Tyrant of the Mind (5 page)

“Surely you will change her mind about the joys of marriage, Robert, if any man can.”

As Thomas turned to clout his new friend on the shoulder with encouraging affection, the expression on the man’s face stayed his hand. Robert’s glance was shifting back and forth between the two women as they walked across the open ward toward the dining hall. His gaze had turned melancholy, causing Thomas to wonder if Robert’s unhappiness was caused by Lady Juliana’s sorrow or by some other reason altogether.

Suddenly, an angry voice called out, shattering Thomas’ reflection, and he looked up to see Henry striding after his stepmother and sister.

Sir Geoffrey once again called to his son to stop, but the young man only quickened his step.

A cold shudder of premonition passed through Thomas’ body. Had Henry not heard his father’s command?

Reaching the two women, Henry grabbed Lady Isabelle by the arm, then glanced over his shoulder with a wild look of defiance at his father.

Sir Geoffrey called out again, this time ordering his son to leave the women be.

Henry did not release his stepmother. Instead, he pulled her to him in an awkward embrace. As he continued to stare at his father, a glow of triumph reddened his fair-skinned face even more than the biting wind had done. Then he quickly bent his head toward the struggling woman. She turned her face away from him.

Frozen in horror, Thomas wondered if he was trying to kiss or bite her.

Robert started forward.

Lady Juliana reached out, grabbing at her brother’s robe.

Sir Geoffrey roared in outrage. With greater speed than Thomas would have credited a man with so much gray in his beard, the father leapt toward his son like a predator after prey. In an instant, he was at his son’s side. Seizing him by the shoulder with his left hand, Sir Geoffrey spun his son around, then backhanded him across the face.

The Lady Isabelle, flung free by the violent assault, tumbled back into Juliana’s arms.

Henry fell into the snow, blood from his nose running in a rivulet down to his chin and dripping into the urine-streaked slush.

Picking his heir up by the cloak with one hand, Sir Geoffrey spat in his face and tossed him back into the muck. Then, with a quick jab of his foot to Henry’s groin, he turned and left his son writhing on the foul and freezing earth.

Thomas winced, then stepped toward the squirming figure on the ground. Henry may have richly deserved some punishment for his crass behavior, but Sir Geoffrey’s assault was brutal. Suddenly Thomas felt a hand on his sleeve, gently but firmly pulling him back.

“Let him be,” Robert said, his tone mocking and his gaze hard as iron. “He got no more than he deserved.”

Chapter Six

Thomas hastened down the stone walkway toward Richard’s chambers, shivering as he went. Even inside the walls, warmth was a relative thing. A bitter wind invaded the castle corridors through wood-shuttered windows and arrow-loops with far greater success than any human enemy ever could, and neither the spiced wine he had just drunk nor his thick woolen robe were of significant help in banishing the chill. When he had left the open ward, his feet had been numb from the ice-cold slush. Now, as feeling returned, they burned. He grumbled to himself, hugging his body with his arms and shaking uncontrollably. Without a doubt, Thomas felt utterly wretched.

However desolate Tyndal and East Anglia might be, its people surly with the damp and morose from the heavy gray clouds that weighed down a man’s soul, there was nothing quite like this bone-snapping cold for misery. Sister Anne had warned him about it just before their journey here. If a man weren’t careful, she had said, it could turn his flesh as black as charcoal and he would rot to death of it. Thomas shook his head as he stumbled with the pain in his burning feet. He did not want to see what color they might have turned.

Perhaps this northern cold also blackened souls like it did flesh? That might explain the scene between Henry and Sir Geoffrey. Yes, the son had been churlish, but the father’s response had been malicious in the extreme. Although Thomas’ own father had been remiss in displays of affection and easily distracted from his children, he had never been vicious. Yell he might have done on occasion, but never once, to Thomas’ knowledge, had the earl struck any of his offspring whatever their legitimacy. On the other hand, neither he nor his half-brothers had ever tried to assault one of his father’s wives.

Why had Henry attacked his stepmother? Thomas’ first thought was that the Lady Isabelle might have played some part in the death of the Welshman. Henry had, after all, claimed the death was not his fault, that the attendant’s horse had moved in front of his. Perhaps she had caused the Welshman’s horse to charge forward, then allowed blame to be cast at her stepson’s feet when he reacted by striking the beast. Could he have done nothing else? Was he innocent of thoughtlessness and unable to prove it?

Or had the lady perhaps taunted him during the ride, mocking his manhood because he had chosen feminine company instead of going out hunting with Robert? From what Robert had suggested and Thomas had witnessed himself, the lady enjoyed enticing hunters in an amorous chase. Perchance she had taken such a game too far with her stepson this morning?

Then there was the father’s reaction. Thomas’ first impression of Sir Geoffrey had been that of a temperate man with a gentle voice to the groom and a soft caress for his horse. Yet this moderate knight had quickly shown another side, one dark with rank malice. He recalled Sir Geoffrey’s remark expressing a wish that his son would share a place in Hell with the Welshman. What father would wish such a thing on a son? Of course there might be details, like Hywel’s friendship with the Wynethorpe heir, that Thomas knew nothing about. Perhaps Hywel had become a favored riding attendant over the years whenever Sir Geoffrey visited Wynethorpe Castle and that is why he had reacted with such fury. But to curse his son so, then kick him in the balls?

The monk shook his head. Even if the Welshman had been a special companion of the knight and his death had been caused by some petty act by Henry, surely that would not have been enough to generate such a curse nor such a strange scene between father and son. Nay, there must be some grave rift between Sir Geoffrey and Lord Henry, something that cut deeper than the understandable irritation felt by a father when an elder son showed defiance. Indeed, most fathers would not kick their sons in the balls just because the son was being churlish, any more than most sons would choose to assault their stepmothers to show their independence of a father.

Even the seemingly good Robert had countenanced Sir Geoffrey’s act, however, and that disturbed Thomas. What about the raw display of animosity that Robert had shown toward Henry? What had the man done to Robert that he would smile so on his pain and humiliation? Of course, the dead Welshman had been a valued servant to the Baron Adam as well as a companion to Robert’s elder brother. Had this been sufficient reason or was there a deeper cause? Surely, if this had been an accident, no matter how careless the act that produced it, it would have given birth to grief, but not such venom.

Nor did his prioress’ brother seem the sort to take petty childhood quarrels into manhood. Indeed, he had expressed a desire to be fair about his dislike of Henry. Had something else occurred more recently between the two, or did Robert have reason to believe Hywel’s death had not been an accident?

Thomas shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered, “I am but a guest here and none of this is my concern.” Although his curiosity was kindled, he decided that whatever lay behind the events of the morning was best left to those involved as he was not.

Thus he dismissed the incident as he approached the young Richard’s sick room and turned his wandering thoughts back to happier things. He could hardly wait to tell the boy about the hobbyhorse he was going to make him. So eager was Thomas to the task that he did not notice the rising color on the cheeks of the nurse as he brushed past her at the door.

***

“Uncle Thomas!” Richard cried out in joy when the monk entered the room.

Thomas felt tears of relief sting his eyes as he looked down at the boy’s broad smile, but he willed himself to frown with reasonable solemnity. “Not
Uncle
, but
Brother
,” he corrected, sitting with care on the thick, feather-stuffed mattress and taking the small hand in his. Richard’s face might be thin, but his cheeks had already regained a healthier shade of pink and his blue eyes sparkled with returning energy.

“You are not my brother, are you?” the boy asked with the most perplexed frown a six-year-old could muster.

“No, but…”

“Then
uncle
you are.” Sister Anne put a hand on Thomas’ shoulder and squeezed gently. He took the hint and fell silent. “When fathers are off to war,” she continued, “uncles must set their nephews tests of bravery such as the drinking of bitter draughts. Brothers do not have the age or authority.” She moved toward the bed and stroked Richard’s dark blond hair, a gesture that made the boy blush with embarrassment.

“Aye, that we do,” Thomas said, knowing that he was soon going to lose the battle to keep his expression stern. “Have you followed Sir Gawain’s example and taken the bitter drink like a good and faithful knight?”

Richard nodded enthusiastically.

Thomas glanced sideways at Sister Anne, who nodded ever so slightly in concurrence. “Then you shall be rewarded,” he said, pretending to then fall into deep thought for an appropriate length of time. “What would you say to having a noble hobbyhorse of your own? Might that be fitting recompense for your bravery, a hobbyhorse to ride through the corridors and on the ramparts when you are better and no longer need to take the foul draughts? Will that suit, do you think?”

The boy grabbed Thomas’ hand in both of his and, with surprising strength, pulled himself into a sitting position. “When, Uncle? When? When?” Despite being weakened by the just broken fever, Richard began to bounce.

Thomas put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and settled him down. “Patience! The steed must first be trained so he will be worthy of such a valiant knight as you. I promise you will have him soon.”

“Will he be black as night?”

“I think that can be arranged.”

“Will he have fiery red eyes?”

Thomas paused. “Well, now, would Sir Gawain have a horse with red eyes or great brown ones like your Uncle Robert’s hunter?”

The boy thought for a moment. “Perhaps brown would be better.”

“And white mane?”

“Yes! And leather…”

Anne put her hand on Richard’s head. “Wouldn’t you like to have some surprises left, my son? Surely this will be a fine horse, whatever his trappings, and well worth the waiting.”

The boy wrinkled his forehead, trying as hard as he could to look older than his years. Failing that, he beamed with all the dazzling joy of youth. “I will wait, Uncle. It is right that I do so.” He hesitated but a second. “Will you tell me a story now?”

Thomas rose and gestured to Anne to follow him. “That I will, but first I must discuss some very dull matters with this good sister which would be of no interest to such a knight as you. Will you rest a moment while we step outside?”

“I will, Uncle, but hurry. Please?”

As they closed the door to the boy’s room, Thomas turned to Anne and grinned. “How am I doing as a new uncle?”

“Well, indeed!” Anne laughed. “I think our lady will be much surprised to find she has yet another brother, but she will approve of your new kinship.” Her smile turned gentle as she laid a hand on his arm. “The boy brightens when you visit him, brother. He heals all the better for your presence.”

“Then he continues to mend well?” Thomas asked.

“He grows stronger by the minute,” she replied, then listened to some muffled sounds coming from the boy’s room. “If you do not return soon with the story you promised, Richard will have bounced that bed to dust with his impatience!”

Chapter Seven

Eleanor rubbed her eyes. The verbal jousting with her father had left her exhausted, as had the long days of worried attendance on her nephew. When the news of Hywel’s death came, her father had left her alone at the high table but not before ordering some food brought so she might break her fast.

The morning was now fully born, although the young light was a feeble thing and the huge dining hall where she sat facing a cup of watered wine, a manchet of white bread, and a small portion of salted fish in butter was more gray than bright. Fatigue flowed over her with greater force than the sun’s light, and the exertion needed to slice bread or chew fish suddenly seemed overwhelming. She sipped at the wine and the warmth chased away some of that weariness. Perhaps a bit of that buttered fish might be worth the effort, she thought, and she reached out to retrieve a bite from the bowl.

“Alone, my lady?” There was a hint of supplication in the voice.

Eleanor looked up at sound of the once familiar voice. Juliana had entered the hall so quietly the prioress had heard no step. Her old friend was now standing, hesitantly, at the end of the long table, her thin face as colorless as the gray hood that framed it.

“Alone, indeed,” Eleanor replied. “I fear I have just my company to offer.”

“It is only your company that I seek.”

“Will you join me in…?” Eleanor gestured at the food in front of her.

Juliana shook her head, then bowed it as if the weight was too much for her to hold upright. “You have heard the sad news about your father’s retainer?”

“Aye, I have that,” Eleanor said gently. “I will take whatever poor comfort my words may bring to the family.” She hesitated. “It was an accident, I’ve been told, but I grieve for the wife and babes he left behind.” She knew they would not starve, but even the security of knowing that would do little more than blunt one sharp edge of the pain they were suffering.

“As do I. My father swore he’d make provisions for them. He feels responsibility for Henry’s ill-considered act that caused the horse to shy.” She shuddered. “Nonetheless, his family will long rue this horrible day.”

Where was that joy that once gave light to her friend’s eyes and a flush to her cheeks, Eleanor wondered with a growing sadness. Juliana had always had a kind heart and suffered over the death of any of God’s creatures, but her nature had been such that she had always quickly regained a delight in life, a joy that was contagious even to those who suffered the many sorrows of a mortal world. What was it, then, that had cast such a shadow on the spirit of her old playmate?

“Would you walk with me on the ramparts this morning, Juliana?” Eleanor asked. “The sight of a new day may help raise our spirits, and it has been many years since we last spoke. We have much to tell each other.”

“I would be honored,” Juliana replied, her voice almost a whisper.

“Come then and let us greet the sun. It is God’s gift even in the dark seasons,” Eleanor said and reached out to take her friend’s hand. It felt so frail and dry, like that of an aged woman nearing death. She squeezed it with tenderness.

***

High on the castle wall, the air was biting sharp to the nostrils and brought pink to the cheeks of the two women standing quietly on the stone walkway. As they looked down over the dark-wooded valley, they could see mists swirling, hiding sights from view for a moment and exposing them with teasing brevity the next. White smoke from a few of the village houses, below the hill on which Wynethorpe rose, curled upward and disappeared into the growing haze. Wives were tending stews and baking breads to sustain their men and babes over the cold day. In the center of the village, surrounded by hovels, lay a small church. The women on the castle ramparts could see a cluster of diminutive figures, dull with the colors of poverty, coming for alms as well as for the fat-soaked trenchers and discarded scraps from the dinner the castle inhabitants had enjoyed the night before. Although they could not see them through the mists, Eleanor and Juliana knew that cattle wandered in the fields between the village and the forest in search of winter-faded grass beneath the snow. Dark-haired goats stood on their hind legs to nibble on low branches and brindled sheep huddled together for warmth. Indeed, they could hear their bleating cries through the frosty air. At such a distance and with the softening of the hazy light, it was an idyllic scene.

“I have a favor to beg of you, my lady,” Juliana began, her breath turning into white curls like the outline of decorative letters in an illuminated manuscript.

Eleanor smiled at her. “My lady? Have you forgotten our youth together? We were Eleanor and Juliana once.”

“Now you are head of Tyndal Priory. As prioress, I honor you.”

“The honor is my father’s. I wear it on his behalf.”

For the first time, Juliana smiled. “From what we hear, you have earned enough on your own. George has told us how many at court sing of your wisdom and bravery.” She reached over and touched Eleanor’s arm. “He sends greetings and, aye, a brother’s love as well.”

“Were his greetings why you wished to speak to me alone?” Eleanor asked. She felt a knot of worry in her stomach. If George was sending a brother’s love, she told herself, that was a good sign. Perhaps he had forgiven her? Perhaps he had even married by now?

“No, my lady, but he would not have you think he had forgotten you.”

Eleanor smiled, but her friend’s words were not exactly the news she had hoped to hear. “Then tell him I send him my greetings and affection as a sister would to her dear brother.”

“He will be honored, my lady.”

For a moment Eleanor let the silence hang between them. She watched her friend’s eyes turn dark with sorrow. What little joy had briefly taken residence when she spoke of her brother now more quickly fled.

“May I speak from my heart.” Juliana blinked as if to hold back tears. “I have no wish to offend. You must believe that.”

“Speak, Juliana, and I will listen to your heart with my own.”

“Then I must tell you that I have no desire to marry your brother.” She stopped. Her face lost what color only the brisk air had brought to it.

Eleanor took her friend’s hand. How thin Juliana had grown in the years since she had last seen her. Her gray woolen robe fell straight down from her shoulders to just above her shoe tops with no hint of a woman’s curves underneath. She had always been a slender and lithesome lass, but now she looked as fragile as a dry twig. Had illness done this to her, madness perhaps, or was it the grief her father had suggested?

“You may say what you will. I promised I would listen out of the love and friendship between us,” she said at last.

Juliana squeezed Eleanor’s hand, the grip reassuringly strong. “Robert is a fine man, a man any woman would be honored to wed.” She looked down, her voice fading to a whisper. “Please believe me when I say I know our marriage would not only give Robert the wealth he deserves but would provide me with a good husband as well. He would treat me with respect, even if he did not love me, and the alliance with your family would give honor to mine.” With that, Juliana buried her face in her hands and began to weep, her sobs racking her delicate body.

Eleanor pulled the woman into her arms and rocked her like a child until the crying subsided. Then she drew back and wiped the tears from her friend’s eyes. “Juliana, I am wed to Our Lord and have never been a wife in the earthly sense. Perhaps you need to talk to an older woman who has had joy in her husband…”

“You! It is you to whom I must speak!”

“Then I will listen,” Eleanor said, as the deluge of hot tears began again and her friend buried her head into the prioress’ shoulder.

“I do not wish to marry at all!” The voice was muffled, but there was no mistaking the determination in it.

“I know the dangers, if those cause you worry. My own mother died in childbed, and I would be false if I did not tell you that you would suffer pain in becoming any man’s wife. Nonetheless, Robert is a kind man and will be gentle in taking your maidenhead. Pain is a part of our lives as children of sin, but God gives joy too. There is no reason not to believe He would give you both as much happiness as anyone can expect on earth. You and my brother are as well matched in your manners and wit as you are in your estate. I do believe you could be very happy together, and Robert would provide good stewardship of the land you brought to the marriage...”

“My lady, I do not dread bedding with a man nor is it childbirth that I fear.” Juliana laughed, but the sound was brittle. “There is greater pain than the loss of a maidenhead or the hard labor of birthing an heir. Indeed I will confess to you that I am unwomanly and do not long for either a man or a babe in my arms, but that would be insufficient reason to refuse marriage with your brother. As you have said, he and I would be well-matched and deep affection would surely grow in our hearts for each other. We are both quite sensible about our prospects and responsibilities in this world, and we are each wise enough to be kind one to the other.”

Eleanor stepped back and looked at the white-faced woman at arm’s length, then she pushed back the cowl that had covered her friend’s head and ran her hand across the rough stubble of blond hair. “Then tell me why you have cut your hair thus, Juliana?”

“As I said, my lady, there is greater pain than the loss of a maidenhead. I speak of what the soul feels, stinking with mortal frailties and standing at the fiery pit of Hell, longing to know, aye, even to
understand
the perfect and all-forgiving love of God.”

“Are you telling me that you wish to enter a convent?”

“Not just any convent. I have a harsh calling.” She quickly put a finger against Eleanor’s lips as the prioress began to speak. “Nay, I care not for the degrees of strictness in enclosure between, say, a Benedictine house and one of the Cistercian Order. Such distinctions are but petty. My longing is for a life far harder than that. I desire a hermit’s cell apart from other mortals where I may spend my life as an anchoress and ponder the complexity of God’s love. Whatever wisdom He grants me, I will pass on to others who, like me, beg for such understanding.”

Eleanor watched as Juliana’s brown eyes turned almost black. She shivered, but knew the cause was something other than a gust of cutting wind. “How may I help, my child?”

Juliana threw herself on her knees and raised her hands in supplication. “I beg you to support my plea before the bishop. I want to be entombed as an anchoress. At Tyndal, Eleanor. Will you have me?”