her teaching and discover how loving you were?” Then she gazed at the tiny child at her breast. “And see what a gift you gave me!”

  Jacob flushed, and then rose to his feet. “I must let you rest,” he said, “and send in your mother to lie near you while you sleep. It must be safe to take a short walk between inn and stables. When I return, I shall bed down in the next stall.” He kissed his fingers and directed them to his wife. “As you said, our hearts are never apart even when I must keep my distance until your mikveh.”

  “And surely I can take the ritual bath soon after we arrive in Norwich,” she murmured, her eyes closing against her will with weariness.

  He watched her fall asleep, the babe still snuggled against her breast, then pulled aside the cloth and stepped outside the stall.

  Malka rose to her feet, nodding at the sleeping maid in the straw, and gestured for Jacob to leave the stables with her. “Of course, I cannot be sure that you would ever seek my opinion on such a matter, but I was just thinking that your friend seemed truly repentant when he last approached you,” she said in a low voice.

  He smiled at her phrasing and thanked her. Then they stood for a long time, staring in silence at the rigid back of Brother Beorn.

  “Fez, I think,” she said softly. “I have heard that the emir was outraged at the recent violence against us there and promised protection if we bring our skills and learning to serve him. All who do not share his faith, whether Christian or Jew, must surely pay a fine and give their oath that they will not attempt to convert any from the faith practiced in that land. The oath is reasonable, and any fines no worse than we would suffer elsewhere.”

  Jacob kissed her cheek. “You did say that you heard only what pertained to your grandson,” he said with a chuckle. “He shall learn Arabic then.”

  She nodded. “Another language, added to the several we already know, is useful in business and in the courts of rulers.” She turned around and reached for the cloth covering the entrance. “’Tis a pity she must wait to be cleansed until we return to Norwich, but that will give her more time to heal.”

  “I would do nothing to endanger her health,” Jacob replied, pulling the heavy cloth back for her.

  “That is one of the many reasons I am grateful you married my daughter,” she said and disappeared into the stables.

  Jacob shut his eyes but knew he could not sleep. The night was soft. The heat of the day lingered with the sweet scent of warm flowers, and there was a hint of moisture in the air that presaged rain. In that moment, he felt at peace. His wife was growing stronger. His son cried lustily and fed like a lion cub. Perhaps the worst had passed?

  He walked deeper into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ralf slammed the leather jack on the scarred table and swung his hand in the approximate direction of the ale jug.

  “It is empty, my lord.” Cuthbert grabbed the object out of harm’s way and gestured to the serving wench for another.

  “I cannot even get properly drunk.” Ralf’s snarl exploded into a loud belch.

  Raising an eyebrow, the sergeant chose not to contradict the man whom he served.

  It took only a moment for the woman to slide a freshly filled jug across the table toward the two men. She glanced at Cuthbert’s almost full jack and the crowner’s dry one. “Compliments of Mistress Signy,” she said and marched off.

  “Now that wench would be a fine mare to ride through the night. Look how those hips sway!” Ralf’s leer was decidedly askew.

  The sergeant shrugged.

  Ralf ran a palm over the stubble on his face. He was growing morose. In truth, his manhood might hope the woman would follow him to the hayloft, but the rest of his body wanted to go home to a beloved wife. And if not tonight, tomorrow he would have preferred to remain sober.

  He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned. The only wife he longed to have waiting for him was Gytha, a woman whom he had insulted beyond all hope of forgiveness.

  He banged his fist on the table and cursed.

  Cuthbert slid a bit further down the bench.

  “A lifetime of friendship with Tostig,” the crowner mumbled, then realized he had spoken aloud. And years of an evolving love for Gytha herself, he said to himself. All destroyed in a few moments of blind stupidity. Had he ever known her to lie? Why had he not taken her word at once? He let loose a stream of creative profanity.

  Cuthbert sighed and drank a small amount of his own ale. This promised to be a long night. Despite what he had suggested when the crowner asked him to guard the Jewish family, his wife was lovingly patient. Had it not been for Ralf’s benevolence, they could never have married, a fact which allowed for a prolonged time of gratitude.

  A burst of laughter rolled through the inn. In one corner a man was shouting the words to a lewd song. Just to their left, another got up on the table and began a rocky but enthusiastic dance.

  “I cannot tolerate this!” Ralf hissed.

  Cuthbert looked at him in surprise. The crowner now seemed unaccountably sober. “A miracle,” he murmured and stared at his own drink in case he had forgotten how much he had drunk himself.

  “I need air,” Ralf said. “If the king wants to write new laws, let him forbid levity when I’m suffering.” Sliding along the length of the bench, he pushed Cuthbert in front of him, leapt to his feet, and headed for the door.

  Signy waved to the crowner as he passed, then turned to the long-suffering sergeant who followed. “An attack of black or yellow bile?” she asked.

  “Black as Satan’s ass,” he grumbled, then gave her a weak smile in response to her sympathetic tone.

  “Tell him that Sister Anne should apply a leech to his pintle. That will surely cure him!”

  “I dare not,” Cuthbert said with a laugh.

  “I do.” Signy smiled and walked away.

  ***

  Outside, the crowner slowed his pace and turned toward the new stables.

  Brother Beorn looked up when Ralf approached. His expression was not welcoming.

  The crowner stopped and nodded.

  The lay brother grunted and folded his arms.

  Although Beorn was surely unhappy that his prioress had sent him to guard a Jewish family, Ralf saw that he had obeyed with his usual diligence. That thin-shanked, beetle-eyed religious could scare the Devil himself, and it was well the man had been assigned to watch during Satan’s hours of darkness. In truth, that was a compliment, for Ralf felt no more love for Brother Beorn than the lay brother did for him. Resentments spawned in their boyhood had not faded.

  “You are a far better guard than Kenelm, even with his cudgel,” Ralf muttered. “That look is fierce enough to frighten away any mortal with sense.”

  Beorn’s expression took on a surprised hue.

  “I need to piss,” the crowner said and strode off.

  Cuthbert raised a hand in greeting to the lay brother and followed his superior at a courteous distance.

  ***

  When Ralf turned the corner of the partially constructed stables, he stopped, momentarily unsure of where to walk. Clouds had swiftly covered the moon and chased away the brighter light. Blinking to clear his vision, he thought he saw something move in the darkness.

  He squinted. Was that a man running away? Perhaps it was only a shadow changing shape as the clouds dimmed the moonlight.
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  Standing still, he listened, but a burst of laughter and tuneless singing from the inn overpowered any sound of footsteps. He must have been wrong, he decided, and, his eyes now better accustomed to the darkness, he continued on to find a place to relieve himself.

  Suddenly, just a few yards in front of him, a man leapt from the ground and cried out.

  “What has happened here?” Ralf drew his sword and rushed forward.

  As if commanded, the moonlight brightened with a sickly glow.

  The man standing was Jacob ben Asser. The body at his feet was that of Adelard.

  “Cuthbert!” Ralf pushed ben Asser back against the stable wall and rested the point of his sword against the man’s chest.

  The sergeant came running.

  As he gave orders to his subordinate, the crowner did not take his eyes from his captive. “We have a corpse. Tell Mistress Signy we need sober men to carry it to the priory hospital. Prioress Eleanor must be informed by one of those men. We shall beg her permission to let Sister Anne take charge of it. You will summon Tostig. I need him to house and guard this suspect.”

  Jacob opened his mouth but nothing came out.

  Cuthbert spun around and left.

  “I am arresting you for the murder of the baker’s son,” Ralf said to his captive.

  “I am innocent!” Jacob’s eyes looked white with terror even in the weak moonlight.

  The crowner grabbed his shoulder and held him firmly. Feeling the man tremble, Ralf sheathed his sword. It was unlikely ben Asser would try to escape or attack, and he felt an odd twinge of sorrow.

  Jacob tried to gesture in the direction of the stable. “Whatever crime you wish to lay on my head, my family is innocent. A newborn babe and three women can do no ill to anyone, and they are helpless against those who wish them harm. Have mercy on us or at least have compassion for my family!”

  “I am doing that,” Ralf growled. “Your family will remain under the protection of the priory, but no one can guarantee their safety if I do not take you into custody for this death. You may be innocent of all wrong, but the village does not care. They have already condemned you for Kenelm’s murder.” He gestured at Adelard’s body. “Your guard’s body may have been found some distance away, but this corpse lies at your very door.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Adelard blinked. Shadows swirled around him like smoke. “Am I in Heaven?” he murmured, but the words echoed in his ears as if he were standing on the edge of an abyss. One vague form bent closer, and he grew frightened. “Or have my sins sent me to Hell?”

  Prioress Eleanor stepped into a flickering pale ray of candlelight. “Neither. You are in the hospital at Tyndal Priory.”

  “Are you sure?” the youth asked, wondering at the halo of light around this woman who spoke. Then Sister Christina rose from her knees and laid a hand on his forehead. Her expression was beatifically vague. He gasped and drew the sheet closer around his neck. “An angel!”

  Stirring something in a tan pottery bowl, Sister Anne walked up to the bed. “Our infirmarian’s prayers have surely wrought a miracle. We thought you were dead when the men carried you here.”

  Sister Christina stepped away, silently bowed to her prioress, and left. Her footsteps were so light that it was doubtful her feet ever touched the dusty earth.

  Sister Anne glanced fondly at her retreating, near-sighted and gentle superior, then turned around to pour her potion into a small mazer. Sniffing at it to confirm potency, she brought it close to Adelard’s lips. “Drink,” she said. “It is bitter but will ease your pain.”

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Adelard dutifully swallowed. Despite being told that the vision he had just seen was not an angel, he was convinced she was at least a saint, and thus he grew inclined to obedience.

  “Are you able to answer questions?”

  The deep voice came from somewhere the youth could not see, and his body visibly jerked with fright.

  Eleanor looked at Ralf and gestured for him to come where the young man could see him.

  Adelard seemed relieved that the voice was a mortal one, but his expression still suggested that he saw little difference between an imp and this king’s man. “I will try to do so, my lord.”

  “Why did you go to the stables?” Ralf’s voice was rough with impatience.

  “I went to pray for the souls of the Jews.” He began to tremble again. “I did not mean to trouble their sleep, my lord. I know you sent me back to my father the last time you saw me there, but I swear that these prayers were to be quiet ones.”

  “Did Brother Beorn see you?”

  “He did and queried me about my purpose. When I told him that I wished to pray for their conversions, he nodded approval but asked if I had any weapon. I gave him my eating knife. He let me pass.”

  “Odd that the toad never said anything to me about this,” Ralf muttered, then continued: “Where did you go?”

  “The back of the stables. I did not want anyone else to see me.”

  At least Adelard had been found where he claimed to have gone. Ralf told the young man to continue.

  “I knelt near the wall and began to beseech God to change the hearts of these infidels. I had only begun when I felt a sharp pain. Then I remember nothing more.”

  “Were you kneeling when you were attacked?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Ralf grunted and glanced at Sister Anne.

  “The nature of his head wound suggests he tells the truth,” she said.

  “I would not lie!” Adelard gestured around him. “I am in God’s house. To say aught but the truth would condemn my soul.”

  The crowner opened his mouth, but one glance from Sister Anne was enough for him to shut it instantly. She knew him too well, and this was neither the time nor place for his retort that lies were spoken here as well as on secular lands.

  “I swear I had not been there long before I was struck.” Adelard looked away.

  Eleanor noticed the gesture and looked over her shoulder at Brother Thomas standing quietly behind her. She tilted her head toward the youth.

  He nodded, indicating that he, too, suspected the baker’s son had more to say but also had some reason to hesitate.

  “What do you recall before the blow? I want to know everything: shadows, smells, sounds.” Ralf raised his hand. “And swear that you shall tell the truth as God demands.”

  Brother Thomas moved into the youth’s line of vision and gave him the comfort of a blessing.

  “But what if I say something that points to blame in the wrong direction? Is that not a sin?” Adelard addressed this to Brother Thomas.

  “You must reveal all that you can,” the monk replied. “From that, Crowner Ralf shall weave your memories into a tapestry of truth.”

  The young man scowled with evident worry and fell silent.

  “Did the Jew strike you?” Ralf bent down until his nose almost touched that of the young man.

  Tears began to run down the sides of Adelard’s face.

  Sister Anne cleared her throat. “Enough, Ralf. The youth suffers from his wound and needs rest. Come back when he has slept and regained at least a little strength. Surely there is nothing more you can do until after the sun rises.” She looked up at the gray color in one of the nearby windows. “That will be soon enough.”

  The crowner threw his hands up in disgust and strode away.

  As he passed Thomas, the monk grasped his arm. “Let us walk a short way together,” he said and then whispered something into the crowner’s ear.

  Ralf stopped and turned back to look at Adelard. In the deeper shadows, the crowner’s expression was softer as he addressed the wounded young man. “I seek only the truth and do not want to hang a man who is not guilty. But I am still the crown’s representative, and Ki
ng Edward’s law must be upheld. However, if something troubles your soul…” He waited for a response.

  Adelard stared back hopefully.

  “Brother Thomas is here to offer advice and succor,” Ralf continued. Although he did little to disguise his annoyance with this delay, the crowner managed to convey some kindness. “I can wait. After you have spoken with the good monk, you may feel able to add more details to what you said this night.”

  “I thank you,” Adelard whispered. “I would speak with Brother Thomas, for I need his wisdom in order to recover my spiritual strength.”

  Ralf bowed to the monk and smiled but there was no mockery in that. Usually he agreed with this prioress and her monk, although he saw some danger in their current stratagem. Nonetheless, the method was clever if it worked. He spun on his heel and left.

  Prioress Eleanor followed, keeping a short distance behind him as they walked between the rows of sick and dying. One woman in great pain begged for a blessing to help her endure the struggle. Next, the prioress stopped to kneel beside Brother John, who was comforting a man fighting to draw in his last earthly breath.

  When she emerged into the courtyard, she looked around, fearing the crowner had left the priory, but then she saw him leaning against the wall and waiting. Eleanor approached and bent her head back to look up at him. “What do you think now about the baker’s son?”

  “He is no longer the primary suspect,” he said, “although the discovery of that cross near Brother Gwydo’s corpse must be explained. The youth’s moral condemnations in the past may have smelled rank to many noses, but, since the Jewish family became his target, the village would deem those rants as fragrant as a lily. I doubt anyone except our killer is the one who did this. Adelard must have seen something.”

  “And he cannot have struck such a blow to the back of his own head any more than Brother Gwydo could have strangled himself.”

  “Nor do I like Jacob ben Asser for the killer.” He scratched his back against the rough stones.

  “As we previously discussed, he could not have killed our lay brother. If Adelard did pray quietly, as he claims, and did nothing else to molest the family, what reason would the new father have for striking the youth?”