The Sanctity of Hate by Priscilla Royal Page A

youth. Looking upon him with feigned gravity, Thomas prayed he appeared sufficiently pious.
    The baker cleared his throat with undisguised impatience. Thomas fought against his dislike of Adelard. After his experi-
    ence two summers ago, he had become uncomfortable around those who were too eager to convince others of their devotion to God. He preferred the faithful who quietly served with simple compassion, like Sister Anne and Sister Christina. The baker’s son crowed for attention.
    “I see so much evil in the world, Brother,” Adelard was saying, his eyes squeezed shut and his prayerful hands clenched so fiercely that the outline of the knuckles shone through the flesh. The father grunted approvingly, his red jowls trembling with fervor. Beside him stood his youngest son, a spotty-faced child approaching the cusp of manhood whose body stank more than
     
    most. The lad scratched at a round, scaly patch near his ear, and a drop of blood began to weave down his neck.
    “The final days of this wicked earth must be nigh. I expect soon to hear the trumpets declaring the End.”
    Although Thomas had no doubt that the world must end as the gospels proclaimed, he often wondered if the last day might come, not with the expected roaring but rather a preternatural silence. Man had always been so boisterous with wickedness that a sudden quietness might be more terrifying than the clashing of swords and belching of fire-spitting dragons. He blinked, realizing he had not responded. “Why do you say so, my son?” “Do not the Jews roam freely amongst good Christian men?”
    An odd remark, especially after the king had just restricted all Jewish families to living in the small number of archa towns. That seemed more a constraint on movement than any increased freedom. Thomas did not try to hide his confusion. It was, after all, his purpose here to query, not to teach. “Explain that state- ment more fully.”
    Adelard seemed at a loss to reply and looked over his shoulder at his father.
    “What need is there to say more?” The baker stiffened. “I, myself, have seen the horns on their heads and smelled the Devil’s fetid smoke exuding from them. Their presence contaminated Tyndal village over the winter and early spring, and now their malignant influence befouls us again with the arrival of this current family. Surely your priory has felt their evil clawing at your own stone walls.”
    Thomas wrinkled his nose. The only odor he noticed came from the baker’s youngest son. No matter what Oseberne and his eldest son believed, Thomas most certainly had never seen horns or smelled Satan’s breath in his contacts with the king’s people. As a matter of fact, Thomas agreed with those Church leaders who urged patience over the slow conversion of the Jews to Chris- tianity. Did Saint Paul not say in his letter to the Romans that all Gentiles must fibe converted and then Israel? As far as the monk knew, there were many more people left in that former category.
     
    Adelard nodded with enthusiasm. “The Jews have over- whelmed our land!” His gaze grew distant and his face turned bright with passion. Although he lacked his father’s jowls, his face matched the paternal color well.
    “The roads have been filled with the creatures,” Oseberne added. “I fear for the safety of the children in this village! Remember how our sainted William was crucified by them in Norwich!” Sweat glistened in the furrows that crossed his brow, and he nodded pointedly at his youngest son.
    Bored, the boy had begun to rock from side to side.
    “And since no child here has suffered injury, Master Baker, your fears are for naught.” As far as Thomas was concerned, this exodus was no apocalyptical sign but the result solely of a secular, political decision. “After our king and his mother ordered the Jews to leave Cambridge, most came through here on the way to Norwich. They stayed no longer than one night before depart- ing. The village gained in