Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

Hearing the bells ring for the next office, she was thankful. Her prayers would include a plea that God grant her that clear and just mind she needed. In this, He had rarely failed her.

And soon she would meet with Crowner Ralf, show him the latest findings, and pose her questions. In truth, what troubled her most was not that one of her religious might have sinned but that the crime had been committed on priory land. There was no doubt in her mind that there was a reason for that.

Might the killer have such an extreme quarrel with Tyndal that he would ignore God’s wrath to shed blood here? That conclusion seemed unlikely, yet… She willed herself not to think further on that.

Taking one last deep breath of the summer air, Prioress Eleanor turned into the path that led to the chapel.

As she drew closer to God’s house, she felt lighter in spirit. Surely she had done all she could, given what she knew of Kenelm’s death. Sending Brother Thomas to visit the baker, Oseberne, and his son, Adelard, was a good decision. Of course her monk’s opinion on the suitability of the young man as a novice was crucial, but she also knew Thomas would take time to learn more about the dead man as she had suggested. Whether gossip or fact, something must cast light on why this slaying had been done and why in Tyndal. She should not worry about possibilities without cause.

Just before she left the garth, she heard a noise and looked over her shoulder. Her cat and his lady were just slipping into the greenery, those loud meows suggestive of amorous intent.

More kittens to terrify mice and serve God? Amused, she laughed quietly but suspected He might share her mirth.

Standing behind his kneeling son, Oseberne stared without blinking at the monk and waited.

Adelard’s eyes glowed with rampant hope.

Thomas bowed his head to gain some time before continuing this difficult interview. Someone else ought to have been sent here. Of all people, he had no right to render judgment on any suppliant novice. Never had he had a true calling and, considering his ongoing quarrel with God, his own faith was questionable.

Taking a deep breath, he avoided the father’s sharp gaze and turned his attention back to the youth. Looking upon him with feigned gravity, Thomas prayed he appeared sufficiently pious.

The baker cleared his throat with undisguised impatience.

Thomas fought against his dislike of Adelard. After his experience two summers ago, he had become uncomfortable around those who were too eager to convince others of their devotion to God. He preferred the faithful who quietly served with simple compassion, like Sister Anne and Sister Christina. The baker’s son crowed for attention.

“I see so much evil in the world, Brother,” Adelard was saying, his eyes squeezed shut and his prayerful hands clenched so fiercely that the outline of the knuckles shone through the flesh.

The father grunted approvingly, his red jowls trembling with fervor. Beside him stood his youngest son, a spotty-faced child approaching the cusp of manhood whose body stank more than most. The lad scratched at a round, scaly patch near his ear, and a drop of blood began to weave down his neck.

“The final days of this wicked earth must be nigh. I expect soon to hear the trumpets declaring the End.”

Although Thomas had no doubt that the world must end as the gospels proclaimed, he often wondered if the last day might come, not with the expected roaring but rather a preternatural silence. Man had always been so boisterous with wickedness that a sudden quietness might be more terrifying than the clashing of swords and belching of fire-spitting dragons. He blinked, realizing he had not responded. “Why do you say so, my son?”

“Do not the Jews roam freely amongst good Christian men?”

An odd remark, especially after the king had just restricted all Jewish families to living in the small number of archa towns. That seemed more a constraint on movement than any increased freedom. Thomas did not try to hide his confusion. It was, after all, his purpose here to query, not to teach. “Explain that statement more fully.”

Adelard seemed at a loss to reply and looked over his shoulder at his father.

“What need is there to say more?” The baker stiffened. “I, myself, have seen the horns on their heads and smelled the Devil’s fetid smoke exuding from them. Their presence contaminated Tyndal village over the winter and early spring, and now their malignant influence befouls us again with the arrival of this current family. Surely your priory has felt their evil clawing at your own stone walls.”

Thomas wrinkled his nose. The only odor he noticed came from the baker’s youngest son. No matter what Oseberne and his eldest son believed, Thomas most certainly had never seen horns or smelled Satan’s breath in his contacts with the king’s people.

As a matter of fact, Thomas agreed with those Church leaders who urged patience over the slow conversion of the Jews to Christianity. Did Saint Paul not say in his letter to the Romans that all Gentiles must first be converted and then Israel? As far as the monk knew, there were many more people left in that former category.

Adelard nodded with enthusiasm. “The Jews have overwhelmed our land!” His gaze grew distant and his face turned bright with passion. Although he lacked his father’s jowls, his face matched the paternal color well.

“The roads have been filled with the creatures,” Oseberne added. “I fear for the safety of the children in this village! Remember how our sainted William was crucified by them in Norwich!” Sweat glistened in the furrows that crossed his brow, and he nodded pointedly at his youngest son.

Bored, the boy had begun to rock from side to side.

“And since no child here has suffered injury, Master Baker, your fears are for naught.” As far as Thomas was concerned, this exodus was no apocalyptical sign but the result solely of a secular, political decision. “After our king and his mother ordered the Jews to leave Cambridge, most came through here on the way to Norwich. They stayed no longer than one night before departing. The village gained in coin. The priory suffered no harm.”

“We had children die of fever last winter,” Oseberne snapped.

“We grieve for all parents who suffered a child’s death, but Sister Anne says fewer died here than usual.”

The baker stared at Thomas’ feet, as if confirming that he lacked cloven hooves, then shook his head.

“Was not Kenelm slaughtered on priory ground?” Adelard raised a finger heavenward. “And we have a Jewish family here now. Surely these facts together have meaning.”

Thomas felt his earlier unease grow even greater. How swiftly that detail of Kenelm’s death had spread.

Oseberne dropped a hand heavily on his eldest son’s shoulder. “If they cannot pollute wells, they will be driven to find some other way to profane our holy ground.”

“How did you learn that tale?” Thomas frowned.

“My son heard some women talking about it after they left my stall.” The baker squeezed his fingers around Adelard’s collar bone. “My special loaves are popular with many.”

The lad winced, then nodded.

Thomas felt a shiver of fear. These accusations of sacrilege, voiced by the baker, were becoming more common. The safer days of Henry II’s reign, a king who did not tolerate harassment of the Jewish community, were long past. This current king was pulling back both his favor and protection.

As for these tales of fouling water, crucifying children, or drinking Christian blood, he knew they were slanders born of hate, and the stories were often used to explain unsolved murders and other violence. In this matter of Kenelm’s death, the myths suited those fearful of an unknown killer and longing to turn the accusing finger away from a village man and toward a much preferred scapegoat.