Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

The monk stopped. “Are you well?” he asked the young woman, his voice deep with concern.

“A bit of dust got in my eye.” Gytha smiled with stiff brightness.

Now Brother Gwydo feared most that the pair would discover his presence and accuse him of deliberately listening in secret. Embarrassed, he pulled himself deeper into the brushwood.

Thomas did not pursue his suspicion that the maid had been crying. Instead, he pointed to the basket on the young woman’s arm. “And what did you bring to delight Sister Matilda?” He grinned with the happier change of subject.

“Have you heard of saffron?” Gytha sounded relieved.

“Shall you give me a hint? Is it beast or herb?”

“A miracle of healing which also brings delight to the tongue, if the spice merchant is to be believed.”

He peered into the basket. “Since I do not see it, I fear that Solomon’s sword will be too large to divide the marvelous thing between kitchen and hospital.”

Gytha pulled out the small jar and let him look. “It is the color of your hair, Brother.” She looked up at him and smiled with evident affection. “If the merchant had not sworn this was edible, I might have believed someone stole a pinch from your head when it was last shaven.”

Thomas rubbed the dense auburn thatch around his tonsure. “Most would say this was my curse,” he replied softly.

“Are you going into the village?” Gytha carefully tucked the precious spice back into her basket.

“Prioress Eleanor wants me to question young Adelard about his longing to become a novice here.”

A shadow clearly passed over her face.

Gwydo found that curious.

“Perhaps I shall also discover something useful regarding the murder.” Staring over her shoulder at the gate leading to the village, he asked, “Did you hear anything in the market about Kenelm’s death? Have men begun to discuss the crime?”

She visibly shivered. “As I was passing by the baker’s stall, two women were talking and wondered if the Jewish family had something to do with it. They had heard that Kenelm was murdered on priory grounds.”

“The word has spread quickly.” Thomas looked unhappy. “Someone must have seen us searching above the mill wheel near the gate.”

“Then you did find evidence he was killed here?” She raised a hand to her mouth. “Not on the road…or above the village, as our crowner thought?”

Thomas nodded. “So it would appear. There is still a chance that he was grievously wounded outside the priory but crawled through the gate to seek help from…. Mistress Gytha!”

As she started to fall, Thomas instinctively grasped her around the waist. It took only a moment for her to recover, then her eyes opened and she blinked at the man in whose arms she rested.

“The sun, Brother,” she said. “It is only that. I fear the heat today has disturbed my humors.” She tapped his arm.

He released her and stepped back.

Gwydo began to shake as if he suffered an ague, and his teeth chattered. Fearing the pair could hear the sound, he jammed his fingers into his mouth.

But the couple said little more. Gytha declined the monk’s offer of assistance back to the prioress’ chambers.

Thomas’ brow was furrowed with worry, but he bowed silent acceptance of her refusal and walked on toward the gate leading to the village.

The maid hurried off, stopping once to look over her shoulder before disappearing into the nuns’ quarters.

Gwydo pulled himself out of his hiding place and stood up, stretching his stiff back. His heart was heavy. Although neither maid nor monk had committed a grave wrongdoing, the lay brother was deeply troubled. Thomas should never have embraced her as he did. Was the gesture an innocent error or had it signified something unchaste between them?

Had he been wrong about the monk’s virtue? As for Gytha, she was a woman, a temptress like all of her sex. Just one touch, even one suffered in a compassionate act, and a man’s chastity was endangered. He knew how he weakened in his resolve. But perhaps Brother Thomas was as strong in his faith as Robert of Arbrissel, founder of this Order who went into bordels to preach? Once again, Gwydo doubted his ability to differentiate between virtue and sin.

“Most certainly I erred in pointing out that this murder may have occurred here. It was wicked pride that made me do it. I wanted Brother Thomas to look with favor on me for discovering something no one else had.”

Deep in thought, Gwydo walked back to where he had left his coils of woven straw and bent to pick them up. Suddenly, he turned pale, straightened, and shook his fists at the heavens. “Wherever you may be, Satan,” he roared, “I curse you for blinding me so I could not see the consequences of my heinous deed!”

What was he to do? He struck his head and groaned. “I must, I shall make amends for my sins.” In frustration, he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned.

He could do nothing now. The road outside the priory would be filled with men, wearied from many hours of labor and traveling back to their homes in the village. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself. Later he could hunt for something that would convince Crowner Ralf and Prioress Eleanor that the murder had actually happened outside the priory walls. He would apologize for his error in believing he had discovered evidence to prove otherwise, an arrogance for which he would welcome any penance.

But he must find a way to leave the priory while it was still light enough to hunt for what he might use to do this. How to explain this new discovery to the prioress was a problem he would cope with later. After all, he had no right to leave these grounds without her permission. He must expect severe punishment for this act alone.

Compared to the sins he had already committed, he decided that was the least of his transgressions.

The air was cool after the late night rain. Birds rejoiced as the moist soil yielded fat worms. Plants glistened, stretched forth their leaves and welcomed the morning sun.

Chapter had ended, and the nuns left the chamber in an orderly fashion to attend their various tasks. They were silent, arms folded into their sleeves and heads bowed. For most, prayer was their primary duty in this life they had chosen, and they longed to return to it.

Prioress Eleanor, however, was restless. Although the reports on wool profits and incoming rents needed attention, she feared she could not concentrate on them. Instead, she went back to her private quarters, knelt at her prie-dieu and sought the relief found in more prayer.

The worldly businesses of the priory might not have kept her mind tethered to the earth, but other matters most certainly did.

With a courteous apology to God, she leapt up and hurried back down the stone steps to the cloister garth. Her favored cat, named after the King Arthur of legend and dreams, trotted after with a noticeable joy in his gait.

As she entered the garden, Eleanor let herself be lost in the profuse growth that hid walls and only allowed an open view of the sky above. This was a peaceful place, one where all the nuns went from time to time to find the silence needed to rediscover God, for noise and human pain were still found in cloistered worlds. In gardens, even the wind was hushed.

Arthur, the orange tabby, sprinted ahead of her and began to investigate what might lie hidden under the moist leaves. Eleanor smiled at him with love, then briefly closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

This garth was tended by Sister Edith, a nun whose touch was so skilled that many believed God had shared some of His secrets from the creation of Eden with her. When winter brought bitter cold, life here never quite ended. There remained a sense that all was simply asleep until the spring. Some said the garth reminded them of the promise of resurrection. All found balm for wounded souls.