Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

Jacob’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “He and I argued. Each of us exchanged hot words. Had my corpse been found, would these villagers be so eager to riot and announce that he had threatened me in like fashion? Whether my words made him angry enough to kill is something he can no longer answer. As for me, his words did not drive me to murder.”

“You exchanged blows.”

“We shoved each other. Nothing more.”

“What caused this quarrel?”

“He did mock my faith.” Jacob’s look betrayed resignation. “That, by itself, is little enough if the violence suffered is only with stinging words, my lord. We have learned to turn away when those, like Kenelm, ridicule what is holy to us.”

“But you did not retreat this time.”

Jacob gestured with a sigh toward the stables behind him. “As I said to you before, my wife is close to her term and suffers grievously. She needs rest to keep her strength for the coming ordeal. Kenelm, like that other youth whom you sent away, would not allow her to sleep. With courtesy, I asked him to lower his voice. He…” The man’s face turned red with controlled fury. “I need not repeat what he said, but he insulted my wife’s virtue and raised his voice so she could not help but hear his vile words.”

Ralf nodded, gesturing for the man to continue.

“It was then that I shoved him. Perhaps we did exchange some blows.” He raised his arms, then let them fall to his sides.

“You did not threaten to kill him?”

“I cannot swear to any verbal restraint in that moment. I might have said such a thing, as he might have responded in like fashion to me as well. But words are but sounds, often meaning nothing, as wise men have said. Yet he is dead, and I stand before you, still breathing. Some will surely say that proves my guilt. I can only deny it, and I give you my oath that it is true.”

“Have you any proof of innocence besides your oath?”

“Will you take a woman’s word?”

Ralf said nothing.

“I thought not, but my wife and her mother can confirm that I did not leave them that night.”

“No one else.”

“No Christian man, my lord.”

Thomas looked at Ralf and saw a glimpse of sympathy in his friend’s eyes.

“Yet no one can say that I left the hut, either. May two negatives prove the positive that is innocence?”

Had the matter been less grave, the crowner might have laughed at the man’s jest. Thomas allowed himself to smile.

“Jacob!”

The man spun around.

A white-haired woman emerged from the stable, gesturing with cruelly crippled hands. “Belia’s water has broken. She will soon give birth. We must have a doctor…”

“There is none!” Jacob finally lost control, and tears poured down his cheeks.

For just a moment, Ralf forgot that this man was a murder suspect and grabbed Jacob’s shoulder. “I shall send for Sister Anne from the priory hospital.”

“You must not!” Jacob’s voice was raw with pain. “Our child will be baptized and taken from us.” He fell to his knees and began to pray in a language Thomas recognized as Hebrew.

“You would let your wife and babe die…”

Suddenly Thomas put a restraining hand on the crowner’s shoulder. “Wait!” he said and drew closer to Jacob and the white-haired woman. “Did your family not come originally from Norwich?”

Belia’s mother nodded.

“Sister Anne’s father was a respected physician there. His name was Benedict.”

Malka gasped, covering her mouth in shock. “Benedict of Norwich? My husband and I knew him well. We…” She stared at the monk. “His daughter is a nun at this priory?”

“She is also an apothecary and trained in medical wisdom by her father before he died.”

Malka’s eyes grew large as she placed the heel of her palms against her cheeks. Then she knelt beside Jacob. “We must let her come. I knew her father. He was a good man, and I remember this daughter when she was a child.”

“She is a nun,” Jacob replied in horror. He gestured at Thomas. “They, she, he will…”

“…do nothing except allow Benedict’s daughter to save Belia’s life and that of my grandchild. I shall remain by my daughter’s side.” She looked up at the monk. “Do you swear it? Give me your word that you will not strip my Belia and her child of their faith and heritage.”

“I swear that we shall not baptize the child or the mother, even in the face of death and at the cost of their immortal souls,” Thomas replied. It had not been his intent to say that, and his voice shook. Oddly, his heart remained at peace. He looked up at the heavens. A soft breeze from the sea touched his face. Apparently, God was not about to strike him dead over such a promise.

“Then bring Sister Anne to my child,” the mother cried. “I beg you for that mercy!”

Thomas turned and ran back to the priory much faster than he thought possible.

Eleanor looked down from her window and watched Brother Beorn, Gytha, and Sister Anne hurry along the mill pond path toward the village. The lay brother’s galloping pace was well-matched by Sister Anne’s long legs, but the maid struggled to keep up.

Had their mission been less dire, the prioress might have smiled with fond amusement. Instead, her heart ached, as it always did when women faced perilous births. Although she knew the danger and pain were Eve’s legacy for rebelling against God’s will, she never forgot, nor quite forgave, the death of her own mother in childbed.

She turned around. “How old is the wife?”

Brother Thomas stood near her carved audience chair and held a large orange cat in his arms. As the monk absently stroked Arthur’s head, this patriarch of priory felines and hero in the wars against kitchen rodents closed his eyes and purred like a kitten.

“I believe that she and Gytha may share a similar length of time on this earth,” he replied after a moment and, again falling into silence, went back to petting the cat.

This time Eleanor did smile, a delight shared by the young nun in attendance who stood near the chamber door. Many feared cats, believing them to be Satan’s followers. Others concluded they were merely useful in keeping mice and rats away from edible stores. Yet this monk found as much pleasure in Eleanor’s favored beast as she did herself. And, perhaps, the cat also brought him peace and comfort after the ordeal he had faced, braving the rioting villagers. She shuddered at the risk he had taken but was proud of his courage. This time, her smile reflected her admiration for the man she both sinfully and virtuously loved.

The monk looked up, his expression contrite. “Forgive me, my lady, I did not mean to offend. My thoughts had taken a strange turn, and I was calling them back.”

Knowing he had caught her smile, she said: “I meant neither mockery nor censure, Brother. Indeed, I was thinking that your well regarded gentleness was matched by your courage in preaching compassion to the villagers.”

He blushed with modesty, then shook his head as if dismissing any virtue in what he had done. “Your decision to send Brother Beorn to guard Jacob ben Asser’s family, while his wife gives birth, was both wise and an act of great charity, my lady.”

“I did not want those men whom you faced in the road to harbor the smallest doubt that this priory follows the direction of Pope Gregory. As for the choice of Brother Beorn, that was a logical one. He is a man of the village and one known rarely to suffer fools. If he stands before the entrance to the stable, scowling as is his wont, those who are tempted to breach the fragile walls may be reminded of the cherubim with their flaming swords at the gates of Eden.”