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 chasing 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 with 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 brushwood 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?”