Sanctity of Hate

31

Thomas leapt over the rock and charged into the clearing. Roaring with the fury of an enraged demon, he lunged at Oseberne.

The baker stumbled back. Seeing the monk in a shaft of sunlight, his red hair glittering like fire, Oseberne screamed, dropped his knife, and fled. He crashed into the woods, shrieking like a terrified beast.

Thomas tried to follow, but he slipped in the decaying leaves and fell. By the time he had scrambled back to his feet, the baker had disappeared. Then he looked at his bleeding friend and knew he must let the killer go.

Thomas knelt by the crowner’s side.

“Catch that Satan’s spawn,” Ralf hissed through clenched teeth.

Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck rose, and Thomas knew that someone was standing behind him. He grabbed the fallen knife, jumped upright, and spun around.

It was Gytha. “Cut this last knot, Brother. I’ll stay. The baker must not escape.” She showed him her loosened bindings.

“He was no sailor to tie this poorly,” Thomas said as he swiftly freed her.

“I was not fast enough but had worked them loose against the tree trunk.” Gytha fell to her knees beside the crowner. “Leave this rooster to me,” she said, pressing a handful of her robe against his wound. “Our crowner is too tough to die just yet.” The tone may have been abrupt, but the tears on her cheeks spoke of caring.

Ralf groaned.

“Go quickly,” Gytha begged as she began ripping strips of cloth from her chemise.

For an instant, Thomas hesitated, then ran toward the woods where the baker had fled. With luck, he might find men to help him catch the killer. Oseberne was too strong to subdue without assistance. After his experience at Baron Herbert’s castle, the monk was loath to use violence, but, if God was willing to grant only one favor, Thomas would choose the capture of this killer.

Shoving aside branches and jumping over shrubs and scurrying creatures, the monk raced through the forest. When he finally emerged onto the road, he looked toward the village.

The baker stood panting at the mill gate.

“Stop!” Thomas knew his command would be ignored but hoped that someone nearby would hear his cry.

Oseberne pulled open the gate, slipped inside, and slammed it shut.

Had the baker locked it? Thomas kicked the gate. It flew open, and he ran through. Why was the baker trying to escape through priory grounds?

The baker fled down the path by the mill pond, shoving aside a young woman who had her child by the hand.

Thomas paused by the fallen mother and stretched forth his hand.

The woman waved him on.

Now he had to run faster to catch up. “Surrender!” he shouted again, but the effort took too much breath.

This time, Oseberne turned his head. He pointed in the direction of the church. “Sanctuary!” he screamed. “I shall throw my arms around the altar. You cannot have me arrested! God sees fit to protect me.”

“You’ll hang for murder,” Thomas roared and found strength to gain speed. “Never will I let you escape punishment for killing gentle Brother Gwydo, casting blame on innocent people, and trying to send your own son to the hangman,” he gasped. Suddenly, his feet felt so light he doubted they touched the ground. Had God given him wings?

Abruptly, the baker veered off the path and fled down into the grove of fruit trees.

It took Thomas a moment to understand that the man was taking a shortcut to the church, thus avoiding anyone else on the path who might slow or stop him. The monk slid down a low rise from the road to follow and was outraged when he saw the baker running into the place where Brother Gwydo had set up his bee skeps.

The change in direction cost him momentum, and Thomas found it harder to catch his breath. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to continue. The baker must not reach the safety of the church.

Oseberne looked over his shoulder to see how close Thomas was. He shouted again.

Thomas neither understood nor cared what the baker had said. Entering the meadow, he cursed. Here the ground was rough, and he was forced to watch his footing.

He heard something and glanced up.

Oseberne had stumbled. Stretching out his arms to keep his balance, his hand struck a skep. The woven basket turned over and bumped another, causing both to topple to the ground.

The baker fell to his knees.

Thomas cried out in triumph.

Suddenly a cloud of bees erupted from the damaged skeps. The buzzing grew louder as they flew toward the baker.

Thomas froze.

Oseberne struggled to get to his feet. The swarm landed on his head and neck. His face turned dark with their churning black bodies. He screamed once, gasping for air, and clawed at his face and throat. Then he collapsed on the ground.

Some of the bees dropped beside their victim. Others flew away.

Oseberne did not move.

Thomas stood quite still. Fearing he would be attacked by the bees as well, he waited until the swarm dispersed. Then he moved slowly forward.

The baker lay where he had fallen.

The monk edged closer.

Oseberne’s eyes bulged, staring as if he had just seen the maw of Hell. His swollen face was pocked with scarlet wounds from the bee stings, and his tongue protruded obscenely from his mouth.

Thomas had no doubt that the baker was dead when he knelt beside him. Out of duty, he uttered a perfunctory offer of forgiveness to the hovering soul for any sin truly repented, then he jumped to his feet.

As he ran to the hospital to bring help for Ralf, he acknowledged that he cared little about the baker’s soul. God might choose to forgive Oseberne’s sins. Thomas would not.