The Sanctity of Hate by Priscilla Royal

bumblebee roll inside a bright pink flower, she could think of no good reason to suspect a man of murder because he might know a little Latin or be a soldier of undisclosed rank. A desire for humble service should be cause for celebration, not suspicion, especially if the supplicant was of high rank. A rare event perhaps, but there
    were examples to be found amongst the saints.
    Watching the bee fly away, she rose and began to stroll along the gravel pathways of the garth, keeping her thoughts still. Here and there, Eleanor paused to smell a sweet scent or wonder at the delicate beauty of the local wildflowers Sister Edith chose to intermingle with other flowers deemed nobler.
    She glanced behind her.
    Her cat followed, now accompanied by a brown-striped female of his ilk.
    Eleanor chucked. Her beloved Arthur had shown extraor- dinary devotion to this particular cat who served to keep the hospital free of offending rodents. This pair must have produced enough kittens over the last six years to rid all East Anglia of mice and rats.
    Had she truly been prioress that long? Naïve as she may have been when first appointed to the position by King Henry III, she had lost much innocence since her twentieth year. Although Brother Gwydo did not trouble her for the same reasons he did
     
    Brother Beorn, she could not assume he was completely innocent of any wrong. Since he was the newest member of the priory, and the one whose past was least well-known, she must seek more information about the man. If there was anything pertinent found, she would consider the details with an uncompromising impartiality. Any error made in approving his entrance would be hers, a mistake she’d openly confess.
    Hearing the bells ring for the next Office, she was thankful. Her prayers would include a plea that God grant her that clear and just mind she needed. In this, He had rarely failed her.
    And soon she would meet with Crowner Ralf, show him the latest findings, and pose her questions. In truth, what troubled her most was not that one of her religious might have sinned but that the crime had been committed on priory land. There was no doubt in her mind that there was a reason for that.
    Might the killer have such an extreme quarrel with Tyndal that he would ignore God’s wrath to shed blood here? That conclusion seemed unlikely, yet… She willed herself not to think further on that.
    Taking one last deep breath of the summer air, Prioress Elea- nor turned into the path that led to the chapel.
    As she drew closer to God’s house, she felt lighter in spirit. Surely she had done all she could, given what she knew of Kenelm’s death. Sending Brother Thomas to visit the baker, Oseberne, and his son, Adelard, was a good decision. Of course her monk’s opinion on the suitability of the young man as a novice was crucial, but she also knew Thomas would take time to learn more about the dead man as she had suggested. Whether gossip or fact, something must cast light on why this slaying had been done and why in Tyndal. She should not worry about possibilities without cause.
    Just before she left the garth, she heard a noise and looked over her shoulder. Her cat and his lady were just slipping into the greenery, those loud meows suggestive of amorous intent.
    More kittens to terrify mice and serve God? Amused, she laughed quietly but suspected He might share her mirth.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Twelve
    Standing behind his kneeling son, Oseberne stared without blinking at the monk and waited.
    Adelard’s eyes glowed with rampant hope.
    Thomas bowed his head to gain some time before continuing this difficult interview. Someone else ought to have been sent here. Of all people, he had no right to render judgement on any suppliant novice. Never had he had a true calling and, considering his ongoing quarrel with God, his own faith was questionable.
    Taking a deep breath, he avoided the father’s sharp gaze and turned his attention back to the