Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

Thomas jammed his elbows into stomachs and backs until he reached the fallen man. The mass of people now slowed enough so he could drag the villager back to the doorway.

The baker and his son reluctantly made room.

Wide-eyed and whimpering, the injured victim clung to the monk’s sleeve as if he might fall into Hell’s pit should he let go.

“You are fortunate that these are minor wounds,” Thomas said, examining a bloodied hand and facial cuts. “No broken bones. Go home to your good wife and let her use the healing herbs from the garden on those.”

“But the Jews…”

“Do as I say unless you want the wounds to fester. Will any of your fellows here feed your family if that hand must be cut off?”

The man scrabbled to his feet, inched his way along the wall to the back of the milling throng, and sprinted down the road.

The crowd no longer moved, but their shouts grew shrill. Thomas covered his ears and stepped to one side of the door. As he did, he was roughly pushed back into the road.

It was Adelard who shoved him. The youth screamed, leaping from the doorway as the mob began to chant for blood. Raising his fists, he cried out for the slaughter of all who refused baptism. Then he bent his elbows, thrust his way deep into the roaring throng, and disappeared.

Despite the tumult, the monk heard a high-pitched scream behind him. He spun around, terrified that the mob had somehow invaded the baker’s house.

But only Oseberne was inside. The man had clutched a handful of his youngest son’s loose tunic to prevent him from following his older brother. The child’s face was scarlet, tears pouring down his cheeks.

Thomas was unsure if the child howled out of terror or frustrated rage.

Without a word, the baker yanked the boy further into the house and slammed the door. The heavy wooden beam inside dropped with a thud and firmly sealed the door shut. The only path to safety from the riot now lay solely along a narrow space between the house wall and the crowd.

“Brother Thomas!”

That was Nute’s voice! Frightened that the lad was injured, the monk stretched himself as high as he could to peer over the shouting men. Then he saw the boy, squeezed between two burly men.

Shouting that God would punish all who thwarted His will, Thomas pushed into the mob and fought his way toward the boy. This time, a small path opened as a few men edged aside, staring at the monk with trepidation. Rarely had they heard such anger from a religious, and never from this man whom they had good cause to respect.

Reaching the lad, he pulled Nute loose and hugged him close, then kicked shins and threatened hellfire until he got safely back to the baker’s door.

“Are you hurt?” He fell to his knees and carefully checked Nute for broken ribs, foot, or arms.

The boy shook his head. Although he was pale with terror, he had not allowed himself to cry.

“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?”