Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

The youngest son began to tug on his father’s sleeve.

Oseberne growled at him.

Grimacing, the child cupped his hand between his legs.

Thomas hoped the baker would let the boy go relieve himself elsewhere.

Oseberne grunted and waved his hand.

The youngster fled.

“Are you suggesting these travelers killed their own guard?” Thomas now welcomed the shift in discussion. He was straying from his obligation to dig deeper into Adelard’s longing for priory life, but Prioress Eleanor had also hoped he might gather useful information about the killing.

Adelard looked amazed, as if the question lacked all reason. “Kenelm was undoubtedly full of sin, but wasn’t he still a Christian? They hate us as the Devil tells them they should. Of course they killed him!”

Even if the family housed in Signy’s stable did hate Christians, Thomas thought, they would have been preternaturally stupid if they killed the one person hired to protect them. The Jewish men he had met in his clerical days had been neither better nor worse than those of Christian faith and certainly possessed the same measure of wits.

Oseberne and Adelard gazed at the monk, eagerly anticipating his reply.

“An odd thing to do, however. Surely they have heard how others of their faith suffered theft and harassment despite the king’s plea that they be allowed to travel in safety. Without Kenelm, they lacked any shield against violence.”

Straightening his back, Adelard proved to be his father’s true son as he released a fulsome snort. “Knowing these people to be the Devil’s spawn, I watched them. Not long before his body was found, Kenelm mocked the Jew’s faith. Surely he was killed for the truth of his words.”

Once again the father’s hand clutched Adelard’s shoulder and squeezed it. “My son heard the man called Jacob argue with the dead man. They scuffled.” Oseberne looked down at his son who tilted his head back to stare up at his father. “Did you not overhear the Jew threaten to kill his Christian guard?”

Adelard looked back at the monk and nodded with enthusiasm.

“It is not surprising that Kenelm was found dead in the priory mill pond. Is that not a sacrilege?” The baker hesitated, and then his scowl fled to be replaced with a delighted smile. “And a deliberate contamination of your water! The stream is like your well, is it not?”

Thomas shuddered. His qualms regarding what these rumors might bring were coming to fruition.

“Now you see, Brother, how these wicked people have committed violence against us.” Adelard lifted his silver cross and kissed it.

“I shall report your words to our crowner,” the monk said. “He may wish to question you.” And he would alert his prioress as well. He could only hope that Adelard had not already spread this story amongst the villagers but suspected the damage had already been done.

Oseberne was looking at his son’s cross with pride. “I gave him that,” he said to the monk.

Does this man care only about his fine loaves and being perceived as a man able to buy a silver cross? Thomas was annoyed but knew he must now pull himself back from inquiring into Kenelm’s death and return to the stated purpose of his visit here.

Glancing down at the youth, he saw a shadow pass over Adelard’s face as he contemplated that silver cross of which his father boasted. Then the monk looked back at the baker standing behind his son. The man was imposing in size, his son frail by comparison. It was easy to see how such an intimidating father could impose his will on the young man.

It was an observation worth pursuing. Just how much of the youth’s proclaimed passion for the cloister came from Oseberne and how much desire for the religious life arose from Adelard’s own heart? If this youth’s calling was sincere, the monk hoped it had a gentler side that could be cultivated. That rough-edged fanaticism made Adelard sound like a younger version of his father. In Thomas’ opinion, hate might be better applied to pounding bread dough than taking on a monk’s life.

“Whatever the resolution of this murder, the presence of Jews in Tyndal shall be temporary, but, if you are accepted as a novice at Tyndal priory, that shall last a lifetime. Surely you have reasons for longing to abandon the world other than a hatred of the Jews.”

“Women! I can no longer bear their presence. By day, they play the honest virgin. At night, they whore. My dreams are so rife with succubae that I cannot sleep and instead war against the darkness with the sharp sword of prayer.”

Recalling his own dismay at the same age when a light touch on his groin might transform him into a leering satyr, he suspected Adelard suffered a similar shame and fear. “Satan often sends his imps to torment men at night.” His voice was gentle with understanding.

“But the whores are not just in dreams! They walk the earth and lure good men into their foul embrace.” He glanced back at his father. “Not all, of course. My mother was so chaste that she must be in Heaven now.”

Thomas knew he had not imagined the baker’s wince before the widower lowered his gaze and nodded.

“You have witnessed this evil yourself, my son?” The monk prepared to hear Adelard name every young woman in the village who might have shared a kiss with a youth.

Adelard’s expression turned sly. “Lust infects many, Brother.”

The monk froze as if the young man had caught him in some lewd act. Thomas quickly reminded himself that the subject was wanton women, a temptation to which he had long been immune. “You have proof?” he asked again.

“Mine own eyes.”

“You witness much.” Did this youth ever sleep? Of course, he often did not either, tormented as he was by his own particular longings.

“God has chosen me to point the finger of righteous outrage on His behalf, and thus I walk the paths during Satan’s hours to seek out wickedness.”

“Continue.”

“I name Gytha, Tostig’s sister, as our greatest harlot.”

Thomas clenched his fist and drew back to keep from striking Adelard. If anyone was virtuous, it was Prioress Eleanor’s maid, a woman beloved for both her kindness and ready wit. He felt his face turn hot with rage at the accusation.

Adelard read the flush of the monk’s face differently. “I knew you would be horrified that your priory housed such a serpent.” He glowed with pride at his revelation.

The monk nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“There is more.”

“Aye?” Thomas spat more than uttered his reply.

“She lay with Brother Gwydo near the hut of Ivetta the Whore. I witnessed the sin. That was the night of the murder.”

Thomas’ head spun and roaring filled his ears. Dizzy, he stepped back, braced his hand on the wall to steady himself, and willed away the bruising echo of Adelard’s sordid accusation.

And so it took him a moment to understand that the deafening noise he heard was not caused by the passion of his outrage. Instead it was the shouting of an angry crowd in the street outside the baker’s house.

Brother Thomas rushed into the road but was immediately shoved back against the house wall. The mob was so closely packed, it heaved like lice-infested hair.

Adelard and his father stayed safe within the doorway.

“Kill the Jews!” one man shouted. He elbowed his way past the monk and stabbed his pitchfork at the sky.

Thomas caught himself wondering why God must be pricked to pay attention. He tried to inch back to the protection of the baker’s door.

A few feet in front of him, a man slipped in dung, lost his footing, and slid under trampling feet. Terrified and in pain, he began to scream.

The mob pushed on.