The baker cleared his throat with undisguised impatience.
Thomas fought against his dislike of Adelard. After his experience two summers ago, he had become uncomfortable around those who were too eager to convince others of their devotion to God. He preferred the faithful who quietly served with simple compassion, like Sister Anne and Sister Christina. The baker’s son crowed for attention.
“I see so much evil in the world, Brother,” Adelard was saying, his eyes squeezed shut and his prayerful hands clenched so fiercely that the outline of the knuckles shone through the flesh.
The father grunted approvingly, his red jowls trembling with fervor. Beside him stood his youngest son, a spotty-faced child approaching the cusp of manhood whose body stank more than most. The lad scratched at a round, scaly patch near his ear, and a drop of blood began to weave down his neck.
“The final days of this wicked earth must be nigh. I expect soon to hear the trumpets declaring the End.”
Although Thomas had no doubt that the world must end as the gospels proclaimed, he often wondered if the last day might come, not with the expected roaring but rather a preternatural silence. Man had always been so boisterous with wickedness that a sudden quietness might be more terrifying than the clashing of swords and belching of fire-spitting dragons. He blinked, realizing he had not responded. “Why do you say so, my son?”
“Do not the Jews roam freely amongst good Christian men?”
An odd remark, especially after the king had just restricted all Jewish families to living in the small number of archa towns. That seemed more a constraint on movement than any increased freedom. Thomas did not try to hide his confusion. It was, after all, his purpose here to query, not to teach. “Explain that statement more fully.”
Adelard seemed at a loss to reply and looked over his shoulder at his father.
“What need is there to say more?” The baker stiffened. “I, myself, have seen the horns on their heads and smelled the Devil’s fetid smoke exuding from them. Their presence contaminated Tyndal village over the winter and early spring, and now their malignant influence befouls us again with the arrival of this current family. Surely your priory has felt their evil clawing at your own stone walls.”
Thomas wrinkled his nose. The only odor he noticed came from the baker’s youngest son. No matter what Oseberne and his eldest son believed, Thomas most certainly had never seen horns or smelled Satan’s breath in his contacts with the king’s people.
As a matter of fact, Thomas agreed with those Church leaders who urged patience over the slow conversion of the Jews to Christianity. Did Saint Paul not say in his letter to the Romans that all Gentiles must first be converted and then Israel? As far as the monk knew, there were many more people left in that former category.
Adelard nodded with enthusiasm. “The Jews have overwhelmed our land!” His gaze grew distant and his face turned bright with passion. Although he lacked his father’s jowls, his face matched the paternal color well.
“The roads have been filled with the creatures,” Oseberne added. “I fear for the safety of the children in this village! Remember how our sainted William was crucified by them in Norwich!” Sweat glistened in the furrows that crossed his brow, and he nodded pointedly at his youngest son.
Bored, the boy had begun to rock from side to side.
“And since no child here has suffered injury, Master Baker, your fears are for naught.” As far as Thomas was concerned, this exodus was no apocalyptical sign but the result solely of a secular, political decision. “After our king and his mother ordered the Jews to leave Cambridge, most came through here on the way to Norwich. They stayed no longer than one night before departing. The village gained in coin. The priory suffered no harm.”
“We had children die of fever last winter,” Oseberne snapped.
“We grieve for all parents who suffered a child’s death, but Sister Anne says fewer died here than usual.”
The baker stared at Thomas’ feet, as if confirming that he lacked cloven hooves, then shook his head.
“Was not Kenelm slaughtered on priory ground?” Adelard raised a finger heavenward. “And we have a Jewish family here now. Surely these facts together have meaning.”
Thomas felt his earlier unease grow even greater. How swiftly that detail of Kenelm’s death had spread.
Oseberne dropped a hand heavily on his eldest son’s shoulder. “If they cannot pollute wells, they will be driven to find some other way to profane our holy ground.”
“How did you learn that tale?” Thomas frowned.
“My son heard some women talking about it after they left my stall.” The baker squeezed his fingers around Adelard’s collar bone. “My special loaves are popular with many.”
The lad winced, then nodded.
Thomas felt a shiver of fear. These accusations of sacrilege, voiced by the baker, were becoming more common. The safer days of Henry II’s reign, a king who did not tolerate harassment of the Jewish community, were long past. This current king was pulling back both his favor and protection.
As for these tales of fouling water, crucifying children, or drinking Christian blood, he knew they were slanders born of hate, and the stories were often used to explain unsolved murders and other violence. In this matter of Kenelm’s death, the myths suited those fearful of an unknown killer and longing to turn the accusing finger away from a village man and toward a much preferred scapegoat.
The youngest son began to tug on his father’s sleeve.
Oseberne growled at him.
Grimacing, the child cupped his hand between his legs.
Thomas hoped the baker would let the boy go relieve himself elsewhere.
Oseberne grunted and waved his hand.
The youngster fled.
“Are you suggesting these travelers killed their own guard?” Thomas now welcomed the shift in discussion. He was straying from his obligation to dig deeper into Adelard’s longing for priory life, but Prioress Eleanor had also hoped he might gather useful information about the killing.
Adelard looked amazed, as if the question lacked all reason. “Kenelm was undoubtedly full of sin, but wasn’t he still a Christian? They hate us as the Devil tells them they should. Of course they killed him!”
Even if the family housed in Signy’s stable did hate Christians, Thomas thought, they would have been preternaturally stupid if they killed the one person hired to protect them. The Jewish men he had met in his clerical days had been neither better nor worse than those of Christian faith and certainly possessed the same measure of wits.
Oseberne and Adelard gazed at the monk, eagerly anticipating his reply.
“An odd thing to do, however. Surely they have heard how others of their faith suffered theft and harassment despite the king’s plea that they be allowed to travel in safety. Without Kenelm, they lacked any shield against violence.”
Straightening his back, Adelard proved to be his father’s true son as he released a fulsome snort. “Knowing these people to be the Devil’s spawn, I watched them. Not long before his body was found, Kenelm mocked the Jew’s faith. Surely he was killed for the truth of his words.”
Once again the father’s hand clutched Adelard’s shoulder and squeezed it. “My son heard the man called Jacob argue with the dead man. They scuffled.” Oseberne looked down at his son who tilted his head back to stare up at his father. “Did you not overhear the Jew threaten to kill his Christian guard?”
Adelard looked back at the monk and nodded with enthusiasm.
“It is not surprising that Kenelm was found dead in the priory mill pond. Is that not a sacrilege?” The baker hesitated, and then his scowl fled to be replaced with a delighted smile. “And a deliberate contamination of your water! The stream is like your well, is it not?”
Thomas shuddered. His qualms regarding what these rumors might bring were coming to fruition.