The boy shook his head. Although he was pale with terror, he had not allowed himself to cry.
“You’re a brave one,” Thomas said, his voice warm with admiration for the courage of this child. Nonetheless, he kept Nute’s hand firmly in his grasp.
“Why are they shouting so?” Nute crept as close to the monk as pride would allow.
Thomas just shook his head, failing to find any satisfactory way to explain how these men could use God to justify violence against another created in His image.
“They are headed for the stables.” Nute pointed. “Mistress Signy must be warned!”
Again stretching onto his toes, Thomas peered over the tops of heads. Near the front of the crowd, Cuthbert was waving his arms. As the sea of men rose like a riptide around him, the sergeant’s face took on the panicked look of a man about to drown. Not only was the Jewish family in danger of being ripped apart, but so was Ralf’s bailiff and second-in-command. Thomas could delay action no longer.
The monk bent down and spoke into Nute’s ear. “Can you find your way to the priory?” He rested one hand gently on the boy’s thin shoulder.
Nute shivered. “Aye, Brother,” he replied.
Thomas turned him around and pointed. “See that space along the wall? Ease your way through it, and you shall find yourself at the rear of this throng. Go, if you are willing. I’ll watch until you break free.”
Nute tightened his jaw and nodded. “I can do that.”
“Run swiftly to the priory and tell the porter there is a riot in the village. Say that I have sent you to Prioress Eleanor. She told me that Crowner Ralf was meeting with her. He must return at once.”
The lad repeated the message, pressed his back to the wall, and edged his way through the crowd. Thomas watched, then stood and peered toward the back of the chanting mob. With relief, he saw Nute emerge and race toward Tyndal Priory.
He would have preferred not to send the boy into danger, but he had no choice. This gathering of villagers was growing violent. The baker had taken his young son to safety and barricaded his door. Adelard had joined the mob. Cuthbert and the helpless family in the stables were trapped and in danger for their lives.
Praying that the crowner would come quickly, Thomas threw himself back into the mass of men waving tools and fists. Once again, he used sharp elbows and God’s name to win his way through.
One man looked at the monk and squeezed against his neighbor to let Thomas pass. “Look!” He screamed, his round eyes devoid of all reason. “Brother Thomas is here. The priory blesses us for coming to slay the unbelievers!”
“Kill the Jews! Kill the Jews!” The chanting began again.
Grunting as he pushed himself closer to Cuthbert, Thomas prayed for strength. “Whatever my lacks,” he murmured to God, “I beg for the gift bestowed on Moses, a voice that will save the innocent.” Cuthbert had done nothing to deserve harm. Whether or not the man liked the duty, he was here on Ralf’s orders. Even if this family, huddled in the stables, was involved in murder, they deserved a trial before being condemned.
Finally, Thomas reached the front of the mob. There he saw Adelard. The youth’s eyes were glazed as if he had been granted some vision, but he stepped aside to let the monk through.
Cuthbert stood on the edge of a rough stone trough used to water horses. His eyes were red with weeping and he stank. His bowels had loosened.
Thomas tugged at the man’s stained tunic to get his attention. “Step down,” he said to the wide-eyed sergeant, “and go back toward the stable. The crowner is coming. I will talk to these men.”
Cuthbert jumped down and fled.
Someone gave the monk a hand up, and the monk straddled the trough, balancing himself. “Why have you come here?” Thomas shouted.
“To kill the Jews!” several men shouted.
“Why?”
A stunned silence fell.
One standing next to the baker’s son finally replied, his voice hoarse from yelling. “They have slain a Christian and polluted the priory water.”
“They have murdered Kenelm and will crucify our Christian babes. They will drink their blood like wine for one of their feasts!” This from the man who had never stopped jabbing his pitchfork at God.
Several more shouted replies, but some of the nearby voices had grown oddly tentative.
Thomas raised his eyes and lifted his hands up to heaven as if he were listening to God’s voice.
Most fell silent. Those who did not, lowered their speech to a mumbling.
Thomas let the moment of silence linger, then looked back at the crowd and dropped his arms into a gesture of embrace. “We do not know who killed Kenelm,” he said. His deep voice was as gentle as his gaze.
The muttering grew louder.
“But Crowner Ralf shall find the one who did. When he does, the guilty will surely hang.”
“None of us committed the crime, Brother. It must be the Jews. Who else would dare murder a man on holy ground, then drop the corpse into the mill pond?”
Thomas closed his eyes and again begged God to ignore all his faults and sins just this once. To quell the riot, he needed far more strength than any sinful mortal owned.
“Even if the Jews did not kill our townsman, they are a vile people whom God hates for killing His son.” The man who spoke waved a thick cudgel.
A few cheers greeted those words.
“Dare you claim to be more learned in the faith than the saints?” Thomas raised his voice so all could hear, but his tone remained calm.
There was a hesitation, then a few scattered “nays.” Perplexed, most grew still and stared at the monk.
“Or perhaps you think yourselves wiser than a pope who may speak on God’s behalf?”
Even Adelard now shouted his denial of such blasphemy.
“Then hear this tale.” Thomas stopped and waited until he was sure he had the crowd’s complete attention. “Saint Bernard of Clairvaux himself once stood before a group of Christian men, like you, who had gathered to slaughter the Jews in their city. He condemned their intent and preached forbearance, for the holy Church has forbidden us to persecute or kill the Jews.”
Such profound silence now prevailed that even the birds could be heard singing from the trees.
Adelard stared at the monk in disbelief. “Brother, this cannot be!”
Thomas was sweating but his voice remained strong. “For the sins these people have committed, they have been dispersed throughout all lands and made subject to the will of Christian rulers. In this land, our kings have put them under their protection from the days of the first William.” He raised his hands for silence as some expressed outrage. “And King Edward, our liege lord and a man who wielded his sword in Outremer against all infidels, has done the same, knowing it is the will of the Church and in accordance with the expressed desire of Pope Gregory X.”
Adelard’s eyes lost their glitter. His shoulders slumped.
“As Saint Paul himself said, we may not slay the people of Israel. They shall, in good time, be saved when all the Gentiles have seen the truth of God’s teaching. Were the Jews to be slaughtered, the final days could not come, the righteous never allowed their reward, nor the remaining penitent loosed from Purgatory by the coming of our Lord.”
A few cried out in dismay, and two within the monk’s view visibly shook. Thomas hoped he had instilled enough terror to douse their anger.
“Would you deny the souls of your loved ones the chance to be freed from torment sooner?” He swept his hand to encompass the entire village. “If you do not care for the pain they suffer, or for the agony you shall also know in time, then kill this family. If you fear God, lay down your weapons and return to your work as good Christians should do.”
The baker’s son reached up and touched the monk’s robe. “If this be true, as you have said, there is much I do not understand, Brother.” Tears began to slip down his cheeks, making streaks of white in the dust cast up in his face by so many feet. “I have never been told any of this.”