Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

Thomas opened his mouth to protest but quickly saw that the man meant what he had said. “If the bees will not miss your warrior’s skill, should they have plans for a future battle, I would be grateful.”

Gwydo stretched his hand out, and the monk pulled him to his feet. The lay brother’s hand was rough, Thomas thought, but his grip was so gentle. Then fearing he had held the man’s hand an instant too long, he drew back and folded his arms into his sleeves.

“We may leave the bees to the labors they understand better than we,” Gwydo said, his tone showing no hint of disapproval. He motioned for the monk to follow him.

As they approached the bank of the mill pond, the lay brother pointed to a particular spot in the rushes. “I found the body when I went to sink my jug into the cool water,” he said. “The man called Kenelm was floating here.”

“You believed he had drowned?”

“I prayed he was still alive, but, when I reached him, I saw that his throat had been cut. I had no doubt he had been murdered.” He bit his lip. “Killed by another, that is. No man wishing to commit self-murder could cut so deeply.”

Thomas caught something in the man’s tone. To make such a distinction, he suspected the lay brother had known fellow soldiers so anguished in spirit or physical pain that an eternity in Hell seemed preferable to a moment longer of life. Had Gwydo given some the solace of death, as he heard others had done for their comrades? He shook the questions from his mind. “What did you do after you knew the man’s death was a violent one?”

Gwydo hesitated. “I did not rush to tell Prioress Eleanor, if that is what you meant. Although I am not an expert in these matters, I did consider whether or not the killer was still nearby.”

Surprised, Thomas stared at the man. “You surely did not seek him out with no weapon to protect yourself?”

“I am cautious by nature and stealthy by practice, Brother. Having learned to slip up on the beast with which I longed to fill my empty belly, I can walk silently enough to hunt a man.”

“And did you find anything of interest?” The monk tried to conceal his surprise at hearing an unexpected coldness in the man’s voice.

“No killer waited for me to catch him, so I then hurried to alert our prioress.”

“And later?”

“You have caught me out, Brother.” Gwydo slapped the monk on his shoulder. “I was not satisfied when Crowner Ralf said the deed must have been committed outside our walls. Had he included our grounds in his search for clues, I would have been content. He did not. I found that troubling.”

Thomas nodded. Prioress Eleanor was equally unwilling to let that conclusion lie without challenge, but he did not say so aloud. Although she had no quarrel with the crowner, it was her duty to make sure there was no doubt about jurisdiction between secular and religious authority.

“After I sent Brother Beorn to our sub-prioress, I again abandoned the bees and perused the bank above the mill. Come with me up the path and see what I found.” Gesturing for the monk to follow, he strode off.

Thomas noticed that Gwydo now breathed with ease. As he followed along the banks, he realized how little he knew of this lay brother, a man who had arrived at the priory with a high fever and a festering wound from which no one expected him to survive. Many deemed his recovery a miracle so none were amazed when he begged entry to the priory as a lay brother. Thomas had also learned that Gwydo was once a crusader. That such a man, weary of war and cured by God’s grace, would eagerly take vows did not surprise the monk. What did was the latent excitement this new and fatal violence seemed to have awakened in Gwydo.

Thomas found that both interesting and troubling in a man, unlike himself, who was truly pious.

Gwydo had stopped. “There,” he gestured as if the significance was obvious.

Thomas studied the path to the gate that led toward the village, noting only that the grass between path and stream was well-trampled. “Many travel this way,” he said and confessed that he failed to see what the lay brother meant.

“But they don’t leave blood.” Gwydo asked the monk to come closer, then knelt in the grass at the edge of the stream just above where it flowed over the wheel into the pond below.

Thomas crouched beside him and frowned. “Now I see. Someone has pulled up the grass and weeds here.” Then he bent closer to look at the spot indicated by Gwydo. He dug his fingers into the earth, and, when he looked at his hand, he saw stains of a rust color. “Blood,” he confirmed.

“I think the victim was killed here,” Gwydo said. “Then he fell or perhaps he was pushed into the stream.”

Thomas sat back. “Neither Cuthbert nor the crowner have seen this?”

“To my knowledge, neither examined this area. As I said, the crowner believes the killing took place beyond the priory and is probably still looking for evidence upstream.”

Thomas looked toward the gate. “Why did you not send word to our prioress?”

“The bells rang for the last office. I obeyed them to offer prayers. I found you here soon after returning.”

The explanation was reasonable. As Thomas recalled, both he and the prioress had missed the office due to their discussion of Kenelm’s death. “Crowner Ralf’s conclusion about how the body arrived in the pond would have been plausible had this killing only been a quarrel between angry mortals.” He looked sadly at Gwydo. “But no man would blacken his soul by killing a man here for such a petty matter. Shedding blood in the priory violates the sanctity of God’s ground. This evidence suggests the crime may be a far darker one than any have thought.”

Gwydo drew back, his expression inscrutable. “I fear that you and our prioress will be drawn into investigating after all.”

Thomas rose to his feet and brushed the dust off his robe. “Prioress Eleanor may not be pleased that the crime has ceased to be the king’s sole problem, but she will thank you for discovering this.”

As he glanced again at Gwydo, however, he caught a fleeting look in the man’s eyes that made him uneasy. In a man he thought so gentle, he was quite sure he had seen a flicker of hate.

Ralf gulped his dark ale, ran a hand across his mouth, and belched. “Will you sit with me?” he asked, looking up at the golden-haired, buxom woman standing across from him. Sheepishly, he smiled.

Signy, the innkeeper, folded her hands. The gesture suggested a virtuous femininity, as did her simple black robe, but the corners of her eyes crinkled with merriment, revealing that she was well-accustomed to the vagaries of men. From this fleeting hint, the wise would know that any who tried to deceive her would, at the very least, suffer deep wounds from her wit’s sharp edge.

“I do not sit with those who drink at my inn, Crowner. Gossip feeds on such things in the village.”

“Surely nothing would be said if you spent a few moments with me?” He spread his hands. “I am an old friend, Signy.”

“Friend? I might once have granted you that title, but you have long since lost the right. Now you ask to speak with me only when murder has been committed.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is not my virtue for which I fear but rather my neck.”

He hit the table with his fist. “Will you never forgive…?”

Sliding onto the bench opposite him, Signy bent closer and whispered: “Not ever, Ralf.” She quickly leaned back with a hearty laugh. “Now what do you seek?”

The crowner took refuge in his ale, deliberately savoring the remaining drops as an excuse not to acknowledge all the meanings hidden behind the intense blue of her eyes. “A killer,” he muttered after hesitating too long.