The Sanctity of Hate (3 page)

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 cre- ations 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 fi 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. “And 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?” Gwydo hesitated. “I did not rush to tell Prioress Eleanor, if that is what you meant. Although I am not an expert in these matters, I did consider whether or not the killer was still nearby.”

Surprised, Thomas stared at the man. “You surely did not seek him out with no weapon to protect yourself?”

“I am cautious by nature and stealthy by practice, Brother. Having learned to slip up on the beast with which I longed to fill my empty belly, I can walk silently enough to hunt a man.” “And did you find anything of interest?” The monk tried to conceal his surprise at hearing an unexpected coldness in the

man’s voice.

“No killer waited for me to catch him, so I then hurried to alert our prioress.”

“And later?”

“You have caught me out, Brother.” Gwydo slapped the monk on his shoulder. “I was not satisfied when Crowner Ralf said the deed must have been committed outside our walls. Had he included our grounds in his search for clues, I would have been content. He did not. I found that troubling.”

Thomas nodded. Prioress Eleanor was equally unwilling to let that conclusion lie without challenge, but he did not say so aloud. Although she had no quarrel with the crowner, it was her duty to make sure there was no doubt about jurisdiction between secular and religious authority.

“After I sent Brother Beorn to our sub-prioress, I again aban- doned the bees and perused the bank above the mill. Come with me up the path and see what I found.” Gesturing for the monk to follow, he strode off.

Thomas noticed that Gwydo now breathed with ease. As he followed along the banks, he realized how little he knew of this lay brother, a man who had arrived at the priory with a high fever and a festering wound from which no one expected him to survive. Many deemed his recovery a miracle so none were amazed when he begged entry to the priory as a lay brother. Thomas had also learned that Gwydo was once a crusader. That such a man, weary of war and cured by God’s grace, would eagerly take vows did not surprise the monk. What did was the latent excitement this new and fatal violence seemed to have awakened in Gwydo.

Thomas found that both interesting and troubling in a man, unlike himself, who was truly pious.

Gwydo had stopped. “There,” he gestured as if the signifi- cance was obvious.

Thomas studied the path to the gate that led toward the village, noting only that the grass between path and stream was well-trampled. “Many travel this way,” he said and confessed that he failed to see what the lay brother meant.

“But they don’t leave blood.” Gwydo asked the monk to come closer, then knelt in the grass at the edge of the stream just above where it flowed over the wheel into the pond below. Thomas crouched beside him and frowned. “Now I see.

Someone has pulled up the grass and weeds here.” Then he bent closer to look at the spot indicated by Gwydo. He dug his fingers into the earth, and, when he looked at his hand, he saw stains of a rust color. “Blood,” he confirmed.

“I think the victim was killed here,” Gwydo said. “Then he fell or perhaps he was pushed into the stream.”

Thomas sat back. “Neither Cuthbert nor the crowner have seen this?”

“To my knowledge, neither examined this area. As I said, the crowner believes the killing took place beyond the priory and is probably still looking for evidence upstream.”

Thomas looked toward the gate. “Why did you not send word to our prioress?”

“The bells rang for the last Office. I obeyed them to offer prayers. I found you here soon after returning.”

The explanation was reasonable. As Thomas recalled, both he and the prioress had missed the Office due to their discussion of Kenelm’s death. “Crowner Ralf’s conclusion about how the body arrived in the pond would have been plausible had this killing only been a quarrel between angry mortals.” He looked sadly at Gwydo. “But no man would blacken his soul by killing a man here for such a petty matter. Shedding blood in the priory violates the sanctity of God’s ground. This evidence suggests the crime may be a far darker one than any have thought.”

Gwydo drew back, his expression inscrutable. “I fear that you and our prioress will be drawn into investigating after all.”

Thomas rose to his feet and brushed the dust off his robe. “Prioress Eleanor may not be pleased that the crime has ceased to be the king’s sole problem, but she will thank you for dis- covering this.”

As he glanced again at Gwydo, however, he caught a fleet- ing look in the man’s eyes that made him uneasy. In a man he thought so gentle, he was quite sure he had seen a flicker of hate.

Chapter Five

Ralf gulped his dark ale, ran a hand across his mouth, and belched. “Will you sit with me?” he asked, looking up at the golden-haired, buxom woman standing across from him. Sheep- ishly, he smiled.

Signy, the innkeeper, folded her hands. The gesture suggested a virtuous femininity, as did her simple black robe, but the cor- ners of her eyes crinkled with merriment, revealing that she was well-accustomed to the vagaries of men. From this fleeting hint, the wise would know that any who tried to deceive her would, at the very least, suffer deep wounds from her wit’s sharp edge. “I do not sit with those who drink at my inn, Crowner. Gossip

feeds on such things in the village.”

“Surely nothing would be said if you spent a few moments with me?” He spread his hands. “I am an old friend, Signy.”

“Friend? I might once have granted you that title, but you have long since lost the right. Now you ask to speak with me only when murder has been committed.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is not my virtue for which I fear but rather my neck.”

He hit the table with his fist. “Will you never forgive…?”

Sliding onto the bench opposite him, Signy bent closer and whispered: “Not ever, Ralf.” She quickly leaned back with a hearty laugh. “Now what do you seek?”

The crowner took refuge in his ale, deliberately savoring the remaining drops as an excuse not to acknowledge all the