Sanctity of Hate

9

Gytha slipped behind the pewterer’s stall and watched as Ralf left Cuthbert and went back inside the inn. If God were kind, the crowner would not have seen her.

“Are you ill, mistress?”

She shook her head and smiled at the youth, son of the master craftsman. He was a sweet lad with flaxen down on his cheeks. His brow, furrowed with concern, betrayed a kind heart as well as an ill-hidden attraction to the prioress’ maid. “It is the sun,” she replied. “I should have returned to the priory sooner.”

He glanced around him, hoping to see the apprentice returning from the errand he had run. “I could carry that heavy basket for you on the road back.”

“You are most considerate to suggest it, but your father needs you here for the customers.” Gytha kept her tone both gentle and firm. “I shall not trouble you further.”

He began to protest.

With a quick look toward the inn, she stepped away from the stall. “I am quite recovered,” she said, knowing it would not be kind to torment the lad just because she could not face meeting the crowner.

As Gytha walked away, she knew she did not imagine the deep sigh coming from behind the display of finely crafted plate and vessels. Her own heart ached as well, but not for this merchant’s son.

When the crowner had asked if he might walk with her through the stalls on this market day, she had given a grave assent even though her heart urged a more passionate reply. When had she not loved the man?

As a child, she had run circles around him, giggling with joy when he visited her brother. Later, when she reached marriageable age, she began teasing him with a flirtatious edge. At first, she was embarrassed by the change in her feelings but soon understood that he enjoyed her jests, even when he blushed. She learned to take pleasure in their brief moments of bantering. Although many men had wanted her as wife, begging Tostig for permission, he had honored her refusals. Only Ralf the Crowner filled her with both comfort and excitement.

Yet he had never approached Tostig with a proposal even though she was quite convinced the failure was not from lack of interest. She knew of his past love for Sister Anne. The one marriage to a woman of rank and property was expected, and she had accepted it. Despite her youth, Gytha had always owned a clear eye, but now matters were different. He was a widower with a daughter she adored.

His growing shyness, when she came to see his child, and the boyish color on his cheeks, when he asked to carry her basket on market day, proved he certainly liked her enough to bed. But he would never disgrace her or her brother by seeding a bastard in her so casually. For all his flaws, and she loved him in spite of many, Ralf owned an honorable heart.

So why had he not asked her to be his next wife? His rank might be above hers, but everyone in the village knew he had no love for a courtier’s life and had heard how he refused to marry another of Sir Fulke’s choosing. When he asked to accompany her this day, she did wonder if it was the time he might finally inquire if she were willing to share his life.

She felt tears sting her eyes. Then she had hoped for happiness. Now she felt only sorrow. How much had changed in such a short time.

“Mistress Gytha!”

Quickly rubbing the moisture from her cheeks, she turned to see the spice seller waving. His broad grin was a welcome distraction. Smiling in return, Gytha hurried to his stall.

“I have something special for Sister Matilda’s kitchen and mayhap for your hospital as well,” he said and turned to dig around in a large wooden box behind him.

Taking in a deep breath, she savored the mixed scents of sharp and sweet. Only the Master of Creation could create such wondrous plants with so many uses: dying cloth, curing disease, and flavoring food. Everything had a purpose, even if it had yet to be discovered. God wasted nothing, or so she was convinced.

And this merchant bought his treasures from lands so distant that they seemed mythical. He had many tales to tell of the origins of his wares, and Gytha was always eager to hear them, even if she did not really believe there were two-headed men or those with faces in their stomachs.

The extra time she spent with the spice merchant was hardly idle amusement. Prioress Eleanor required her charges to obey the rule banning red meat but encouraged Sister Matilda to exercise her cooking magic with vegetables, fruit, and fish. What Gytha brought back from market days delighted the nun in charge of the kitchen as well as the religious. Obedience to the rule did not mean denial of all culinary pleasure, and Gytha was happy to contribute to that joy.

She leaned forward. What did he have to show her now? Gytha almost forgot her sadness as she waited to see what the man would pull from the divided box.

Having found what he wanted, the spice merchant returned to the stall front and carefully opened his hand. His smile was as bright as that of a boy offering his mother a colorful flower. “This is saffron,” he said in a voice soft with wonder.

Gytha looked closer at the reddish-gold threads resting in his palm.

“A miracle of God’s creation,” he said, “just arrived from a land beyond Outremer. The man who sold it to me said that it was prized by Moses when he lived in Pharaoh’s court. Wise 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 wondered 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 to 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 bellowed 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.