Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

Belia put the babe to her breast, her face glowing.

“Our son is a lusty eater,” her husband said in amazement.

“Just like his father,” Belia replied with a twinkle in her eye.

In awe the parents watched until the child had suckled, belched, and fallen back asleep.

“Continue your story,” his wife said.

Jacob shifted to rest his back against the stall. “He and I were like brothers when we were children. I went to his house and he to mine. On baking day, ours was the most popular place to meet. Until she died, my mother gave all the children sweets.”

“But boys become men, and the difference in faith builds walls between us as it did with that poor boy, William, in Norwich. We were cruelly condemned for killing a child our mothers welcomed and fed.”

“Would that boys never become men if hate is the result.” There was sorrow in his voice.

“You should be grateful the man you considered a brother did not stab you to death when you last met. Did he not threaten to kill you once before?”

He looked upon his sleeping son, and tears glistened in the corner of his eyes. “He did, swearing to slit my throat if I did not forsake my faith for his. I refused, saying that no man respects another who breaks an oath, even one deemed in error. So how could Christians not look at a man with suspicion and doubt if he abandons his faith to follow another? Is that not an oath broken? There is no safety for us in that choice, and those who convert often suffer much grief.”

“Do you truly believe he means now to make peace with you?”

“Not all Christians in this land hold us in contempt.”

“My mother would concur and refuses to praise or condemn any, whether Jewish or Christian, on the basis of faith alone. But dare you believe that this man, who once held his knife to your throat, has changed his mind?”

“He did not kill me then either.”

“Only because my mother walked into the courtyard and reminded him that murder was against every law, a rule honored by all good men.”

“He does now beg forgiveness for what he did.”

“Then seek my mother’s advice on what you should do. She rarely errs in judging men’s hearts. Did she not allow a nun to help me give birth to our child?”

“She knew the nun’s father in Norwich, a physician and one whom she and your father both respected.”

“Despite my birth pains, I heard them talking as if there was no difference between them. Since my mother can look beyond the symbols of faith, she will tell you honestly if she questions the sincerity of your boyhood friend.”

Jacob nodded in the direction of the absent mother-in-law. “Your mother did know him when he was a child. I shall listen to her opinion and shall seek it again about what we should plan to do after we are safely in Norwich.”

“My mother has learned to survive the vagaries of Christian tolerance. In this kingdom, we once knew kindness from King Henry II. Even the late king, Henry III, took our part in court, but his son finds persecution more profitable. I agree with her that we shall always be guests in any realm. Even if we travel to the Great Sea and seek asylum in the land of Hagar’s descendants, we must never forget that the welcome offered is only for a brief time.” Her voice dulled with growing fatigue.

He looked over his shoulder at the entrance to their tiny shelter. “Meanwhile, a lay brother from the priory stands outside to keep the villagers from killing us, that at the order of a prioress.”

“My mother finds members of this priory to be honorable and kind. Of all the villagers, the innkeeper came to comfort me in my travail.” She smiled at him. “You know that my mother seeks the true nature of any mortal in the eyes’ light. Did I not follow her teaching and discover how loving you were?” Then she gazed at the tiny child at her breast. “And see what a gift you gave me!”

Jacob flushed, and then rose to his feet. “I must let you rest,” he said, “and send in your mother to lie near you while you sleep. It must be safe to take a short walk between inn and stables. When I return, I shall bed down in the next stall.” He kissed his fingers and directed them to his wife. “As you said, our hearts are never apart even when I must keep my distance until your mikveh .”

“And surely I can take the ritual bath soon after we arrive in Norwich,” she murmured, her eyes closing against her will with weariness.

He watched her fall asleep, the babe still snuggled against her breast, then pulled aside the cloth and stepped outside the stall.

Malka rose to her feet, nodding at the sleeping maid in the straw, and gestured for Jacob to leave the stables with her. “Of course, I cannot be sure that you would ever seek my opinion on such a matter, but I was just thinking that your friend seemed truly repentant when he last approached you,” she said in a low voice.

He smiled at her phrasing and thanked her. Then they stood for a long time, staring in silence at the rigid back of Brother Beorn.

“Fez, I think,” she said softly. “I have heard that the emir was outraged at the recent violence against us there and promised protection if we bring our skills and learning to serve him. All who do not share his faith, whether Christian or Jew, must surely pay a fine and give their oath that they will not attempt to convert any from the faith practiced in that land. The oath is reasonable, and any fines no worse than we would suffer elsewhere.”

Jacob kissed her cheek. “You did say that you heard only what pertained to your grandson,” he said with a chuckle. “He shall learn Arabic then.”

She nodded. “Another language, added to the several we already know, is useful in business and in the courts of rulers.” She turned around and reached for the cloth covering the entrance. “’Tis a pity she must wait to be cleansed until we return to Norwich, but that will give her more time to heal.”

“I would do nothing to endanger her health,” Jacob replied, pulling the heavy cloth back for her.

“That is one of the many reasons I am grateful you married my daughter,” she said and disappeared into the stables.

Jacob shut his eyes but knew he could not sleep. The night was soft. The heat of the day lingered with the sweet scent of warm flowers, and there was a hint of moisture in the air that presaged rain. In that moment, he felt at peace. His wife was growing stronger. His son cried lustily and fed like a lion cub. Perhaps the worst had passed?

He walked deeper into the darkness.

Ralf slammed the leather jack on the scarred table and swung his hand in the approximate direction of the ale jug.

“It is empty, my lord.” Cuthbert grabbed the object out of harm’s way and gestured to the serving wench for another.

“I cannot even get properly drunk.” Ralf’s snarl exploded into a loud belch.

Raising an eyebrow, the sergeant chose not to contradict the man whom he served.

It took only a moment for the woman to slide a freshly filled jug across the table toward the two men. She glanced at Cuthbert’s almost full jack and the crowner’s dry one. “Compliments of Mistress Signy,” she said and marched off.

“Now that wench would be a fine mare to ride through the night. Look how those hips sway!” Ralf’s leer was decidedly askew.

The sergeant shrugged.

Ralf ran a palm over the stubble on his face. He was growing morose. In truth, his manhood might hope the woman would follow him to the hayloft, but the rest of his body wanted to go home to a beloved wife. And if not tonight, tomorrow he would have preferred to remain sober.

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned. The only wife he longed to have waiting for him was Gytha, a woman whom he had insulted beyond all hope of forgiveness.