Sanctity of Hate

8

Ralf strode from the inn. The sun was bright in his eyes, but his mood darkened as he looked down the road at the crowds milling around the merchant stalls.

It was marketing day, a time for families to visit with friends and see what wondrous things had come with Norwich merchants or even from Cambridge. Women argued with butchers, men debated the merits of one tradesman’s wares over another’s, and laughing children ran around the legs of all.

A father holding his laughing son caught the crowner’s particular attention. He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

Signy was right. Although he loved his daughter to distraction, he had yet to remarry and produce an heir as he had promised his eldest brother. Fulke’s wife had long been barren, yet the man refused to find cause to divorce her, a choice that had warmed Ralf’s heart for just an instant. And in that regrettable moment of weakness, he had given his word that he would produce the requisite, legitimate heir as long as his next wife was of his own choosing.

Ever since, he had found innumerable reasons to avoid keeping that ill-advised oath. The problem was not in making his choice of wife. He knew the woman he would ask, but approaching his friend, Tostig, for permission to marry his sister made Ralf tremble like a virgin on the wedding night. He had grown to love Gytha; indeed he adored her too much.

A cloud passed over the sun, and the daylight faded to match his grayer mood.

He had already suffered rejection from the last woman he longed to marry for more years than he dared count. First, she had chosen another over him, then God. As for his late wife, she had been a good woman, but there had been no love between them. She had died birthing their daughter.

He shook his head and concluded that it was not only prudent for him to reject ties with all women, they were wise to avoid him as well. In silence he complained to God, protesting that He should never have created Eve. That apple aside, Adam’s life would have been far less complicated without her.

The question always came down to this: why would Gytha want to join with such a rough man as he? She was tender-hearted; he had grown cynical. Although he had some wealth, she could find merchants with softer ways and more coin than he. In short, he had nothing to offer, apart from one promise never take her away from the village she loved and another to worship the earth wherever she set her feet.

Maybe she would consent if he phrased his plea as a kindness to his daughter, a child she loved as much as if she had borne Sibely herself. But his throat went dry when he tried to ask and the words died in his mouth. Another opportunity would pass. He feared Gytha would flee if he told her how much he loved her, and his daughter would lose the warmth of the maid’s love. He did not dare chance that.

But today he had intended an innocent outing with Gytha. All he had planned to do was carry her basket while she shopped for Prioress Eleanor’s table. Oh, he had hoped to surprise her with a small gift as well, but only to thank her for the happiness she brought his daughter. At no point would he even hint at how much joy her company brought him too.

He growled like a cornered dog. Instead of an enjoyable afternoon, he had a murder to solve, and a popular one at that. Gytha’s pleasant image fled his soul, replaced by that of a butchered corpse.

He knew no one would cooperate and could already hear the village response to his queries: “’Twas a stranger that did it, Crowner! I swear I saw him, dagger in hand, running down the road. Why did I not stop him? Do you think me daft? He had a knife! Do I remember how he looked? Maybe short. Brown hair, perhaps light, nay, dark…”

Ralf cursed. Now he must talk with the Jewish family and decide if their quarrel with Kenelm was sharp enough for a killing. And the wife was close to giving birth? He did not like this situation at all.

Then he remembered he had offered to loan the innkeeper his sergeant to guard this family. His spirit instantly brightened. He could leave the inquiry of them to Cuthbert!

As if called in answer to his prayer, the sergeant walked around the corner from the inn. Ralf began to smile, then felt his stomach fill with fire. Either the man’s grim expression meant something unpleasant, or else that last jack of ale he had drunk with the innkeeper had been unwise.

Cuthbert raised a hand in greeting. “Brother Beorn met me on the road and sent news you must hear.”

Ralf grunted.

“Brother Gwydo and Brother Thomas found blood that suggests Kenelm was killed on priory grounds.”

Kicking a stone with such force that it almost hit a passing villager in the back, Ralf uttered a colorful oath.

“Need I continue looking upstream? I have found nothing of value and…”

“I have another task for you, one that will better merit your time.” Looking back at the inn, Ralf wondered how much of that good ale was still left. As he considered the implications of this new information, the prospect of another jug of the inn’s finest regained appeal. “As for the priory, I had hoped not to trouble them with this death.”

“Prioress Eleanor also sent word that she would meet with you and shall assist as much as possible.”

“Which means she will investigate the matter herself if she suspects the involvement of any of her religious.”

Cuthbert nodded, his expression wisely void of meaning.

“I will seek an audience with her later,” Ralf said. At least the visit might bring him a moment with Gytha. “Come.” He put a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder and aimed him along the path leading to the partially completed stables behind the inn.

As they rounded the corner of the building, however, they came to an abrupt halt.

A young man knelt in front of the unfinished stable, the entrance to which was draped with stiff cloth. Waving his arms at the sky, he shouted pleas for the salvation of the souls within the shelter.

The rough covering was shoved aside and a man emerged. He stared down at the praying youth as if perplexed by his behavior. “My wife is ill,” he said, then humbly bowed his head. “You have awakened her. In the name of all you hold sacred, have mercy and leave us in peace.” He coughed sharply, as if something had caught in his throat, before adding: “Would it not be charitable to do so?”

The youth glared at the man in disgust and clasped his hands together into a doubled fist. The cross around his neck wobbled as his body trembled with the intensity of his passion. “Charity? Why do you think you are owed such a thing, unbelievers that you are? If you turn from your benighted faith, open your wicked hearts to Our Lord’s message and let Him save you from eternal damnation, I shall leave you in peace to enjoy the blessing of His salvation. Charity is only for those who see or seek the Truth. All others must suffer misery for that is the only thing eternity has to offer you.”

“I have not come to argue faith, only to ask that you let my wife sleep.” The man’s voice grew taut with controlled rage.

“Of what value is sleep when she faces the fires of Hell?”

The man’s face turned white.

Ralf walked up to the lad and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your father needs you, Adelard. Rise and attend him.”

“In this matter, God the Father outranks any earthly parent…”

“Still you must honor Oseberne the baker. Of that there is no dispute.”

“Our Lord said…”

“As crowner of this land, Adelard, I order you to leave this place and seek your father.” None too gently, Ralf grabbed the youth by his robe and hauled him to his feet. “Off with you!” Then he shoved him in the direction of the market stalls.

Cuthbert watched the youth stagger off and began to laugh. “Your tongue has taken vows, methinks. A priest could have not have preached a better…”

Ignoring his sergeant, Ralf spoke to the man who remained standing before him. “I am the crowner here. This misbegotten oaf is my sergeant.”

“I am called Jacob ben Asser, lately of Cambridge but now returning to Norwich, a permitted archa town, as King Edward and his noble mother have ordered.”

“A belated journey to go back to those places where the records of your people’s usury are kept,” Ralf said. He nodded at the badge of yellow taffeta, six fingers long and three wide, shaped like the Tablets of the Law and sewn on the man’s clothes above his heart. “Others of your faith have obeyed the royal commands with greater alacrity.”

Jacob said nothing.

Studying his face, Ralf discovered nothing that revealed what the young man thought. They must suck in caution with their mothers’ milk, he mused. How different it had been when he was a boy and traveled with his father whose duties often took him to Norwich. Jewish and Christian children played together with some freedom until they reached a certain age… He blinked away the memory.

Jacob met his gaze. “My wife’s uncle fell ill and died just when we received word that we must leave Cambridge. It took time to arrange …”

“There is a Jewish cemetery in Cambridge. Unlike others of your faith living elsewhere, you had no permits to request, extra fees to pay, or a long journey.”

“Forgive me, my lord. There were special problems. We tried to summon his children for mourning but, by then, they were told they must leave for archa towns under the statute. As quickly as possible, we had to sell what could be and organize safe conduct for the widow to travel to Lincoln, the archa town to which her daughter and her son-in-law had gone at the king’s command.”

Ralf started to speak.

Jacob anticipated the presumed question. “I did not have the requisite license to stay in Cambridge, but I have proof that I paid the proper fee for the right to remain there until now.” His voice betrayed no resentment.

Ralf glared. His roughness of manner would not surprise this man and would also let the crowner hide his thoughts. In fact, he hated the Statute of Jewry. Courtiers had long howled over debts they owed Jewish moneylenders, debts made more onerous because of royal policies that required greater speed in repayment. Now that Edward had turned to Italian merchants for his own needs, instead of relying on the Jews, he could gain favor with his barons by eliminating future usurious loans, hampering repayment of past ones, and putting harsher restrictions on a despised group.

The crowner felt some sympathy for the king’s people, and most certainly resented the extra work the statute caused sheriffs, but none of this would he admit to Jacob ben Asser, a man who might be a murderer. “You travel with your wife. Others?”

The man gestured toward the unfinished stables. “One maidservant and my mother-in-law. The others were sent ahead to seek lodging for us all in Norwich, along with the armed men we had hired for protection on the road.”

A mewling cry came from the hut.

All Jacob’s determination to remain impassive melted. He began to wring his hands. “My wife is heavy with child, my lord. She suffers greatly and cannot travel the last distance to Norwich. If you will, accept payment in exchange for permission to remain…”

“Keep your coin. I want it not,” Ralf snapped. “As for the health of your wife, there is a well-regarded hospital close by this village at Tyndal Priory. Let me tell them of your wife’s need, and they will send someone for her. I know your…”

“Forgive me if I offend, but my child must not be born on priory grounds. Babes of my people are often baptized against the will of the parents. The child is then placed in a Christian family because he may no longer live with his Jewish parents, unless they also convert. Perhaps you can understand why one of my faith would be wary.”

Suddenly, Ralf grew angry. “You would cling to your faith and let your wife die?”

Jacob paled but said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Are you married, my lord?”

“Your question is impertinent. What is your point?”

“If you and your pregnant wife were stranded in the land ruled by those you deem heretics, would you foreswear your faith, deny the one whom you worship, if such were the price of saving her life?”

“A priest would say that your decision would not have the same weight as mine.” Ralf responded as he believed proper for a Christian, but he secretly knew he would do anything to save Gytha’s life were she the one bearing the child. He looked away, hoping to hide that weakness from ben Asser.

Jacob bowed. “If you have no further need to speak with me, I beg leave to attend my wife.”

Ralf saw the redness in the man’s brown eyes, deep lines in his forehead, and gray streaks in his black hair. If a man could age in a few moments of conversation, Jacob ben Asser had. Surely all these details had been present before, but the crowner had not noted them. “I have need to speak with you but not now. Go to your wife.” He gestured at Cuthbert. “My sergeant will remain here as your guard. The other man…he has been detained.”

Ben Asser murmured something and raced back inside.

Ralf spun around. “You will stay.”

Cuthbert’s eyes widened in horror. “Why? My wife…”

“She knows your duties for me often delay you.”

“Let these people hire another to guard them.”

Stepping closer to keep his words private, Ralf whispered: “No one in this village will do so. These are Jews. Their last guard has been murdered, and Mistress Signy overhead ben Asser arguing with him. Whatever the truth of the matter, he might be judged guilty of the crime simply because of his faith. If word spreads of this argument, the village may rise against the man and his frail wife, murdering both, before I can determine who should actually hang.”

Cuthbert opened his mouth to protest further.

Ralf snarled.

The sergeant reluctantly agreed.

As the crowner turned away, he realized that Cuthbert held the same opinion of this family as his neighbors did. Who better to blame for the death of an unpopular man than Jacob ben Asser?