The Sanctity of Hate (23 page)

“She has not been here.”

Reading the meaning in the crowner’s worried expression more quickly than Tostig, Jacob paled. “Has any harm come to her?”

“Where have you been this day?” Ralf knew the probable reply but was obliged to ask Jacob the question.

Tostig stiffened. “He has been with me.”

“Nor has he ever let me out of his sight,” Jacob said, his voice soft.

“I do not understand your queries, Ralf. Is my sister in danger or do you question my diligence?”

The crowner noticed that Tostig’s hands had folded into fists. “Nay! The prioress had a task for her. I said I would carry the message, since I was on my way home. As for your prisoner, I had no doubt that he was here, but someone claimed to have seen him on the road. I swore to prove him wrong.” Even though Ralf was not much given to prayer, this was one time he did ask God to let his friend believe this feeble tale.

Tostig was rarely shaken, but he not only bore his sister all the devotion a brother owed but he had been a father to her after their parents’ deaths. Ralf was having problems enough keeping himself composed. He did not need to calm this man as well. Although he might often welcome assistance in his searches, he did not want Tostig, of all people, to join him.

Tostig’s expression suggested uncertainty as to whether to believe his old friend or not, then he shrugged. “She might have stopped to visit with Mistress Signy before she came here.”

Ralf glanced heavenward with gratitude. “Of course! She would want to see the innkeeper. I should have thought to stop at the inn first.” He grinned and turned away.

“If you do not find her, Ralf, I assume you will let me know.” Tostig’s voice had acquired a sharp edge.

The crowner froze in the doorway. Not daring to face his friend, he simply nodded once and left. He did not trust himself to speak, fearing a greater betrayal of his growing terror.

999

“She was here.” Signy, unlike the brother, did not accept Ralf’s swiftly crafted story. Putting her hands on her hips, she looked into his eyes and said, “I see that she is in danger. Even the unlettered could read that in your shifting gaze.”

“Did she talk about Kenelm’s murder?” He rubbed his hand across his eyes to dull the sting from his sweat as well as her look. “We talked only about your boorish manner, but I doubt you came to hear about that. What do you want to know? Be

direct, Ralf. It will save time.”

“Nothing about who might have done the killing?” “Nay.” She tilted her head and waited.

“Where did she go after you had talked?”

“Back to the priory and not very long ago. You might have just missed her on the road.”

“Not to her brother?”

“I stood in the door and watched her walk in the direction of Tyndal.” She pointed. “Her brother’s house is in the opposite direction, as you know well enough.”

He groaned, spun around, and rushed out of the inn. As he ran down the road, he heard Signy shout something after him, but he did not hear what she said. Indeed, he did not care. If God was generous, He might grant him a second wish today, but the crowner knew better than to expect it.

999

As he came to the bend in the road near the hut of Ivetta the Whore, he stopped to catch his breath. His heart pounded but not from running. There was no sign of Gytha. He began to tremble as fear grew like a foul growth.

What should he do? Surely he would have met her on the road by now. If he went all the way back to seek her in Prioress Eleanor’s chambers, he would lose time if she had been captured but was still alive. If she were dead…

He cursed God, then insulted the Devil. It didn’t matter which he offended if Gytha had been killed. God might send

his blasphemous soul to Hell, but Satan could never torture him more than he would himself until the final Day of Judgement. Ralf walked to the hut and paced back and forth, then stopped to listen as if hoping to hear her calling to him. Staring into the forest, he made his decision. Brother Gwydo’s corpse was found there. There were places for a man to hide. He might still find Gytha alive, but in what state was a thought he did

not wish to pursue.

Plunging into the woods, he took the shortcut some traveled to reach the hospital which lay closer to the priory’s front gate than the one near the mill. But now he lost all control over his reason, and he rushed along like a madman, tripping on a root he did not see and then tumbling into a bush when he did not notice the rocks in the path. His foot twisted and he yelped like a pup. For a moment he lay where he had fallen and wept, not with the slight pain but from grief and anger.

Dragging himself out of the prickly branches, he twisted around to feel his tender ankle and asked why God would allow some monster to kill a virtuous, good-hearted and beautiful woman like Gytha, one who deserved only blessings for her kindness. It was a question to which he found no answer as he reached out to a branch and began pulling himself upright.

Something behind him snapped.

The blow that struck the back of his head threw him into a night no darker than the one in which his soul had already plunged.

Chapter Thirty

Thomas closed the mill gate and looked east toward the village, then back down the road to the west.

The crowner had disappeared.

Considering what he should do, the monk decided that Ralf must have gone to Tostig’s house in case Gytha was there. Perhaps he would even stop at Oseberne’s bakery to see if he could catch the man burning bloody clothes in his oven. To duplicate all that seemed a waste of time. If the crowner had found Gytha, he would soon be bringing her back to the priory. If he found Oseberne, he would take the baker into custody and question him. So where should he begin? Where might the crowner not yet have looked? With luck, he would meet Ralf somewhere.

At least Prioress Eleanor had sent him to offer what help he could. If she had not, he would have begged her to allow it. Until Gytha was found, he could not remain at peace. When his fellow religious went to chapel for the next Office, his spirit would have remained tethered to this earthly worry. He knew he should at least pretend to find complete comfort in prayer, but God would know him for a liar if he feigned to be better than he was.

He shuddered. There was another reason to join in the search for Gytha. Were the maid found dead, Thomas could at least offer her hovering soul the comfort of forgiveness. The prioress may have concluded the same when she sent him off.

“Please be merciful to those of us who love her,” he mur- mured, “and to Mistress Gytha for her own sake.”

Suddenly the monk heard something and looked down the road in the direction of the village.

A man was singing.

From around the bend, a chapman approached, his light stride suggesting that his pack of supplies was diminished and his travels were profitable. When he saw the monk, he raised his arm in greeting and evident pleasure.

“A blessing for a poor man who does not own a roof to keep the sun and rain from his head?” He rubbed the sunburned pate and grinned. “And perhaps a prayer to bring back the hair that once protected me from the weather?”

“I know of no remedy for the latter,” Thomas replied with a laugh and gave the man’s soul the ease he had begged.

The peddler dug in his pouch for a coin.

“The answer to an urgent question would be payment enough,” Thomas said.

Looking surprised, the man replied: “If my poor wits are able.”

“Did you see a tall man in the village, a man who wore a sword?”

“Aye. He was in a great rush to flee it and preceded me here.” He frowned, as if trying to remember something. “Near a clear- ing, he left the road.”

“Was there a hut close by where he turned away?”

“Now that you have mentioned it, I did notice the place. Seemed odd that a man with a sword was walking into the forest. Common sorts don’t own swords, and honest knights have horses.” He looked over his shoulder toward the village. “Not an outlaw, is he?”

“He’s our crowner.”

“After a felon?” He still looked uneasy. “I hid for some time until I was sure he’d not return. My rounded pouch might tempt some.”

“Looking for his wife, I think. She wasn’t with him by any chance?” Thomas folded his hands and tried to look as if there was a marital issue here of which he did not quite approve. As for calling Gytha a wife, the title was only a matter of time in coming and thus no true lie.

The chapman grinned with relief. “Nay, he was alone. I hope he wasn’t looking for a man who had put horns above his ears!” Thomas shook his head and pointed to the leather bag at the peddler’s waist. “I’d starve that pouch,” he said, “if you wish to journey without fear of theft. As for the crowner and his wife, I shall find them and bring their discord to an end. You have given me the help I need to find them.” Smiling, he bade the man farewell and walked off. At least he knew that Ralf was still hunting for the maid. He would look for him in the forest. Glancing back, Thomas watched the chapman hide coins, until his pouch had grown thin, and then disappear over a small rise on the road running alongside the priory wall. Quickly, the monk slipped into the brush, seeking the footpath that led to the village. It was a route he knew well since he had lived in that small hut, named for a poor woman now dead, when he chose to live in contemplative solitude away from the community of

Tyndal Priory.

The sunlight faded as he went deeper into the thick brush- wood and trees. Dry leaves had already begun to drop on the earth long softened by their decay. Thomas walked carefully and listened for voices above the humming of insects and the whistling of a soft sea breeze that moved through the branches above him.

Then he stopped and held his breath. He had heard a laugh.

Slipping to the ground, Thomas hoped he had not been seen. From just a short distance ahead of him, he was now certain he heard more voices.

One was a woman’s.

Like a cat stalking a bird, he slid on his belly and inched toward a large rock near a tree, both of which provided good

cover. From between the two, he could safely look into a small clearing.

Gytha and Ralf were sitting on the ground. Both were bound. Oseberne stood over them, a glittering knife in his hand. “I would not mock, if I were you,” he said to Gytha. “I am master here.” He glanced down at Ralf and nudged the crowner with his boot. “A traitorous sort you are, protecting infidels when you should have used the flat of your sword to send them on

their way.”

“They are under King Edward’s protection.” Ralf shifted away from the baker’s foot.

“The king has no love for Jews,” Oseberne snapped. “He fought unbelievers in Outremer. Do you think he does not know how they defile the very earth they touch?”

“Say what you will, but the Jewish family here did not cut Kenelm’s throat and dump his body into the mill pond, befoul- ing priory water.”

“They might have done!”

“You did it and cast blame on innocents.”

“No unbeliever is innocent. Saying otherwise tells me that you have taken the Devil’s hand, Crowner.”

“Why kill Kenelm?”

Oseberne crouched and flicked his knife back and forth in front of Ralf’s face. “He caught me stealing from the Jews when the innkeeper gave them shelter last winter. Thereafter, I paid him a reasonable fee to turn his back on occasion when I took from those people what they had stolen from Christian men. He got greedy when this new family came and demanded more, threatening to tell you.” He pointed the knife at Ralf. “I saw no need to suffer the penalty of an unjust law when all I did was recover illegally obtained goods.”

“You were only enriching yourself.” Gytha pushed herself up against a tree trunk.

The baker pointed his blade tip at her. “I would not cast such an accusation at a respected man, whore. You struck Kenelm

first, a blow he did not deserve after you had driven the man into unlawful lust. Was he unwilling to pay your usual fee?”

“He followed me. I did nothing to encourage him.” Her face turned scarlet with fury.

He licked his lips. “I’ve watched you fl yourself on market days. Had I been as weak-willed as Kenelm, I might have lain with you myself, but God has kept me chaste since my wife’s death.”

“With impotence, most likely,” Ralf growled.

Oseberne leapt to his feet, his face turning purple. “Do you long to become a gelding, Crowner?”

In his hiding place, Thomas winced. He had no doubt that the baker would kill Gytha and Ralf. How Oseberne planned to stage this crime did not take much imagination. All he need do was spread the rumor that Gytha had whored with Kenelm and that Ralf had slain her out of jealousy, then killed himself in shame and grief. There were few in the village who did not know that the crowner hoped to make this maid his wife.

Thomas knew he must do something, but Oseberne, who was his match in height and strength, had a knife. Glancing around, he found nothing to use in defense. He clenched a fist and wished it held a mace.

Ralf said something too soft to hear.

“Fool! Say rather that I was clever and took the chance to remove the midge that was bleeding me of coin and, at the same time, cast blame on a wicked people. After I saw this whore run- ning into the woods, I heard Kenelm groan and helped him to rise. There was a bloody rock nearby. She must have stunned him with it, I thought, and suddenly I knew God had shown me favor! He had given me the perfect opportunity to render proper justice on those deserving punishment.”

Rather it is Satan who sings sweetly into the ears of men who want God to justify the cruelties they wish to commit, Thomas muttered to himself.

“I told him I would get him to the hospital and so supported him into the priory grounds. There I slit his throat and threw