Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

“A blessing for a poor man who does not own a roof to keep the sun and rain from his head?” He rubbed the sunburned pate and grinned. “And perhaps a prayer to bring back the hair that once protected me from the weather?”

“I know of no remedy for the latter,” Thomas replied with a laugh and gave the man’s soul the ease he had begged.

The peddler dug in his pouch for a coin.

“The answer to an urgent question would be payment enough,” Thomas said.

Looking surprised, the man replied: “If my poor wits are able.”

“Did you see a tall man in the village, a man who wore a sword?”

“Aye. He was in a great rush to flee the place and preceded me here.” He frowned, as if trying to remember something. “Near a clearing, he left the road.”

“Was there a hut close by where he turned away?”

“Now that you have mentioned it, I did notice the place. Seemed odd that a man with a sword was walking into the forest. Common sorts don’t own swords, and honest knights have horses.” He looked over his shoulder toward the village. “Not an outlaw, is he?”

“He’s our crowner.”

“After a felon?” He still looked uneasy. “I hid for some time until I was sure he’d not return. My rounded pouch might tempt some.”

“Looking for his wife, I think. She wasn’t with him by any chance?” Thomas folded his hands and tried to look as if there was a marital issue here of which he did not quite approve. As for calling Gytha a wife, the title was only a matter of time in coming and thus no true lie.

The chapman grinned with relief. “Nay, he was alone. I hope he wasn’t looking for a man who had put horns above his ears!”

Thomas shook his head and pointed to the leather bag at the peddler’s waist. “I’d starve that pouch,” he said, “if you wish to journey without fear of theft. As for the crowner and his wife, I shall find them and bring their discord to an end. You have given me the help I need to find them.” Smiling, he bade the man farewell and walked off. At least he knew that Ralf was still hunting for the maid. He would look for him in the forest.

Glancing back, Thomas watched the chapman hide coins, until his pouch had grown thin, and then disappear over a small rise on the road running alongside the priory wall. Quickly, the monk slipped into the brush, seeking the footpath that led to the village. It was a route he knew well since he had lived in that small hut, named for a poor woman now dead, when he chose to live in contemplative solitude away from the community of Tyndal Priory.

The sunlight faded as he went deeper into the thick brushwood and trees. Dry leaves had already begun to drop on the earth long softened by their decay. Thomas walked carefully and listened for voices above the humming of insects and the whistling of a soft sea breeze that moved through the branches above him.

Then he stopped and held his breath.

He had heard a laugh.

Slipping to the ground, Thomas hoped he had not been seen. From just a short distance ahead of him, he was now certain he heard more voices.

One was a woman’s.

Like a cat stalking a bird, he slid on his belly and inched toward a large rock near a tree, both of which provided good cover. From between the two, he could safely look into a small clearing.

Gytha and Ralf were sitting on the ground. Both were bound.

Oseberne stood over them, a glittering knife in his hand. “I would not mock, if I were you,” he said to Gytha. “I am master here.” He glanced down at Ralf and nudged the crowner with his boot. “A traitorous sort you are, protecting infidels when you should have used the flat of your sword to send them on their way.”

“They are under King Edward’s protection.” Ralf shifted away from the baker’s foot.

“The king has no love for Jews,” Oseberne snapped. “He fought unbelievers in Outremer. Do you think he does not know how they defile the very earth they touch?”

“Say what you will, but the Jewish family here did not cut Kenelm’s throat and dump his body into the mill pond, befouling priory water.”

“They might have done!”

“You did it and cast blame on innocents.”

“No unbeliever is innocent. Saying otherwise tells me that you have taken the Devil’s hand, Crowner.”

“Why kill Kenelm?”

Oseberne crouched and flicked his knife back and forth in front of Ralf’s face. “He caught me stealing from the Jews when the innkeeper gave them shelter last winter. Thereafter, I paid him a reasonable fee to turn his back on occasion when I took from those people what they had stolen from Christian men. He got greedy when this new family came and demanded more, threatening to tell you.” He pointed the knife at Ralf. “I saw no need to suffer the penalty of an unjust law when all I did was recover illegally obtained goods.”

“You were only enriching yourself.” Gytha pushed herself up against a tree trunk.

The baker pointed his blade tip at her. “I would not cast such an accusation at a respected man, whore. You struck Kenelm first, a blow he did not deserve after you had driven the man into unlawful lust. Was he unwilling to pay your usual fee?”

“He followed me. I did nothing to encourage him.” Her face turned scarlet with fury.

He licked his lips. “I’ve watched you flaunt yourself on market days. Had I been as weak-willed as Kenelm, I might have lain with you myself, but God has kept me chaste since my wife’s death.”

“With impotence, most likely,” Ralf growled.

Oseberne leapt to his feet, his face turning purple. “Do you long to become a gelding, Crowner?”

In his hiding place, Thomas winced. He had no doubt that the baker would kill Gytha and Ralf. How Oseberne planned to stage this crime did not take much imagination. All he need do was spread the rumor that Gytha had whored with Kenelm and that Ralf had slain her out of jealousy, then killed himself in shame and grief. There were few in the village who did not know that the crowner hoped to make this maid his wife.

Thomas knew he must do something, but Oseberne, who was his match in height and strength, had a knife. Glancing around, he found nothing to use in defense. He clenched a fist and wished it held a mace.

Ralf said something too soft to hear.

“Fool! Say rather that I was clever and took the chance to remove the midge that was bleeding me of coin and, at the same time, cast blame on a wicked people. After I saw this whore running into the woods, I heard Kenelm groan and helped him to rise. There was a bloody rock nearby. She must have stunned him with it, I thought, and suddenly I knew God had shown me favor! He had given me the perfect opportunity to render proper justice on those deserving punishment.”

Rather it is Satan who sings sweetly into the ears of men who want God to justify the cruelties they wish to commit, Thomas muttered to himself.

“I told him I would get him to the hospital and so supported him into the priory grounds. There I slit his throat and threw him into the pond. Unfortunately, as I was leaving, I noticed the lay brother some distance behind me. Although I concealed myself in the shadows of the outside wall, I feared he had recognized me.”

“So you killed Brother Gwydo? He was a good, kind man…” Gytha squirmed in outrage.

“Good? He fled the priory that same night! How can you praise one who claimed piety but surely left to commit hidden sins?” He snorted. “Did you lie with him too? My son thinks so.”

“If gentleness has become a transgression, then Brother Gwydo excelled in wickedness,” she hissed at him. “I know of no other evil he ever did.”

“God did not agree. When the riot started, I feared my bakery might suffer harm, no matter how righteous the cause against the Jews. So I came to the priory to bring back this lackluster crowner.” He kicked Ralf forcefully in his ribs. “I saw the Devil’s creature slip once more into the woods, followed him, and sent him to Hell. If God had not wished the death, He would not have let me see the man again. Not only did I eliminate a witness to Kenelm’s death, but I served God by punishing a sinful monk.”