Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

The reaction of the villagers to Oseberne’s crimes of theft unsettled her. Because the victims had been Jewish, few cared that the baker robbed these innocent travelers to enrich himself. As for Kenelm, no one had liked the man. Some still regretted that a villager had been guilty, but no one grieved over the guard’s murder. The only crime the village lamented was the murder of Brother Gwydo. Yet Gytha told her that some men believed he had betrayed his faith by slipping out of the priory to ask pardon of a Jew, and thus God had punished him.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, but the air seared her lungs like molten lead and the faint smell of her own sweat made her nauseous. Feeling lightheaded again, she shook her head, hoping to chase the dizziness away, and shut her eyes against the intense sunlight. When she opened them, she saw that the armed guard had surrounded the family, and the party was about to depart. As the prioress looked into the distance, the road to Norwich shimmered. Even the stones and trees glowed as if the sun had set them afire.

Just in time, Eleanor stopped herself from giving Jacob ben Asser and his family a blessing and instead wished them a safe journey, as did Prior Andrew and Brother Thomas. Sister Anne opened her arms and stepped forward to hug Mistress Malka, then kissed a finger and placed it against the cheek of the babe she had brought into the world. When the nun walked back to her side, Eleanor saw tears in her eyes and then noticed that the cheeks of Mistress Malka also glistened.

As the family slowly rode off, the mother and her babe on the donkey with the young father walking beside them, Eleanor saw extraordinary, shimmering circles of light begin to flow around each of their heads. The lights were unbearably bright, and her eyes watered with the pain. But she could not bear to look away and stared without blinking as if compelled by a force far greater than her own will.

With no warning, the prioress fell to her knees and pressed her hand against her heart.

Sister Anne knelt by her friend’s side. “You are ill!” she whispered, frightened by the prioress’ staring eyes and sudden pallor.

Eleanor grasped her friend’s shoulder and pointed down the road. Her hand trembled. “The Holy Family,” she murmured. “Do they not look like the Holy Family?”

***

Years hence, the tale was told that the village of Tyndal had been honored to receive a visit from Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary. There, in a stable, the wonder of the Bethlehem story had been recreated, an event intended to bring solace and reverent awe to the hearts of all who witnessed it.

But instead of humble joy, the villagers greeted the family with hate and violence, as the inhabitants of Sodom did God’s angels. As a consequence, no one was allowed the privilege of seeing the miracle. Only the Prioress of Tyndal was found virtuous enough to receive the blessing of the vision, the story went, and so her reputation continued to grow as one especially favored by God.