The Sanctity of Hate Read online

  Andrew shook his head. “We could ask Mistress Gytha to come here and look upon the body.”

  Eleanor winced. Perhaps she should have asked her maid to accompany them. But the sight of this corpse would unbalance anyone’s humors, and Gytha had been surprisingly downcast of late.

  “She knows those in the village,” the prior was saying, “and goes to market days as well as on visits to her brother.” He looked down at the crowner and winked. “Others as well.”

  Ralf flushed and looked down at his hands. “No need for her to look on this.” He rubbed his fingers together to brush off lumps of mud. “I’ve seen him. His name is Kenelm. Cuthbert said he came to Tyndal village last winter and remained. I know of no one here who will grieve over this death.”

  “Has he no family, then?” Eleanor gazed with fresh sorrow at the dead man.

  “None that he claimed,” Ralf said. “Nor does any woman here hold his bastard at her breast.”

  Sister Ruth lowered her gaze and glowered at a rock, suddenly deemed worthy of her displeasure.

  “That is Kenelm?” Prior Andrew began to lean over the edge of the bank for a closer look, but his bad leg would not take his weight. He winced and stepped back. “I did meet him once. He came to the priory, seeking employment.”

  “Did you take him on?” The crowner raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

  “I turned him away. We needed no one, and his manner was churlish. He looked fat enough, and I fear his demeanor made me disinclined to offer work out of simple charity.”

  “A wise decision, Prior. As I heard the tale, he was paid to guard some pilgrims traveling from the south to the shrine of Norwich’s sainted William. When they arrived here, he fell ill.” Ralf spat. “Or so he claimed. These pilgrims were simple souls and had given him all he demanded at the beginning of the journey, not at the end.”

  Sister Ruth snorted. “Surely they could require him to complete the work for which he had been contracted, or else demand return of the fee.”

  Ralf shrugged. “According to Cuthbert, they took pity on him in his sickness and let him keep the coins. And so they were left to travel without the protection of his stout cudgel. I hope God shielded those innocents, for they had little else to keep outlaws from feasting on their purses.”

  “To my knowledge, we never saw him at the hospital for any cure.” Sister Ruth considered this for a moment. “I shall ask Brother Beorn, who might remember this low-born stranger.” She spun around and glared at a lay brother but a short distance behind her.

  Brother Gwydo seemed lost in prayer. Head lowered, his peaceful expression suggested his spirit was quite removed from the world in which he had found a corpse and this crime of murder. Then feeling the heat of her intense gaze, he started, bowed with respect, and asked how he might serve.

  “Find Brother Beorn,” she ordered. “Bring him to me immediately.”

  The man hurried off toward the hospital.

  Ralf rubbed his face and stretched to see the banks of the pond above the mill wheel. A streak of damp mud now ran across his cheek like a scar.

  “Why did Kenelm stay here? If he was known to cheat those who paid him, I wonder that anyone hired him,” the prioress said.

  “He earned enough for his bread,” the crowner replied. “He did things other men would not.”

  Eleanor awaited his explanation.

  “You recall the large parties of Jewish travelers that came through our village on their way to Norwich late last year and in the early spring?” Ralf looked down at the corpse.

  “I do,” Eleanor replied. “First, the Jews of Cambridge were cast from their homes at the command of the widowed Queen Eleanor, and then the exodus continued when King Edward ruled that all Jews could reside only in certain towns. Norwich was one.”

  “That Statute of Jewry!” Sister Ruth grumbled. “How could the king be so permissive? Imagine saying those people could even become farmers, thus taking land from Christian men.”

  The prioress bit her lip and ignored her sub-prioress. “We sorely missed your calming presence then, Crowner.”

  “I should have been here, but Sir Fulke needed every man he could get to provide the protection of the Jews that the king decreed. Had I remained in the village, perhaps this murder might not have occurred.”

  Sister Ruth’s face grew mottled with the effort to remain silent.

  “The Jews belong to the king,” Andrew whispered to her. “He has the right to safeguard his property from harm.”

  She glared at him. Her disapproval of the king’s protection was well known.

  Eleanor felt herself growing warm, but not from the summer heat. “I do not understand. Was Kenelm involved in those matters?”

  “Mistress Signy hired him during that time. She provided shelter and clean straw for the traveling Jews where she is now building more stables,” Ralf said. “They would not eat the food cooked at her inn, for that was against their religion, but they were eager to pay for a dry place to sleep and the care she gave their animals.”

  “I recall that the families suffered theft along with other perils,” Eleanor said. “Lawless men took advantage of them.”

  “That was why our innkeeper hired protection, adding the cost to her fee.” The crowner touched the corpse with a toe. “This fellow was the only man willing to rent his cudgel for a good price.”

  “Did he have occasion to use it?” The prioress looked grim.

  “Once or twice on village men,” Ralf said. “That did not gain him any friends.”

  “It probably gained him a few enemies,” Eleanor said.

  “Good Christian men, all,” Sister Ruth snapped. “The innkeeper should have turned the Jews away and let them sleep in the forest. If outlaws had fallen upon them, no one would have wept over the trials of such a stiff-necked people.”

  “King Edward ordered that they pass freely to those cities where they must return,” Ralf replied with surprising sharpness. “No matter what you may think, the Statute refers to the will of the Holy Church that Jews be allowed to live unmolested. They have been under the English king’s protection since the Conqueror invited them to come here from Rouen.”

  The sub-prioress turned her eyes heavenward.

  Ralf hesitated, then seemed to think it best not to say more and instead bowed to the prioress. “I beg permission to leave this corpse in your priory, my lady. His death may fall under the king’s law, but his soul belongs to God.”

  “Granted, Crowner,” Eleanor replied. “We will prepare him for burial, of course. Should anything of interest be noted while we do so, we shall let you know immediately.”

  Pulling himself up and over the edge of the bank, Ralf stood and faced the prioress, a woman he called a friend. A grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. “As always, you are most kind in such matters.”

  Smiling at him, Eleanor turned to the assembled religious. “We must leave our crowner to investigate this murder.” She raised her staff of office and started to walk away but after a short distance stepped aside and gestured for Prior Andrew to pass by. Motioning to Sister Ruth, she waited until the sub-prioress joined her.

  “Whether or not Kenelm was a man of little merit or great,” Eleanor said softly to the disgruntled nun, “he did not deserve an unlawful death. Even the wicked merit justice if the crime against them is unacceptable to both God and the king.”

  Sister Ruth pointed a finger over her shoulder in the direction of the corpse. “Kenelm’s killer may be a godly man, my lady,” she said, “and rightly offended if he was struck by a cudgel simply because he mocked a Jew. A good Christian is not at fault if God directs his hand against one who protects the wicked against the righteous.”

  “Whatever your thoughts in this matter, the death has nothing to do with us. Although the body was found here, i
t is a matter for the king’s justice. It is up to Crowner Ralf to find the killer and up to God to judge the man’s soul. And so you shall refrain from remarking any further on this death or on Kenelm. That is my command.”

  The sub-prioress muttered a barely civil promise.

  “When Brother Beorn meets with you, you may tell him that I wish the body sent to Sister Anne. Should our good lay brother have any information bearing on this death, you are not to request details. He shall go immediately to inform the crowner and no one else.”

  Eleanor now took her sub-prioress by the arm and encouraged her to move swiftly along the path that led away from the corpse.

  ***

  Watching the two religious, the crowner smiled, suspecting what had passed between then. Then he sighed as he looked down at the swelling body in the mud. The investigation would be a weary one. His list of suspects included most of Tyndal village.

  Chapter Four

  Brother Thomas peered into the dark water of the mill pond. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he carefully pressed a sleeve against them. Rubbing with the rough cloth only made the stinging worse.

  Not that he regretted leaving his hermitage, but he did miss that easy access to a stream in summer where he could swim without being disturbed. A plunge into this pond was tempting.

  Then he watched the gentle current rock thick green scum back and forth in the rushes. Wading in that rank vegetation would only transform him into a mortal version of some moss-like imp, a grass-colored creature with auburn hair who frolicked like a hungry fish in the pond. He imagined how that might frighten passers-by.

  “Your smile suggests pleasant thoughts, Brother.”

  “Brother Gwydo! I did not see you.” Thomas was startled but pleased over the unexpected encounter. Of late, he had found a rare ease in the lay brother’s company and often sought the man for conversation or even a quiet time filled with companionable silence. Gwydo seemed equally content when they met.

  “Would you share some ale with me? I was about to get my jug and escape to the shade of that tree.” The lay brother gestured toward a small meadow bounded by fruit trees just off the path to the mill.

  Grateful for the offer, Thomas nodded, knowing he could indulge in a few moments of peaceful company. Prioress Eleanor might have sent him to search for missed clues where Kenelm’s corpse was found, but she had not required an immediate report of his findings.

  Gwydo leapt effortlessly into the mud at the edge of the pond, then bent to retrieve a tan pottery flagon from a shaded patch of shallow water. With a grin, he swung the dripping object up for appreciative view.

  “A hand?” Thomas reached out to help Gwydo up the bank.

  The two men found a spot to sit where a slight breeze added cool comfort to the relief from the sun. The air was filled with a low hum as uncountable bees flew back and forth to their woven straw hives that were scattered throughout the open space.

  “Have you had success with your skeps?” Thomas waved aside a dark insect only to realize it was probably a bee.

  The lay brother gave the jug to the monk. “Well, I think the war of the kings has finished,” he said.

  “Of what war do you speak?”

  “When the summer heat rises, the army of bees ascends like a black funnel, and they do battle. I was here, and it is a wonder to behold.” His hands folded as if in prayer. “The king blows his horn. You can hear the tooting all through the meadow. Then he flies into the midst of his enemies like any brave and noble lord. You can hear the clicking of weapons and see the bodies of his victims fall to the ground. After the battle is done, the surviving bees and their victorious king return to the straw skeps I have woven. They now make honey for the priory.” He smiled with loving delight. “Don’t they sound peaceful?”

  Thomas looked out at the many baskets, each placed wide-side down and sitting on a sturdy platform, and listened to the loud buzzing. The noise did not exactly signify tranquility to his ears. “All have foresworn combat?”

  Gwydo pointed to one side of the hive collection. “Two groups remain querulous, but I think they will grow quiet in time. Do men not embrace peace after the violence of war? I would expect no less of bees.”

  The monk opted to take the lay brother’s word on faith. “Many are grateful that you offered to do this task. I, for one, have no wish to get stung.” He savored the cool bitterness of the ale, sighed, and passed the flagon back.

  Gwydo drank, then ran his hand across his mouth. “Honey may taste sweeter after the bitterness of pain. Might that be an allegory for our life on earth and the rewards of heaven?”

  Thomas suffered a chill of cruel memory. Was his life sweeter here because of his earlier imprisonment where even the rats mocked him? “Where did you learn this skill?” He hoped his voice did not betray his thoughts.

  “In Outremer. Those golden bees made sure I suffered enough from their tiny swords, but these are good English black bees and rarely sting me.” He looked at the skeps, his expression benign as he gazed on the busy creatures he tended.

  “Perhaps God has told them that they must be kind because of your service as a pilgrim striving to restore Jerusalem to Christian hands.”

  “Or else they know I left my sword behind and returned unarmed. I am no menace to anyone, even these smallest creations of God.”

  Thomas met the man’s gaze and smiled. If he was so easy in the lay brother’s presence, he could understand why the bees might feel equally comfortable with him.

  “But I do not think you came here to speak of bees, Brother.” Gwydo chuckled as he again passed the jug, “Nor do I think you were on your way to serve God in the village. You rarely linger to stare into the mill pond even on hot days when you have a purpose to fulfill.”

  Thomas leaned his head back against the rough bark. “The memory of your performance as Daniel in the Christmas drama gives pleasure all year. Perhaps I had hoped to hear you sing again, even if it was only to those buzzing creatures.”

  Gwydo smiled. “You are good to say so, but my time for vanity is long past.”

  “My praise was honestly spoken.”

  “Then your words are soft in my ears even if your reason for speaking them was intended to disguise your true purpose here.”

  Thomas grinned. “You mean I longed for a cool draught of your ale?”

  “Nay, good brother.” His expression grew solemn as he leaned forward and embraced his knees. “Your reputation is well known. If a crime has been committed, men pray that Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas will be nigh to render justice. I have less trust in our crowner, although I’ve been told he is both clever and honest.”

  Thomas flushed at the compliment. Perhaps his own time for vanity had not quite passed. “I do not spend my days longing for murders to solve.” He hoped to suggest humility, but the eagerness he heard in those words betrayed a lust for adventure that was unsuitable in a pious monk.

  “Nor does our prioress, but Death follows you both like a pup of that legendary, hell-spawned, black hound from Norfolk.”

  Without warning, Gwydo began gasping.

  “Are you ill?” Thomas grabbed the man’s shoulder.

  The lay brother shook his head, managed a shallow breath, then another. Although his face was scarlet, he looked relieved. “Fear not. The moment is over. I live.” He was wheezing badly. “Sister Anne feared I had the lung disease when I first came to this priory. Now she thinks otherwise. Only in summer do I suffer these moments…” He coughed. “And I do fear I will suffocate.”

  Thomas jumped up. “Shall I summon a lay brother from the hospital? Or does Sister Anne have a potion I could bring for relief?”

  Shaking his head, Gwydo gestured for the monk to sit. “Your company is all I need. Please stay. In a moment, I will be well enough to stand.” He sucked in more air. “An
d then I shall take you to…where I found the body…and answer any questions you might have.” This time the breath he took was a deeper one, and his eyes grew bright with relief. “But only if you wish to do so.”

  “I should not trouble you with my idle curiosity.”

  “I welcome the distraction from my mortal afflictions and long to offer a small service to the cause of justice.”

  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?”