The Sanctity of Hate by Priscilla Royal Read Free Book Online Page B

the entrance to which was draped with stiff cloth. Waving his arms at the sky, he shouted pleas for the salvation of the souls within the shelter.
    The rough covering was shoved aside and a man emerged. He stared down at the praying youth as if perplexed by his behavior. “My wife is ill,” he said, then humbly bowed his head. “You have awakened her. In the name of all you hold sacred, have mercy and leave us in peace.” He coughed sharply, as if something had caught in his throat, before adding: “Would it not be charitable to do so?”
    The youth glared at the man in disgust and clasped his hands together into a doubled fist. The cross around his neck wobbled as his body trembled with the intensity of his passion. “Char- ity? Why do you think you are owed such a thing, unbelievers that you are? If you turn from your benighted faith, open your wicked hearts to Our Lord’s message and let Him save you from eternal damnation, I shall leave you in peace to enjoy the blessing of His salvation. Charity is only for those who see or seek the Truth. All others must suffer misery for that is the only thing eternity has to offer you.”
    “I have not come to argue faith, only to ask that you let my wife sleep.” The man’s voice grew taut with controlled rage.
    “Of what value is sleep when she faces the fires of Hell?” The man’s face turned white.
    Ralf walked up to the lad and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your father needs you, Adelard. Rise and attend him.”
     
    “In this matter, God the Father outranks any earthly parent…”
    “Still you must honor Oseberne the baker. Of that there is no dispute.”
    “Our Lord said…”
    “As crowner of this land, Adelard, I order you to leave this place and seek your father.” None too gently, Ralf grabbed the youth by his robe and hauled him to his feet. “Off with you!” Then he shoved him in the direction of the market stalls.
    Cuthbert watched the youth stagger off and began to laugh. “Your tongue has taken vows, methinks. A priest could have not have preached a better…”
    Ignoring his sergeant, Ralf spoke to the man who remained standing before him. “I am the crowner here. This misbegotten oaf is my sergeant.”
    “I am called Jacob ben Asser, lately of Cambridge but now returning to Norwich, a permitted archa town, as King Edward and his noble mother have ordered.”
    “A belated journey to go back to those places where the records of your people’s usury are kept,” Ralf said. He nodded at the badge of yellow taffeta, six fingers long and three wide, shaped like the Tablets of the Law and sewn on the man’s clothes above his heart. “Others of your faith have obeyed the royal commands with greater alacrity.”
    Jacob said nothing.
    Studying his face, Ralf discovered nothing that revealed what the young man thought. They must suck in caution with their mothers’ milk, he mused. How different it had been when he was a boy and traveled with his father whose duties often took him to Norwich. Jewish and Christian children played together with some freedom until they reached a certain age… He blinked away the memory.
    Jacob met his gaze. “My wife’s uncle fell ill and died just when we received word that we must leave Cambridge. It took time to arrange …”
     
    “There is a Jewish cemetery in Cambridge. Unlike others of your faith living elsewhere, you had no permits to request, extra fees to pay, or a long journey.”
    “Forgive me, my lord. There were special problems. We tried to summon his children for mourning but, by then, they were told they must leave for archa towns under the Statute. As quickly as possible, we had to sell what could be and organize safe conduct for the widow to travel to Lincoln, the archa town to which her daughter and her son-in-law had gone at the king’s command.”
    Ralf started to speak.
    Jacob anticipated the presumed question. “I did not have the requisite license to stay in Cambridge, but I have