Tyrant of the Mind mm-2

by Priscilla Royal

  Sister Anne’s voice brought Eleanor back to the present once again. “You should ask God for what He wishes, my lord,” the tall nun was saying to the baron. “Your grandson’s return to health is His doing, not mine. I am only the instrument of His grace.”

  “It seems that He and I must work out due recompense then.” Adam smiled and nodded at his daughter. “Perhaps the Prioress of Tyndal will act as mediator.”

  Eleanor caught herself smiling back at her father with the eager pleasure of a child just given rare acknowledgment. Indeed, she had had nothing at all from him, either encouragement or family news, since she had left Amesbury to take her new position until Richard’s illness. Yet Sister Beatrice had told her that tales of her cleverness in keeping Tyndal from debt after the events of last summer had reached the court. Surely, her father must have heard the stories. After all, how many prioresses had ever been faced with a priory full of resentful monks and nuns, a murdered monk in their cloister, a hard winter of reduced revenues, and all at the same time? Even if any other women had been so tested, how many had successfully surmounted each difficulty with skill and wit? If she had not brought wealth to her family by consenting to a good marriage as her father had wished, had she not at least brought honor?

  Anne touched her arm. “If I may be excused, my lord,” she was saying to the baron, “I will return to your grandson and leave you and my lady to speak in private.”

  “Good sister, you must take some refreshment first. Food and wine will be brought to you. I’m sure Richard’s nurse can watch over him for a few more hours while you take your ease. She may be a fluttery woman, but she is competent enough in her care of the boy. You need the rest.”

  The tall nun bowed her thanks, smiled at Eleanor, then left father and daughter alone.

  “She is clever, your nun,” the baron said as he gestured for Eleanor to sit in one of the chairs at the high table. “Where did she come by her training?”

  “Her father was a physician who shared much of his knowledge with her, I believe. She and her husband also had an apothecary shop before she came to Tyndal, although I have heard from a reliable source that their success at it was due most to her skill in the healing arts.”

  “A physician’s lass then, and an apothecary’s widow too? Death must have had a hard time wresting her husband from her with her fine skills. How did he manage to die on her?”

  “She is not a widow, father. Her husband wished to become a monk and she followed him to Tyndal.”

  “Nor would I have thought her so compliant! I have heard tales at court about the rough treatment she deals out to any patient who fails to follow her direction.” His lips twitched into his usual humorless smile, but she saw no mockery in his eyes. “Does she long for the world?”

  “She is content.” Eleanor bit her tongue from saying more. Sister Anne’s past was her confessor’s concern, not her father’s. As a rule it was none of hers either, for whatever grief and secrets Anne kept close within her soul, the nun had proven to be a loyal friend as well as a talented healer. Like her father, Eleanor cared much for loyalty and honored the private places in the hearts of others, unless her instincts sensed a festering therein that must be lanced before contagion was spread to the innocent.

  She glanced up. Her father had been silent while she reflected on Sister Anne’s past. He was studying her.

  “Well and good,” he said at last, “but there are more important things than your nun’s history. I have something to discuss with you, daughter.”

  Eleanor raised a questioning eyebrow. “I hope I may be of service to you, my lord.” Her trembling returned and, again, she hid her hands in the sleeves of her robe.

  “Well said,” he replied, eyes sparkling with brief amusement before his eyebrows bent once more into their usual stern expression. “Since your arrival, you have been so busy caring for your nephew that I have not had the chance to tell you of my plans. I am arranging a marriage between your brother and the daughter of a friend and former comrade-in-arms.”

  “Hugh will not come back from the Holy Land for any marriage, father. I hope this happy alliance can wait.”

  “Robert, it is, not Hugh. I’ll settle my eldest when he comes back, unless Prince Edward wants to marry him off to one of his close relatives.” He grunted. “That was a jest, mind you. The prince knows too well that our loyalty is secure. He would never waste such a marriage on Hugh.”

  “Perhaps our good king would instead grant the hand of one of his queen’s Savoyard relatives to Hugh?” Eleanor suggested, attempting to match humor with humor. Despite her father’s eagerness to arrange advantageous matches for his children, he had adamantly refused his liege lord’s offer of a similar match for himself. Not many men of his age would have rejected such a profitable alliance that brought with it the comforts of a warmer bed. Nor had she heard any rumors about any longtime leman, whether hidden in the nearby village or in the servant quarters. Not that she would have begrudged him that, but she was touched nonetheless by such fidelity to her dead mother.

  Adam’s brief smile faded rapidly. “Our good king is getting old, as are we all, my child, and has lost interest in his queen’s relatives. Now his waking hours are spent dreaming about a shrine to his beloved St. Edward the Confessor.” He lowered his voice. “I admit that I wish our king’s son was not off fighting the Saracens. The Lord Edward should be here to ease his father’s burdens and give comfort to his people.”

  King Henry III was suffering from more than just a few inconvenient infirmities related to age and her father knew it well, Eleanor thought. What she had heard from her Amesbury aunt, a woman of extraordinarily good sources, was that the frail monarch was now showing signs of senility and was so ill that a letter had been sent to the Lord Edward begging his immediate return. Many at court were worried about the still unsettled peace in England. Should the king die, civil war could well break out again unless the heir was home to take firm control of the throne. The land could ill afford another such rebellion. It was still bleeding from the last one.

  “You mentioned the arranging of a marriage for Robert, my lord. Have you spoken with him about this?”

  “I am not without concern for my son’s future happiness, Eleanor,” the baron snapped. “As you would do well to remember, I allowed you to take the veil much against my own wishes.”

  Indeed he had, but then few had ever won an argument with his elder sister, Beatrice, she thought. “I remember with gratitude, my lord. Who is the woman and what does she bring to this marriage?”

  “Do you remember Sir Geoffrey of Lavenham?”

  The name was familiar, but the man she knew was a poor one. Was she mistaking him for his elder brother? She shook her head.

  “Perhaps not. I think it was your fifteenth summer when you last saw him. He and I were pages together, and we fought de Montfort at Lewes and Evesham.”

  “I was not aware that he had lands to give a daughter.”

  “Indeed he was a landless knight at the time you knew him, but his elder brother died of tertian fever some years later and Geoffrey inherited all Lavenham lands and title. His elder brother was a good enough man, but I must say his death was timely, soon after Geoffrey suffered the jousting… Did I not write you of Geoffrey’s accident?”

  “Robert did, father. He lost his hand, if I recall, and I do remember him well. He had two sons and a daughter. George is my age…”

  “…and would have made you a fine husband, if you had but listened…”

  “…and the other two were, indeed I may hope that they still are, a few years older? Yes, that year I lived at Wynethorpe before I took my vows, we all spent much time together.” Eleanor smiled. “There was a young ward, I think, and I also remember Sir Geoffrey’s sweet wife. He was so devoted…”

  “The mother of his children is dead. He has since remarried. To the Lady Isabelle.”

  Eleanor blinked at the harshness of his retort but chose to ignore it. “The only
Isabelle I remember was his ward, his daughter Juliana’s good friend.”

  Adam’s face reddened, then he turned away and walked toward the huge stone hearth cut deep into the wall just behind the high table. His limp was marked, made worse with the cold, Eleanor thought, and it pained her to watch him struggle not to grimace. For a long time, he stood in silence, his back to her as he heated a poker. When he thrust the glowing iron into a nearby pitcher of cider, the hiss was like that of a trebuchet flinging a stone at a castle wall, but the cold air soon grew warm with the pungent scent of spices. Eleanor watched and waited for him to speak. As he passed her a steaming cup, she noticed that his hands were shaking ever so slightly.

  Adam sipped at his own hot drink in silence. “Geoffrey was besotted with her,” he said at last. “I swear his good wife was barely in the ground before he had the whore in his bed.” The baron looked up, his face a mottled red. “I beg forgiveness for my crude language. That is not something I should have said to a daughter, let alone a woman dedicated to God.”

  “You may say what you will, father. I am no longer a child and, thanks to your sister, I am neither ignorant nor disapproving of the carnal pleasures between men and women.”

  The corners of Adam’s lips twitched upward. “A spirited enough response and direct enough to match my blunt words. I see the fine hand of Beatrice in that as well. She always was one for plain speech. Her desire to forsake the world for the convent after her husband’s death made as little sense to me as your desire for the same.” He coughed. “That aside, I need a woman’s help and have no other to turn to.”

  Anger in her heart swelled with her father’s ever-dismissive attitude toward her wish to enter the convent over his desire to put her into an arranged marriage. Eleanor said nothing but only nodded in response, for she did not trust herself to speak with civility.

  “To better answer your question, the Isabelle you mentioned is the one Geoffrey married. Perhaps you did not know that their arrival was not long after yours? Aye, I thought not. From my less than discreet words, you must also realize that I cannot abide the woman. I have had more than I can bear of her voice and company. Now that you have more leisure with Richard’s return to health, I would be most pleased if you kept her out of my sight and well-entertained while Geoffrey and I finish the details of what Robert can offer as a dower and what Juliana should bring as her marriage portion.”

  “Who else accompanied…”

  “The Lady Juliana, of course, and Henry came as Geoffrey’s heir and interested party to the agreement. His inclusion was intended only as a courtesy, but he has thrown up such earthworks to a reasonable decision that both his father and I are now questioning our wisdom in asking his attendance. I do believe Henry is so niggardly that he resents every pittance removed from his own inheritance. It is Robert’s task to entertain him, however, whether he fancies the responsibility or not.”

  Eleanor nodded. At least she did not have to see the younger son, George. Had he been here, it would have been painful for them both. Not only had he had been her father’s choice for her husband, George had been eager for the marriage himself. She had been fond of him, a feeling perhaps rather different than what a sister would feel for a brother if she were honest with herself, but she had never felt sufficient lust to turn her heart from the convent. That passion, she thought ruefully, had not conquered her until she had met Brother Thomas.

  Eleanor took a sip of cider to hide the blush she felt rising at the thought of the finely formed priest. “If Juliana is your choice to be Robert’s wife, it is a good one,” she said at last. “I remember her as a witty and lively girl, one who did not lack in certain feminine attributes which my brother might view with more favor than the fine mind I enjoyed.”

  Her father grunted with amusement, then his expression turned solemn. “Juliana has changed, child. Her mother’s death and her father’s over-quick marriage to her childhood friend have made her into a somber girl. Despite the bewitchment of his whore, Geoffrey still has wits enough to grieve over the change. He thinks a husband and children of her own will chase melancholy from Juliana’s soul.” Adam glanced away from his daughter and stared fixedly into the hearth.

  As her father remained silent, Eleanor tapped her foot with impatience. “There is more to this story, is there not?”

  “I hesitate to say that grief has unsettled Juliana’s mind entirely, yet I have heard tales of most curious behavior. Her father does not believe she is bewitched, rather that her womanly humors have been unbalanced of late. If so, we must act quickly in the matter of this marriage to restore her to full health.”

  “Behavior such as…?”

  “One morning she came to break her fast in a robe. A monk’s habit. It seems she had slipped into their priest’s room and stolen his summer robe.”

  “It would not be unlike Juliana to play such a mischievous trick, but I can only hope their confessor is more pleasant of scent than ours. Father Anselm has never exuded a sweet odor of sanctity. Unless I were performing a severe penance, I would not steal a robe from him.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose.

  “You will make me laugh, child, and this is a serious matter. There is yet more to the story.”

  “Forgive me, father. What else?”

  “Before their arrival here, Juliana cut her hair, then shaved her head.”

  Eleanor frowned. “My jest was indeed out of place. That act is far beyond the innocent mischief-making of the girl I knew.” She fell silent for a moment, then continued. “Juliana and her new stepmother were once friends, yet you suggest they may now be estranged. How has their behavior together altered? Do they no longer speak civilly with one another?”

  “They have been seen to speak together, civilly enough I’ve been told, but Juliana is often in tears afterward. Were I Geoffrey’s daughter, I, too, would be in tears. This marriage was not a happy pairing.”

  “Except, it seems, to Sir Geoffrey. If you will, father, what has so turned you against his second wife? Finding a good husband is the duty of most women of rank, and surely it is not her youth. She can bear children to bring him joy in his later years. Nor can you fault the dowry she brings, for I do recall that she had lands from which the Lavenhams took revenue whilst she was their ward.”

  Her father’s face flushed a deep purple. “I would not fault the lands, but the son should have been the match, not the father. Henry both expected and has wanted the woman as wife for years. He resents that his father took her from him. In that he has the right of it. Nor do I understand why she chased after the father rather than the son, who would have been the better, as well as the expected, match for her. Yet I could have put all that aside had she been a more dutiful wife to her new lord once he took her bait and she had pulled him to the marriage vows.” The baron banged his fist on the table.

  “You have called her whore. Has she taken lovers? Is that your objection?”

  Adam glared as he fell heavily into the chair facing his daughter. “This is something you know nothing about and have no reason to as prioress to women and womanish monks. When a man reaches his middle years, things often happen to him, which require a wife to be kind and resourceful in the marriage bed. I cannot speak of this to a…”

  The sound of a pewter cup flung against the stone wall reverberated like the clank of a cracked church bell.

  Adam stared at his daughter, his face paling as if he had just seen a ghost. “My child,” he gasped, “I have not seen a woman do that since your mother died!”

  “Did she have as just a cause with you as I have, my lord?” Eleanor’s face was also white but with frustration overlying rage.

  “She did tell me that I sometimes gave her less than her due in comprehension.”

  For just a moment, father and daughter stared at each other, he in amazement and memory, she in fading anger but with stubborn determination.

  The father lowered his eyes first, although a smile teased at his lips. “Very well. I see I may no lo
nger regard you as an innocent child. In court circles, many have said that my daughter is gaining reputation in her Order as a resourceful woman with wisdom beyond her years. It seems only just that I treat her as such.”

  Eleanor bowed her head. She could feel the flush of pleasure the hard won words of praise brought. “As my mother would have wished as well, my lord, or so I would presume.” She made her tone conciliatory.

  Adam smiled at his daughter with both sadness and pleasure, and his hand moved ever so slightly toward hers. Then he quickly pulled it back, empty of any touch of her. “Aye, lass,” he said, his voice catching almost imperceptibly. “That she would have.”

  Chapter Five

  “How did he die?” Thomas asked as he watched two men lead the horse bearing the corpse of Hywel, the retainer, away.

  Robert said nothing for a moment, then he turned his head away so his expression was unreadable. “The death seems to have been an accident. Sir Geoffrey said the horse bolted. Threw Hywel. His neck was broken in an instant.” He swallowed. “He was riding as attendant to Henry at the time. However thoughtless Henry may have been in slapping the steed, the horse should not have reared like that.” Then Robert ran one hand over his eyes and added, his voice sharp with anger, “Hywel will be sorely missed.”

  An accident seemed a reasonable enough explanation, Thomas thought. Nonetheless, Sir Geoffrey’s overheard remark about Henry’s soul finding a place in Hell suggested that there might be more to the tale, perhaps something omitted that would explain why this particular horse had bolted. Indeed, from Robert’s manner of telling the story, Thomas suspected that he did not believe the servant’s death had been an accident at all.

  “The Lord Henry seemed uneasy lest others think he was in some part to blame for what happened,” he said, curious to see how Robert would answer.

  “The Lord Henry believes that he, not God’s created earth, should be the center of the universe. Whether the matter be good or ill, he cannot bear to have attention focused away from himself.”