“It was I.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“No!” Geoffrey shouted. “You lie, daughter. You did not kill anyone. You did not stab me. You did not push the priest. You are innocent!”
Juliana smiled with serenity at her father. “Surely you know that it was not your wife who attacked you.”
Geoffrey struggled to sit up in his bed. “Nor did you!”
“How can you be so sure? You claim you did not see who did the deed.” Juliana sat carefully on her father’s bed and took his hand. “You know the Lady Isabelle is a weak woman, but you know me better, father.”
Geoffrey turned his head. “You did not do any of this.”
“I was the one who ascended trees to the very top as a child. Isabelle stood on the ground and cheered my efforts, but she could never make it to the first branch. She has always been far more womanly than I.”
“Don’t do this, child,” Geoffrey whispered, squeezing her hand.
“In our youth, when Henry turned rude, it was I who leapt upon him and wrestled him to the ground, pulling hair from his head and clouting his ears. Did he not come to you and complain of me?” Juliana laughed softly. “Do you not remember how often you had to separate my brother and me when we quarreled?”
“They were squabbles. Things that children do. They were not serious. Do not try to make them so, Juliana.”
“Henry never forgave me for shaming him.”
“You did not humiliate him in front of other boys.”
“It was all in front of Isabelle, father. He never forgot that and took revenge. As he grew into manhood and began to lose his fear of my hard blows, he told vile stories about me to all that would listen. It is hard for any woman to defend her honor when her own brother stains it. Did you not see what was happening between us?”
Tears were beginning to flow down Sir Geoffrey’s cheeks. “You had always been quicker of wit than he. I assumed you would always best him. Indeed, he had complained to me…”
“But he had stopped, had he not?”
“He and I were estranged. You knew that well, but you are exaggerating the seriousness of your quarrels.”
“Am I? The rumors Henry spread would have made any man hesitate before taking me to wife. Any convent would have been reluctant to welcome me amongst a company of nuns no matter how rich the dower. For the sake of my honor, I had reason to kill Henry. And you have just said how quick of wit I am. Then surely I would have known when you were most vulnerable to attack.” She took a deep breath. “Isabelle is innocent, is she not?”
Sir Geoffrey muttered something unintelligible.
“Speak up, Geoffrey,” Adam said. He stepped up to his friend’s side. “Was it your wife who did this to you?”
“No. Juliana is right. She did not. Even had she reason, she would not have had the strength.” He looked at his wife with great sadness.
Adam looked over at Juliana. “Then what say you to your daughter’s confession, Geoffrey. She is the only one left with motive to kill Henry and the cleverness to…”
Geoffrey swung his handless arm at his old friend. “I will not lose yet another child to this accursed trouble.”
“If it was not your wife, and we have found no other person who could have done the deeds, then your daughter’s confession must be accepted.” Adam turned to Thomas. “Call two of my guards, brother. We will escort the Lady Juliana…”
“Nay! It was not she. It was not my wife and it was not Robert!” Geoffrey shouted.
“Then who was it, my good friend?” Adam asked sadly.
The wail from the old warrior cut like a scythe across their hearts. “May God have mercy on my black soul, Adam! I murdered my first born. I tried to kill your priest, and I attempted to send my soul to Hell for both deeds by trying to take my own life.”
***
The two men looked at each other for a long time. Tears hovered at the rims of their eyes, then each blinked them back. Geoffrey turned his head away first.
“I would never have let Robert die for what I did, Adam. You must believe me. When I found he had stumbled on Henry’s body and you had imprisoned him as the accused, I did everything I could to prove he did not do the deed. I tried to find a way to show his innocence.”
Adam nodded. “Why did you do it, Geoffrey? Why kill your own son?”
“I was convinced that my son and my wife were making a cuckold of me.” Geoffrey stopped and looked at his wife’s tear-lined face. “Your complaints about his attentions were too quick, my love, too contrived after all the years you had known each other. I thought you were trying to deflect my suspicions away from the one man you were bedding, out of the many with whom you flirted openly.”
“Yet they were not putting the cuckold’s horns on your head.” Adam’s voice was gentle.
“Indeed I know that now, yet my reason had fled for some time, along with my manhood. When you claimed your courses had come, wife, I wondered whether they might have come earlier than usual…”
“In that you were right, my lord,” Isabelle replied, her voice barely audible.
Her husband smiled weakly. “I assumed you wanted me out of our bed so you could invite my son into it. I waited outside your room, in the shadows just down the corridor that leads to the tower, where I could hear but not be seen. Finally, I did see a man come to your, our, chambers and knock. You opened the door and I rushed forward to find you in Henry’s arms, his back to me…” Geoffrey hesitated as he looked at his wife and back at Adam. “…and I was blinded with rage at the thought he had come to share her bed. I stabbed him.”
Isabelle looked at them all, then put her face into her hands. “Please hear me on this, good people. Henry did not come at my invitation. I swear it!” She raised her face, tears streaming down her cheeks as she turned to her husband. “I only opened my door because he claimed, in a voice much like yours, that he was you. You must believe me!”
“Silence, woman. This is my tale to tell.” Geoffrey looked up at Adam. “My wife tells the truth. We have talked, she and I, since that horrible night. She has explained that my son was besotted with her and did much threaten her when he knew I was not there to protect her. She did not tell me the full tale of his actions out of love for him as my son. Aye, the demons of jealousy have ceased to possess my heart and soul, but too late.”
“And Father Anselm?” Eleanor asked after a long silence.
“I pushed him. I did not see Richard but did hear the priest cry out at my chamber door that he had seen my deeds and wanted to hear more of them. I assumed that he had seen me kill my son. I waited until he had turned away from me, then I came from behind, grabbed his habit and tossed him against the stone wall of the stairs, head first.” He looked down at his scared stump and shook his head. “My strength is not what it was when I had the use of both hands so I saw I had not killed him. When I bent over him, he was motionless but I could hear him breathing, so I tossed him from the window. If not the fall, I knew that surely the cold would do the final deed.”
“The priest claims he saw your wife kill your son.”
“A dream. A fantasy.” He looked sternly at Isabelle. She neither moved nor spoke. “Monks are often like women. They imagine things that never happened.”
“Nor is it uncommon to have such strange thoughts with such a severe head wound,” Anne added.
“Your grandson did not lie, Adam. He must have seen me although I did not see him.”
Once again the two men stared at each other in silence.
“Adam, I would not have harmed a hair on Richard’s head even if I thought he had seen me killing Henry or the priest.”
“Why should I believe you?” Adam said, his voice unnaturally low.
“Because I fell on my own dagger to force suspicion away from your son. No one attacked me. I found a place apart from the rest of the castle and stabbed myself, hoping to die and, in so doing, provide proof that Robert was innocent. He could not do both deeds and I thou
ght no one else could ever be accused. Henry’s death and mine would remain unsolved crimes.”
“It is a sin to take your own life,” Adam said.
“I had already murdered my own son and tried to kill a priest. Would the taking of my own life have made my soul’s fate any worse? It had already won quite enough land in Hell.”
“I must tell the sheriff of your confession,” Adam said.
“You needn’t put too many guards at my door, Adam, for I am too weak to run,” Geoffrey replied, gesturing at his chest.
“Why not just confess? Why try to kill yourself instead?” the baron asked, taking his friend’s whole hand in his.
“I am bred for battle, Adam, not the rope. Surely you understand this. Had you and I been in the Holy Land and surrounded by the enemy with no chance for escape, I would have killed you first so you would not have had to suffer whatever humiliations the enemy would delight in inflicting. Then I would have fallen on my own sword. Do you doubt that either of us would have flinched from such acts? Such are honorable deaths for a soldier. Thus I did indeed want to die before the hangman took me. I had sinned so much that one more rotting spot in my soul would mean nothing.”
“Facing a hangman for the crime of killing your son is not the same as dying in war.”
“I did not want to face the humiliation of the rope, Adam. I have seen men hanged. They kick their feet, their bowels loosen, and their pricks rise while those who witness the event jest at their shame and disgrace. It is no death for a knight who has, until now, tried to lead his life with honor.”
Adam nodded. “You have the right in that.”
The corners of the knight’s mouth quivered.
In silence and in sorrow, Adam and Geoffrey looked at each other for a very long time. The baron stood, wincing with the pain of his old wound. “You are weary. Perhaps it would be best if we all departed and Brother Thomas sat with you. You might find some peace in giving him your confession and seeking the solace a man of God can bring you, Geoffrey. Will you give permission, my lady?” He glanced at Eleanor and she nodded. “While he hears your confession and gives you counsel, I will release my son, bring guards for your room, and send for the sheriff.”
Geoffrey nodded. “As is only right, my friend.”
Adam turned to Thomas. “When you are done with your priestly duties and he has rested, come for me. I must explain further to Sir Geoffrey what he can and cannot expect from his imprisonment here.” The baron closed his eyes. Whether from fatigue or grief no one could tell. “You are my dearest and oldest comrade, Geoffrey. I owe you no less courtesy than I owed my son.”
“As you will it, my lord,” Thomas replied.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The light of the following morning brought no joy. Thomas’ face was drained of color. He was the most reluctant of messengers.
“Be assured, my lady, that Sir Geoffrey died peacefully,” the monk said, quickly tucking his hands out of sight as if they were stained with blood he wished to hide from the widow’s sight.
Isabelle’s wail would have sent tears down the cheeks of the most hardened of men.
Juliana drew her friend into her arms with the tenderness of a mother, resting her cheek on the top of Isabelle’s head. “Then he was not in pain last night when he died, brother?” she asked, her eyes as dark and inscrutable as they had been when she and Thomas stood together on that snow-swept parapet.
“Bleeding to death is a gentle passing. Moreover, your father’s soul was at peace. As Baron Adam asked, I remained with your father for his confession, after which he said I could leave for I had given him all the consolation he needed. In that you may find comfort.”
“Was my lord father able to see him after the confession as he wished or was Sir Geoffrey too weak?” Eleanor’s look was sympathetic. She poured a mazer cup of wine and handed it to Thomas. “Drink, brother. You need this.”
Thomas gratefully took the offered wine and swallowed with more enthusiasm than thirst. “He was weary but begged to see your father. I waited outside the door in case either of them needed me. When the baron left Sir Geoffrey, he said the knight had fallen into a calm sleep and that no one, not even Sister Anne, should disturb his friend’s rest. Indeed, he said, Sir Geoffrey would have little enough peace in the days to come. At least your father was able to see him before he died.” He took another long draught of the wine. “I cannot help wondering if there was something I could have…”
“Nay, brother, wonder not,” Eleanor said. “You could have done nothing to prevent his death. Of that I can assure you. Sister Anne has said that Sir Geoffrey was so agitated when he confessed his guilt that his wound might have reopened, but the bleeding would have been slow. None of us could have noticed it until it was too late and, when my father thought Sir Geoffrey was falling asleep, he may have been slipping into God’s hands.”
Eleanor turned to the two grieving women. “God’s many mercies are often mysterious. We all heard Sir Geoffrey say he wanted no part of the hangman. Perhaps God answered his prayer. His soul would have been at peace with God so soon after confession, and God must have been at peace with Sir Geoffrey to have granted him such a kind death.”
Thomas drained his cup. The prioress poured him another.
“Be at peace too, brother,” Eleanor said. “Thanks to you, Sir Geoffrey died with a cleansed soul and will be buried in consecrated ground, which would not have been possible had he died at his own hand.” Then she reached over and lightly touched his arm. “Sister Anne might need your help with Father Anselm. And with our mutual nephew. You may go to them now, if you would.”
Thomas continued to stare into his empty cup, then started as her words registered. He looked up at Eleanor. He could feel a modest heat flood across his face. With some surprise, he noted that his prioress’ face was also flushed.
“Yes, brother, I did hear that I have gained one more brother and one more sister than were kin to me before this winter. Sister Anne has told me that Richard calls you Uncle and she has been dubbed Aunt.”
“I did not encourage…” he began.
“Come now, brother! You know Richard. He needed no enticing but had good reason of his own for taking you both into this family. I do honor his decision. With the taking of our vows, we three have always been kin in God, but after all we have been through together since my coming to the priory, I believe we may claim a closer mortal relationship as well.”
“My lady, you are kind…”
Eleanor waved her hand at him. “Go and see to the sick, brother. I will stay with the Lady Isabelle and the Lady Juliana.”
***
As the door closed behind the priest, Eleanor shut her eyes so tightly they hurt, her body once more begging for a far closer bonding with the monk than that of brother and sister. Then, taking a deep breath, she faced the two women. “I share your grief over the loss of Sir Geoffrey, a good and honorable man who saved my own father’s life.”
“He was that, my lady, as well as a kind father to me,” Juliana said. She tried to move but found it difficult to pry herself from Isabelle’s grasp.
“Nay, Juliana, stay close to me.” Isabelle looked up at her stepdaughter, revealing as she did a face ashen with fatigue and eyes red from so many tears. “Now that your father is dead, you cannot go to Tyndal. Surely you see that.”
Juliana turned her head away from Isabelle and frowned, but Eleanor saw pain in the look, not anger.
Isabelle fumbled at her stepdaughter’s hands. “You can pray all you like in the chapel at Lavenham. There is no need for a more distant cloistering.” The corners of her mouth turned vaguely upward, but the smile was feeble. “You must stay with me. Think of how much I need your comfort and companionship now. My oldest friend. My dearest sister.” She pulled Juliana’s hands to her breast and looked at Eleanor. “Sir Geoffrey may have murdered Henry, but he was a good husband to me as he was a good father to Juliana. I shall not marry another but will remain a widow
for the rest of my days.” She reached out to touch Juliana’s face. “Hear me, my sweet friend, for I share your desire to remain unmarried! I swear to take mantle and ring in front of the bishop with a vow of chastity for the remainder of my life. Thus you need not marry either, don’t you see? You can stay and give me consolation. We can give each other succor in our prayers, two sisters bound in grief.” Isabelle tugged at Juliana’s robe and laughed, but the sound held little mirth.
As gently as she could, Juliana pushed her hands away, walked to Eleanor and knelt in front of her. “I still beg admission to Tyndal as an anchoress, my lady,” she said, her voice muted but her words firmly spoken.
“No!” Isabelle screamed. “You cannot do this. There is no need!”
“Hush, Isabelle,” Juliana said.
Isabelle threw herself down on the rush-covered floor and crawled to the kneeling woman. She wrapped her arms around her stepdaughter’s legs and pressed her head into the back of Juliana’s thighs. “Don’t you see that God has answered both our prayers?” Her voice was muffled and hoarse. “When I married your father, I knew he was an old man and must soon die. His death now, however, is surely a sign from God! As a widow, I have enough income from my lands for both of us to live in peace and comfort. George will not force you to marry Robert nor anyone you do not fancy. God surely means for the two of us to live, as we have…”
Tears began to flow down Juliana’s cheeks. “It is you who does not understand, Isabelle. I do not want to share a life with you. My calling to become an anchoress is a true one.”
“You cannot leave me! I will not be left alone again!” As Isabelle struggled to her knees, she grabbed the front of her robe, ripping the fabric of her dress from neck to waist and clawing deep ridges into her chest. Blood quickly filled the wounds and flowed down her body in crooked rivulets.
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