The Sanctity of Hate (7 page)

physicians claim it heals wounds, cures confused thoughts, and counters black bile.”

“A miracle indeed if it does all that,” she replied, but her jest was lightly spoken. Had she not dealt with this merchant long enough to know his honesty, she would have mocked him for thinking her so easily deceived and walked away.

As if reading her mind, he grinned. “All that might interest Sister Anne, but Sister Matilda would enjoy the flavor it adds to her cooking. And I can attest to its value in food for I have eaten a fish stew with saffron added.”

Would it please Ralf? Gytha felt her face turn hot. “Fish? Indeed!” She bent quickly over his hand again to hide her blush. “I cannot describe the flavor, but I closed my eyes and won- dered if the fish was still swimming in the sea. It is like nothing else I have tasted. And all it requires is a pinch of these threads,

left for a day in wine, to add to a soup.” “And what is the price of this wonder?”

The merchant quickly looked around, and then bent to pick up a small jar that was meant to hold the more fragile spices. “It must be kept dry or it loses its power,” he said, dropping the amount held in his hand into the container and sealing it shut. “Speak of no one about this, Mistress Gytha, for the item is costly, but I gift this small sample to the priory for the good of my soul.”

She carefully nestled the jar into her basket. “As our prioress has said, the gift given unobserved shines more brightly in God’s eyes than one presented with trumpet and cymbals.” She gave him a studied look. “And only she shall know of your generosity. But our lady will not let a good man suffer for his charity and shall order more from you if it delights as you have suggested and our funds permit. Please whisper the cost in my ear.”

He bent over and mumbled a figure.

Gytha swallowed a gasp but willed herself to nod with solemn dignity.

Thanking the merchant again for his gift, and promising to return the container the following week, she checked to make

sure the item was safely balanced. Without looking up, she stepped away from the stall.

“Watch where you are going!” Gytha stumbled backward.

Adelard stood in front of her. The sun glinting off his silver cross was as harsh as the look in his eyes. “Did you not see me walk toward you? It is your place to step aside, daughter of Eve.” “Surely it is a small courtesy to travel along one side of the crowd rather than down the middle where others, burdened as I am with a market basket, must squeeze against the stalls.” “I was praying. All should stand aside when they meet a man

who is humbly communing with God.” He folded his arms.

I have seen roosters crow at the sun with more humility, she noted silently, then replied: “I fear you have forgotten the Lord’s teaching for your tone lacks the modesty of which you speak, Adelard.” She put her free hand on one hip. “I may be God’s lesser creation, being Eve’s daughter, but Adam’s sons are most in danger of unacknowledged pride.”

“How dare you preach to me?” His face burned with anger. “Saint Paul ordered all women to be silent and obedient, and so your words are a grave and profane sin.”

Gytha gazed upward and tried not to beg God to strike this annoying youth speechless for the term of his earthly life. When she returned to the priory, she would have to ask if this noxious being had truly requested entrance to Tyndal as a novice. Was there ever gold enough to warrant taking such an arrogant man into a place set aside for peace and brotherhood?

“Step away.” He waved at her.

Looking over her shoulder at the inn, Gytha decided that she dare not delay further and chance a meeting with the crowner. Even if she preferred flinging barbed retorts at the baker’s son, a battle she most probably would win, this was one time she knew she should retreat with feigned submissiveness. She’d humble him another day.

Gytha stepped to one side.

“Whore,” he muttered as he passed her by. “Did I not see you coupling with a liegeman of the Evil One in Satan’s darkness below Ivetta the Whore’s cottage?”

As if exposed to a sudden ice storm, her heart froze. Then fire flowed through her arms and legs as if the Devil himself had set a torch to her.

Just a few stalls down, Oseberne suddenly appeared and bel- lowed for his son to come help with the customers.

Adelard hissed something incomprehensible and ran to meet his father.

With as much self-control as she could muster, Gytha walked slowly away from the stalls and bustle of the crowds. Once she reached the edge of the village, she began to run, fleeing toward the priory like a deer escaping the hunter.

When she finally reached a quiet spot near the hut of Ivetta the Whore, a place cleansed of sin after Brother Thomas lived there as a hermit, she slipped into the brush to escape all eyes, sank to her knees, and wept.

Chapter Ten

Brother Gwydo finished binding the end of the straw coil with which he planned to construct a new skep for his bees. Setting it down beside him with the other coils, he watched the creatures flying to and from the previous huts he had made for them. One skep seemed especially busy, and the entrance must be cut larger to allow easier access. When the time came to weigh the skeps in the autumn, he was certain that one would be heavy enough with honey to allow the bees to survive the bitter cold of winter. He sighed. Although he must kill the bees in the lighter skeps, harvesting the honey that was insufficient for them to feed upon until the weather warmed, he hated applying the deadly sulphur smoke. Bees were peaceful things. They reminded him of monks with their diligence, shared community, and utter devotion to the king. Killing them seemed cruel, almost unnatural. In bibli- cal times, men took the honey and left the bees alone. Perhaps he could invent a way of returning to that less destructive time, harvesting honey and yet allowing these wonderful creations of

God to survive.

Then there was the problem of the two skeps nearest the path to the mill where the bees remained hostile. Boys had thrown pebbles at them, knocking one skep off its platform. After chas- ing the lads away, he returned to right the hive and had been stung several times for his efforts. The attack had been warranted, he quickly forgave the bees, but the creatures still assaulted any who came too close.

And what had possessed those lads to molest beasts that had done them no harm? Men may have been made in God’s image, but mortals seemed to take on the Devil’s nature when it came to pointless aggression.

Shivering, Gwydo leaned his head back against the bark of the tree. He, too, had been like those boys once, although none would have questioned the virtue of his intent. When the bishop came to preach the crusade, he had taken the oath, rushing off to save Jerusalem from the infidel, mocking all who failed to heed the plea, and cursing any who were not Christian.

But then he saw soldier pilgrims rape girls, mere children, when they crawled for refuge into the dead arms of their mothers, and men take delight in torturing captives who had even sworn to accept baptism. It was then he asked how God could forgive such brutal acts, many against fellow Christians.

In those days, blood’s stench filled his nostrils even in sleep, and one day he, too, shook hands with Death on the battlefield but survived. His own sins might have been lesser ones, but he came to believe that he was branded with the mark of Cain. Had he not been taught that all men were brothers? And he had slaughtered many of them.

When he confessed these musings to his priest and questioned the justice of killing even unbelievers, the man had gasped in horror, proclaiming that Satan had blinded him if he doubted that God delighted in the massacre of the infidel. And so Gwydo had ceased telling anyone of his qualms and decided to turn his back on the world. But he still wondered whether God or the Devil had whispered in his ear and condemned the bloodshed.

Closing his eyes and listening to the soothing hum of the bees in his care, he decided the answer might not matter. At Tyndal Priory, he had found tranquility in prayer and service. Here he had shed both rank and kin. His wife and his aged father believed he had died of a fever in Acre. His father had other sons. His wife could remarry, believing herself to be a widow. Some might say that was a sin, but other wives had done so in ignorance and

God surely forgave women, creatures rarely possessed of reason, more easily than He did the sons of Adam.

And so now he spent his remaining days laboring in the fields, praying for forgiveness, and tending bees with little enough harm done as the price of his peace. Only one last thing troubled his soul, one he dared not confess to any priest, a sin from his past that must somehow be expiated.

He had not believed it to be important until he overheard tales about Kenelm. Then he had awakened one night with a voice in his ear, telling him what he must do. A priest would have said it was the Devil, but, like his belief that he had wrongly slain his fellow men, Gwydo feared most it was God. And thus he had obeyed Him.

Perhaps he could have asked Brother Thomas about his plight, for this was a man, not only of great virtue, but much experience of Man’s dual nature of good and evil. Might he not treat his concerns with compassion? Yet he hesitated. Would the good monk turn from him in horror as his former priest had done? He was not sure he could bear rejection from one whom he so admired.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Gwydo forced himself to ban the roar of terror and listen only to the calming music created by God’s earthly miracles: clicking insects, rustling leaves dancing in the soft breeze, and the distant hiss of the sea. Once again, he slipped into sweet tranquility and left behind the burning wound of his mortal flaws. Surely God did not condemn him for He had mercifully led him to this holy place. Satan was devious, but the Prince of Darkness never sent his minions to kneel before God’s altar, find joy in service to the needy, and to toil in the cleansing of their souls.

Sighing, he turned his head and looked through the brush- wood toward the mill pond. For a moment, his eyes grew heavy and he almost fell asleep.

But from just beyond the mill a woman appeared, walking slowly down the path toward him. Her head was bowed, and her pace suggested little eagerness to reach her destination.

Sliding into a sitting position against the tree, he recognized Gytha. She had been visiting the market day stalls, he concluded, seeing her full basket. Sister Matilda would be eager for whatever the maid had found for her. Indeed, the simple meals at Tyndal Priory gave him far greater delight than anything he had eaten at his father’s more sumptuous table.

The maid stopped near where Gwydo sat under his tree. She quickly ran the edge of her hand under her eyes and down both cheeks. Was she weeping?

His heart began to pound with both sympathy and fear. Although he sometimes spoke with the worthy virgins vowed to God’s service, he never did so alone. To be in the company of one who had never sworn herself to holy chastity made him tremble. Gwydo squirmed under the bush on his belly. The maid must not see him. But he still had a full view of the path. Looking to his right toward the priory church, he saw Brother Thomas

approaching.

The monk stopped. “Are you well?” he asked the young woman, his voice deep with concern.

“A bit of dust got in my eye.” Gytha smiled with stiff brightness.

Now Brother Gwydo feared most that the pair would discover his presence and accuse him of deliberately listening in secret. Embarrassed, he pulled himself deeper into the brushwood.

Thomas did not pursue his suspicion that the maid had been crying. Instead, he pointed to the basket on the young woman’s arm. “And what did you bring to delight Sister Matilda?” He grinned with the happier change of subject.

“Have you heard of saffron?” Gytha sounded relieved. “Shall you give me a hint? Is it beast or herb?”

“A miracle of healing which also brings delight to the tongue, if the spice merchant is to be believed.”

He peered into the basket. “Since I do not see it, I fear that Solomon’s sword will be too large to divide the marvelous thing between kitchen and hospital.”

Gytha pulled out the small jar and let him look. “It is the color of your hair, Brother.” She looked up at him and smiled with evident affection. “If the merchant had not sworn this was edible, I might have believed someone stole a pinch from your head when it was last shaven.”

Thomas rubbed the dense auburn thatch around his tonsure. “Most would say this was my curse,” he replied softly.

“Are you going into the village?” Gytha carefully tucked the precious spice back into her basket.

“Prioress Eleanor wants me to question young Adelard about his longing to become a novice here.”

A shadow clearly passed over her face. Gwydo found that curious.

“Perhaps I shall also discover something useful regarding the murder.” Staring over her shoulder at the gate leading to the village, he asked, “Did you hear anything in the market about Kenelm’s death? Have men begun to discuss the crime?”

She visibly shivered. “As I was passing by the baker’s stall, two women were talking and wondered if the Jewish family had something to do with it. They had heard that Kenelm was murdered on priory grounds.”

“The word has spread quickly.” Thomas looked unhappy. “Someone must have seen us searching above the mill wheel near the gate.”

“Then you did find evidence he was killed here?” She raised a hand to her mouth. “Not on the road…or above the village, as our crowner thought?”

Thomas nodded. “So it would appear. There is still a chance that he was grievously wounded outside the priory but crawled through the gate to seek help from…. Mistress Gytha!”

As she started to fall, Thomas instinctively grasped her around the waist. It took only a moment for her to recover, then her eyes opened and she blinked at the man in whose arms she rested.

“The sun, Brother,” she said. “It is only that. I fear the heat today has disturbed my humors.” She tapped his arm.

He released her and stepped back.