The Sanctity of Hate (25 page)

Andrew waved away the objections.

“If I must.” The youth bowed his head once more.

“As you know, you have little earned from honest labor to give the priory should you beg admittance.” Andrew shifted his weight to his good leg.

The young man slumped back on his heels. “Since you will accept nothing in any form that was taken from the Jews and insist I rebuild my father’s business again solely to profit my brother, you have made it impossible for me to acquire the gift needed to enter here with honor.”

“If you surrender all that was taken from the king’s people to Mistress Signy and Master Tostig, become a good father to your little brother, and turn your steps onto the path of kind- ness, charity, and selflessness, we shall consider your penance done. Should your most ardent desire remain entrance to this priory, after your brother becomes skilled and of an age to take over the baking, you may approach us again.”

He blinked. “I shall be an old man by then.”

Andrew shrugged “That is of no moment. There are those who take on the full weight of austere vows when they are so ill and bent with pain that the burden of doing so is onerous indeed. You must have the opportunity to understand fully what you are giving up. By then, you should know whether you wish to leave a soft bed for a thin mattress, kneel on icy stones when the earth itself is frozen, exchange wine and meat for ale and fish, and own one rough habit in which to survive the chill of winter.” “Time and prayer shall inform you,” Eleanor said and care-

fully watched the youth.

Adelard frowned. His silence suggested that the ardor of his claimed vocation might have subtly weakened.

Eleanor noticed this hesitation and quickly told him the final penitential requirement. “As Prior Andrew has said, we would then consider admitting you as a lay brother without asking a gift, for we must refuse anything that would impoverish your brother. He is innocent of all that has occurred.”

“A lay brother labors in the fields! I know Latin. I should become a choir monk, a priest, a man who stands before God to sing the Offices…”

“The rank of a faithful soul is determined by purity of motive and sincerity of service.” Eleanor’s tone was icy.

“Do you accept this penance?” Andrew stood before the young man and cupped Adelard’s chin, raising it so the youth was forced to look him in the eye.

“Do I have any choice?” Adelard grumbled and then raised his eyes upward. He began to tremble as if something were shaking him. “I accept,” he whispered.

Eleanor’s expression glowed with benevolence. “We shall look forward to soon hearing from Mistress Signy about your generosity to the poor.”

“Go back to the world,” Prior Andrew said, “confess often, and cast off the arrogance which led you to so many grievous sins.”

Adelard rose to his feet, his face pale. He looked from one to the other as if begging for a softer penance. When neither prior nor prioress granted him that silent wish, he bowed and rushed away.

The young nun, who had been standing just inside the room, closed the door the youth had left open in his hurried flight.

Eleanor turned to her prior. “Shall we ever see him at our gate again, begging enclosure within our walls?”

“I think not.” Andrew did not look disappointed. “But let us hope that he has learned from the sins he committed and becomes a virtuous man.”

“Our sub-prioress must be thanked for her insights,” Elea- nor said with a fl smile. “It was she who doubted his suitability when you and I were otherwise inclined to accept his plea.”

“That will give her much pleasure,” Andrew replied, his mouth puckered as if he had just drunk wine turned sour.

With that, Eleanor laughed. It was a relief to find some mer- riment after all the sorrow of the last few days.

999

Outside, the rain started to fall, the drops heavy and thick. As if cleansing the land, the wind drove the downpour like flung pebbles across the ground. By morning, the scoured earth would once again be sweet.

Chapter Thirty-three

Thomas stood at the edge of the meadow and looked at Brother Gwydo’s bee skeps. The two damaged by Oseberne lay deserted on the ground. Perhaps those bees had found a liege lord in another skep, or so he hoped. That they might have suffered because a cruel man committed a thoughtless act was an idea he could not bear.

He shut his eyes, lifted his face to the sun, and listened to the sounds of living things. Were he inclined to idle dreams, he might have imagined that the world just heaved a sigh, grateful that the killing was over. He wondered if it also regretted the death of a kind man, one who had turned away from bloodshed and longed for a quiet life.

But did violence ever end, even on lands placed under God’s rule? Tyndal Priory had suffered its own share of murders from the first day he had come here. In his darkest hours of melan- choly, he feared he had brought the pale horseman with him like some plague. Yet Prioress Eleanor had arrived shortly before him, and all knew that unlawful Death was no boon companion of hers.

Opening his eyes to escape back into the sunlight, he rubbed the sleeve of his robe across his cheeks. They were damp with tears.

“You are sad, Brother.”

Turning around, he saw Tostig just a few feet behind him.

“Only pensive,” Thomas replied with a reassuring smile. The man knelt and stretched his hands out to the monk.

“You saved my beloved sister, Brother. I shall always remain in your debt for that gift.”

“We must both thank God for guiding me there,” Thomas replied and begged Tostig to stand. “I can claim no greater virtue than to have been His instrument in that moment.”

“Then what offering may I give Him in thanks?” Tostig looked around as if the answer might appear before him. “How- ever inadequate, something is required. A sister owns a place in any brother’s heart, but Gytha has been like my own child.” Thomas did not know Tostig well, but he had heard that the Saxon was a man who rarely revealed his thoughts and never his emotions. Hearing the man’s voice shake, the monk realized just how deep his devotion to his sister was. Perhaps he could offer a suggestion, one that might permit two people, for whom he

cared as well, some happiness.

“You might forgive our crowner for speaking in a manner he profoundly regrets,” Thomas said. From Prioress Eleanor he had learned that Gytha had not visited the crowner, as was her former wont, and that Tostig knew the reason for this change. “Had he not put his own life at risk, I would not have been quick enough to save your sister’s.”

Tostig did not smile, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “To forgive or not remains my sister’s choice. As for me, I have known the man too long. His heart and his mouth are often at odds, and the latter does not always express his better nature. I shall speak on his behalf to her, but doing so is a small thing and not worthy enough of my gratitude to God.”

“Then I can only suggest that you consult our prioress.”

“I am unable to match what the baker offered, and I know how deeply Sub-Prioress Ruth must regret the lost altar candle- stick. Sadly, I own no gold.”

“Oseberne’s wealth was stolen. Prioress Eleanor has refused to accept anything he once touched. Whatever you offer is an honorable gift.”

Tostig stiffened. “A Saxon is allowed to claim honor in a world ruled by Normans?” Then he flushed. “Forgive me, Brother. That is an ancestral wound which refuses to heal, but I should not have allowed its stench to pollute holy air. I did not mean to offend. As you surely know, I hold both you and your prioress in the greatest esteem.”

“She knows that well, Tostig. As for me, I am told that my mother was not of Norman birth. If so, then only half of me might be offended, and that half swore to follow the teaching of one who forgave all, even the Romans who killed him. Shall I do less over a matter that is so trifling in comparison?”

“You are a good man, Brother Thomas.” Then he looked away for a moment before facing the monk again with a puzzled expression. “I long for wisdom on another matter. May I ask your advice?”

Thomas nodded.

“Jacob ben Asser and I found we owned much common ground while he was imprisoned in my house. Is it odd, or even sinful, that one of his faith and one of mine could do so?”

Thomas turned thoughtful. “I found him to be a good man, one who, like you, has valid grievances in this world ruled by others of different heritage and, in his case, faith. Yet he loves his family and cheerfully greets those who approach him with good will, much as you do yourself.” He stopped for a moment, faced with his own, sudden and turbulent, whirlpool of unformed questions. Pushing them aside, he gave Tostig the reply that would most ease the man’s troubling doubts. “That you both felt kinship is not surprising, but I think God had a hand in this. While others of our faith threatened his family with cruel murder, you showed him the compassion that our Messiah taught us to practice. Your example may one day bring him to salvation.”

“I shall find comfort in that, Brother.” Tostig looked relieved. “He and I did speak of cooperating in a wool venture. If I can purchase the needed sheep and should he leave England, I will have an honest representative…”

Tostig continued, but Thomas drifted into his own perplexed musings. Ben Asser was a virtuous man, loving and caring to his wife and mother-in-law. He might have been angered by the insults and acts of Kenelm and Adelard, but he had truly turned the other cheek, despite all provocations. How was it possible that a Jew be more righteous than a Christian? The difference, of course, was in the acceptance of the Messiah, but scripture also made it clear that God had not abandoned those He had first chosen as His beloved people. Thomas was baffled.

Furtively, he glanced upward, directing the problem to God and was greeted with heavy silence. The monk sighed. His list of unanswered questions was growing longer, but God had never shown displeasure with the asking. On occasion, and in His own time, He had even replied.

Suddenly, Thomas was aware that his companion had stopped talking.

Gytha’s brother was grinning at him. “Forgive me,” the monk said.

“I had just said that I know someone knowledgeable about bees, Brother. If I pay his wages, do you think your prioress will accept that from me as gratitude for my sister’s life?”

Thomas almost said that his prioress was just as thankful that Gytha was not dead, but he knew the man needed to proffer this gift. So he swore to bring the proposal to Prioress Eleanor and said he thought she would be pleased.

Tostig brightened, thanked the monk, and left, walking through the meadow where the bees let him pass in peace amongst them.

“I have no reason to be here,” Thomas murmured.

Turning from the place where Oseberne had died, Thomas walked back to the path that led from mill gate to the monks’ quarters. Sorrow lashed at him. His friendship with Brother Gwydo had begun but a short time ago when he first heard the lay brother sing, but he had found a rare comfort in the man’s company from the beginning. Not only would he miss one who

was good even to God’s small creatures, but he grieved that he could never know such a man better.

When tears once again stung his eyes, Thomas did not stop them from flowing down his cheeks.

Chapter Thirty-four

Ralf rubbed his bristled chin and glared at the table. Today’s gifts included a jug of fresh ale from Tostig, a parsley-dotted mushroom pie with sweet onions from Sister Matilda, and a dish of berries plucked by his daughter. He did not disdain the bounty, but his spirit was too heavy to enjoy them. The berries he would force himself to eat. The rest he would give to others. Normally a man of hearty appetite, he had lost weight.

“My lord?”

“Yes,” he snapped with sharp annoyance. He hated to be called that. As a third son he owned no title. His knighting on the battlefi years ago was an honor he kept so secret that even his eldest brother did not know of it. His reasons for doing so may have been founded in an old yet raw bitterness, but he was also a contrary man. The only title he allowed himself was that of Crowner.

“You have a visitor from the priory.” The voice was muffled. The woman did not even stick her head around the corner. Did she fear he sat here stark naked? “Tell Brother Thomas that I am not able to enjoy his company,” he growled and almost added that the woman was safe from him except, perhaps, on nights with a full moon when he might grow a tail and acquire hooves. “Then I shall relay your message,” a voice said, now quite

clear.

As if lightning had just struck him, every muscle in his body turned numb.

Gytha walked through the door and put her basket down on the table. “I heard that you refused to let the lay brother shave you, and from the look of you, you haven’t changed your clothes since Brother Thomas came upon us in the forest.” She wrinkled her nose. “A bath would not be amiss. I understand that even our king does not find the practice offensive.”

He grunted and would not meet her eyes.

“Sister Anne sent me with fresh bindings and newly picked herbs for your wound.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “Or would you rather rot?”

“Rot.”

“Sibely needs her father.” “I am here for her.”

“The father she loves? Nay, rather a thing that looks like a wild boar and acts like a lumbering bear. You must frighten the child.”

“I am unworthy of her love.”

“And which man is not from time to time? But you are not without some merit. If I remember correctly, you would not be sitting there with that gash in your back if you hadn’t tried to save my life.”

He looked away and scratched at his beard.

“Very well, then, choke on your black bile. In the meantime, whether you want it or not, I have come to change your dress- ings. Sit on that bench. I refuse to stand on a stool to do this.” He obeyed, eased the clothes off his back, and muttered something that might have been a phrase of gratitude. Some- where outside, he heard bright voices and recognized his child’s

laugh. Did he truly scare her?

“The wound is healing well,” Gytha said, tossing the old binding aside and examining the deep cut. “No thanks to the care you have taken of it.” She pushed him forward and poured wine into the injury without warning.

He yelped.

“Have you considered the possibility that God must have meant you to live for some purpose? Had the knife entered