Free The Sanctity of Hate by Priscilla Royal Page B

deadly mission. In the open grounds of Tyndal Priory, an unlucky rodent would soon be dinner.
    And so Death hovers over us all, she mused. We can only pray it comes as a good death and not against God’s plan.
    She rubbed the palm of her hand on the stone and felt jagged spots, although the bench was well-crafted. There was an allegory in that, she decided. Tyndal was dedicated to purity of thought and deed, but sharp-toothed serpents lived within the walls No one wished to hear that anyone sworn to God’s service could commit a heinous crime, but she had seen too much of Man’s darker side to ever ignore the possibility.
    “But who could it be this time?” she murmured and ran through a list of all who dwelt here. The nuns were sequestered with a few exceptions. Her sub-prioress dealt with the world, but she was no killer despite her querulous nature. Sister Anne and Sister Christina oversaw the care given at the hospital. The former was a healer, and the latter utterly incapable of violence. Almost all the women, lay sisters included, had been here when she came to lead them. Anchoress Juliana was the exception, but
     
    Eleanor had cause to know that she had faithfully remained in her enclosure.
    As for the monks, they were few in number and, again, most had been in residence long before she arrived. Brother Thomas was more recent, but he had entered Tyndal shortly after she did. She had already spoken with Prior Andrew about those under his authority, both lay and choir brothers. After that trouble when Father Eliduc visited two summers ago, she was confident Andrew had thoroughly investigated the possibility that a monk might have killed Kenelm. According to the prior, no one knew this man who had come so recently to the village. Gossip always breached priory walls, but only one monk admitted he had heard
    the dead man’s name.
    That left the lay brothers, who labored in the fields or hospital so the choir monks might spend a greater portion of their hours on their knees. Beseeching God to save the souls of His flawed creation kept the latter too busy to harvest or tend coughs. Many courtiers had paid for this mercy, with land or other wealth given to the priory. There were many lay brothers at Tyndal as a consequence.
    Last evening, Andrew had questioned the eldest and most reli- able of the lay brothers. Although Brother Beorn was quarrelsome and judgemental, the man struggled to be fair, humbly prefacing his remarks with a warning that he suffered many imperfections. After uttering complaints about the laziness of one lay brother and the garrulousness of another, Brother Beorn finally mentioned Brother Gwydo, the newest member at the priory. Prior Andrew told his prioress that Beorn was uncharacteristically reluctant to speak ill of the man, yet he had expressed some unease.
    Both she and Prior Andrew had approved Gwydo’s plea to remain here for the rest of his days. Having been a soldier, Andrew especially understood the need for a man to leave a war- rior’s life, no matter how noble the cause of war. Eleanor’s eldest brother had joined King Edward on crusade, and she had seen the change wrought in her once joyful sibling. The decision to admit Gwydo was an easy one.
     
    When she asked the cause of Beorn’s discomfort, Andrew had shaken his head and confirmed that the elder lay brother could not explain it. “I have often thought Brother Gwydo to be of higher birth than he has claimed,” the prior said. “Once he responded when Brother Thomas used a Latin phrase as if he knew the language. That suggests more education than a common soldier might own.”
    “Or else his parish priest taught him, hoping the bright lad might find a calling with the Church,” Eleanor had replied.
    Perhaps they should have questioned Gwydo more about his past, she wondered, but he had come to their hospital to die, his eventual survival counting as one of the many miracles here. Now sitting in the garth and watching a