The Sanctity of Hate by Priscilla Royal

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    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 protec- tion 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