Roland remained silent for some time, then asked, “You killed people?”
“Yes.”
“By your own hand?”
It was tempting to lie, but he owed Roland the truth. “No. I never killed anyone directly, but I did cause them to be killed.”
Brow furrowed, Roland cast him a sidelong glance. “You ordered others to kill them?”
It would, Thomas reflected, have been easier to lie. Resting the back of his head against the wall, he said, “No, but the orders I gave caused them to be killed.” Having gone that far and sensing Roland’s utter confusion, he felt compelled to explain, “It wasn’t straightforward. I wanted something—several somethings over the years—and so I ordered others to arrange it, to get those things for me. I never knew about the deaths until the end, but had I thought things through . . . but I didn’t, you see? I never thought about others at all—that was my failing. I operated as if my actions had no impact on anyone else, but I was entirely wrong, and they did. And when I eventually realized that, I put a stop to it.”
Another pause ensued while Roland digested that. Then he said, “Thomas Glendower isn’t the name you were born with, is it?”
Thomas nodded. “But the name I was born with died with the man I was—I killed him not only physically but in every other way as well. I made sure reparation was paid on every level.” He paused, inwardly acknowledging how right that decision still felt, then went on, “The man I was is dead, and no good—indeed, much harm to others—would come from resurrecting him. And I’m prepared to swear to that on the priory’s Bible.”
Roland humphed.
Thomas simply waited, with a patience the last months had taught him, to learn what his fate would be now that he’d admitted to the crimes of his past.
Eventually, his gaze, like Thomas’s, on the garden, Roland shifted, leaning his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands between his knees. “There were times, especially during the first days you were here, when I didn’t expect you to live. I had to break bones and wrench tendons to reset your joints—I had to dose you against infection, I had to sedate you against the pain. I had to straighten your spine and hope I didn’t kill you in the process. You were unconscious throughout—I couldn’t tell if you wished to live or die. So I held aloof. I didn’t pray for your death, yet neither did I pray for you to live.”
Hands gripping tightly, Roland continued, “Prior Geoffrey had a different view. He saw your survival as likely, even assured, because, in his eyes, the fact that you had been delivered into my hands, especially in the state you were in, was a sign of divine intervention.”
Thomas blinked. “That can’t be right.”
Roland snorted. “After what you’ve just told me, I can see why you might think so, but . . . I’ve known Geoffrey for years. He was my mentor when I was a novice. He is unbelievably shrewd and farsighted, especially when it comes to his fellow men and their foibles.” Roland paused, then said, “I’m coming around to his way of thinking.”
“What?” Startled, Thomas let his cynicism show. “That because of my attempt to pay for my sins, the Good Lord has forgiven me?”
Roland chuckled, dryly, wryly. Turning his head, he met Thomas’s gaze. “No, not that. Geoffrey believes you’ve been spared for a reason. For a purpose. He believes Our Lord has some task in mind for you—something only you can do, and you’ve been spared so that you can do it.”
Thomas saw the solidifying certainty in Roland’s eyes.
As if to confirm Thomas’s insight, Roland nodded. “And after what you’ve just told me, I’m even more inclined to agree with Geoffrey. No matter what you might think, Our Lord is not finished with you.”
Thomas didn’t know what to make of that. He was tempted to point out that he wasn’t religious, that he wasn’t even certain he believed in any deity. In Fate, perhaps, but in God? He couldn’t claim any conviction.
But sitting in the sunshine, meeting Roland’s level gaze . . . he had to think to do it, but he slightly raised one shoulder—the less damaged one—and said, “Well, no doubt we’ll see.”
Months passed before Thomas, propped up on crutches, could manage well enough to reach the priory library. There he discovered, as he’d hoped, the news sheets from London, delivered every afternoon, although for whose benefit he could not say; no one else in the house seemed interested enough to read them.
Another month saw him petitioning Prior Geoffrey to be allowed to repay the priory by assisting with their investments. Geoffrey, every bit as shrewd as Roland had painted him, agreed, and for the first time in a very long time, Thomas started to feel as if he was living, rather than simply existing.
As he’d told Geoffrey, if he’d been spared for some reason, then presumably that reason would make itself known in good time. Until then, in keeping with the ethos of the house, he should make himself useful. And the only skill he had lay in making money—in taking money and making it into more.
Other than requesting a vow that any action Thomas took would be entirely legal and aboveboard, Geoffrey had been agreeable, not to say enthusiastic, and had personally shown Thomas the priory’s records and ledgers.
Several months later, the priory’s investments were steadily improving.
Seated at his now habitual place at the end of a table in one corner of the library where winter light spilled through the diamond panes in the leaded windows, Thomas was working through the details of a proposition the priory’s investment agent—immensely invigorated now that someone was actually encouraging him—had submitted, when Roland entered the library and saw him.
A benevolent smile on his face, Roland walked over, pulled out the chair alongside Thomas, and sat.
Thomas merely arched a brow in greeting, but otherwise kept working through his figures until he reached the end.
Then he looked up and met Roland’s steady gray gaze. As usual, the big, broad-shouldered man—as tall as Thomas, but heavier, stocky and strong, and where Thomas was fair and brown-y blond, Roland was fair and dark; Thomas felt certain Roland had French blood somewhere in his recent ancestry—had settled with his forearms on the table, his big, well-shaped hands clasped before him. Leaning back in his chair, Thomas arched a brow, this time in open question.
Smile deepening a fraction, Roland said, “When I asked for your name, you were in extremis, barely conscious and nearly out of your mind with pain, yet you answered. Until you told me otherwise, I believed that Thomas Glendower was your name. You’ve been answering without hesitation to that name for months. So . . .” Roland’s gray gaze studied Thomas’s hazel eyes. “Am I right in assuming that Thomas Glendower actually exists?”
Thomas nodded. “He does. He is”—he gestured, something he could at last freely do, and with reasonable grace—“an alter ego of mine, one I set up before I attained my majority, but which I had rarely used, at least not for the schemes that were my other self’s undoing.” He paused, considering, then said, “If I’m to live in the world long enough to fulfill whatever purpose Fate or the Deity wants me to achieve, then I need an identity, and Thomas is . . . not perfect, not completely free of sin, but he is resurrectable, useable for this purpose at least.”
Roland nodded. “You mentioned that you, at least as you were, had a tendency not to think of others—to be less than aware of the impact of your actions on others.” Fixing his gaze on Thomas’s eyes, Roland said, “So I feel I should ask—does Thomas have any dependents? Anyone for whom his—your—disappearance, and prolonged absence, will cause difficulties?”
Thomas blinked; slowly, he sat straighter. “Not immediate difficulties—not even after this amount of time. But eventually . . . yes.”
“Indeed,” Roland said. “So consider this a jog to your elbow. Although you might choose to remain in seclusion here, pending enlightenment as to your purpose, you can write now”—with his head, he indicated the pen Thomas had set down—“and you should reestablish contact with those dependents, to re
assure them and keep your affairs in order.”
Thomas thought that through, then met Roland’s eyes. “Thank you.”
Roland’s ready smile appeared, then he pushed back from the table. “I’ll leave you to it. Any letter you want sent, simply leave it on the salver on the table outside Geoffrey’s study.”
Thomas nodded.
As Roland walked off, Thomas debated, then reached for a fresh sheet of paper.
Half an hour later, leaning heavily on his crutches, Thomas struggled into the hallway outside the prior’s study. Pausing by the table set against the wall, chest heaving, he drew in a deeper breath and dropped the two missives he’d clutched in one hand onto the waiting salver. Both letters bore London addresses; the first was to Drayton, Thomas Glendower’s business agent, and the second was for Marwell, Thomas’s solicitor.
Balancing on the crutches, Thomas stared at the letters, lying on top of a small pile. They were his first foray back into the world outside the priory—a step the magnitude of which he felt certain Roland had appreciated.
But, indeed, it had had to be done; the letters had had to be written, the step taken.
Gripping his crutches, Thomas turned and clomped away.
The library became his workplace and the seasons rolled on. Winter passed, and spring arrived, along with the abbot of the abbey to which the priory was attached. Having seen the recent financial reports from Prior Geoffrey, the abbot wished to inquire whether Thomas might manage to perform a similar miracle with the abbey’s fortunes.
Thomas was pleased to accept the challenge; managing more funds would keep him occupied, keep his mind engaged, and sharpen his faculties. It would also force him to deal with more people, and he was starting to realize that he needed steady practice in the art of, as Roland, with telling simplicity, put it, thinking of others.
For Thomas, that had never, and still did not, come naturally. He had to remind himself to do it, to think his actions and their ramifications through from the perspectives of others involved.
As he still had no clue as to the purpose for which he’d been spared, he accepted that, in order to remain even within the world enclosed by the priory walls, he needed to learn how to live with others without inadvertently causing harm through his habitual self-absorption.
The priory was Benedictine, and somewhat to his surprise he found himself falling into the pattern of monastic hours; there was comfort in the regimen. Roland remained his closest associate, although he also spent many hours with Geoffrey. Both men had minds that, if not the equal of his, were at least close enough to foster mutual appreciation.
Slowly, his body healed. His face would never be the same again, and he would carry his many scars for the rest of his life, but one by one the various braces and strappings Roland had devised to realign Thomas’s bones and support his wrenched joints were permanently retired. Two years after Roland had found him washed up on the nearby shore, he could walk fully upright, with only a single cane for support.
Despite his ordeal, his health, previously unassailably rude, hadn’t deserted him; as the months rolled on, he spent his afternoons away from the library, helping in the gardens, stables, and workshops, wherever an extra hand was needed. And his strength grew, and his abilities increased. The latter he viewed with a somewhat cynical pleasure; in his previous life, he had never had the chance to lay his hands on an adze, much less a mattock. As for his strength . . . if he had been spared in order to fulfill some function, perform some deed, then, he reasoned, he would need sufficient strength to accomplish it.
Three years after he’d arrived at the priory, Geoffrey died. Thomas was somewhat surprised to feel sorrow, grief, and regret at the old man’s passing. Those weren’t emotions he’d experienced before, not for an acquaintance; he took their existence as a sign that he was, indeed, learning the ways of connecting with others.
After Geoffrey was buried with all due ceremony, the remaining brothers met and elected the next prior. Thomas wasn’t surprised that the brothers’ unanimous choice was Roland.
“To you, Prior Roland.” Leaning back in the armchair to one side of the hearth in the prior’s study, Thomas raised his goblet to Roland, seated in the chair opposite, in which Geoffrey had used to sit.
Roland’s lips twisted, half smile, half grimace. “I wish I could say I’m thrilled, but I would much rather Geoffrey was still here with us.”
For once, Thomas could understand. He inclined his head. “Indeed.”
For a moment, both were silent, then Roland raised his goblet. “To absent friends.”
“To Geoffrey.” Thomas drank, as did Roland.
Then Roland sat back and eyed Thomas. “And, in some ways, to you—it’s you I, and my colleagues, have to thank for the priory being in such robust financial health that we will, it seems, never have to worry about our continued existence.”
Thomas waved the thanks aside. “I was here, bored—and it was appropriate that I repay you and the house for this.” Another wave indicated his healed body. “Incidentally, can I expect any further improvement, or is this as nimble as I’m going to get?”
Roland’s lips quirked. “You will get stronger—I’ve seen that in you over the last months. But you’ll find that your strength will be in different areas. For instance, your hands grip harder because they so often must support your weight, and your arms and shoulders will be stronger than they were, but your legs will always be weaker than before. As for nimbleness”—Roland’s tone gentled—“you will always walk with a hitching limp . . . I couldn’t fix that. And you will almost certainly always need a cane, but other than that, as you’ve already discovered, you can ride, and, in time, you’ll be able to walk much further than you presently can.”
His gaze on his weak left leg, Thomas nodded.
“But,” Roland continued, his voice strengthening, “to return to the point I was intending to make before you so glibly deflected me.”
Thomas smiled wryly.
Roland nodded. “Indeed. To return to that point, I have clearly found my place, my path leading on into the future. Like Geoffrey, I will be prior here until I die. I actively sought that path—I worked and put myself into a position from where, if my colleagues so chose, I could become prior and attain my life’s goal. As Geoffrey did before me. But what of you, Thomas? You’ve been biding time since I brought you here, but you are not the sort of man to live life by default. You’re like Geoffrey, like me, in that regard. So what is your goal?”
Thomas sighed. Raising his head, he rested it against the well-padded leather. After a moment, he met Roland’s gaze. “I expected to die. But I didn’t. If I accept yours, Geoffrey’s, and, indeed, this house’s thesis, then I’ve been spared for some reason, presumably to fulfill some purpose—one I am uniquely qualified to carry out.” He spread his hands. “So here I am, waiting for Fate, or God, or whatever force determines these things to find me and set their ordained task before me.” He paused, then, knowing Roland was waiting for the rest, continued, “I intended, and still see my death—the true and final death of the man I was—as an inescapable payment for my sins, for the sins I committed as that man. In that context, that I’ve been spared to perform a task that only I can accomplish . . . fits, in a way.” Thomas paused, then drained his goblet. Lowering it, he murmured, “I feel like I’m on a journey of penance—almost dying, yet not being allowed to get off so easily, my consequent convalescence, and, presumably, eventually, my task to complete. The way I now view it, only once that task is done will I be allowed to know peace, to finally finish paying my full penance for my past deeds.”
Roland regarded him in silence. A minute ticked past, then Roland said, “I can see that you believe that, and I can mount no argument against your logic. Your view is much as mine would be were I in your place. However, to return to the aspect of your situation that remains to be addressed, you are well enough now to actively seek your path—the one along which your task to complete lies. Yet to
my mind, you’re still waiting—still passive, not actively seeking.”
Thomas frowned. After several moments, he said, “I had thought—assumed—that Fate, or the Deity, would find me when they were ready . . . when they felt I was ready. I assumed that all I needed to do was wait here, and my task would find me.”
Roland’s lips twisted. “That might be so, but the priory is a highly circumscribed world. Your task may well lie beyond our walls, and you might not find it unless you actively seek it.”
Thomas said nothing, simply stared, unseeing, at his feet.
Roland waited several minutes, then murmured, “Just open your mind to the question. Clarity will come to you in time.”
That night, Thomas tossed and turned on his narrow cot in the last cell of the infirmary. Roland’s words, their implication—that to complete his penance and find true peace he would need to leave the confines of the priory, and the safety its walls afforded, and seek his ordained task in the wider world—and the ramifications of that churned through his mind.
He knew he was the sort of character who liked to be in charge, and in control of his own destiny, most of all. And he was manipulative, more or less instinctively. Was staying here, supposedly waiting, simply another way of him trying to exert some control?
Trying to force Fate, or God, to play by his rules?
One thing he knew beyond question, beyond doubt—he hated stepping into unknown situations. He always had.
And he still had no clue, no inkling at all, of what his ordained task might be.
To accept the risk and simply set out, and trust that his task would find him, that by seeking, he would find it . . .
Having faith in anything but himself had never come easily.
“It’s time I left the priory.” Using his cane for support, Thomas let himself down into the armchair beside the hearth in Roland’s study.
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 2
