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Authors: Priscilla Royal
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nearest the path to the mill where the bees remained hostile. Boys had thrown pebbles at them, knocking one skep off its platform. After chas- ing the lads away, he returned to right the hive and had been stung several times for his efforts. The attack had been warranted, he quickly forgave the bees, but the creatures still assaulted any who came too close.
And what had possessed those lads to molest beasts that had done them no harm? Men may have been made in God’s image, but mortals seemed to take on the Devil’s nature when it came to pointless aggression.
Shivering, Gwydo leaned his head back against the bark of the tree. He, too, had been like those boys once, although none would have questioned the virtue of his intent. When the bishop came to preach the crusade, he had taken the oath, rushing off to save Jerusalem from the infidel, mocking all who failed to heed the plea, and cursing any who were not Christian.
But then he saw soldier pilgrims rape girls, mere children, when they crawled for refuge into the dead arms of their mothers, and men take delight in torturing captives who had even sworn to accept baptism. It was then he asked how God could forgive such brutal acts, many against fellow Christians.
In those days, blood’s stench filled his nostrils even in sleep, and one day he, too, shook hands with Death on the battlefield but survived. His own sins might have been lesser ones, but he came to believe that he was branded with the mark of Cain. Had he not been taught that all men were brothers? And he had slaughtered many of them.
When he confessed these musings to his priest and questioned the justice of killing even unbelievers, the man had gasped in horror, proclaiming that Satan had blinded him if he doubted that God delighted in the massacre of the infidel. And so Gwydo had ceased telling anyone of his qualms and decided to turn his back on the world. But he still wondered whether God or the Devil had whispered in his ear and condemned the bloodshed.
Closing his eyes and listening to the soothing hum of the bees in his care, he decided the answer might not matter. At Tyndal Priory, he had found tranquility in prayer and service. Here he had shed both rank and kin. His wife and his aged father believed he had died of a fever in Acre. His father had other sons. His wife could remarry, believing herself to be a widow. Some might say that was a sin, but other wives had done so in ignorance and
God surely forgave women, creatures rarely possessed of reason, more easily than He did the sons of Adam.
And so now he spent his remaining days laboring in the fields, praying for forgiveness, and tending bees with little enough harm done as the price of his peace. Only one last thing troubled his soul, one he dared not confess to any priest, a sin from his past that must somehow be expiated.
He had not believed it to be important until he overheard tales about Kenelm. Then he had awakened one night with a voice in his ear, telling him what he must do. A priest would have said it was the Devil, but, like his belief that he had wrongly slain his fellow men, Gwydo feared most it was God. And thus he had obeyed Him.
Perhaps he could have asked Brother Thomas about his plight, for this was a man, not only of great virtue, but much experience of Man’s dual nature of good and evil. Might he not treat his concerns with compassion? Yet he hesitated. Would the good monk turn from him in horror as his former priest had done? He was not sure he could bear rejection from one whom he so admired.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Gwydo forced himself to ban the roar of terror and listen only to the calming music created by God’s earthly miracles: clicking insects, rustling leaves dancing in the soft breeze, and the distant hiss of the sea. Once again, he slipped into sweet tranquility and left behind the burning wound of his mortal flaws. Surely God did not condemn him for He had mercifully led him to this holy place.
And what had possessed those lads to molest beasts that had done them no harm? Men may have been made in God’s image, but mortals seemed to take on the Devil’s nature when it came to pointless aggression.
Shivering, Gwydo leaned his head back against the bark of the tree. He, too, had been like those boys once, although none would have questioned the virtue of his intent. When the bishop came to preach the crusade, he had taken the oath, rushing off to save Jerusalem from the infidel, mocking all who failed to heed the plea, and cursing any who were not Christian.
But then he saw soldier pilgrims rape girls, mere children, when they crawled for refuge into the dead arms of their mothers, and men take delight in torturing captives who had even sworn to accept baptism. It was then he asked how God could forgive such brutal acts, many against fellow Christians.
In those days, blood’s stench filled his nostrils even in sleep, and one day he, too, shook hands with Death on the battlefield but survived. His own sins might have been lesser ones, but he came to believe that he was branded with the mark of Cain. Had he not been taught that all men were brothers? And he had slaughtered many of them.
When he confessed these musings to his priest and questioned the justice of killing even unbelievers, the man had gasped in horror, proclaiming that Satan had blinded him if he doubted that God delighted in the massacre of the infidel. And so Gwydo had ceased telling anyone of his qualms and decided to turn his back on the world. But he still wondered whether God or the Devil had whispered in his ear and condemned the bloodshed.
Closing his eyes and listening to the soothing hum of the bees in his care, he decided the answer might not matter. At Tyndal Priory, he had found tranquility in prayer and service. Here he had shed both rank and kin. His wife and his aged father believed he had died of a fever in Acre. His father had other sons. His wife could remarry, believing herself to be a widow. Some might say that was a sin, but other wives had done so in ignorance and
God surely forgave women, creatures rarely possessed of reason, more easily than He did the sons of Adam.
And so now he spent his remaining days laboring in the fields, praying for forgiveness, and tending bees with little enough harm done as the price of his peace. Only one last thing troubled his soul, one he dared not confess to any priest, a sin from his past that must somehow be expiated.
He had not believed it to be important until he overheard tales about Kenelm. Then he had awakened one night with a voice in his ear, telling him what he must do. A priest would have said it was the Devil, but, like his belief that he had wrongly slain his fellow men, Gwydo feared most it was God. And thus he had obeyed Him.
Perhaps he could have asked Brother Thomas about his plight, for this was a man, not only of great virtue, but much experience of Man’s dual nature of good and evil. Might he not treat his concerns with compassion? Yet he hesitated. Would the good monk turn from him in horror as his former priest had done? He was not sure he could bear rejection from one whom he so admired.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Gwydo forced himself to ban the roar of terror and listen only to the calming music created by God’s earthly miracles: clicking insects, rustling leaves dancing in the soft breeze, and the distant hiss of the sea. Once again, he slipped into sweet tranquility and left behind the burning wound of his mortal flaws. Surely God did not condemn him for He had mercifully led him to this holy place.
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