Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

He banged his fist on the table and cursed.

Cuthbert slid a bit further down the bench.

“A lifetime of friendship with Tostig,” the crowner mumbled, then realized he had spoken aloud. And years of an evolving love for Gytha herself, he said to himself. All destroyed in a few moments of blind stupidity. Had he ever known her to lie? Why had he not taken her word at once? He let loose a stream of creative profanity.

Cuthbert sighed and drank a small amount of his own ale. This promised to be a long night. Despite what he had suggested when the crowner asked him to guard the Jewish family, his wife was lovingly patient. Had it not been for Ralf’s benevolence, they could never have married, a fact which allowed for a prolonged time of gratitude.

A burst of laughter rolled through the inn. In one corner a man was shouting the words to a lewd song. Just to their left, another got up on the table and began a rocky but enthusiastic dance.

“I cannot tolerate this!” Ralf hissed.

Cuthbert looked at him in surprise. The crowner now seemed unaccountably sober. “A miracle,” he murmured and stared at his own drink in case he had forgotten how much he had drunk himself.

“I need air,” Ralf said. “If the king wants to write new laws, let him forbid levity when I’m suffering.” Sliding along the length of the bench, he pushed Cuthbert in front of him, leapt to his feet, and headed for the door.

Signy waved to the crowner as he passed, then turned to the long-suffering sergeant who followed. “An attack of black or yellow bile?” she asked.

“Black as Satan’s ass,” he grumbled, then gave her a weak smile in response to her sympathetic tone.

“Tell him that Sister Anne should apply a leech to his pintle. That will surely cure him!”

“I dare not,” Cuthbert said with a laugh.

“I do.” Signy smiled and walked away.

***

Outside, the crowner slowed his pace and turned toward the new stables.

Brother Beorn looked up when Ralf approached. His expression was not welcoming.

The crowner stopped and nodded.

The lay brother grunted and folded his arms.

Although Beorn was surely unhappy that his prioress had sent him to guard a Jewish family, Ralf saw that he had obeyed with his usual diligence. That thin-shanked, beetle-eyed religious could scare the Devil himself, and it was well the man had been assigned to watch during Satan’s hours of darkness. In truth, that was a compliment, for Ralf felt no more love for Brother Beorn than the lay brother did for him. Resentments spawned in their boyhood had not faded.

“You are a far better guard than Kenelm, even with his cudgel,” Ralf muttered. “That look is fierce enough to frighten away any mortal with sense.”

Beorn’s expression took on a surprised hue.

“I need to piss,” the crowner said and strode off.

Cuthbert raised a hand in greeting to the lay brother and followed his superior at a courteous distance.

***

When Ralf turned the corner of the partially constructed stables, he stopped, momentarily unsure of where to walk. Clouds had swiftly covered the moon and chased away the brighter light. Blinking to clear his vision, he thought he saw something move in the darkness.

He squinted. Was that a man running away? Perhaps it was only a shadow changing shape as the clouds dimmed the moonlight.

Standing still, he listened, but a burst of laughter and tuneless singing from the inn overpowered any sound of footsteps. He must have been wrong, he decided, and, his eyes now better accustomed to the darkness, he continued on to find a place to relieve himself.

Suddenly, just a few yards in front of him, a man leapt from the ground and cried out.

“What has happened here?” Ralf drew his sword and rushed forward.

As if commanded, the moonlight brightened with a sickly glow.

The man standing was Jacob ben Asser. The body at his feet was that of Adelard.

“Cuthbert!” Ralf pushed ben Asser back against the stable wall and rested the point of his sword against the man’s chest.

The sergeant came running.

As he gave orders to his subordinate, the crowner did not take his eyes from his captive. “We have a corpse. Tell Mistress Signy we need sober men to carry it to the priory hospital. Prioress Eleanor must be informed by one of those men. We shall beg her permission to let Sister Anne take charge of it. You will summon Tostig. I need him to house and guard this suspect.”

Jacob opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Cuthbert spun around and left.

“I am arresting you for the murder of the baker’s son,” Ralf said to his captive.

“I am innocent!” Jacob’s eyes looked white with terror even in the weak moonlight.

The crowner grabbed his shoulder and held him firmly. Feeling the man tremble, Ralf sheathed his sword. It was unlikely ben Asser would try to escape or attack, and he felt an odd twinge of sorrow.

Jacob tried to gesture in the direction of the stable. “Whatever crime you wish to lay on my head, my family is innocent. A newborn babe and three women can do no ill to anyone, and they are helpless against those who wish them harm. Have mercy on us or at least have compassion for my family!”

“I am doing that,” Ralf growled. “Your family will remain under the protection of the priory, but no one can guarantee their safety if I do not take you into custody for this death. You may be innocent of all wrong, but the village does not care. They have already condemned you for Kenelm’s murder.” He gestured at Adelard’s body. “Your guard’s body may have been found some distance away, but this corpse lies at your very door.”

Adelard blinked. Shadows swirled around him like smoke. “Am I in Heaven?” he murmured, but the words echoed in his ears as if he were standing on the edge of an abyss. One vague form bent closer, and he grew frightened. “Or have my sins sent me to Hell?”

Prioress Eleanor stepped into a flickering pale ray of candlelight. “Neither. You are in the hospital at Tyndal Priory.”

“Are you sure?” the youth asked, wondering at the halo of light around this woman who spoke. Then Sister Christina rose from her knees and laid a hand on his forehead. Her expression was beatifically vague. He gasped and drew the sheet closer around his neck. “An angel!”

Stirring something in a tan pottery bowl, Sister Anne walked up to the bed. “Our infirmarian’s prayers have surely wrought a miracle. We thought you were dead when the men carried you here.”

Sister Christina stepped away, silently bowed to her prioress, and left. Her footsteps were so light that it was doubtful her feet ever touched the dusty earth.

Sister Anne glanced fondly at her retreating, near-sighted and gentle superior, then turned around to pour her potion into a small mazer. Sniffing at it to confirm potency, she brought it close to Adelard’s lips. “Drink,” she said. “It is bitter but will ease your pain.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Adelard dutifully swallowed. Despite being told that the vision he had just seen was not an angel, he was convinced she was at least a saint, and thus he grew inclined to obedience.

“Are you able to answer questions?”

The deep voice came from somewhere the youth could not see, and his body visibly jerked with fright.

Eleanor looked at Ralf and gestured for him to come where the young man could see him.

Adelard seemed relieved that the voice was a mortal one, but his expression still suggested that he saw little difference between an imp and this king’s man. “I will try to do so, my lord.”

“Why did you go to the stables?” Ralf’s voice was rough with impatience.

“I went to pray for the souls of the Jews.” He began to tremble again. “I did not mean to trouble their sleep, my lord. I know you sent me back to my father the last time you saw me there, but I swear that these prayers were to be quiet ones.”