Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

“Gytha!” He slammed his fist against the wooden table and howled with pain.

“Enough!” Eleanor strode into the room. “This woman has been as loyal to me and shown as much love as any who shared my mother’s womb. For that, I respect the truth of her words and shall shield her against all who dare to point condemning fingers.” She glared at Ralf. “And you? You have known her since she was a child and call her brother your closest friend. Surely you owe her even greater loyalty than I, crowner.” Walking over to Gytha, she pulled her close to her side. “This interrogation has ended.”

The crowner nodded and looked away.

“Leave us, my child,” Eleanor said. “He has heard your story, and we have agreed that you shall remain here no matter what he concludes. Seek peace in the cloister garth until I come for you.” Shooting a barbed look at Ralf, she added, “I must speak with this man a brief moment longer.”

Her eyes moist with repressed grief, Gytha fled the chambers, slamming the door behind her.

Eleanor was now alone with a man, against all rules. For once, she was too angry to care. “You should be ashamed, Ralf. I would not have urged her to speak with you had I known you would have treated her with such disregard. You have betrayed my trust.”

He fell to his knees in front of her.

“Oh, stand up,” she said and turned to the table. Pouring two cups of wine, she pushed one into the crowner’s hand.

He drained the cup.

She poured him more. “You, as well as I, love Gytha, yet you have deeply wounded her. My trust may have been betrayed, but your brutal words to her are the greater sin. How dare you doubt her honor and accuse her of lying when she swore she had not been raped. That was more than cruel. That was the act of one in whom God had failed to place a heart.”

He looked like a man facing an eternity in Hell.

“I must forgive the insult to me, because my vows require it, but I am not obliged to forget the wound you inflicted on a good woman.” The prioress glared at him. “Even assuming she had been raped, surely you know that she would never marry you until she knew she would not quicken with Kenelm’s foul seed. And if proof of virginity is truly required, should she ever be willing to let you take her to the church door, Sister Anne will provide it.” She threw up her hands in disgust. “What were you thinking, Ralf! Or were you thinking at all?”

“God has cursed me with lack of wit,” he groaned. “It is not the first time I have spoken so rudely.”

“Indeed, it is not,” the prioress snapped. “This time you shall pay dearly for it.”

Silence fell between them, then Eleanor walked to him and lightly put her hand on his arm. “Aye, you have stabbed her to the heart. Whether or not the blow is fatal we cannot yet know, nor dare we take the time now to consider a possible remedy. For Gytha’s sake as well, the murder must be solved first.” Retreating to a proper distance, the prioress asked: “Do you think it possible that Gytha killed Kenelm even in the defense of her honor?”

“Nay,” he said without hesitation and swallowed the remaining wine. “Nor, as you told me, does Sister Anne.”

“Neither do I.” She pointed to the jug.

He hesitated.

She smiled and poured again. “Someone cut his throat. I did not mention that detail to Gytha. She claims that she only hit him with a rock and that must have killed him. There is no reason for her to hide another wound when she has already confessed to the murder.”

He agreed, then sipped with moderation.

“As we discussed before you were summoned to the riot, there was blood in the ground above the mill. According to Sister Anne, a man bleeds only before death.”

“That means that someone discovered Kenelm still alive, dragged him to the mill, slit his throat, and threw the body in.”

“Or perhaps found him after he dragged himself inside the gate and then cut the man’s throat. That is probably a minor difference, so I say we are in agreement. Unfortunately, we have only Gytha’s confession about striking the man. Unless we find the true killer, suspicion will continue to cloak her.” She raised a hand to stop him from speaking. “Even if she is found innocent because of the circumstances, Ralf, some will always condemn her for the violence unless another is hanged for the murder.”

“That cur, Adelard, will never shut his mouth about it,” the crowner growled.

“As Gytha’s tale points out, there is one more element in this vile tale that must be resolved.” Eleanor’s expression was grim. “Brother Thomas is seeking Brother Gwydo now. When he brings him to me, I will ask why he was outside the priory, how he discovered Gytha, if he saw Kenelm or anyone else, and what he did after her took her to the mill gate.”

“Do you think the lay brother killed Kenelm?”

“I cannot conclude anything before I question him, Ralf.”

“And you must do so without me.”

“He is under my leadership and the Church’s rule.”

The crowner bowed his head. “I know you will share with me whatever you discover, my lady.” He took a deep breath. “As for Mistress Gytha and the wrong I have done unto her…”

“When this other crime has been solved, Ralf, I shall do all I can to bridge the chasm between you. It is a wide one,” she said, then shook her head. “But differences can often be resolved and loving hearts bonded more firmly with the wisdom learned in the struggle. Pray, as shall I, that this may be true for you both.”

Frowning, the young lay brother leaned on his hoe. “Nay, I have not seen Brother Gwydo since yesterday.”

Thomas was now worried. “Did you speak with him then?”

“I told him what I knew about the riot in the village. Did you not hear the shouting?”

“I was there,” the monk replied. “How did you learn of it?”

“I pulled myself up on the mill gate and asked a passerby on the road.” The youth flushed. “On the vows I have taken, Brother, I swear I was only a hand’s breadth outside the wall.” But curiosity still sparkled in his eyes. “What more have you learned?” the youth whispered. “Were the Jews killed?”

“No.” Thomas had neither the time nor the inclination to give details. “How did Brother Gwydo respond?”

The lay brother looked sufficiently chastened. “He was unhappy, saying that this violence was a wicked thing. When I asked why he was so troubled by it, he said nothing more but left and walked back toward his bees.” The lay brother shook his head. “Why would he have said that? Hadn’t he gone on pilgrimage to Outremer to recover Jerusalem from the infidels? Are Jews not infidels?”

Thomas was even less eager to repeat his sermon to the villagers on the rights of the king’s people than he was to trade tales. He had to find Gwydo. “I will send for you later and explain the Church’s position on those of Jewish faith.”

The man’s expression suggested less than enthusiastic anticipation.

Leaving the lay brother to his struggles with the garden weeds, Thomas strode down the path that led to the mill. Where had Gwydo gone?

He had already searched the priory. The man was not in the dormitory, nor had he fallen ill and gone to the hospital. Only Brother John was in the chapel, a man who constantly begged God to pardon frailties he could never forgive himself.

Reaching the mill pond, Thomas slid down the embankment and found a full pottery jug left in the water. He pulled himself back up to the path and walked toward the skeps. As the buzzing grew louder, he looked around. No one was tending the bees.

“What do I even know about the man?” Thomas asked himself as he left the clearing. Had Gwydo been married, and did he have children? Where was he from, and what was his parentage? He did have a singing voice the seraphim would envy, and Thomas felt at ease with him.