“Now you see, Brother, how these wicked people have committed violence against us.” Adelard lifted his silver cross and kissed it.
“I shall report your words to our crowner,” the monk said. “He may wish to question you.” And he would alert his prioress as well. He could only hope that Adelard had not already spread this story amongst the villagers but suspected the damage had already been done.
Oseberne was looking at his son’s cross with pride. “I gave him that,” he said to the monk.
Does this man care only about his fine loaves and being perceived as a man able to buy a silver cross? Thomas was annoyed but knew he must now pull himself back from inquiring into Kenelm’s death and return to the stated purpose of his visit here.
Glancing down at the youth, he saw a shadow pass over Adelard’s face as he contemplated that silver cross of which his father boasted. Then the monk looked back at the baker standing behind his son. The man was imposing in size, his son frail by comparison. It was easy to see how such an intimidating father could impose his will on the young man.
It was an observation worth pursuing. Just how much of the youth’s proclaimed passion for the cloister came from Oseberne and how much desire for the religious life arose from Adelard’s own heart? If this youth’s calling was sincere, the monk hoped it had a gentler side that could be cultivated. That rough-edged fanaticism made Adelard sound like a younger version of his father. In Thomas’ opinion, hate might be better applied to pounding bread dough than taking on a monk’s life.
“Whatever the resolution of this murder, the presence of Jews in Tyndal shall be temporary, but, if you are accepted as a novice at Tyndal priory, that shall last a lifetime. Surely you have reasons for longing to abandon the world other than a hatred of the Jews.”
“Women! I can no longer bear their presence. By day, they play the honest virgin. At night, they whore. My dreams are so rife with succubae that I cannot sleep and instead war against the darkness with the sharp sword of prayer.”
Recalling his own dismay at the same age when a light touch on his groin might transform him into a leering satyr, he suspected Adelard suffered a similar shame and fear. “Satan often sends his imps to torment men at night.” His voice was gentle with understanding.
“But the whores are not just in dreams! They walk the earth and lure good men into their foul embrace.” He glanced back at his father. “Not all, of course. My mother was so chaste that she must be in Heaven now.”
Thomas knew he had not imagined the baker’s wince before the widower lowered his gaze and nodded.
“You have witnessed this evil yourself, my son?” The monk prepared to hear Adelard name every young woman in the village who might have shared a kiss with a youth.
Adelard’s expression turned sly. “Lust infects many, Brother.”
The monk froze as if the young man had caught him in some lewd act. Thomas quickly reminded himself that the subject was wanton women, a temptation to which he had long been immune. “You have proof?” he asked again.
“Mine own eyes.”
“You witness much.” Did this youth ever sleep? Of course, he often did not either, tormented as he was by his own particular longings.
“God has chosen me to point the finger of righteous outrage on His behalf, and thus I walk the paths during Satan’s hours to seek out wickedness.”
“Continue.”
“I name Gytha, Tostig’s sister, as our greatest harlot.”
Thomas clenched his fist and drew back to keep from striking Adelard. If anyone was virtuous, it was Prioress Eleanor’s maid, a woman beloved for both her kindness and ready wit. He felt his face turn hot with rage at the accusation.
Adelard read the flush of the monk’s face differently. “I knew you would be horrified that your priory housed such a serpent.” He glowed with pride at his revelation.
The monk nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“There is more.”
“Aye?” Thomas spat more than uttered his reply.
“She lay with Brother Gwydo near the hut of Ivetta the Whore. I witnessed the sin. That was the night of the murder.”
Thomas’ head spun and roaring filled his ears. Dizzy, he stepped back, braced his hand on the wall to steady himself, and willed away the bruising echo of Adelard’s sordid accusation.
And so it took him a moment to understand that the deafening noise he heard was not caused by the passion of his outrage. Instead it was the shouting of an angry crowd in the street outside the baker’s house.
13
Brother Thomas rushed into the road but was immediately shoved back against the house wall. The mob was so closely packed, it heaved like lice-infested hair.
Adelard and his father stayed safe within the doorway.
“Kill the Jews!” one man shouted. He elbowed his way past the monk and stabbed his pitchfork at the sky.
Thomas caught himself wondering why God must be pricked to pay attention. He tried to inch back to the protection of the baker’s door.
A few feet in front of him, a man slipped in dung, lost his footing, and slid under trampling feet. Terrified and in pain, he began to scream.
The mob pushed on.
Thomas jammed his elbows into stomachs and backs until he reached the fallen man. The mass of people now slowed enough so he could drag the villager back to the doorway.
The baker and his son reluctantly made room.
Wide-eyed and whimpering, the injured victim clung to the monk’s sleeve as if he might fall into Hell’s pit should he let go.
“You are fortunate that these are minor wounds,” Thomas said, examining a bloodied hand and facial cuts. “No broken bones. Go home to your good wife and let her use the healing herbs from the garden on those.”
“But the Jews…”
“Do as I say unless you want the wounds to fester. Will any of your fellows here feed your family if that hand must be cut off?”
The man scrabbled to his feet, inched his way along the wall to the back of the milling throng, and sprinted down the road.
The crowd no longer moved, but their shouts grew shrill. Thomas covered his ears and stepped to one side of the door. As he did, he was roughly pushed back into the road.
It was Adelard who shoved him. The youth screamed, leaping from the doorway as the mob began to chant for blood. Raising his fists, he cried out for the slaughter of all who refused baptism. Then he bent his elbows, thrust his way deep into the roaring throng, and disappeared.
Despite the tumult, the monk heard a high-pitched scream behind him. He spun around, terrified that the mob had somehow invaded the baker’s house.
But only Oseberne was inside. The man had clutched a handful of his youngest son’s loose tunic to prevent him from following his older brother. The child’s face was scarlet, tears pouring down his cheeks.
Thomas was unsure if the child howled out of terror or frustrated rage.
Without a word, the baker yanked the boy further into the house and slammed the door. The heavy wooden beam inside dropped with a thud and firmly sealed the door shut. The only path to safety from the riot now lay solely along a narrow space between the house wall and the crowd.
“Brother Thomas!”
That was Nute’s voice! Frightened that the lad was injured, the monk stretched himself as high as he could to peer over the shouting men. Then he saw the boy, squeezed between two burly men.
Shouting that God would punish all who thwarted His will, Thomas pushed into the mob and fought his way toward the boy. This time, a small path opened as a few men edged aside, staring at the monk with trepidation. Rarely had they heard such anger from a religious, and never from this man whom they had good cause to respect.
Reaching the lad, he pulled Nute loose and hugged him close, then kicked shins and threatened hellfire until he got safely back to the baker’s door.
“Are you hurt?” He fell to his knees and carefully checked Nute for broken ribs, foot, or arms.