Thomas was quite surprised at the priest’s observations. For all his austerity, Anselm was no innocent.
“Henry was in debt?” Here was a new idea. Perhaps the murderer was a man to whom he owed money.
“I fear he had not yet learned that price of sin, although he was well on the way. He refused to burn long with any worldly desire even to save his own soul from a hotter, eternal fire. I have seen him rampant as Pan with a milkmaid against the cowshed wall, and the soldiers of Wynethorpe Castle greeted his arrival with joy because he fattened their purses when he joined them in games of chance. His own priest has told me that the man had long ceased to listen to his admonitions. I, too, was mocked for my efforts.”
“Now with the fires of Hell lapping at his feet, he must rue his failure to listen to wiser counsel.” Thomas moved away from the icy stone, put his hands into his sleeves to warm them, and winced at his own hypocrisy. Had he, after all, ever listened any more in his days before imprisonment than Henry had? Would he care what anyone advised if Giles appeared before him now, arms open and eyes shining with love?
“I include him in my prayers.”
Thomas was touched by the sincerity he heard in Anselm’s voice. The priest would no doubt do the same for him, he thought, no matter how foul he believed his sins to be. He smiled at him with more fondness than he had ever shown before. “You say Henry broke many a maidenhead against the wall and in the straw. Were you not surprised when, at dinner and in public, his father mocked his son’s manhood?”
“Nay. I did not think Sir Geoffrey meant to mock his son’s virility, monk. Rather, I believe his father meant only to shame him back into a more Christian manhood, one in which the young man would marry and, with due and devoted solemnity, produce proper heirs.”
Thomas would not have equated Sir Geoffrey’s gesture of tossing the boar’s testicles into his son’s lap with a Christian hope that Henry might stop swyving milkmaids.
“Enough of idle gossip,” Anselm said with a tug at Thomas’ sleeve. “I thought to look in on the boy, Richard. I have heard he loves good stories and have quite a modest store of instructional parables to share. Then I was going to the chapel to pray. Will you join me, brother?”
Thomas was moved by the priest’s wish to do something for the lad. Unless dragons played a strong role, however, he rather doubted Richard would care much for tales of saints. “Nay, I fear my fast has gone on too long, priest, and I am feeling weaker than even God would deem prudent. I will join you soon, but first I must seek a bit of bread from the kitchen.”
Anselm scowled. “I know that look, brother. You seek meat. Avoid temptation! Fall on your knees with me and beg God to give you the strength your frail body lacks!”
Thomas managed not to laugh. “It is not meat I seek, priest. It is a kitchen wench who is lusty with desire…”
Anselm’s face paled in horror.
“…to warm my stomach with a bit of ale so I may better kneel in prayer. Or a cook willing to feed my body with a bit of cheese so I may raise my voice with more vigor to heaven. Go. I am sure you will still be in the chapel when I join you.”
As the men parted, Thomas turned and looked back at Anselm as the man began the slow climb toward the living quarters. For all his teasing of the priest and for all his disdain of the man’s less than pleasant traits, he realized that Anselm had a generous heart. Thomas was surprised to realize that he was growing rather fond of him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Don’t play the innocent, daughter!” Adam slammed his hand against the tapestry on his chamber wall. “He was standing over the body with the bloody dagger in his hand. What more would any judge need to know to hang my son?”
Eleanor could feel the skin on her face grow taut with a rising temper. “What more to know, you ask? Only that Robert would never kill a man in anger.”
“What man would not?”
“My brother. Your son.”
“You know little of men then.”
“An easy assumption, my lord, but an inaccurate one. In case you were not aware of my duties at Tyndal, allow me to remind you that I must direct men as well as women in their daily lives. I must also assume you had not heard of the violent events which occurred at the time of my arrival last year, since my priory is so far from the king’s court.” She, too, was shouting back.
“Your tone is insolent, child.”
“Nor am I a child, father. I have long since arrived at a woman’s estate.” With great effort, Eleanor lowered her voice to a quieter tone.
As red-faced as his daughter, Adam opened his mouth to reply but instead sank down with a tired sigh into his chair. “I have no wish to argue with you, Eleanor. Yes, of course, as a bride of Christ, you are fully grown, but please understand that a father finds it difficult to accept such a thing when it only reminds him that he is not the virile youth he wishes he still were.”
“You are more vigorous than most of those callow youths you claim to envy, father. Indeed, it is they who will look to you as an example of manhood in its prime.” Eleanor relaxed somewhat with his conciliatory tone, then smiled. “Arguing will do neither of us any good. Nor Robert for that matter.”
“Agreed. To further the peace between us, I will also tell you that I have indeed heard of your time at Tyndal. In full detail. Your priory is not so remote that those at court do not speak highly of your competence.” His expression grew strangely sad. “I have heard much to make me proud that I am your father, Eleanor.”
“You are over kind, my lord, but if you feel pride in your daughter’s acts, remember that it was you who sired her.” Then she bowed her head to hide the sparkle of joy and pride she knew he’d see in her eyes.
“It is said by those who claim to know, that strength of character in any child comes from the vitality of a father’s seed. Perhaps I should not argue with those who are more knowledgeable about such things than I, yet I must confess that I see much of your mother in you.”
Adam turned his head away, but not before Eleanor saw tears starting down his cheeks from a grief that had not lessened in the fifteen years since her mother had died. She reached over and took his hand to comfort but chose her words to save his pride. “And Robert? Which parent does he most resemble?”
“Ah, but you have my stubbornness, I see.” Adam squeezed her hand and, quickly wiping away his tears, laughed. “Robert, you ask? I will concede you a point there. Unlike your mother, who would have gone off on crusade and conquered the Holy Land all by herself had the Pope given permission for women to so do, Robert is mild-mannered. Indeed he is much like his sire in that.” His eyes twinkled with a teasing humor.
“My very point, father. Robert would only fight if provoked. He also shares another quality with you, if I may be so bold…”
Adam raised one heavy eyebrow in question.
“You are a man of unquestionable courage who has learned that mediation is most often preferable to war, a cast of mind much like that of our king, I believe. Still, you have never hesitated to tell the truth as you see it, no matter how honeyed the words, if such would be the more effective road. Only when all that utterly fails will you turn to the sword. If I correctly remember the tales I’ve heard told, you warned King Henry many years before the rebellion about the dangers in Simon de Montfort’s actions…”
“De Montfort was not that different from his father and his father before that. He was as clever and devious as Odysseus but ambitious beyond his station. Nonetheless…”
“An observation which the king ignored to his detriment.”
“What has this to do with Robert?”
“You did your best to resolve a dangerous situation with words but then did not hesitate to draw your sword and fight in defense of your king when de Montfort attacked him. In like manner, my brother would rather reconcile than draw blood, but draw it he would if all else failed and he was attacked.”
“Are you suggesting
that Henry attacked him first in the corridor that night?”
“He has said he did not murder him and, although I believe in Robert’s innocence, the manner of his telling makes me wonder if my brother is withholding something for a reason deemed sufficient to himself. When Brother Thomas spoke with him, he carefully used the word murder, for instance, rather than kill.”
“Surely he would have admitted to a killing in self-defense. Such is no violation of the law, God’s or man’s.”
“Perhaps I have found too much subtlety in the use of that one word, but I noted that he did take some time in the telling of the events when I first visited him. I wondered if he did so in order to decide what to tell and what to omit. I wish I could honor his decision to keep to this silence, but, if the sheriff will not believe my brother’s story as he chooses to tell it, we have only his character to fall back on.” A thought occurred to her suddenly. “His character is something to which even Sir Geoffrey might bear witness.”
“He might indeed. Sir Geoffrey seems as grieved with the suspicion hanging over my son’s head as I do, despite the agony he must feel with his own son’s death.” Adam scowled. “His generosity to my son is testament to our friendship and his chivalry. To ask him to testify to Robert’s likely innocence, however, is something I would find hard to do under the circumstances.”
“Then we must find who did the deed, or, if Robert did kill him in self-defense, we must find out why my brother refuses to say just that.” Eleanor sat quietly for a moment. “Although Brother Thomas’ suggestion that revenge for Hywel’s death might be involved has merit, I know your reputation for fairness amongst your Welsh retainers. Surely someone would have approached you for justice first in this matter before taking Henry’s life.”
“Indeed, I would hope the same. Nonetheless, I have told those doing the interrogations to be alert for any hint of desire for such retribution.”
“Have you heard nothing to help our cause from the interviewing of those within the castle walls last night?”
“Not yet. I told those in charge of the questioning to report to Sir Geoffrey, your monk, and me when all was done. We are conducting the final interrogations of the soldiers from the last watch in the barracks as you and I speak. I expect to hear nothing until morning. Of course you are right that we must find the truth before this storm ceases and a messenger can get through to bring the sheriff. To deflect justice by simply pointing hither and thither is…”
“False and dishonorable. You speak as your son has done himself. Just before I came here, I took him some clean garments and presented just such an argument to him then. He told me in some anger that he would refuse to be released on such ignoble terms. He wants the real murderer found first.”
“That is the son I know.”
“Of course, Robert would like to assist in the hunt, however guarded he might be…”
Adam smiled grimly. “He will stay in his cell, Eleanor. Do not insult me by assaying such feeble tactics. That one was quite unworthy of your skills.”
She bowed her head to hide her frown. Of course she knew such a weak line of reasoning would not fool her father, but she had promised Robert she would try the plea on his behalf. “Indeed, my lord, you are right and I beg pardon.” She hoped her tone was sufficiently deferential to temper her father’s irritation.
“There is nothing for which to beg pardon. Your devotion to Robert reflects what is in my own heart.” He looked at her in silence for a long moment. “Do not interpret my lack of tears for lack of caring. Ever.”
Eleanor nodded and neither spoke for a while. Then she continued. “I cannot persuade my brother to tell the whole truth of this to me. Could you get Robert to break his silence?”
“I should not be the one, Eleanor. He is the accused and he is my son. Any confession to me would be suspect in the eyes of the law.”
“Nevertheless, might he tell you the truth of it? It could give us the means to present the real murderer…”
“Robert must believe that some honor demands his silence or he would have spoken before. I cannot force him to betray that, and no son of mine would chose life over honor.”
Were the circumstances less dire, Eleanor thought, she might find a wry amusement in how obstinate with pride the Wynethorpe men could be, father and son. The circumstances, however, were dire. “Since he will not speak to me of it,” she said aloud, “perhaps Brother Thomas could…”
“The value of your monk’s testimony is also questionable. Brother Thomas could be accused of breaking the sanctity of the confessional if Robert did tell him the truth. No, this would not help my son’s cause.”
“You do believe that your son is as innocent of murder as you or I, don’t you, father?”
“Aye, lass, in my heart I do, but God must help us prove the right of that.”
***
Eleanor gathered her cloak closely about her as she knelt in a corner of the chapel. Even here the cold was bitter and her lungs hurt just to breathe in the sharp air. Her father had invited her to break bread with him and share a simple dinner, but she refused and had left him at the entrance to the dining hall while she went on to pray. The day had been long and her head ached with tension. As much as she loved her father and even though they had made something of a peace between them, she yearned for the familiar.
Castle Wynethorpe had not been home to her for most of her life. If she could not be in Amesbury with her aunt or at Tyndal in her own quarters, she preferred to retreat to a quiet supper with Sister Anne, a woman in whose company and friendship she found a deep comfort. First, however, she needed solitude and prayer to help soothe her weary spirit.
Eleanor heard steps and opened her eyes. In the shadowy gloom barely penetrated by a smoky candlelight, she saw a figure enter the chapel and kneel in front of the altar. With her somber dress and short stature, he must not have seen her kneeling further back in the darkness.
A loud moan came from the kneeling man. It was Sir Geoffrey. As he raised his eyes to heaven, she heard more groans, then harsh sobs, and knew that he was weeping uncontrollably. She grieved to see this man in such agony over the loss of his son, and her heart longed to offer him solace. Her comfort, however, would not be welcome. A man might shed tears without shame before God, but he would never show such weakness in front of the woman whose brother lay accused of killing the son he mourned.
Briefly she wondered how deeply he must now regret the scene at dinner where he had so humiliated Henry. Indeed, considering what she knew about the circumstances of his remarriage and the strained relationships with his adult offspring, he might well have much more to regret and other sins buried in his soul for which now to beg forgiveness.
As she listened to the man’s sobs and mumbled prayers, Eleanor looked for a way to leave without disclosing her presence and thus embarrassing the knight. There was only one entrance to the chapel, but the chill draft she felt on her back meant he had probably left the door ajar. She decided that his groans of anguish were loud enough that she could try slipping behind him and out the door without his hearing her light footsteps. Later she might return to the chapel, perhaps with Sister Anne and Brother Thomas, to honor the next Office of prayer. For now she would leave this man alone with his God and his pain.
She was fortunate. She slid soundlessly through the small opening of the chapel door, and Sir Geoffrey would never know she had been witness to his tears. For once, she was glad she was so tiny and light of foot.
As soon as she entered the dark courtyard, the raw wind struck her with a knife’s sharpness, slashing at her face with frozen pellets. During the day, the temperature had warmed just enough to melt some of the snow, but now the temperature had dropped once more to freeze the slush into sheets of treacherous ice. Although the cold bit deep into her bones, she was grateful for it. No one could travel to summon the sheriff. The prolonged storm gave them more time to prove her brother’s innocence. She bent her head
to the wind, but it continued to lash at her cheeks.
Just as she approached the entrance to the stairs leading to the chambers above the dining hall, she looked up. No more servants or tradesmen were leaving from the hall. Apparently, all questioning was finally done. Would anything of use be discovered? Might someone, out of fear or shame, have confessed to the deed?
Distracted, Eleanor stumbled. She reached out to catch herself as she fell, and her hands landed on something soft and warm.
It was a man’s body, just dusted with snow.
“Someone bring a light,” she shouted into the wind.
A young soldier with a burning torch in hand emerged through the curtain of thickly falling snow. “Are you hurt, my lady?” he cried out.
When the torchlight illuminated the ground where she had fallen, Eleanor gasped. The body was that of her family priest, Anselm. In the weak and flickering light, she could see his dark blood turning to ice under him. As she looked closer, she saw that some did still flow sluggishly from a wound in his head.
“Get Sister Anne and some men to carry him inside. Quickly!” Eleanor ordered.
As the soldier disappeared into the white night, Eleanor brushed the snow off the body, then bent and listened carefully. The priest was still breathing, albeit very, very shallowly.
“Surely God will understand this,” she said to the darkness, then she hunched over and gently put her arms around the priest, hugging him close so the warmth from her own body would keep him from freezing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Richard lay huddled under the covers, his pale face turned to the wall.
Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand gently on the thin little shoulder. “Lad, what’s wrong?”
The boy’s body quivered as if with a fever, but the monk could feel no unusual heat. The boy said nothing.
Tyrant of the Mind Page 14
