Thomas frowned at this sudden and doubtful retraction. “Such a quick abandonment of your previous statements, Robert? But surely with the body so warm there must have been someone nigh, someone that could have escaped down the passageway to other stairways. You must have seen or heard…”
Robert swirled around, his eyes angry but focused on the wall behind Thomas. “I saw no man. I heard no one, and I did not murder Henry. That may not be enough, Thomas, but that is all I can say.”
“Hywel’s wife? Might she have come to confront Henry…?”
“His wife was given a draught by the woman who took her away from his corpse this morning. After I left the dinner, I paid a visit to offer what comfort I could, and the old woman assured me that the drink she had concocted would put the wife into such a deep sleep for so many hours that she would awaken with a lesser grief. She has, after all, young children she must comfort and cannot afford to suffer such deep sorrow herself.”
There was clearly no purpose in pursuing anything further with Robert. The man’s eyes had glazed over and his color was now a gray pallor. If need be, the story of Hywel’s wife could be easily confirmed.
Thomas rose. “Will you promise to send word if anything else comes to mind, my friend?”
“Aye,” Robert replied. His words were barely audible, his head bowed, and his expression was hidden.
As Thomas left the prison cell and the guard closed the door behind him, he asked himself how carefully Robert might have chosen his words. Indeed, the man did seem to make a distinction between kill and murder, but with greater interest Thomas noted that Robert had said he had told him all he could say, not all that he knew.
Chapter Sixteen
Later, as daylight finished wrestling the last of the lingering shadows into the crevices of the rough corridor wall, Brother Thomas stood outside Isabelle’s room, stared down at the dark stains of blood on the stone floor, and shivered.
I might have a man’s body but a child’s heart still beats in my chest, he thought ruefully.
In his youth, he had often awakened in the deep night to the sounds of scuffling and moans outside his room, and he had cowered in terror, waiting for the sun to chase away those demons he knew must be waiting for him just outside his door. In the morning he would rise, open the door and, with bravery bought with sunlight’s coin, look out to see just such stains on the stone floor. He imagined the marks must from the blood of giant gray werewolves struggling with great black demons, until an older man took some pity on him and said that the blood was from mortal men fighting over petty things, and nothing to fear at all. He had been relieved that the creatures were not supernatural, but some fear had remained with him although he was no longer a little boy alone in the dark.
“I am a man, not a lad anymore,” he reminded himself with some success, then bent to look more closely around the area where Henry had been murdered. After a few minutes he shook his head. There was nothing here to suggest anything had happened than the most obvious. An examination of Henry’s body would reveal more details, of course, but he feared there was naught here to help Robert’s cause.
He hunched his shoulders as they began to ache in the cold and considered the possible ways of escape from this place. Henry had been killed right in front of the guestrooms assigned to Sir Geoffrey and his wife. Their chambers were at the opening to the staircase that wound down to the dining hall and then out to the castle ward. That was one exit. The rooms also faced the point where that inner passage turned and led toward one of the defensive towers at the corner of the wall surrounding the inner ward. That would be the only other way a murderer could have escaped because, in the other direction, the corridor ran straight down to the room Thomas shared with Father Anselm and abruptly ended there as if the workmen had never finished it.
“When Robert first claimed he had heard voices as he climbed the stairs but saw no one,” Thomas said aloud, “the speakers might have been anywhere. In the stairwell, in the dining hall, near the guestrooms or further into that tower passageway.”
Since the stairs were deliberately designed to be steep and sharply curved so any attacker would have difficulty swinging his sword against defenders above him, it was not surprising that Robert could not see anyone just ahead of him. Had Robert been near the dining hall when he heard the voices or had he been beyond that and closer to the living quarters above the hall? He could not remember if the man had said. Now, of course, Robert was denying that he had heard two voices at all so it would be useless to ask him, and, needless to say, Thomas did not believe his abrupt retraction.
“If the voices had come from the dining hall,” Thomas continued, “the speakers might have remained there until Robert passed that entrance, then retreated down the stairs he had just climbed. If, however, they had come from this higher level, the murderer, or murderers, might have heard him coming and escaped down the passageway to the tower before Robert emerged from the stairwell. Those are the only ways to escape.”
What if the speakers were further down the corridor where there was no exit? They might not have heard him climbing the stairs and that meant they might not have been able to escape before Robert emerged and would have been trapped. Thomas closed his eyes and tried to picture exactly what he had seen last night.
He and Anselm were in the very last room in that corridor. When the Lady Isabelle screamed, Anselm had been asleep. Thomas could confirm that he was there and no one else was in the room. Nor had the priest ever emerged. He had been sitting at the edge of his bed, pale and quaking, when Thomas returned with the grim news.
Next to them were the baron’s chambers, and as Thomas was leaving his room, the baron was rushing from his own door. He had been fully dressed and had his sword in hand. No one was in the corridor between those two rooms. That Thomas could confirm as well.
Thomas hesitated and opened his eyes. “Was it odd that the baron was fully dressed at such an early hour?” Perhaps not, he decided, for Robert had said that his father was often up before cock’s crow. Still, the hour had been very early. Any cock would still be enjoying the lush charms of his hen of choice and not yet sated enough to bring forth his morning boast. Perchance the Baron Adam had also just returned from the warmth of another’s bed. Or, like Thomas, suffered sleepless nights alone. He would think more on that.
The baron was, in fact, now residing in Robert’s usual quarters. When his grandson fell ill, he had given up his rooms with their luxuries of a curtained bed and hearth for warmth. The room next to the baron was now where Richard lay. The prioress shared it with Sister Anne as well while they cared for him. Of course, he had seen his prioress leave the room just behind her father. Sister Anne had returned to be with Richard as soon as Henry’s body was discovered, so Thomas had looked behind him as she left. Again, no stranger was in the corridor.
Next to the boy’s sickroom was the chamber assigned to the Lady Juliana. Had he seen her? He closed his eyes. The image of Juliana’s face peering around the door of her room came to mind. He could recollect nothing but her head.
Her head? It was covered, covered with a hood as if she had just returned from a walk and still had on her cloak. Indeed, she was dressed in a cloak, now that he thought more on it. Odd, that. With whom might she be walking at such a black hour? Not Robert, surely. Not alone? Or was it? Perhaps they had been together and Robert had wanted to protect… Nay, there was no need to protect his lady’s virtue. Few would begrudge a betrothed couple the right to sample a bit of marital pleasure before the final vows were spoken. After all, a betrothal was binding in the eyes of God…but there was no betrothal yet. Might that be Robert’s reason for wanting to protect the lady?
“If the two had spent some hours in bed together, they would have done so in Juliana’s room surely, since Robert had moved to the barracks to provide room for the guests when the Lavenhams arrived. Thus she would not have needed her cloak.” Thomas rubbed his eyes where a dull ache had taken up residence.
“Yet she has said nothing. Could Robert have just left her bed and, to cover her nakedness, she threw on the cloak? But why do that when a blanket would serve as well?” Again, he could not imagine that she would not have confessed their tryst with her soon-to-be-betrothed when his life was at stake. “There is something amiss here, yet I cannot grasp what it is.”
Had Wynethorpe been like many other castles, Thomas thought, there would have been a private entrance to the chapel from the lord’s solar or indeed from any of the other chambers, especially that of the resident priest. Whatever the reason for the omission of such a comfort, Thomas had heard from Father Anselm that it was the source of one of his most joyful trials. No matter how foul the weather he had to wend his way down those perilous stairs past the dining hall, into the inner ward, and around the quarters to that small entrance in the inner ward wall. Thomas had caught himself thinking at the time that the trip to the chapel in a heavy rain might be the only time Father Anselm ever got a bath. He smiled at the thought of the priest sprinting through the open ward to avoid even God’s attempt to bathe him.
“Nonetheless,” he muttered, “the lack of such a private entrance does eliminate any other possible escape routes.”
At least the Lady Isabelle seemed to have been in bed, as they all should have been, and asleep when the murder occurred. When he saw her, she was standing in the corridor with her fur blanket thrown around her body for warmth and to hide her own nakedness. It was her scream that had roused them all. Still, it was curious that she had been calm enough to hand Robert a candle to light the rushes yet had screamed when he picked up the dagger. Had Robert been correct about the timing of those events? What had awakened her? Had she seen or heard anything outside her room…
Suddenly Thomas remembered how the lady had played with Robert under the tablecloth at dinner. “Could Robert have been in bed with the Lady Isabelle last night?” he exclaimed in shock at the realization. “Could it be her honor he is protecting?”
Thomas rubbed his eyes again. The ache did not diminish. Indeed, this new question added even more complications to an already murky situation. He understood from Robert that Sir Geoffrey, being a husband who found a woman’s monthly courses distasteful, had chosen to spend his last nights in the barracks rather than with his wife. A woman who did not expect a husband in her bed usually had her maid for warmth or company, yet Thomas had seen no maid with the Lady Isabelle. Perhaps the maid had not come to the door. Perhaps her mistress had kept the maid back so she would not see the horror of the corpse? Or had the maid been sent away so Robert could come to Isabelle that night? The baron’s manservant had appeared, for it was he that arranged to take the corpse away. Perhaps Thomas had just failed to see the lady’s attendant in the confusion of the moment.
At least he had been able to confirm that Hywel’s wife had slept from early evening through late morning with the old woman in attendance. That was the only question that had been resolved, however, and too many others gnawed at him, not the least of which involved his fondness for the man accused of Henry’s murder. Could this man, to whom he had taken such a liking, be a killer? Or was he an honorable man who would die before he would betray someone he believed should be protected? His instincts told him Robert was innocent of murder, although he was surely guilty of something. If nothing else, he was lying, even if the cause was a matter of honor.
An examination of the corpse would either raise more questions or settle some. Baron Adam had ordered the body removed to the chapel and had locked away the dagger found in Robert’s hand as evidence for the sheriff to collect when he could be summoned. Thomas thought it interesting that Sir Geoffrey had trusted Robert’s father to keep the dagger, considering it was his own son who was accused of killing Sir Geoffrey’s.
“On second thought, maybe it is not so odd,” Thomas muttered. “When the servants brought Sir Geoffrey from the barracks, he seemed as distraught over the idea that Robert had killed Henry as he was over the death of his own son.”
Perhaps the years of friendship between the two men allowed each to feel the grief of the other as much as they felt their own loss. It touched Thomas that such might be so.
Suddenly he heard a soft rustle behind him and he spun around. The tiny outline of his prioress was barely visible in the gray shadows at the top of the stairs. He wondered how long she had been watching him and what she had heard him mutter to himself.
“My lady?” He bowed.
“I was on my way to visit with the Lady Isabelle, Brother Thomas, but I am glad to have first found you alone. I must briefly speak with you in confidence, and I beg that you will answer me with forthrightness when I ask you two important questions.”
He hesitated, suspecting what she wanted to ask. He struggled with his reply to one of her questions, then quickly made his decision less on logic than on what his heart told him. “On my hope of Heaven, I will keep your words in confidence and will answer you with honesty, my lady.”
“In addition, I must also ask of you a favor.”
“To do you any favor would bring me both pleasure and honor.”
“For all of this, you have my deepest gratitude.” She stepped into the pale light and looked up at him. “As you may know, I love my brother as much as any sister could and believe I know him well, what he could and could not do. I am, however, still a sister, a weak mortal, and my judgment may be clouded.” She gestured at the stains on the floor. “There is nothing here that acquits Robert. I’m sure you have found the same. I fear that a court will look at the evidence we now have and hang him.”
Thomas nodded sadly. “Aye, my lady.” Eleanor’s eyes were the color of storm clouds, rimmed in red from tears he was sure she was too proud to let anyone see her shed.
“Then my first question to you is this: Do you think my brother has told us the whole truth?”
This was the question he dreaded most and, when he replied, he lowered his head for he could not look her in the eyes. “No, my lady,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I do not.”
“My second question is: Do you believe he is innocent?”
“Without question, I do,” he said, the answer undoubted in his heart as he raised his eyes to meet hers, “and we must discover who did this terrible act. Quickly.”
“Then you will carry out the next task I request?”
Thomas nodded.
“You must examine Henry’s corpse with due care and bring me your observations as well as conclusions.”
“My lady, I will do so as I promised, but my skills are poor and I could miss a crucial lead. Surely Sister Anne is a far better…”
“Sister Anne has been forbidden to do so. Your name, however, was not raised, and, since no one has said yea or nay to your examination, I see nothing to stop you from performing the task. To ease your mind about this, Sister Anne will be with me when you report what you have seen.”
Thomas looked down into the gray eyes of his prioress and wondered whether those who thought they had thwarted her knew just how thoroughly they had been bested. Not for the first time, he found himself most grateful that he would never have to face this woman as an opponent in battle. “I will do as you ask, my lady.”
As Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal reached out and squeezed his hand, gently and in silence, Thomas might have thought that her eyes shone with love had he not known better.
Chapter Seventeen
Eleanor rapped once on the door. No servant came to open it. She hesitated, sure she had hear
d muffled words. She knocked twice.
“If you be not Satan’s imp, enter and cease the din!”
Eleanor opened the door.
The bereaved stepmother sat lolling on a stool, legs spread, her robe pulled up around her knees and her back braced against the bed. Her sole companions in the room were a large pitcher and a mazer cup perched on the wooden chest next to her. Indeed, the wife of Sir Geoffrey was quite drunk.
“I came to offer comfort,” Eleanor said. “I could return later.”
Trying to rise in greeting, Isabelle grabbed at the chest. Her hand slipped and knocked the empty wooden cup onto the floor. It bounced and rolled under her stool.
“It’s you,” the woman announced with conviction. She swung down to swipe up the errant cup, missed, then snagged it on the second try. “Wine?” she asked hospitably.
Eleanor shook her head.
“Another vow, I suppose.”
Eleanor shrugged noncommittally. “The air is bitter cold. Wine warms both body and spirit on such a day.” As well as loosening your tongue, she thought. You will more likely tell me things after another cup or two than you would say with a more sober mind.
“Vows make no sense.”
“Have you never taken a vow, Isabelle?” the prioress asked as she studied the woman in front of her. Her playfellow of more innocent times might now have difficulty focusing her eyes, but Eleanor could see the sober glitter of hostility behind the unclear gaze. Could this be the same person she once knew or was the person sitting in front of her a demon in the likeness of Isabelle? The change was that dramatic.
The woman leaned back, waving Eleanor to another stool. “Have you never taken a vow, Isabelle?” Sir Geoffrey’s wife twittered in malicious imitation. “Oh, aren’t we ever so arrogant with that proud tone of voice. Have I never taken a vow, you ask? Doesn’t marriage count?” Isabelle wobbled her head back and forth, pursing her lips as she did. “Perhaps not to you. Marriage reeks of lust, does it not, and you have surely taken a vow against that. How you have changed since we all made merry together that last summer before you returned to Amesbury, Eleanor.”
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