Eleanor glanced at the elderly maid and noted a glimmer of sympathy before the woman quickly turned away. If this aged one has served the baron’s wife for many years, the prioress thought, the Lady Margaret may be a kind mistress who inspires affection. Now quite dismayed by her initial, unsympathetic impression, her heart softened with greater compassion.
“When our eldest died of a fever, the priest reminded me that one child’s death was an expected sorrow, more were common enough. At least we had had joy of him until he was old enough to take on a man’s burdens, the man of God said.” Her lips curled with contempt. “Must this bring us comfort, even happiness?”
Eleanor bit her lip and refused to concur with such icy consolation as the baron’s wife seemed to expect from her. Instead, she tilted her head in a gesture of commiseration.
“After much prayer, I softened my stubborn despair, although the memory of my boy refuses to fade.” She shot a glance at the prioress. Her look now held more anguish than ire. “Is that my sin? Does God punish me for refusing to rejoice in my lad’s release from wicked mortal flesh?”
“If God marks the fall of a sparrow, He surely mourns the death of any mother’s child.” Eleanor grieved that a woman might conclude that God deemed her maternal sorrow to be without reason.
The baron’s wife blinked, then her lips twisted with renewed bitterness. “When my husband arrived home, four sons still greeted him.”
Hearing the pitch of the woman’s voice rise, Eleanor was alarmed at the force of her enmity.
Lady Margaret spun around and threw her cup of Ypocras against the rough wall. The metal clanged in discordant protest. Splattered wine painted the stones crimson.
As if Death had just entered the room, Eleanor trembled.
The servant bent to retrieve the cup, then fell to her knees and took a cloth to the dark puddles of liquid.
Covering her eyes, Margaret gasped for breath. “Forgive me, Prioress Eleanor! I have never before railed against God, even while my lord fought the Infidel and I endured bitter chastity in an icy bed. When my eldest died, I did not curse Him but learned to pray that my son would find favor amongst the angels. I may be a flawed and sinful woman, but neither am I more wicked than others of my sex.”
Eleanor murmured sympathy, words she knew to be inadequate in the face of so much pain.
“I came to my lord with an unbroken maidenhead, bore sons, and sated my lust only with my husband. Tell me where I have sinned so grievously that I deserve more anguish than any mother ought to suffer!”
“Remember the story of Job, whom God first blessed above all other men and then burdened with more curses than any shameless sinner. This man also suffered the death of all his children. Afterward, God touched his flesh until there was not a spot on his body where a festering boil did not weep. Yet Job cursed God not and was rewarded with even greater wealth and more children for his faith.”
“Job was a saint,” Margaret hissed. “And his wife remained fruitful and bore other children because he slept with her. My sons are dying. My lord refuses to share our marriage bed. Now my courses begin to fail me.” She turned away. “Our old midwife says this is a sure sign that my womb grows barren and shall soon fail to provide the nourishment needed for a man’s seed.” A thick tear wove a torturous route down her cheek. “She has given me fennel but…”
“Are you not still blessed with two living sons?”
Raising her eyes heavenward, Margaret began to wail.
Eleanor wished she could have taken back what she had just said. Walking to the weeping mother, she laid a comforting arm on hers. “My words were thoughtless but not meant to be unkind. There is no child’s death that does not cut away part of a mother’s heart.”
“Our former priest said I must forget the dead ones.” Margaret spat out this advice as if the words were made of wormwood. “My firstborn had time to confess before he died, but the soul of my Roger may be in Hell. He drowned without making peace with God. Had that priest been alive yesterday, he would have claimed the same fate for my Gervase, blaming him for his own death.”
“In Hell? Surely not with a priest in residence to urge him to frequent confession!” The full meaning of Margaret’s words about Gervase now struck Eleanor. She stepped back in shock. “Do you believe your son’s death yesterday was a deliberate act of self-murder?” She looked at Margaret’s face.
The lady turned away.
Eleanor shivered and reached down to retrieve her drink. The warmth of the Ypocras had dissipated, and she set the cup back on the table. “What has led you to think that the fall was no accident?” she whispered.
Beginning to shake uncontrollably, the baron’s wife said, “Your priest may have rescued my son’s soul. He tried.”
Eleanor urged Margaret to sit, then gestured for the servant to reheat the wine with the poker near the fire.
The earthy smell of cloves mixed with sweet cinnamon filled the air.
Taking the cup herself, the prioress put it into the lady’s hands and braced them so the mother could sip. “Drink a bit more,” Eleanor said and waited until natural color had returned to Margaret’s face.
“I was there,” the lady whispered.
Eleanor ached with compassion.
“My husband’s nephew was with me. Leonel and I stood in the corridor just outside this room, looking out the window. Since we knew your party was expected to arrive before nightfall, we wished to greet you below as soon as you rode up.”
And why was the baron not with his wife, waiting for their guests to arrive? The question flashed in her mind, despite the tension of this moment, and Eleanor was perplexed. It was a strange discourtesy from a man who had asked such a great favor from them all.
“My son called to us from the stairwell. We watched him approach.” Margaret put a hand over her heart, her widened eyes signifying she was reliving the event. “He staggered, laughed and shouted nonsense, as if he had drunk too deeply of wine.”
“Was this common with your son?”
“Boys, learning to be men, often do, but my son was neither very temperate nor too fond of unwatered wine. To see him drunk that early in the day was a surprise. Leonel was as shocked as I and whispered that he would take his cousin off to bed before he disgraced himself. He swore he would discover the cause for this behavior.”
“Your nephew is close to his cousins?”
“He has lived with us for many years. He was like an elder brother to my sons and was well-loved by them before he left for Outremer with my lord. If anyone could have persuaded my son to sleep off his indulgence before exposing himself to ridicule, it was Leonel. His heart is as kind as his manner is firm.”
“So your nephew went to your son…”
“He called out, telling Gervase that he must show manliness, that even angels would be angered if he failed to do so. My son replied that he had sworn an oath and would honor it, then slid onto the bench of the window seat. Leonel turned to ask me if I knew what his cousin meant, thinking my son had promised me something. When he did, my son leaned out of the window. He spread his arms and shouted that God had made men masters over birds. He would fly with the mews. Leonel and I stared at him in confusion, then my boy went head first out of the window. I screamed.”
Eleanor knelt by Margaret and took the forgotten cup from her hands.
“As my son fell, I saw his face from the window where I stood. For an instant, he was joyful, then understood he was falling to his death. He screamed for help. I reached out. Leonel dragged me back, fearing I would leap after my boy. The last thing I remember is Gervase’s horrible shriek…”
Margaret grasped the prioress’ hands with a painful grip.
Pulling the woman into her arms, Eleanor whispered words of comfort she knew were not heard. Perhaps it mattered not what she said as long as the sound of her voice silenced the memory of the son’s howl as he plummeted downward, knowing his body must shatter on the unyielding earth below.
&nb
sp; “He did not mean it! He did not,” Margaret cried out.
Surely Gervase did not intend to kill himself, Eleanor thought, but there was something wrong about what had happened. If the young man did not make a habit of drinking too much, why had he chosen this time to get drunk? She knew that mothers were often willfully unaware of their sons’ vices. Perhaps the lady suffered this loving blindness. It was a question best answered by someone else who knew the habits of these family members and owned a clearer eye.
In any case, too much wine might cause men to do foolish things, but rarely did it make a man believe he had been gifted with impossible flight. And what oath had the son sworn? Was that pertinent to his actions or were his words meaningless babble? There were too many oddities for her to set aside. Eleanor grew increasingly puzzled.
For now, her duty lay in giving what comfort she could. Later she would speak with her brother. Perhaps he knew more that would settle her uneasy questions. Barring that, the baron’s plea for help might contain a detail that would explain why this family had been so burdened with this much tragedy.
Chapter Six
Thomas walked out of the corridor’s grey light and down a step into the small family chapel located on the floor above the Great Hall.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, shapes slowly formed. He sought the one owned by a frightened son but saw no one at all. The only sound came from the wind whistling through the tiny barred window high in the stone wall.
How odd, he thought, looking around this place dedicated to God’s worship. The baron’s family had been long graced by God with wealth, yet the altar was made of grey stones, little different from those forming the walls of the castle and not even more finely chiseled. The thick beams in the low ceiling lacked any carving or painted images. The floor was laid with wood, roughly hewn. Only the cross on the altar suggested a donor who wished to share his worldly fortune with God. The bright gold glittered in the thin shaft of dim light.
This austerity seemed at odds with a man whose actions suggested a rigorous faith. Baron Herbert had not only felt compelled to take the cross but unlike many of his rank, also promptly honored the vow and spent several years in Outremer. Yet this chapel resembled a monk’s cell in its plainness. Men of fewer means or even less faith filled God’s house with greater riches than he had done.
Thomas frowned, then reminded himself that he had not come to find fault with decoration but to seek the baron’s son. Peering around again at the chapel, he saw no alcoves or hidden corners. There seemed no place for a man to hide. Perhaps the heir had recovered his courage and rejoined the family in their quarters.
Someone sneezed.
Thomas saw movement in a small gap between altar and wall. “I accompanied Sir Hugh of Wynethorpe, a friend of Baron Herbert,” he said, “and reside at Tyndal Priory where I serve Prioress Eleanor and God.”
There was no response.
Thomas waited.
“Prove you are no imp.”
The monk brushed back his hood and raised both hands, his open palms facing the cross. “If you can see me, you will observe that I own neither horns nor hooves.” That he could honestly claim. In his opinion, there were men with tonsures and soft hands who served Satan better than any imp. Thomas did try not to be one of them.
“Approach the altar and honor the cross on which God’s son was crucified.”
He accomplished that in three steps, then knelt, crossed himself, and clearly recited a prayer.
“What is your name?”
“Brother Thomas of the Order of Fontevraud. I have learned of your brother’s death and bring God’s consolation for the grief you suffer.”
“Remain where you are.” A man pulled himself up by the side of the altar. Clutching the stone as if unable to stand otherwise, he peered without blinking at the monk.
“And you are called Umfrey?”
The man grunted in response, then squeezed his thin body through the narrow space until he got to the front of the altar. Sliding into a crouch on the floor, his right hand reached back to touch the stone as if seeking reassurance that he still had God’s protection.
“How did you know where I was?” With only a couple of feet separating the two men, the son’s musty sweat was rank and potent.
“I learned that you had come to pray for your brother’s soul.” A small lie but a kind one, Thomas thought. The man mending the harness in the bailey had called Umfrey a coward, hiding in a chapel when he should have taken a sword to do battle with Satan’s army. Whether the son had come here out of fear or devotion, the monk knew he must be pleading to God for something while he was in His sanctuary.
Baron Herbert’s current heir whimpered.
“The prayers of two men are stronger than those of one.”
“If this family is to escape the Devil’s grip, we shall need all of England to kneel on our behalf!”
“You believe the Prince of Darkness has chosen your family for special torment?”
“Satan has most certainly taken residence here since my father’s return.”
Did Umfrey believe the baron had brought the Evil One with him? That would be an unusual accusation against a man who had taken the cross, Thomas thought. “Why conclude such a thing?” The answer, he hoped, would be illuminating.
“The last honest death in this place, Brother, was that of our eldest brother who died of a winter fever when my father was in Acre.” Umfrey began rubbing the altar with the back of his outstretched hand. “After our father’s return, my third oldest brother drowned. Some say that Roger’s death was an accident. Others whisper self-murder, but I don’t agree with that. Now the second son, Gervase, has fallen from a window, shouting that he could fly.” He snorted. “Fly like some bird? Would it not be unnatural for a man to emulate a soulless creature? God would never allow such a thing. The Devil must have promised it. Surely you would agree, even though you know nothing of us?”
“I might well.” Thomas had not learned enough to conclude anything, but he did not want to cut short further confidence when the son seemed so eager to talk.
“My brother, who died yesterday, had hoped to serve the Church before he became heir. Do you think it likely that such a man would claim he could fly like one of Satan’s imps? There is too much evidence that God has forsaken us! Although my father served Him in Outremer, he now avoids honorable light and walks abroad only in Satan’s hours. That must be a sign too.”
The monk nodded encouragement.
“As for my brother who drowned, he was afraid of the sea. He neither swam nor went out in any boat. Had he not been too young, he might have begged to go with our father on crusade, but only if he could have taken a land route. His worst dreams involved spending an eternity bobbing in some hellish lake. Why would he go near enough water to drown in it? Self-murder is a false conclusion. The only logical explanation for his act is that evil rules here.”
Although Thomas was inclined to agree that something troubling was happening, he knew that men often did strange things out of fear, grief, or guilt. We are rarely reasonable when our fondest hopes are dashed, he thought.
In this instance, the heir had longed to serve God. The third may have desired, with equal fervor, to avoid that vocation. As one who had once lost all he loved, Thomas understood how despair might so ravage a man that the torments of Hell seemed mild compared to the agony suffered on earth. He would venture the question.
“Might both your brothers have suffered a profound grief, a sorrow so dark that it drove them to self-murder?”
“They had no reason to commit such a vile sin! Roger may not have had a calling to serve God, while Gervase did, but some satisfactory resolution with our father’s blessing could have been reached. It is true that he never granted them any audience after his return, but I see no rational cause for them to despair. Leonel was always ready to help us. Nay, the only conclusion is that the Prince of Darkness has put this castle under a spell, and God allows it b
ecause we have gravely displeased Him.”
Thomas’ attention was caught by one remark. “You say that your father did not speak to those two sons after his return from Acre. How could he have ignored his heir?”
“They never spoke together. None of us did.”
“Was there some quarrel?”
Umfrey folded his arms, although his back still pressed against the altar stones. “On the day our father returned to English soil, he sent word ahead that separate quarters must be prepared for him. When he rode into the bailey, he bowed to our mother but refused her welcoming embrace. As for his sons, he dismissed us without so much as a blessing and has since denied all pleas for any audience. There was no occasion for any disagreement to take place, Brother. All four of us, Gervase excepted, were mere boys when he first left us.”
Thomas was mystified. To say that no quarrel had occurred was ridiculous. Something must have happened to make the baron shun all contact with his family, whether or not the event occurred before he arrived home. Rather than argue, the monk opted to remark on the obvious difficulty in this situation: “Your father must communicate with someone, else his orders and wishes could not be honored. Perchance his steward?”
“Only to Leonel. Our cousin gives orders to the servants and takes messages to our father when need requires. When a reply is requested, he brings it. As always, he shows kindness by the swift delivery of our particular wishes.”
“And this cousin has been long with you?”
“Since the death of his own father. He is older than all of us, excepting the eldest, and took the cross with our father. He fought in Outremer with distinction.”
Thomas frowned. What had caused Baron Herbert to behave in such a strange way? Was it fear that someone in his family might wish him harm? Or was all this due to either a misunderstanding or true quarrel? There was yet a third concern. Although he hesitated to suggest such a thing about a man who had vowed to recover Jerusalem, he knew he must ask.
“Do you think your father is possessed?”
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