Sanctity of Hate mm-9

by Priscilla Royal

  “You’re a brave one,” Thomas said, his voice warm with admiration for the courage of this child. Nonetheless, he kept Nute’s hand firmly in his grasp.

  “Why are they shouting so?” Nute crept as close to the monk as pride would allow.

  Thomas just shook his head, failing to find any satisfactory way to explain how these men could use God to justify violence against another created in His image.

  “They are headed for the stables.” Nute pointed. “Mistress Signy must be warned!”

  Again stretching onto his toes, Thomas peered over the tops of heads. Near the front of the crowd, Cuthbert was waving his arms. As the sea of men rose like a riptide around him, the sergeant’s face took on the panicked look of a man about to drown. Not only was the Jewish family in danger of being ripped apart, but so was Ralf’s bailiff and second-in-command. Thomas could delay action no longer.

  The monk bent down and spoke into Nute’s ear. “Can you find your way to the priory?” He rested one hand gently on the boy’s thin shoulder.

  Nute shivered. “Aye, Brother,” he replied.

  Thomas turned him around and pointed. “See that space along the wall? Ease your way through it, and you shall find yourself at the rear of this throng. Go, if you are willing. I’ll watch until you break free.”

  Nute tightened his jaw and nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Run swiftly to the priory and tell the porter there is a riot in the village. Say that I have sent you to Prioress Eleanor. She told me that Crowner Ralf was meeting with her. He must return at once.”

  The lad repeated the message, pressed his back to the wall, and edged his way through the crowd. Thomas watched, then stood and peered toward the back of the chanting mob. With relief, he saw Nute emerge and race toward Tyndal Priory.

  He would have preferred not to send the boy into danger, but he had no choice. This gathering of villagers was growing violent. The baker had taken his young son to safety and barricaded his door. Adelard had joined the mob. Cuthbert and the helpless family in the stables were trapped and in danger for their lives.

  Praying that the crowner would come quickly, Thomas threw himself back into the mass of men waving tools and fists. Once again, he used sharp elbows and God’s name to win his way through.

  One man looked at the monk and squeezed against his neighbor to let Thomas pass. “Look!” He screamed, his round eyes devoid of all reason. “Brother Thomas is here. The priory blesses us for coming to slay the unbelievers!”

  “Kill the Jews! Kill the Jews!” The chanting began again.

  Grunting as he pushed himself closer to Cuthbert, Thomas prayed for strength. “Whatever my lacks,” he murmured to God, “I beg for the gift bestowed on Moses, a voice that will save the innocent.” Cuthbert had done nothing to deserve harm. Whether or not the man liked the duty, he was here on Ralf’s orders. Even if this family, huddled in the stables, was involved in murder, they deserved a trial before being condemned.

  Finally, Thomas reached the front of the mob. There he saw Adelard. The youth’s eyes were glazed as if he had been granted some vision, but he stepped aside to let the monk through.

  Cuthbert stood on the edge of a rough stone trough used to water horses. His eyes were red with weeping and he stank. His bowels had loosened.

  Thomas tugged at the man’s stained tunic to get his attention. “Step down,” he said to the wide-eyed sergeant, “and go back toward the stable. The crowner is coming. I will talk to these men.”

  Cuthbert jumped down and fled.

  Someone gave the monk a hand up, and the monk straddled the trough, balancing himself. “Why have you come here?” Thomas shouted.

  “To kill the Jews!” several men shouted.

  “Why?”

  A stunned silence fell.

  One standing next to the baker’s son finally replied, his voice hoarse from yelling. “They have slain a Christian and polluted the priory water.”

  “They have murdered Kenelm and will crucify our Christian babes. They will drink their blood like wine for one of their feasts!” This from the man who had never stopped jabbing his pitchfork at God.

  Several more shouted replies, but some of the nearby voices had grown oddly tentative.

  Thomas raised his eyes and lifted his hands up to heaven as if he were listening to God’s voice.

  Most fell silent. Those who did not, lowered their speech to a mumbling.

  Thomas let the moment of silence linger, then looked back at the crowd and dropped his arms into a gesture of embrace. “We do not know who killed Kenelm,” he said. His deep voice was as gentle as his gaze.

  The muttering grew louder.

  “But Crowner Ralf shall find the one who did. When he does, the guilty will surely hang.”

  “None of us committed the crime, Brother. It must be the Jews. Who else would dare murder a man on holy ground, then drop the corpse into the mill pond?”

  Thomas closed his eyes and again begged God to ignore all his faults and sins just this once. To quell the riot, he needed far more strength than any sinful mortal owned.

  “Even if the Jews did not kill our townsman, they are a vile people whom God hates for killing His son.” The man who spoke waved a thick cudgel.

  A few cheers greeted those words.

  “Dare you claim to be more learned in the faith than the saints?” Thomas raised his voice so all could hear, but his tone remained calm.

  There was a hesitation, then a few scattered “nays.” Perplexed, most grew still and stared at the monk.

  “Or perhaps you think yourselves wiser than a pope who may speak on God’s behalf?”

  Even Adelard now shouted his denial of such blasphemy.

  “Then hear this tale.” Thomas stopped and waited until he was sure he had the crowd’s complete attention. “Saint Bernard of Clairvaux himself once stood before a group of Christian men, like you, who had gathered to slaughter the Jews in their city. He condemned their intent and preached forbearance, for the holy Church has forbidden us to persecute or kill the Jews.”

  Such profound silence now prevailed that even the birds could be heard singing from the trees.

  Adelard stared at the monk in disbelief. “Brother, this cannot be!”

  Thomas was sweating but his voice remained strong. “For the sins these people have committed, they have been dispersed throughout all lands and made subject to the will of Christian rulers. In this land, our kings have put them under their protection from the days of the first William.” He raised his hands for silence as some expressed outrage. “And King Edward, our liege lord and a man who wielded his sword in Outremer against all infidels, has done the same, knowing it is the will of the Church and in accordance with the expressed desire of Pope Gregory X.”

  Adelard’s eyes lost their glitter. His shoulders slumped.

  “As Saint Paul himself said, we may not slay the people of Israel. They shall, in good time, be saved when all the Gentiles have seen the truth of God’s teaching. Were the Jews to be slaughtered, the final days could not come, the righteous never allowed their reward, nor the remaining penitent loosed from Purgatory by the coming of our Lord.”

  A few cried out in dismay, and two within the monk’s view visibly shook. Thomas hoped he had instilled enough terror to douse their anger.

  “Would you deny the souls of your loved ones the chance to be freed from torment sooner?” He swept his hand to encompass the entire village. “If you do not care for the pain they suffer, or for the agony you shall also know in time, then kill this family. If you fear God, lay down your weapons and return to your work as good Christians should do.”

  The baker’s son reached up and touched the monk’s robe. “If this be true, as you have said, there is much I do not understand, Brother.” Tears began to slip down his cheeks, making streaks of white in the dust cast up in his face by so many feet. “I have never been told any of this.”

  “We are all imperfect and often ignorant, my son,”
the monk said directly to him. “It is only sinful to remain willfully blind to knowledge. Seeking truth and wisdom is never a transgression. As for the Jews, remember also this teaching. How can we do violence against those we call enemy? Are we not enjoined to love them?”

  “Must we let these people live then?” The breath of the man who asked was foul.

  “God demands it.”

  “And if they did kill a Christian?” The same man’s eyes narrowed.

  “The king’s law shall rule on the killer’s fate. Were you to proceed, as you intended, you would either commit treason by disregarding the king’s will or you would be committing a graver sin by going against God’s own commands. For the safety of your souls and your necks, I beg you to turn aside from this wicked purpose and return, in peace, to your homes.”

  The man with the pitchfork lowered it.

  “Have faith that God’s anointed king and our lord on earth shall seek justice for Kenelm’s death. Indeed, Crowner Ralf is diligently pursuing the truth. As all of us know, he is a good man and a loyal subject of King Edward.”

  Thomas took a deep breath. Folding his arms into his sleeves, he tried to think of what more he could say to these men but failed to come up with any stronger arguments. Then he heard a commotion from the back of the crowd.

  Ralf was approaching. Beside him walked several armed men, little Nute…and Oseberne?

  Not believing what he saw, Thomas rubbed at his eyes.

  The baker leaned over to say something to one of the men, then abruptly turned toward his own house.

  How had Oseberne left without being seen?

  Voices around him drew the monk’s attention back to the throng. Although there was a low grumbling amongst them, they were dispersing. With gratitude, Thomas glanced upward and almost wept with relief. The oration and the crowner’s timely arrival had worked.

  Adelard, however, had not moved. His head remained bowed. With a groan, he now turned around and trudged slowly back to his father’s house.

  Perhaps the young man has learned something, Thomas thought as he watched the youth walk away. He ought to speak with the hopeful novice now, for this might be the time to uproot Adelard’s irrational zeal and plant the seeds of a gentle compassion in him instead.

  The monk jumped down from the trough.

  A tug at his robe stopped him from following the baker’s son.

  Cuthbert knelt at the monk’s feet. “Thank you, Brother. At the risk of your own, you saved my life!”

  Thomas protested that he had done nothing so brave.

  Grabbing the monk’s robe, the man kissed the hem. “They were threatening to tear me to pieces, if I did not let them into the stables. They even swore they’d kill my family in front of me before they let me die!”

  Thomas grasped the trembling sergeant, pulled him to his feet, and whispered soothing words in his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, he realized that the crowd had disappeared, leaving behind a haze of dust over the road.

  Near the path to the stables, Ralf was speaking to a small group. The armed men, who had come with him, lounged against the wall of the inn but stepped aside to let Nute run in to seek Mistress Signy.

  A few houses down, Oseberne greeted the distraught Adelard, grabbed him by the shoulder, and tried to pull him toward the house.

  The young man shouted at his father, tore himself loose, and ran down the road toward the priory.

  Thomas hesitated, then turned back to comfort Cuthbert.

  The sergeant was no longer there.

  14

  The crowner slapped the monk’s back. “I heard how you saved my sergeant and quelled the mob, Brother. ’Tis a pity you cannot change allegiance to a more earthly lord. King Edward could use your talents.” He jerked his head at his men who were now slipping into the inn. “In truth, those lads I pulled away from the fields wouldn’t have raised a hand against kin and friends. They only came after I let the sun fall on a pretty coin and promised a jack of ale.” He snorted. “My brother shall return the coin. I am willing enough to pay for Tostig’s finest.”

  “I was grateful to see you,” Thomas said and hoped his friend did not see him tremble. The fear he had held back now struck him with especial force. “Nute deserves praise for his courage and swift feet. I did not want to put him in danger but had no other way of sending a message to you.”

  The monk glanced over the crowner’s shoulder at the baker’s house. Or so I believed, he said to himself, and tried not to resent how Oseberne had barred the door and failed to say that he would summon the crowner. Instead of sending Nute through the mob, Thomas could have given the child safe haven inside the house.

  “I will give him the sling he wants as reward and teach him how to hunt with it after this murder is solved.” Ralf’s eyes filled with the affection he felt for the boy.

  “Was he or Oseberne the one to first bring the news of the riot?” Thomas hoped he did not betray his annoyance with the baker.

  “Nute, but the baker met us outside the priory gate and confirmed that you were trapped by the mob. He himself was just able to escape through a back window.” The crowner laughed. “I think he was displeased that the boy came first with the news. He scowled when he saw Nute pulling me along.”

  “The man owns a surfeit of pride if a child’s achievement angers him.”

  “Oh, he softened fast enough when Nute told him how he ran without stopping and head down to make sure he did not fall in the uneven road. The baker smiled then, and who would not when a lad so young takes on a man’s responsibility.”

  Not for the first time, Thomas concluded that the crowner would make as good father to a son as he was to his daughter. “However it came, I am grateful word got to you. Had you not arrived when you did, matters might have grown far beyond my small ability to control them.”

  “Nothing diminishes what you did, Brother,” Ralf said, then gestured his intent to walk back to the stables. “Did you find out who was responsible for priming that mob like a pump with the details of Kenelm’s death?”

  The monk shook his head. “While I was speaking with Adelard before the riot, Oseberne mentioned he heard women discussing the circumstances on market day. Now that village passions have cooled, someone might recall the source of the tale. Whether the first rumor included the suggestion that the Jewish family killed the man, a detail conveniently exonerating any villager who murdered an unpopular man, I cannot say.”

  “I wonder whether the mob decided if the sick wife or the terrified husband had slit Kenelm’s throat.”

  Thomas blinked at the crowner’s mocking tone.

  Ralf glanced sideways at the monk, crossed himself, and walked on without further comment.

  As they approached the new stables, they saw Cuthbert drying his legs. An uneven puddle in the dirt and a bucket sideways on the ground close by suggested the man had been trying to clean himself.

  The moment the sergeant saw Ralf, he groaned and threw himself at the crowner’s feet. “I have failed you.” Cuthbert buried his face in his hands.

  “You have always been loyal to me,” Ralf replied, his expression sad at the humiliation this man had endured. “We may face death alone with courage, but a threat to our families will unman us all. Had I known your neighbors would threaten your loved ones, I would not have asked you to stand guard here.”

  He clapped a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder and ordered him to rise. Not only was this man Ralf’s sergeant but his bailiff, a position of responsibility won for both faithful service and competence. Nothing that had happened this day would change the crowner’s mind about Cuthbert’s character.

  “Indeed, I now have a more important duty for you,” he said with his more usual gruffness. “Take your family to my manor house and watch over my child and her nursemaid until this trouble has passed. If any man from this village dares to even breathe over one silken hair on my daughter’s head, you will smite him in half or I shall later.”

  Cuthbe
rt turned away, his face red with shame. He knew that no man would dare attack the crowner’s manor. Ralf had just given him a haven for his family, disguised as a task that the sergeant knew was meaningless. “My family need not…”

  “Those are my orders. Your family must go with you. A child cannot do without a father for so many days, and I know your wife would mourn your absence.”

  The sergeant’s expression betrayed his longing to argue, but he chose silence instead and nodded. As they both well knew, Ralf could send his child and her nurse to the priory for safety, if there were any real danger. In any case, Cuthbert knew he must obey. It would be insolent to refuse the crowner’s kind gesture.

  “Go!” Ralf ordered and gently shoved the man on his way.

  As he watched Cuthbert run down the path that led to his dwelling on the edge of the village, the crowner felt at a complete loss. He had no one else to guard this vulnerable Jewish family. It would take too long to send word to his brother, now in Winchester, that soldiers were needed. The men from the farms would return to their fields, and he doubted any amount of silver he could cast at their feet would tempt them to raise a hand against neighbors to protect a group they, too, despised.

  Signy had made it clear that only Kenelm had been willing to shield these hated people. How could this family be kept safe until he determined whether or not Jacob ben Asser was the killer? Even if he was, the pregnant wife, her mother, and a maid must be protected from mob violence.

  Ralf looked around. It would take very little to spark another riot.

  The fishermen had not been part of this recent turmoil. They never left the sea until nightfall. The other villagers had now gone back to anvil, tanning pit, and barrel making, except for a few still clustered near the inn. When these saw his glare, their expressions turned sheepish and they scurried into the inn. Whatever they had been talking over, the men seemed calm, and the crowner prayed that the ale not overheat their blood again.

  Ralf turned to Brother Thomas. “I must question Jacob ben Asser about the fight he had with Kenelm.” He gestured in the direction of the departed sergeant. “I need a good head to help me and witness what is said. I should have asked Cuthbert…”