The Sanctity of Hate by Priscilla Royal Page A

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.”
    “We are all imperfect and often ignorant, my son,” the monk said directly to him. “It is only sinful to remain willfully blind to knowledge. Seeking truth and wisdom is never a transgres- sion. As for the Jews, remember also this teaching. How can we do violence against those we call enemy? Are we not enjoined to love them?”
    “Must we let these people live then?” The breath of the man who asked was foul.
    “God demands it.”
    “And if they did kill a Christian?” The same man’s eyes narrowed.
    “The king’s law shall rule on the killer’s fate. Were you to proceed, as you intended, you would either commit treason by disregarding the king’s will or you would be committing a graver sin by going against God’s own commands. For the safety of your souls and your necks, I beg you to turn aside from this wicked purpose and return, in peace, to your homes.”
    The man with the pitchfork lowered it.
    “Have faith that God’s anointed king and our lord on earth shall seek justice for Kenelm’s death. Indeed, Crowner Ralf is
     
    diligently pursuing the truth. As all of us know, he is a good man and a loyal subject of King Edward.”
    Thomas took a deep breath. Folding his arms into his sleeves, he tried to think of what more he could say to these men but failed to come up with any stronger arguments. Then he heard a commotion from the back of the crowd.
    Ralf was approaching. Beside him walked several armed men, little Nute…and Oseberne?
    Not believing what he saw, Thomas rubbed at his eyes. The baker leaned over to say something to one of the men,
    then abruptly turned toward his own house.
    How had Oseberne left without being seen?
    Voices around him drew the monk’s attention back to the throng. Although there was a low grumbling amongst them, they were dispersing. With gratitude, Thomas glanced upward and almost wept with relief. The oration and the crowner’s timely arrival had worked.
    Adelard, however, had not moved. His head remained bowed. With a groan, he now turned around and trudged slowly back to his father’s house.
    Perhaps the young man has learned something, Thomas thought as he watched the youth walk away. He ought to speak with the hopeful novice now, for this might be the time to uproot Adelard’s irrational zeal and plant the seeds of a gentle compassion in him instead.
    The monk jumped down from the trough.
    A tug at his robe stopped him from following the baker’s son.
    Cuthbert knelt at the monk’s feet. “Thank you, Brother. At the risk of your own, you saved my life!”
    Thomas protested that he had done nothing so brave.
    Grabbing the monk’s robe, the man kissed the hem. “They were threatening to tear me to pieces, if I did not let them into the stables. They even swore they’d kill my family in front of me before they let me die!”
    Thomas grasped the trembling sergeant, pulled him to his feet, and whispered soothing words in his ear. Out of the corner
     
    of his eye, he realized that the crowd had disappeared, leaving behind a haze of dust over the road.
    Near the path to the stables, Ralf was speaking to a small group. The armed men, who had come with him, lounged against the wall of the inn but stepped aside to let Nute run in to seek Mistress Signy.
    A few houses down, Oseberne greeted the distraught Adelard, grabbed him by the shoulder, and tried to pull him toward the house.
    The young man shouted at his father, tore