Sanctity of Hate

by Priscilla Royal

  “Then I can only suggest that you consult our prioress.”

  “I am unable to match what the baker offered, and I know how deeply Sub-Prioress Ruth must regret the lost altar candlestick. Sadly, I own no gold.”

  “Oseberne’s wealth was stolen. Prioress Eleanor has refused to accept anything he once touched. Whatever you offer is an honorable gift.”

  Tostig stiffened. “A Saxon is allowed to claim honor in a world ruled by Normans?” Then he flushed. “Forgive me, Brother. That is an ancestral wound which refuses to heal, but I should not have allowed its stench to pollute holy air. I did not mean to offend. As you surely know, I hold both you and your prioress in the greatest esteem.”

  “She knows that well, Tostig. As for me, I am told that my mother was not of Norman birth. If so, then only half of me might be offended, and that half swore to follow the teaching of one who forgave all, even the Romans who killed him. Shall I do less over a matter that is so trifling in comparison?”

  “You are a good man, Brother Thomas.” Then he looked away for a moment before facing the monk again with a puzzled expression. “I long for wisdom on another matter. May I ask your advice?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Jacob ben Asser and I found we owned much common ground while he was imprisoned in my house. Is it odd, or even sinful, that one of his faith and one of mine could do so?”

  Thomas turned thoughtful. “I found him to be a good man, one who, like you, has valid grievances in this world ruled by others of different heritage and, in his case, faith. Yet he loves his family and cheerfully greets those who approach him with good will, much as you do yourself.” He stopped for a moment, faced with his own, sudden and turbulent, whirlpool of unformed questions. Pushing them aside, he gave Tostig the reply that would most ease the man’s troubling doubts. “That you both felt kinship is not surprising, but I think God had a hand in this. While others of our faith threatened his family with cruel murder, you showed him the compassion that our Messiah taught us to practice. Your example may one day bring him to salvation.”

  “I shall find comfort in that, Brother.” Tostig looked relieved. “He and I did speak of cooperating in a wool venture. If I can purchase the needed sheep and should he leave England, I will have an honest representative…”

  Tostig continued, but Thomas drifted into his own perplexed musings. Ben Asser was a virtuous man, loving and caring to his wife and mother-in-law. He might have been angered by the insults and acts of Kenelm and Adelard, but he had truly turned the other cheek, despite all provocations. How was it possible that a Jew be more righteous than a Christian? The difference, of course, was in the acceptance of the Messiah, but scripture also made it clear that God had not abandoned those He had first chosen as His beloved people. Thomas was baffled.

  Furtively, he glanced upward, directing the problem to God and was greeted with heavy silence. The monk sighed. His list of unanswered questions was growing longer, but God had never shown displeasure with the asking. On occasion, and in His own time, He had even replied.

  Suddenly, Thomas was aware that his companion had stopped talking.

  Gytha’s brother was grinning at him.

  “Forgive me,” the monk said.

  “I had just said that I know someone knowledgeable about bees, Brother. If I pay his wages, do you think your prioress will accept that from me as gratitude for my sister’s life?”

  Thomas almost said that his prioress was just as thankful that Gytha was not dead, but he knew the man needed to proffer this gift. So he swore to bring the proposal to Prioress Eleanor and said he thought she would be pleased.

  Tostig brightened, thanked the monk, and left, walking through the meadow where the bees let him pass in peace amongst them.

  “I have no reason to be here,” Thomas murmured.

  Turning from the place where Oseberne had died, Thomas walked back to the path that led from mill gate to the monks’ quarters. Sorrow lashed at him. His friendship with Brother Gwydo had begun but a short time ago when he first heard the lay brother sing, but he had found a rare comfort in the man’s company from the beginning. Not only would he miss one who was good even to God’s small creatures, but he grieved that he could never know such a man better.

  When tears once again stung his eyes, Thomas did not stop them from flowing down his cheeks.

  34

  Ralf rubbed his bristled chin and glared at the table. Today’s gifts included a jug of fresh ale from Tostig, a parsley-dotted mushroom pie with sweet onions from Sister Matilda, and a dish of berries plucked by his daughter. He did not disdain the bounty, but his spirit was too heavy to enjoy them. The berries he would force himself to eat. The rest he would give to others. Normally a man of hearty appetite, he had lost weight.

  “My lord?”

  “Yes,” he snapped with sharp annoyance. He hated to be called that. As a third son he owned no title. His knighting on the battlefield years ago was an honor he kept so secret that even his eldest brother did not know of it. His reasons for doing so may have been founded in an old yet raw bitterness, but he was also a contrary man. The only title he allowed himself was that of crowner.

  “You have a visitor from the priory.” The voice was muffled.

  The woman did not even stick her head around the corner. Did she fear he sat here stark naked? “Tell Brother Thomas that I am not able to enjoy his company,” he growled and almost added that the woman was safe from him except, perhaps, on nights with a full moon when he might grow a tail and acquire hooves.

  “Then I shall relay your message,” a voice said, now quite clear.

  As if lightning had just struck him, every muscle in his body turned numb.

  Gytha walked through the door and put her basket down on the table. “I heard that you refused to let the lay brother shave you, and from the look of you, you haven’t changed your clothes since Brother Thomas came upon us in the forest.” She wrinkled her nose. “A bath would not be amiss. I understand that even our king does not find the practice offensive.”

  He grunted and would not meet her eyes.

  “Sister Anne sent me with fresh bindings and newly picked herbs for your wound.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “Or would you rather rot?”

  “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.