Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

Jacob bent down to kiss the top of his mother-in-law’s head. “It shall be as you say. You are wiser than I shall ever be.” His voice was soft with love for this woman, one who had not only given birth to his adored wife but had also embraced him as a son after his own mother had died.

Then he straightened, touched the yellow badge sewn on his robes by the order of King Edward, and walked out into the courtyard.

Ralf strode from the inn. The sun was bright in his eyes, but his mood darkened as he looked down the road at the crowds milling around the merchant stalls.

It was marketing day, a time for families to visit with friends and see what wondrous things had come with Norwich merchants or even from Cambridge. Women argued with butchers, men debated the merits of one tradesman’s wares over another’s, and laughing children ran around the legs of all.

A father holding his laughing son caught the crowner’s particular attention. He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

Signy was right. Although he loved his daughter to distraction, he had yet to remarry and produce an heir as he had promised his eldest brother. Fulke’s wife had long been barren, yet the man refused to find cause to divorce her, a choice that had warmed Ralf’s heart for just an instant. And in that regrettable moment of weakness, he had given his word that he would produce the requisite, legitimate heir as long as his next wife was of his own choosing.

Ever since, he had found innumerable reasons to avoid keeping that ill-advised oath. The problem was not in making his choice of wife. He knew the woman he would ask, but approaching his friend, Tostig, for permission to marry his sister made Ralf tremble like a virgin on the wedding night. He had grown to love Gytha; indeed he adored her too much.

A cloud passed over the sun, and the daylight faded to match his grayer mood.

He had already suffered rejection from the last woman he longed to marry for more years than he dared count. First, she had chosen another over him, then God. As for his late wife, she had been a good woman, but there had been no love between them. She had died birthing their daughter.

He shook his head and concluded that it was not only prudent for him to reject ties with all women, they were wise to avoid him as well. In silence he complained to God, protesting that He should never have created Eve. That apple aside, Adam’s life would have been far less complicated without her.

The question always came down to this: why would Gytha want to join with such a rough man as he? She was tender-hearted; he had grown cynical. Although he had some wealth, she could find merchants with softer ways and more coin than he. In short, he had nothing to offer, apart from one promise never take her away from the village she loved and another to worship the earth wherever she set her feet.

Maybe she would consent if he phrased his plea as a kindness to his daughter, a child she loved as much as if she had borne Sibely herself. But his throat went dry when he tried to ask and the words died in his mouth. Another opportunity would pass. He feared Gytha would flee if he told her how much he loved her, and his daughter would lose the warmth of the maid’s love. He did not dare chance that.

But today he had intended an innocent outing with Gytha. All he had planned to do was carry her basket while she shopped for Prioress Eleanor’s table. Oh, he had hoped to surprise her with a small gift as well, but only to thank her for the happiness she brought his daughter. At no point would he even hint at how much joy her company brought him too.

He growled like a cornered dog. Instead of an enjoyable afternoon, he had a murder to solve, and a popular one at that. Gytha’s pleasant image fled his soul, replaced by that of a butchered corpse.

He knew no one would cooperate and could already hear the village response to his queries: “’Twas a stranger that did it, Crowner! I swear I saw him, dagger in hand, running down the road. Why did I not stop him? Do you think me daft? He had a knife! Do I remember how he looked? Maybe short. Brown hair, perhaps light, nay, dark…”

Ralf cursed. Now he must talk with the Jewish family and decide if their quarrel with Kenelm was sharp enough for a killing. And the wife was close to giving birth? He did not like this situation at all.

Then he remembered he had offered to loan the innkeeper his sergeant to guard this family. His spirit instantly brightened. He could leave the inquiry of them to Cuthbert!

As if called in answer to his prayer, the sergeant walked around the corner from the inn. Ralf began to smile, then felt his stomach fill with fire. Either the man’s grim expression meant something unpleasant, or else that last jack of ale he had drunk with the innkeeper had been unwise.

Cuthbert raised a hand in greeting. “Brother Beorn met me on the road and sent news you must hear.”

Ralf grunted.

“Brother Gwydo and Brother Thomas found blood that suggests Kenelm was killed on priory grounds.”

Kicking a stone with such force that it almost hit a passing villager in the back, Ralf uttered a colorful oath.

“Need I continue looking upstream? I have found nothing of value and…”

“I have another task for you, one that will better merit your time.” Looking back at the inn, Ralf wondered how much of that good ale was still left. As he considered the implications of this new information, the prospect of another jug of the inn’s finest regained appeal. “As for the priory, I had hoped not to trouble them with this death.”

“Prioress Eleanor also sent word that she would meet with you and shall assist as much as possible.”

“Which means she will investigate the matter herself if she suspects the involvement of any of her religious.”

Cuthbert nodded, his expression wisely void of meaning.

“I will seek an audience with her later,” Ralf said. At least the visit might bring him a moment with Gytha. “Come.” He put a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder and aimed him along the path leading to the partially completed stables behind the inn.

As they rounded the corner of the building, however, they came to an abrupt halt.

A young man knelt in front of the unfinished stable, the entrance to which was draped with stiff cloth. Waving his arms at the sky, he shouted pleas for the salvation of the souls within the shelter.

The rough covering was shoved aside and a man emerged. He stared down at the praying youth as if perplexed by his behavior. “My wife is ill,” he said, then humbly bowed his head. “You have awakened her. In the name of all you hold sacred, have mercy and leave us in peace.” He coughed sharply, as if something had caught in his throat, before adding: “Would it not be charitable to do so?”

The youth glared at the man in disgust and clasped his hands together into a doubled fist. The cross around his neck wobbled as his body trembled with the intensity of his passion. “Charity? Why do you think you are owed such a thing, unbelievers that you are? If you turn from your benighted faith, open your wicked hearts to Our Lord’s message and let Him save you from eternal damnation, I shall leave you in peace to enjoy the blessing of His salvation. Charity is only for those who see or seek the Truth. All others must suffer misery for that is the only thing eternity has to offer you.”

“I have not come to argue faith, only to ask that you let my wife sleep.” The man’s voice grew taut with controlled rage.

“Of what value is sleep when she faces the fires of Hell?”

The man’s face turned white.

Ralf walked up to the lad and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your father needs you, Adelard. Rise and attend him.”