Sanctity of Hate

29

Ralf was drenched in sweat. Raising his fist, he beat against Oseberne’s door with a ferocity that caused a dog trotting down the street to turn and flee.

No one answered.

He pounded again and shouted, threatening a myriad of plagues if no one answered his demand for entry.

Slowly the door inched open.

Ralf grasped his sword hilt.

A boy’s spotty face appeared in the small opening, his eyes round with dread. “My lord?” His voice cracked between the two words.

Whatever ire he felt for the baker because of the crimes he believed he had and might still commit, the crowner did not wish to scare an innocent. Ralf swallowed his fury and tried to grin warmly. “Is your father within?”

The lad stared in silent terror at him.

Deciding that the sight of his teeth had probably reminded the baker’s youngest of a hungry dragon, Ralf shut his mouth. “Your father? Is he home?” he asked with lips barely open.

The boy shook his head.

“Do you know where I might find him?”

Another head shake.

He hesitated. Presumably the boy was telling the truth. It usually took a few more years than this child owned to learn successful dissembling. “Ah, well,” he sighed. “My need for his bread must wait.”

“Shall I tell him that you would like to see him, my lord? Perhaps you could tell me what you require. I will let him know when he returns.”

Ralf felt a sharp stab of guilt. “Nay, lad. It is of no moment. I am sorry I was so rude before. My intent was…” He had a hard time coming up with something that was far from his true purpose. How could he explain to this child that he wanted to find the father whom he might hang for murder? It was better not to finish the phrase. “Anon,” he said, stepping back and waving.

The door was swiftly shut.

Grunting, the crowner turned in the direction of Tostig’s house. As he kicked up dust marching down the road, he tried to convince himself that Gytha would be with her brother, as she told Prioress Eleanor she would. If so, he could almost hear Tostig roar at him for the insults he had dared to throw at his cherished sister: “Not virtuous? You are an ass, Ralf, one not even worthy of being one of my breeding stock!”

He groaned. Were Gytha safe and Tostig eager to pound him into the earth, Ralf would weep with joy.

Suddenly he was at his friend’s door.

It was wide open.

He walked in.

Tostig and Jacob were sitting at the bench. Jacob was gesturing with enthusiasm as he explained the details of something involving wool. Gytha’s brother frowned with interest and concentration.

Gytha was nowhere to be seen.

Tostig turned to see who had entered “Ralf! Welcome!” He gestured at a spot on the bench. “Share some ale with us. Master Jacob has been…”

“Where is your sister?”

Tostig stopped as he reached for the jug. Seeing the crowner’s grim expression, he frowned. “I do not know. Why do you ask?”

“She told Prioress Eleanor that she was coming to see you.”

“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.

***

“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.

***

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.