“And allowed her stepmother to call forth witnesses while you held the dagger with your hands stained with Henry’s blood? Did you not wonder why she did not quickly come to your defense?”
Robert shrugged. “I did doubt my conclusions for a time, then wondered if perhaps her stepmother had heard their argument and had done the deed to save her. Not knowing what had happened, I still felt honor bound to stay silent for the protection of both women.” His face flushed with embarrassment. “In truth, Thomas, I do not always understand the minds of women. I deal better with oxen, sheep, and the occasional goat.”
Thomas smiled. “Juliana did claim she had killed her brother later, but it was Isabelle who seemed to deflect the evidence of guilt on to you in the beginning.” He nodded toward where Isabelle stood. “You could hate her for that.”
“Why, brother? Are we not to forgive those who trespass against us? I am not swinging with cracked neck from a hangman’s noose, and the Lady Isabelle has lost a good husband. I think she will suffer greater pain than I and has certainly lost far more.”
Indeed, Thomas thought, Robert would have made a fine monk, had the man chosen such a calling. Such he had not, however, and the monastic life did not tempt him. Briefly Thomas wondered if Robert had been in the hall the night of Henry’s murder on his way to seek his father’s counsel, as he claimed, or had succumbed to the temptation of Isabelle’s bed. Just as quickly he dismissed the question. The answer no longer mattered. “You are a better man than I,” he said aloud, “and one who deserves a fine wife. Will you now grieve over your lost love?”
“As I said to you some days ago,” Robert said, his voice sad, “Juliana and I were suited, but neither of us, it seems, felt any passion for the union. I told her she was free to pursue her vocation and wished her well in it. My father agreed.” Robert laughed. “Although he did grind his teeth over the loss of lands.”
“I will miss your wit.”
“And I yours. I have not forgotten, however, that you owe me for your insults against my former betrothed. Do not think that you will escape the payment in wine and good tales of your past that you promised as amends.”
“I promise you wine and to tell you tales, Robert,” Thomas said, choosing his words with care.
“Until then, fare thee well, brother, and keep my sister safe. Violence seems to have more fondness for her company than is proper for anyone of either sex.” Robert reached up and briefly took Thomas’ hand, his grasp gentle but his hand rough to the touch.
Robert was a countryman, Thomas thought, hard on the outside but loyal and loving in his heart. Perhaps he was himself finally growing more tolerant of the country himself, as well as becoming a more docile priest. He looked up at the high, gray sky. Docile indeed. Had he not, after all, gone along with the lie his prioress wished him to tell to bring forth the truth of the murder? Had he not remained silent when he suspected the baron of…? Nay, he said to himself, now was not the time to ponder all that. He’d save such thoughts for the long ride back to Tyndal.
Thomas looked back down at the brother of his prioress and grinned. “I promise to do so to the best of my ability, Robert, but she does follow her own mind about what she does and where she goes.”
***
As Robert walked away, Sister Anne, not quite as comfortably settled on her donkey as Thomas was on his horse, looked up at the monk. “You look sad, brother,” she said, nodding at the retreating figure. “Will you miss his company so much?”
He smiled, but his eyes now glistened with imminent tears. “I will miss Robert as a friend, sister, but the one I shall regret leaving most is Richard.”
Anne reached over and patted Thomas’ horse, which was the closest thing to the monk she could touch with any ease. “And he shall miss you, your fine tales, and your great skills in the breeding of hobbyhorses. But grieve not. I have heard our prioress invite the boy to Tyndal for a visit after the weather warms.”
“I look forward to seeing him chase monsters down the halls of the priory.” Thomas looked over at the boy, who was standing with his hobbyhorse and talking to a tall soldier who stood next to him. Richard and Thomas had already said their good-byes, and the monk had felt as much reluctance on the boy’s part as his to end the hug. “Indeed, it may seem strange for a monk to say this, but I quite love the lad as if he were my own son.”
“Not strange at all, brother. His nature is sweet and he has quite won my heart too.” For a moment a deep and inexplicable sadness slipped across her face, then she brightened as she continued. “As to exercising his dragon hunting prowess in the halls of Tyndal,” she smiled as she pointed to Thomas’ head, “he may find you make a fine dragon with all that red hair of yours, although your skills at making hobbyhorses may save your life. The boy will not be parted from the one you gave him, and I am sure he will bring Gringolet with him on his visit. By then, the boy should have many tales of their brave exploits together in the hunting of fantastical beasts.”
“Richard is hero enough at Wynethorpe Castle. His fame for exposing a murderer and saving his Uncle Robert has spread from stone wall to wooden gate. He needn’t tell tales, only the truth.”
“You do sound like a proud father! Nay, blush not, brother. Such a feeling is nothing to feel shame over.”
Thomas smiled down at the nun. “I am only a doting uncle, but I have heard how the Lord Hugh does love him and how he brought his son into his family with joy; therefore, I know his real father will feel much pride in his son when he hears of his deeds this winter.”
Anne watched as he turned his gaze to the south and, not for the first time, caught herself thinking on what his past had been. She was fond of Thomas and had never pried into the life he’d led before coming to Tyndal, but she worried when dark clouds drifted across his eyes as they did now. If she knew more about him, she thought, perhaps she could offer a comfort she had been unable to give heretofore.
“I cannot help wondering how he could have borne separation from the boy, even knowing he’d be well cared for,” he continued.
“I suspect in much the same way you do as you leave him, brother. You must return to your duties to God at Tyndal. The Lord Hugh’s duty took him with Prince Edward on crusade. I doubt either of you grieves less at leaving this dear lad.”
“Do you not think it odd that a monk should love a child so? I swear I have no desire for one of my own…”
“Are you telling me that you did not beget any children before you came to us?” Anne asked, giving him a teasing but openly appraising look.
“I did not, sister, but I confess it was not for lack of trying.” Thomas returned frankness with frankness, then grinned. How grateful he was for the friendship of this forthright nun.
“That, I never doubted!”
“But now…” His eyes turned sad.
“One does not doff love with the donning of a monkish cowl, brother. Sometimes we enter the contemplative life to better understand the many manifestations of that emotion.” Anne nodded at the figure of Juliana standing far behind Baron Adam and well apart from everyone with her head bowed. “There stands such a seeker.”
“Do you think she will find the object of her search?”
“May we all find what we desire,” Anne replied, her pensive gaze resting on the monk.
Thomas looked at the Lady Juliana. As he did, she raised her head and smiled at him. He was startled. Her expression was kind enough, but her eyes were as dark as they had been that day on the parapet when he thought her mad.
Was she? He shifted uneasily in his saddle. Assuming all the secular and religious parties agreed, this woman would be coming to Tyndal, and he would be her confessor as part of his duties to the priory. As he thought about it, he knew that likelihood should have made him more apprehensive than it did. Instead, the prospect was oddly comforting. So Thomas smiled back at Juliana, then continued to study her as she lowered her head and became, once again, a solitary figure standing apart as if waiting pa
tiently for something to happen.
***
As they, too, said their farewells, the baron bent close to his daughter’s ear.
“You shock me, daughter,” Adam said, his voice low and hoarse.
“I do not condemn, father.”
He stood back, arms folded. “You are dedicated to God. How can you not?”
“My vocation does not mean I am less a sinner. As such, I have no right to cast stones.”
“You might as well have. You suggest I have committed a very grave sin. Whether or not you condemn me, the Church would surely judge me harshly for it,” he retorted. “Thus your accusation is as cruel as the wound of any stone cast.”
“Father, I intend no cruelty, and the Church’s judgment is what your confessor deems proper penance.” Eleanor glanced briefly at the auburn-haired Brother Thomas some distance behind. A sigh escaped her. God might condemn her passion for the monk, but for the loyalty he had shown her family and the love he had given so freely to her nephew, she loved him more. Why was she so cursed? She shook her head and turned back to the baron. “Since I am still in my youth, there are many sins I have not yet been tempted to commit. Others, I have. None of us may say what we will or will not do until we are faced with the choice. If we make hard choices with a good heart, God may perhaps deal more gently with us.”
“Something your Aunt Beatrice would say.”
“Perhaps, but do you still deny what I have suggested?”
“A hungry dog with a bone, you are!”
“Why is that? Do I not remind you of someone, father?”
“Your mother.”
“If you will,” Eleanor said, thinking somewhat otherwise. “And how often was she right to pursue a steady course?”
“Often.” He looked down, avoiding his daughter’s eyes. “Usually.”
“Then I am right, am I not? After Sir Geoffrey confessed to Brother Thomas, you came to your old friend, and, in a gesture of mercy, reopened the wound so he would bleed to death. He had neither to face the hangman nor condemn his soul by the taking of his own life. A reopening of the wound would not be uncommon with so grievous an injury. Who would even question such a thing, especially after the distress he suffered when his wife and daughter each confessed to the crime he had committed?”
“Knowing such could happen, why accuse me, or anyone, of deliberately reopening it?”
“Because the rewrapping of the bandages did not quite match Sister Anne’s careful work. She knew from the way they were redone that he could not have tied them so with only one hand and it was certainly not how she had done it. You were the last to see Sir Geoffrey and the one who forbade anyone from entering his room, until he would have died.” She gazed at her father for a long minute. “Father, remember that I am her prioress to whom she owes allegiance. In truth, she is a loyal friend as well. She spoke only to me about this, and, as you should know, I would never betray you.”
Adam turned his face away and said nothing.
“Sir Geoffrey was not an evil man,” Eleanor said quietly. “In Satan’s quest for souls, he had bound a cloth of green about your dear friend’s eyes. All he could see was tinged with jealousy, yet even in his blinded state, he struggled to do the right thing. He tried to save Robert’s life at the cost not only of his own life but that of his soul. Perhaps as Sir Geoffrey struck the killing blow at his son, he did so less out of jealousy than out of love for his wife. He may well have deserved punishment for the killing of his son, but your way of sending him to God’s judgment may have been the kinder act than the hanging and humiliation he would surely have faced. Who is to say that your way was less just? Men, convicted of crimes, are sent from this world to face God by equally mortal and imperfect men who may err in both judgment and punishment. The only perfect judgment is God’s, and, as we speak, Sir Geoffrey is facing both that judgment and His mercy.”
Adam looked at his daughter. “I had heard tales at court of your talented leadership of Tyndal, daughter, but I confess I discounted some as exaggerated for the sake of flattery. Now I must say that, had you been born male, your wits might well have found a welcome in the courts of kings. For a woman, your view of justice is quite practical, yet,” he said with gentle tone, “it is tinged with a woman’s kindness.”
“At Amesbury I did learn that God’s justice may not always be the same as Man’s. I shall not take credit for the wisdom of others.”
“If I did commit the act you suggest, what do you think I will suffer for my crime?”
“That is between you and your confessor.”
“As you have mentioned confessors, I must tell you that since Father Anselm has been so gravely ill and will not recover for some time…”
“…you found another priest when you felt the need to cleanse your soul of whatever sins were oppressing you. Indeed, Brother Thomas was a good choice for, like all of us who love you, he will take any secrets far from Wynethorpe Castle and bury them at the altar in the priory of Tyndal.”
“I appreciate your kindness in allowing me to use him as confessor while he was here. Indeed, I found the compassion of your handsome Brother Thomas formed much in same mold as that of his prioress.”
Eleanor felt her face flush. “He has proven himself to be invaluable at Tyndal. I could not replace him.”
“So I see, my child,” her father retorted, raising one eyebrow.
“Father!”
“I would not dream of casting a stone, my daughter. What I think will be kept hidden away in my heart, buried deep into the profound love and respect I bear you,” Baron Adam replied, then he reached over, clasped his daughter’s hand in his, and kissed it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In good time, Father Anselm did recover, gaining sufficient strength to return to his duties as priest to the soldiers and residents of Wynethorpe Castle, where, it is said, he continued to counsel all and sundry against the eating of meat and the sins of excess bathing. Never again did he chase young boys riding hobbyhorses down dark corridors, although he did mention from time to time that he might have had just the smallest part in solving the mystery of Lord Henry’s murder.
Juliana and Isabelle remained as Baron Adam’s guests until the road to the Lavenham estates was passable. When the women did at last return to their home, Juliana immediately petitioned the bishop to allow her admission to Tyndal as an anchoress. At the same time she begged her brother, now Sir George of Lavenham, to give both his blessing and financial support so that she might enter Tyndal with honor.
Despite his reluctance to lose a much loved sister to such an austere life, he granted both pleas, and, when his sister was given approval to enter the priory from both Eleanor and the bishop, Sir George sent her off with tears and a generous dowry. Included with his gifts was a letter in which he sent most courteous and quite brotherly affection to Juliana’s new prioress, although Eleanor detected just a hint of wistfulness in his words.
Of the Lady Isabelle, little more is recorded, although the bishop’s register does show that she, shortly after Juliana left for Tyndal, formally took the mantle and ring of a vowess, never to marry again.
There was kept amongst the miscellaneous papers of Tyndal, however, a letter from Sir George of Lavenham to the Prioress Eleanor which was written many years after Isabelle took that vow. In it, he told the prioress that Isabelle did indeed still live. After the young widow had taken her vow of chastity, she locked herself into self-imposed imprisonment in a tower room in Sir George’s castle. She had since aged much, he wrote with apparent sadness, and was seen only rarely except by the woman who served her. On those occasions when she allowed him to visit her, he noted how bent her back had grown and how her eyes had dulled to a milky blue. She said little when he came, refusing to sit or allow him to do so, and silently gazed out the only window in her room, a window that faced toward Tyndal Priory.
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