The Sanctity of Hate (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

Standing behind his kneeling son, Oseberne stared without blinking at the monk and waited.

Adelard’s eyes glowed with rampant hope.

Thomas bowed his head to gain some time before continuing this difficult interview. Someone else ought to have been sent here. Of all people, he had no right to render judgement on any suppliant novice. Never had he had a true calling and, considering his ongoing quarrel with God, his own faith was questionable.

Taking a deep breath, he avoided the father’s sharp gaze and turned his attention back to the youth. Looking upon him with feigned gravity, Thomas prayed he appeared sufficiently pious.

The baker cleared his throat with undisguised impatience. Thomas fought against his dislike of Adelard. After his experi-

ence two summers ago, he had become uncomfortable around those who were too eager to convince others of their devotion to God. He preferred the faithful who quietly served with simple compassion, like Sister Anne and Sister Christina. The baker’s son crowed for attention.

“I see so much evil in the world, Brother,” Adelard was saying, his eyes squeezed shut and his prayerful hands clenched so fiercely that the outline of the knuckles shone through the flesh. The father grunted approvingly, his red jowls trembling with fervor. Beside him stood his youngest son, a spotty-faced child approaching the cusp of manhood whose body stank more than

most. The lad scratched at a round, scaly patch near his ear, and a drop of blood began to weave down his neck.

“The final days of this wicked earth must be nigh. I expect soon to hear the trumpets declaring the End.”

Although Thomas had no doubt that the world must end as the gospels proclaimed, he often wondered if the last day might come, not with the expected roaring but rather a preternatural silence. Man had always been so boisterous with wickedness that a sudden quietness might be more terrifying than the clashing of swords and belching of fire-spitting dragons. He blinked, realizing he had not responded. “Why do you say so, my son?” “Do not the Jews roam freely amongst good Christian men?”

An odd remark, especially after the king had just restricted all Jewish families to living in the small number of archa towns. That seemed more a constraint on movement than any increased freedom. Thomas did not try to hide his confusion. It was, after all, his purpose here to query, not to teach. “Explain that state- ment more fully.”

Adelard seemed at a loss to reply and looked over his shoulder at his father.

“What need is there to say more?” The baker stiffened. “I, myself, have seen the horns on their heads and smelled the Devil’s fetid smoke exuding from them. Their presence contaminated Tyndal village over the winter and early spring, and now their malignant influence befouls us again with the arrival of this current family. Surely your priory has felt their evil clawing at your own stone walls.”

Thomas wrinkled his nose. The only odor he noticed came from the baker’s youngest son. No matter what Oseberne and his eldest son believed, Thomas most certainly had never seen horns or smelled Satan’s breath in his contacts with the king’s people. As a matter of fact, Thomas agreed with those Church leaders who urged patience over the slow conversion of the Jews to Chris- tianity. Did Saint Paul not say in his letter to the Romans that all Gentiles must fi be converted and then Israel? As far as the monk knew, there were many more people left in that former category.

Adelard nodded with enthusiasm. “The Jews have over- whelmed our land!” His gaze grew distant and his face turned bright with passion. Although he lacked his father’s jowls, his face matched the paternal color well.

“The roads have been filled with the creatures,” Oseberne added. “I fear for the safety of the children in this village! Remember how our sainted William was crucified by them in Norwich!” Sweat glistened in the furrows that crossed his brow, and he nodded pointedly at his youngest son.

Bored, the boy had begun to rock from side to side.

“And since no child here has suffered injury, Master Baker, your fears are for naught.” As far as Thomas was concerned, this exodus was no apocalyptical sign but the result solely of a secular, political decision. “After our king and his mother ordered the Jews to leave Cambridge, most came through here on the way to Norwich. They stayed no longer than one night before depart- ing. The village gained in coin. The priory suffered no harm.” “We had children die of fever last winter,” Oseberne snapped. “We grieve for all parents who suffered a child’s death, but

Sister Anne says fewer died here than usual.”

The baker stared at Thomas’ feet, as if confirming that he lacked cloven hooves, then shook his head.

“Was not Kenelm slaughtered on priory ground?” Adelard raised a finger heavenward. “And we have a Jewish family here now. Surely these facts together have meaning.”

Thomas felt his earlier unease grow even greater. How swiftly that detail of Kenelm’s death had spread.

Oseberne dropped a hand heavily on his eldest son’s shoulder. “If they cannot pollute wells, they will be driven to find some other way to profane our holy ground.”

“How did you learn that tale?” Thomas frowned.

“My son heard some women talking about it after they left my stall.” The baker squeezed his fingers around Adelard’s collar bone. “My special loaves are popular with many.”

The lad winced, then nodded.

Thomas felt a shiver of fear. These accusations of sacrilege, voiced by the baker, were becoming more common. The safer days of Henry II’s reign, a king who did not tolerate harassment of the Jewish community, were long past. This current king was pulling back both his favor and protection.

As for these tales of fouling water, crucifying children, or drinking Christian blood, he knew they were slanders born of hate, and the stories were often used to explain unsolved murders and other violence. In this matter of Kenelm’s death, the myths suited those fearful of an unknown killer and longing to turn the accusing finger away from a village man and toward a much preferred scapegoat.

The youngest son began to tug on his father’s sleeve. Oseberne growled at him.

Grimacing, the child cupped his hand between his legs.

Thomas hoped the baker would let the boy go relieve himself elsewhere.

Oseberne grunted and waved his hand. The youngster fled.

“Are you suggesting these travelers killed their own guard?” Thomas now welcomed the shift in discussion. He was stray- ing from his obligation to dig deeper into Adelard’s longing for priory life, but Prioress Eleanor had also hoped he might gather useful information about the killing.

Adelard looked amazed as if the question lacked all reason. “Kenelm was undoubtedly full of sin, but he wasn’t he still a Christian? They hate us as the Devil tells them they should. Of course they killed him!”

Even if the family housed in Signy’s stable did hate Christians, Thomas thought, they would have been preternaturally stupid if they killed the one person hired to protect them. The Jewish men he had met in his clerical days had been neither better nor worse than those of Christian faith and certainly possessed the same measure of wits.

Oseberne and Adelard gazed at the monk, eagerly anticipat- ing his reply.

“An odd thing to do, however. Surely they have heard how others of their faith suffered theft and harassment despite the king’s plea that they be allowed to travel in safety. Without Kenelm, they lacked any shield against violence.”

Straightening his back, Adelard proved to be his father’s true son as he released a fulsome snort. “Knowing these people to be the Devil’s spawn, I watched them. Not long before his body was found, Kenelm mocked the Jew’s faith. Surely he was killed for the truth of his words.”

Once again the father’s hand clutched Adelard’s shoulder and squeezed it. “My son heard the man called Jacob argue with the dead man. They scuffled.” Oseberne looked down at his son who tilted his head back to stare up at his father. “Did you not overhear the Jew threaten to kill his Christian guard?”

Adelard looked back at the monk and nodded with enthusiasm.

“It is not surprising that Kenelm was found dead in the priory mill pond. Is that not a sacrilege?” The baker hesitated, and then his scowl fled to be replaced with a delighted smile. “And a deliberate contamination of your water! The stream is like your well, is it not?”

Thomas shuddered. His qualms regarding what these rumors might bring were coming to fruition.

“Now you see, Brother, how these wicked people have com- mitted violence against us.” Adelard lifted his silver cross and kissed it.

“I shall report your words to our Crowner,” the monk said. “He may wish to question you.” And he would alert his prioress as well. He could only hope that Adelard had not already spread this story amongst the villagers but suspected the damage had already been done.

Oseberne was looking at his son’s cross with pride. “I gave him that,” he said to the monk.

Does this man care only about his fine loaves and being per- ceived as a man able to buy a silver cross? Thomas was annoyed

but knew he must now pull himself back from inquiring into Kenelm’s death and return to the stated purpose of his visit here. Glancing down at the youth, he saw a shadow pass over Adelard’s face as he contemplated that silver cross of which his father boasted. Then the monk looked back at the baker standing behind his son. The man was imposing in size, his son frail by comparison. It was easy to see how such an intimidating father

could impose his will on the young man.

It was an observation worth pursuing. Just how much of the youth’s proclaimed passion for the cloister came from Oseberne and how much desire for the religious life arose from Adelard’s own heart? If this youth’s calling was sincere, the monk hoped it had a gentler side that could be cultivated. That rough-edged fanaticism made Adelard sound like a younger version of his father. In Thomas’ opinion, hate might be better applied to pounding bread dough than taking on a monk’s life.

“Whatever the resolution of this murder, the presence of Jews in Tyndal shall be temporary, but, if you are accepted as a novice at Tyndal priory, that shall last a lifetime. Surely you have reasons for longing to abandon the world other than a hatred of the Jews.”

“Women! I can no longer bear their presence. By day, they play the honest virgin. At night, they whore. My dreams are so rife with succubae that I cannot sleep and instead war against the darkness with the sharp sword of prayer.”

Recalling his own dismay at the same age when a light touch on his groin might transform him into a leering satyr, he sus- pected Adelard suffered a similar shame and fear. “Satan often sends his imps to torment men at night.” His voice was gentle with understanding.

“But the whores are not just in dreams! They walk the earth and lure good men into their foul embrace.” He glanced back at his father. “Not all, of course. My mother was so chaste that she must be in Heaven now.”

Thomas knew he had not imagined the baker’s wince before the widower lowered his gaze and nodded.

“You have witnessed this evil yourself, my son?” The monk prepared to hear Adelard name every young woman in the vil- lage who might have shared a kiss with a youth.

Adelard’s expression turned sly. “Lust infects many, Brother.” The monk froze as if the young man had caught him in some lewd act. Thomas quickly reminded himself that the subject was wanton women, a temptation to which he had long been

immune. “You have proof?” he asked again. “Mine own eyes.”

“You witness much.” Did this youth ever sleep? Of course, he often did not either, tormented as he was by his own particular longings.

“God has chosen me to point the finger of righteous outrage on His behalf, and thus I walk the paths during Satan’s hours to seek out wickedness.”

“Continue.”

“I name Gytha, Tostig’s sister, as our greatest harlot.” Thomas clenched his fist and drew back to keep from striking

Adelard. If anyone was virtuous, it was Prioress Eleanor’s maid, a woman beloved for both her kindness and ready wit. He felt his face turn hot with rage at the accusation.

Adelard read the flush of the monk’s face differently. “I knew you would be horrified that your priory housed such a serpent.” He glowed with pride at his revelation.

The monk nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “There is more.”

“Aye?” Thomas spat more than uttered his reply.

“She lay with Brother Gwydo near the hut of Ivetta the Whore. I witnessed the sin. That was the night of the murder.” Thomas’ head spun and roaring filled his ears. Dizzy, he stepped back, braced his hand on the wall to steady himself, and

willed away the bruising echo of Adelard’s sordid accusation. And so it took him a moment to understand that the deafen-

ing noise he heard was not caused by the passion of his outrage. Instead it was the shouting of an angry crowd in the street outside the baker’s house.