The Sanctity of Hate (12 page)

“I swear that we shall not baptize the child or the mother, even in the face of death and at the cost of their immortal souls,” Thomas replied. It had not been his intent to say that, and his voice shook. Oddly, his heart remained at peace. He looked up at the heavens. A soft breeze from the sea touched his face. Apparently, God was not about to strike him dead over such a promise.

“Then bring Sister Anne to my child,” the mother cried. “I beg you for that mercy!”

Thomas turned and ran back to the priory much faster than he thought possible.

Chapter Fifteen

Eleanor looked down from her window and watched Brother Beorn, Gytha, and Sister Anne hurry along the mill pond path toward the village. The lay brother’s galloping pace was well- matched by Sister Anne’s long legs, but the maid struggled to keep up.

Had their mission been less dire, the prioress might have smiled with fond amusement. Instead, her heart ached, as it always did when women faced perilous births. Although she knew the danger and pain were Eve’s legacy for rebelling against God’s will, she never forgot, nor quite forgave, the death of her own mother in childbed.

She turned around. “How old is the wife?”

Brother Thomas stood near her carved audience chair and held a large orange cat in his arms. As the monk absently stroked Arthur’s head, this patriarch of priory felines and hero in the wars against kitchen rodents closed his eyes and purred like a kitten. “I believe that she and Gytha may share a similar length of time on this earth,” he replied after a moment and, again falling

into silence, went back to petting the cat.

This time Eleanor did smile, a delight shared by the young nun in attendance who stood near the chamber door. Many feared cats, believing them to be Satan’s followers. Others con- cluded they were merely useful in keeping mice and rats away from edible stores. Yet this monk found as much pleasure in

Eleanor’s favored beast as she did herself. And, perhaps, the cat also brought him peace and comfort after the ordeal he had faced, braving the rioting villagers. She shuddered at the risk he had taken but was proud of his courage. This time, her smile reflected her admiration for the man she both sinfully and virtuously loved.

The monk looked up, his expression contrite. “Forgive me, my lady, I did not mean to offend. My thoughts had taken a strange turn, and I was calling them back.”

Knowing he had caught her smile, she said: “I meant nei- ther mockery nor censure, Brother. Indeed, I was thinking that your well-regarded gentleness was matched by your courage in preaching compassion to the villagers.”

He blushed with modesty, then shook his head as if dismiss- ing any virtue in what he had done. “Your decision to send Brother Beorn to guard Jacob ben Asser’s family, while his wife gives birth, was both wise and an act of great charity, my lady.” “I did not want those men, whom you faced in the road, to harbor the smallest doubt that this priory follows the direction of Pope Gregory. As for the choice of Brother Beorn, that was a logical one. He is a man of the village and one known rarely to suffer fools. If he stands before the entrance to the stable, scowling as is his wont, those who are tempted to breach the fragile walls may be reminded of the cherubim with their flam-

ing swords at the gates of Eden.”

Thomas chuckled but again fell silent as he continued to stroke the cat.

“Something troubles you greatly, Brother.”

Realizing that the monk’s attention was drifting from him, Arthur leapt out of Thomas’ arms and onto the floor.

The cat’s bearing as he trotted through the chamber door reminded the prioress of a manor reeve going to inspect lands for which he was responsible.

“I may have condemned a babe’s soul, my lady.” Peace fled, and she felt a chill. “How so?”

“I promised Jacob ben Asser and his mother-in-law that we would not baptize the newborn child even if it were in danger of dying. The same promise was given for the babe’s mother, but she is of an age to know the consequences of her deeds.”

The prioress said nothing and walked back to the window. He waited. A light breeze flowed through the chambers, the salt smell hinting that more rain would fall within a few hours. From the orchard of priory fruit trees, birds chirped loudly to herald the coming showers. He wondered how Brother Gwydo’s bees were doing under his tender care and felt an odd ache in

his heart when the lay brother came to mind.

At last, the prioress turned around to face the monk, her brow furrowed.

“I shall be as forthright with you as you have been with me, Brother. I suffer doubts about the efficacy of forced baptism. As a priest, you understand better than I about these matters, but surely God knows when a conversion is not truly desired.” “I agree, my lady, but we speak primarily of a child whose reason is unformed and who is therefore dependent upon the judgement of his parents. Jacob ben Asser and his family have rejected our offer of Christian salvation. That is a dangerous

decision.”

“We might conclude that it is better to override their will and cloak their babe’s soul in a faith the parents do not own. But if the baptized child lives, both they and we know it must be taken from them. A Christian may not be raised by a Jewish family. Shall we not trust that God will have mercy on the babe and thus let the mother know she may keep her child? The anticipation of holding an infant to her breast gives a mother comfort and strength in the throes of a dangerous birthing.”

“Many men would say that salvation is of the greatest impor- tance, that the family’s faith is a delusion nurtured by the Devil, and that any comfort the mother felt was born in evil.” Thomas looked away. “Yet learned voices joined with mine when I made that promise regarding the child. For one, the good Thomas Aquinas, so recently taken into God’s hands, spoke of a dead

infant’s state of eternal joy which would be untempered by knowledge of what he had lost without baptism. And St. Paul’s wisdom also echoed in my soul. Is not charity the highest virtue, even above faith?”

Eleanor nodded. “I am grateful for your teaching, Brother. It may be wiser to change men’s hearts by practicing love and compassion, the tenets of our faith. Should mother and babe live, due to Sister Anne’s skill and the grace of God, this family may yet see the error of their beliefs and come willingly to ours.”

“I shall hope for that, my lady.”

“Yet I do not believe even this question of a child’s soul, no matter how important, is the sole cause of that shadow veiling your eyes.”

Thomas looked down at the floor. “Rumor’s face is scarred with the pox of lies and envy, her speech filled with curses, but men love her nonetheless. I fear she has recently uttered a par- ticularly vile blasphemy.”

She visibly trembled. “We have always been of one mind on the need for plain speech. What have you heard, from whom, and what is your opinion of the tale?”

“While I was questioning Adelard on his reasons for wishing to take vows, he said that the world was too wicked for him. I pressed him for examples. He claimed that Evil is so rampant that those, who dress in virtue during the daylight, strip themselves of it to revel in sin at night.”

“He named someone from the priory?” Thomas nodded.

“It is my duty to determine verity or falsehood in such accusations.”

“He claimed to have witnessed Brother Gwydo and Gytha having carnal knowledge of each other near the hut of Ivetta the Whore on the night Kenelm was killed.”

Eleanor’s head turned sharply as if she had been slapped. “My lady, I do not know Brother Gwydo well, but I cannot

believe that your good maid would commit such a sin.” He reached out as if pleading for forgiveness. “Had the villagers not

attacked Cuthbert and the family he was protecting, I would have questioned Adelard further. Under the circumstances, I could not…”

“You had no choice,” Eleanor said, her voice rough with emotion. “Nor do I believe the two committed such a deed.”

“With your leave, I shall question the baker’s son further.”

She shook her head. “Not unless it is necessary. He believes he told you the truth, or else the Devil has enchanted him with this imagining. We can only hope that he has not whispered to others besides you about the sin he claims to have witnessed.” “I do not trust him to have held his tongue. Adelard may have spread the news in the village that Kenelm and Jacob ben Asser fought the night before the guard was murdered. He, or another, suggested the Jewish family committed the crime to sully priory ground and foul our water. That was the reason the crowd attacked Cuthbert, as he stood guard at the inn’s new stables, and threatened him so they could attack the Jewish

family.”

“Do you know that Adelard is to blame?”

“I do not. When our crowner questioned some of the men after they had calmed, no one could remember where they had heard the tale. Yet how many others could have heard the arguments?”

“Mistress Signy.” She raised a hand. “I do not think that she was the source of this infamy, but, if she overheard the quarrel, others might just as well.”

“But surely no one else witnessed Brother Gwydo…”

“Let us hope Adelard said nothing. If not, the reputations of both my maid and our lay brother have been rudely com- promised. I must find out the truth, and we shall make sure that the innocent are cleansed of any filth thrown upon them by these lies.”

“Should I summon your maid from the village?”

“Gytha is assisting Sister Anne with the birth, but, when she returns, I shall question her. As for Brother Gwydo, I would hear my maid’s tale before I question him. Gytha’s answers may

explain all, and I may not need to involve our lay brother in this vile accusation.”

With those words, Eleanor gently dismissed the monk, send- ing him to the inn until it was time to escort Sister Anne back to the priory, but she was deeply troubled.

Was Adelard right? Was this the cause of Gytha’s sad demeanor of late? But why had the young woman not confided in her? “She must know that I would neither condemn nor cast her forth,” she murmured. “After all these years, she has surely learned to trust me. Something has indeed happened, but I cannot believe the truth matches the tale Adelard has told.”

Nonetheless, Eleanor retreated to her prie-dieu and, for a very long time, knelt in anxious prayer.

Chapter Sixteen

Belia’s eyes were white with terror. Bloodstains streaked her chemise.

“Be brave, my sweet child and my heart’s delight. This pres- ent agony is the worst,” Malka crooned. “It shall not last much longer.” Wiping her daughter’s face with a damp cloth, she encouraged Belia to continue walking in a tight circle within the stall.

Signy pushed aside the heavy sacking over the entrance and slipped into the small space. “Do you want more water in which to bathe her?”

“The one soaking was suffi The boiled fenugreek, mallow, and barley need only be used at the beginning of the birth.” Anne gestured at the sacking. “But please take down that cloth. The men will keep their distance while she is giving birth, and we can hardly breathe.” She was sweating, and her robe was splotched with pale blood.

The innkeeper pulled it down and set it folded on the straw. “Jew or Christian, we are all daughters of Eve,” she said, gestur- ing at mother and daughter. “Tell me what I can do to help this suffering cousin.”

With anyone else, Anne might have been surprised at such words, but these came from a woman known for compassion. “I shall need more hot water in which to soak the fennel for the poultice against her back. But first I ask that you support Mistress Belia while she walks. I must speak with her mother.”

Her voice must have betrayed anxiety, for sharpened fear glis- tened in the pregnant woman’s eyes. “It is customary, before the birth, to seek knowledge only a mother can give about her child,” Anne quickly added, knowing it was a lie but not a sinful one. Signy walked over to Malka and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I can relieve you,” she said. Then she gave the pant- ing younger woman a brief smile. “Should the babe arrive while they are just outside, I think your mother and Sister Anne will

learn the news soon enough from us both.” Belia’s lips twitched with weak amusement.

For an instant Malka looked askance at the innkeeper. Then she nodded and murmured her thanks.

Taking the older woman by the arm, Anne pulled her toward the entrance. “We shall inform your husband about your prog- ress,” she said over her shoulder to the daughter. “He will be eager to learn that his child’s birth is imminent.”

Bracing the young woman, Signy urged her forward and began a distracting conversation. “Was the bathwater I sent warm enough?” she asked.

Outside in the courtyard, Anne carefully hid her stained hands, then realized the gesture was futile. She could do nothing about the marks on her robe.

Jacob rose, his pleading eyes dark with worry.

“Nothing has yet happened,” she replied and forced a con- fident smile. “The birth is her first. They often take longer.”

He sat down but kept his eyes on her, rejecting an answer so obviously meant to placate.

A man not easily fooled, she thought, and turned her back to him while bending close to Malka’s ear. “The child is turned badly in her womb,” she whispered. “I am not sure I can move it so your daughter is able to give birth.”

“She will die?” Malka murmured hoarsely and turned gray. Then her mouth set with fierce determination. “She shall not.” Stepping back, the mother laid her crippled hand against the nun’s damp cheek. “Your father would never have allowed that. You are his daughter. I expect no less from you.”