Tyrant of the Mind (4 page)

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 longer 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.”

An interesting reply, Thomas thought. It carefully evaded addressing whether carelessness, accident, or even a deliberate act had caused the death of the servant. “And the woman who so grieved over Hywel? Is she sister or wife?”

“Widow. In a fortress full of soldiers, she will not remain long without a man, but they did have young children together. Henry may not have dropped one coin into her hand, but his father has a more generous spirit. Nor would we let them starve. Nonetheless, even the promise of food in their bellies and a warm enough hearth will not chase the bitter chill of their father’s death from the hearts of those little ones this winter season.”

Thomas nodded in silence as he turned to look at Robert’s future brother-in-law. Henry was standing with the two women who had been part of the tragic morning ride. At this distance, the color of his face seemed to have cooled, but he was waving his hands with animation. Thomas bent his head in the direction of the Lavenham heir. “Not even a coin? Has he always been such a brutish man?”

“Since childhood,” Robert snapped, then he shook his head. “Forgive me, Thomas. My anger over this cruel death has unbalanced my humors and chased all impartiality away. A good man, Hywel was, and one of my brother’s companions as well as a loyal servant. Indeed, they often jested about their shared names, despite the difference in their station and ancestry. I dread sending this news to my brother while he is in the midst of a war. Hugh will grieve deeply, as do we all.” Robert hastily rubbed his eyes as if dirt had flown into them, but Thomas knew the cause was tears, not dust.

“It is true,” Robert continued. “Henry and I have never gotten on, even when we were but children together. He has always had too much choler yet he would never face anyone in a fair fight. When men are faced with differences, I do believe they must live with those they can and exchange honest blows when they cannot. Yet, had Henry been a monk who must turn the other cheek, I would have acknowledged his courage. Instead, he attacks in deceitful ways...” Robert fell silent, then added, “Perhaps it is enough to say that I have never liked Henry. Had his younger brother, George, been on this ride today instead, I do believe Hywel’s wife would be kissing her husband’s warm lips now, not bathing his dead face with her tears.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in his tone.

“Pity the latter is the second son, then.”

Robert nodded, but he seemed distracted.

“And Sir Geoffrey?” Thomas had been watching the older man stroke his horse’s neck with the rounded stump of his arm, then bend to give instructions to a groomsman for the stabling of the animal. As the horse was led away, the knight put his left glove into his mouth and yanked it off with clumsy impatience. The leather glove fell to the ground. The knight muttered an oath as he bent down, swept the glove out of the muck, and jammed it under his belt. An unexpectedly angry gesture for such a minor mishap, Thomas thought. Was the loss of his hand recent?

“He is the father of the Lady Juliana and her two brothers. A fine knight. Far more a man than Lord Henry will ever be. You see he has lost his sword hand. A sad thing.”

“In the de Montfort rebellion?”

“Not in battle. It was the result of a strange accident at a tournament,” Robert explained. “He was waiting his turn in the tiltyard when a bee apparently stung his mount. The horse threw him, then reared. The edge of the front hoof came down on Sir Geoffrey’s wrist and the bones of his hand were crushed. There was no question that it must be cut off.”

“Thus his soldiering days were ended as well.”

“For cert. But, as a man of faith might say, God smiled on him. He was a younger son who had made his living jousting when he was not fighting in the service of his king. As he lay recovering, his elder brother died of a fever and left him the Lavenham lands and title. He is now a rich man.”

Thomas watched the knight walk over to a huntsman and begin a lively discussion about Robert’s morning kill. The loss of his hand would explain why Sir Geoffrey had not joined in the early hunt. Perhaps he could still enjoy some falconry but hunting with spear or bow and arrow was out of the question. Chasing a boar or stag was far too dangerous with only one hand. Indeed, Thomas realized, there would be little pleasure left in the sport.

He thought of the angry frustration shown over the removal of a glove. Here was a rich man whose happiest days might well have been spent besting others in combat, not indoors polishing his plate and counting his coin. Sir Geoffrey was no merchant. The chance accession to the Lavenham estates may have guaranteed security and wealth for his family, Thomas decided, but he doubted it satisfied the fire in the man’s belly for the thrill of challenge and rivalry. No amount of silver plate could ever pay for the loss of a sword hand.

Although there was good reason why Sir Geoffrey had not joined in the hunt, Thomas did wonder why Henry had not gone out with Robert that morning, a rare failure for a man raised to sport against beasts as well as his own kind. Perhaps he did not care for the company of his soon-to-be brother-in-law, a man who quite clearly disliked him. Or was it the lack of courage that Robert had suggested? Indeed, boar hunting was fraught with danger, but the hunters had been lucky to find one for the table. Boars were as rare as deer. Hares were the more usual game at this time of the year. Surely Henry could have coped with the hunting of hares.

Thomas watched Sir Geoffrey, lost in tales of past hunts with the huntsman, a distant look in his eye and a more youthful grin on his lips than the gray in his beard would grant. Nay, he thought, the more likely reason was surely Henry’s sense of duty. Even a brutish son would know he must attend his father lest the elder man suffer an accident with his one-handed riding. Thomas shook his head as Sir Geoffrey and the huntsman roared with laughter over some story. ’Twas a sad state for a proud man to have fallen into, especially as he entered the waning years of his manhood.

A sharp burst of high-pitched mirth caught Thomas’ attention and he glanced back to where Henry stood with the two women. The monk had paid no heed to the women who had ridden in behind Sir Geoffrey and his son. Indeed, in the days before he had been forced to take vows, he would never have looked twice at the woman whose back was now to him. Although she was dressed well and warmly enough, her woolen cloak was without trimming and drab in color. Whether her face was as plain as her dress, he could not tell, nor did her cloak offer any hint that the body within was ample enough to give a man special joy when he rode her. He decided that she must be the maid.

The other woman, however, was buxom enough to put curves into any mantle, and her laughter once again rang through the cold morning air. Although the sound of pleasing voices was a passion of his, and the novice choir at Tyndal often dragged Thomas out of his more melancholy moods, this woman’s voice, now sweet as chapel bells, inexplicably saddened him.

Thomas shook off the feeling with an abrupt toss of his head. “May I guess that Sir Geoffrey’s better fortune includes a handsome wife as well,” he said to Robert, nodding in the direction of the lady in question. “Although why she would have such a dull maid is beyond me.” He waved his hand with a dismissive gesture toward the other woman in the more dreary dress. “Surely a woman blessed with such lush and welcoming curves would have no reason to fear competition for her lord’s affections.”

Robert chuckled. “That dull maid, good monk, is my intended bride.”

Thomas felt the heat in his cheeks burning with mortal embarrassment. “’S blood, good Robert, forgive my churlish tongue! She would have charms, but the modest cloak she wears hides them from the common gaze. You are fortunate she saves her beauty for her intended husband instead of displaying them to the crude stares of such rude men as I.”

Robert grinned at Thomas, then threw his head back with uncontrolled laughter. “Not long in the monastery are you, brother? Your words sing of both the court and the world, however hoarse your voice may be from lack of practice.” He gave Thomas a friendly jab in the ribs. “Perhaps you will favor me with tales of your conversion to the contemplative life over a goblet or two of good wine someday?” He laughed again. “You owe me that as penance for insulting the woman who will soon be my betrothed, assuming the families can ever come to agreement.”

“You have a generous heart to forgive this boorish monk, Robert. The wine and your company I’ll happily accept, but let us talk of things more interesting than my entry to the priesthood. It is but a dull story and the telling is not worth wasting a fine Gascony red just off the boat.”

Thomas glanced up through the increasing mist as the clouds that now effaced the sky began to envelop the earth. Dull the story was not, but he had no wish to recount his days in prison to this or to any man. Nor did he want to discuss the price he had paid for an act of sodomy, an act and a love he could never regret.

Robert tugged at the sleeve of his new friend’s habit as the monk remained silent, his eyes turned to the heavens. “Have you left this world, Thomas, or have you just had a vision?”

“Neither. I was just thinking that we might be in for quite the storm. Those clouds will surely bring more snow. But let me return to my question. Am I right that the woman with the Lady Juliana is Sir Geoffrey’s wife?”

The lady in question was now walking toward the main hall. His lusty jesting aside, Thomas did wonder why a happily wedded wife would look around with such suggestive boldness and walk with hips swinging so that men of any station could watch, then imagine how wildly those hips might shake the winnowing basket in the marital bed. In contrast, Robert’s soon-to-be-betrothed followed with great modesty, head bowed, some steps behind the wife.

“You assume correctly. That is the Lady Isabelle, Sir Geoffrey’s much younger second wife. As you would surely conclude from seeing the Lady Juliana and the Lord Henry, all his children are from his prior marriage.”

“Not long wed, I would guess.”

“More than a year.”

“Then I am surprised the new mare has not yet bred.”

“Aye, she has, but it came long before term. Or so she said.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I hear the hint of a tale there.”

Robert’s face flushed. “My father has always said I was too plainspoken.”

“And I might say your speech is frank, as suits an honest man.” Thomas smiled. “Tell me the story. I would know more of this family, for what you’ve told already is a sad but most compelling tale.”

Robert shrugged. “I’ll not pretend I believe all is thriving in this second marriage. You see, Sir Geoffrey’s first wife was a woman well known for her sweet nature and godly heart. I remember her from the days when the lady and her family visited us, and the memory is a fond one.” Robert’s eyes glazed with sadness. “My own mother was still alive then and was good friends with the lady. Alas, Sir Geoffrey’s wife sickened with a festering of the womb. I heard tell that he took a vow of chastity during her illness, hoping that God would restore his dear wife to health and his bed. God did not keep His part of the bargain, it seems, for the illness grew worse until she died in great pain. In quick succession after her death, Sir Geoffrey lost his hand, his brother died, and he returned to take over the estates.” The wistful look disappeared from Robert’s eyes, a brittle disdain replacing it. “Waiting for him was his young ward, the Lady Isabelle. In the time it took her to lean back and lift her robes so he could mount, she had bred a child. Out of honor, and some have said love, he married her. Then she lost the babe. She has not quickened since, and, as I have heard told, she no longer cares for his left-handed caresses. Perhaps they were sweet only before the vows and the dower she gained thereby.”

“She was a landless ward?”

“Nay, she had lands enough to tempt a husband, but there is no denying she gained far more than she was able to give from this marriage. Still, it angers me that she drew the good Sir Geoffrey into her bed with false eagerness, only to turn her back on him after the vows. A London whore would have been more honest about what she’d give for the price of her favors.”

Thomas saw the animosity flash in his friend’s eyes and decided it would be wise to shift the subject. “Methinks you will be happy with the lord’s daughter, however. She bears herself in a more seemly manner than her stepmother. Perhaps she takes after the mother who bore her?”

The anger in Robert’s eyes faded, but in the murky light of the coming storm, Thomas could not identify the new emotion that took residence there. “The Lady Juliana was a gay child, as I recall. Even Henry laughed on occasion at her precocious wit and playful spirit. That aside, George has told me she has grown cheerless since her mother’s death and her father’s all too hasty marriage. He fears that the wedded state is one she no longer desires.”