Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

“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.”

Cuthbert 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…”

“You were right to send him home, Crowner. I am happy to take his place.”

“I heard the tale of the argument between Kenelm and ben Asser from Signy. Had you heard of it?”

“Oseberne and his son told me as well.” Although he was happy to share what he had learned about this with his friend, he chose to remain silent about the accusations against Gytha.

Ralf turned to face the stable entrance. “Jacob ben Asser!” he shouted. “In the name of King Edward, I order you to come forth.”

The face of the man who emerged was as pale as a corpse, and profound fatigue had bruised the skin with black circles under his eyes. Even his back was bent like that of an old man, but his gaze at the crowner was sharp with defiance.

This man had expected to be ripped apart by the howling mob, yet he refuses to cower and still honors the king’s command. Suddenly Thomas understood that, if ben Asser had killed Kenelm, he could not demand sanctuary in the priory church, clutching the altar as a Christian might. He had no such option to avoid the hangman’s rope by foreswearing the realm and sailing to France. This saddened the monk, and he found himself respecting the man’s courage even more.

Jacob glanced at the monk. His jaw clenched.

Thomas stretched out his hand, then dropped it. This was one who had no desire for his blessing, let alone any comforting words he might speak. He was a monk, and his very presence was menacing to one of ben Asser’s faith. Although Thomas meant no ill, he now saw that he had been wrong to come with Ralf for this questioning. His presence had been misinterpreted as a threat. In an attempt to convey a peaceful intent, the monk bowed his head.

Jacob studied at the monk, then nodded almost imperceptibly in response. Looking back at the crowner, he replied, “I obey, my lord.”

“You have much to answer for,” Ralf said.

Jacob spread his arms. “Ask what you must. I am ready.”

“Witnesses have claimed you threatened to kill Kenelm not long before he was found dead.”