Tyrant of the Mind

by Priscilla Royal

  He glanced around at those currently picking at their food. The prioress was staring into the distance, a small piece of cheese raised halfway to her mouth, then forgotten as her thoughts took precedence over eating. Sister Anne was sitting with her hands resting on either side of her trencher, her eyes lowered as if in prayer. The faces of both women showed the weariness of caring for a silent boy and an even more silent Anselm. The baron was audibly grinding his teeth on the tough stew meat. The Lady Isabelle had refused all solid food and was now into her third cup of wine. Juliana had touched nothing.

  To make matters worse, Thomas had noted a change that evening as he walked from chapel to dining hall. Softness had crept into the air that boded well for warmer bones but ill for a man accused of murder. The storm was showing signs of abating, the snow would melt, and that meant a messenger could be sent for the sheriff all too soon.

  He broke off a slice of the cheese on his trencher and swallowed it, this time letting the rich flavor fill his mouth with some pleasure as he watched Isabelle and Juliana look over at each other, briefly and at the same time. Neither smiled. Isabelle turned away and gulped more of her wine. Juliana lowered her head and closed her eyes.

  If anyone were lost in prayer, Thomas decided, it would be this woman. Sister Anne, however devout she might be, had learned to nap while seeming to be awake after all her years caring for the sick. She could be doing so now for all he knew, but not the Lady Juliana. He sighed. Tyndal might benefit more from her being there than she would from residing at the priory.

  She could truly be a saint. Priories often prospered with such in residence, whether in the shape of a living being or in the bonier form of a relic. The long line of eager penitents begging for her touch or wise words would shatter her solitude. And if she were mad rather than a saint? Well then, she might not find the peace she sought at Tyndal, but she would find kindness. Sister Anne and Prioress Eleanor would make sure of that.

  A bang shattered Thomas’ musings. The door to the dining hall crashed against the wall as a soldier rushed through it to the high table.

  Adam jumped out of his chair. “Satan’s balls! Have the Welsh set siege to the castle?”

  The soldier knelt. Thomas could see him sweating despite the cold. “Forgive the rude entry, my lord. Although the Welsh have not broken truce, the wicked murderer has attacked. Another man has fallen victim to him.”

  Adam paled. “Who?”

  “Sir Geoffrey, my lord. We found him behind the stables. He was stabbed and left to die.”

  ***

  Anne shook her head as she watched the men carry Sir Geoffrey away with great gentleness on a litter.

  “Will he live?” Adam asked, his voice catching.

  “He has lost much blood, my lord, and is still unconscious. The wound itself may heal well enough if it does not fester, but he was bleeding for some time. God was merciful, however, for the cold may have slowed the blood loss enough.” She looked around. “It was fortunate he was found in time at all. On such a cold night, no one else would have come here.”

  “We must be grateful for a stable boy’s loose bowels, it seems,” Adam said, his tone flat.

  “When did you say you had last seen your husband?” Eleanor turned to the Lady Isabelle. The woman’s gaze was as fixed as if she were seeing a vision in the dark stain of her husband’s blood in the snow. “My lady?” she asked again.

  Isabelle looked up. “Forgive me, but I did not hear what you said.”

  “At dinner you said Sir Geoffrey had not come to escort you to table, that you had not seen him since midday. Do you remember if he said anything to you at all about his plans for the day? Perhaps he mentioned something last night or this morning which would cast light on what has happened?”

  A light flush spread over Isabelle’s face. “My lord husband does not share my bed while I have my courses. We were not together last night, nor in the morning.”

  Eleanor looked at her father with a question in her eyes.

  Adam shrugged.

  “Perhaps you know where he slept last night? If you would rather tell me in private…” Eleanor gestured toward their lodgings above the hall.

  Isabelle shook her head. “I do not know. He never speaks to me of women he might lie with for his health.”

  God will surely forgive such public deceit to protect the private humiliation, Eleanor thought, then asked: “You saw him at midday, did you not?”

  “Briefly. I was resting and suddenly he came into my chambers without knocking, looked around as if searching for something, and left.”

  “He said nothing to you?” Or was he just checking to see how drunk you were this day, Eleanor thought.

  “He smiled at me as if pleased but said nothing.”

  “Has his behavior been unusual in any way?” Eleanor pursued.

  “He has been much distracted since we came to discuss the marriage of Jul—my stepdaughter, that is, to your brother.”

  Adam frowned. “Our negotiations over rights were not so dour as to cause him grief. Your husband and I have long been friends and the marriage was to have been of mutual benefit. He had nothing to fear from me and he knew that. It was Henry who seemed most upset by the talks. Perhaps something else had distressed your lord husband?”

  “If so, I knew nothing of it. He did not discuss his concerns with me.”

  “Nor would I,” Adam muttered, turning his head at a sound of footsteps coming through the stable.

  As Brother Thomas approached the solemn group, the joy on his face was obvious. “Your men have guarded Robert well, my lord. Despite their fondness for him, they have chained him in his room at night and never left him alone, nor has he attempted bribes or asked for a lax watch. He could not have done this deed.”

  “Then he is innocent of Henry’s murder as well, father,” Eleanor said in a low voice. “Surely this is the act of the same man. The air at Wynethorpe has never fostered such a pestilence of unlawful death.”

  Adam turned to his daughter and for the first time since her childhood she saw tears flowing down his cheeks in public. “He is surely free of blame for this act and may be of Henry’s murder as well, but I cannot free him until we find those guilty of one or both acts. My son was found with the dagger and Henry’s blood on his hands. I cannot free him until his innocence is without question.”

  “Then, my lord, the answer is quite simple,” Eleanor said, straightening her back and looking around at the assembly. “We will find the person who did it. And soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Simple? Simple!” Thomas threw out his hands in disbelief as he and Sister Anne strode down the corridor. “If I did not know our prioress better, I would swear on God’s very breath that she has lost her wits. It is no simple task to find who killed Henry, perhaps pushed our priest down the stairs and has now stabbed Sir Geoffrey. And to do it all, I might add, before the sheriff gets here and takes Robert off to some dungeon until he can be tried and hanged.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps the most mercy we can hope for is that they’ll let us pull his legs to break his neck and put a speedier end to his misery.”

  “Do you have a brother?”

  Thomas skidded to a stop from the shock of the unexpected question. “Why ever do you ask?”

  Anne’s smile was a gentle one. “Not to pry. I meant only to ask if you have never loved someone so much that you would move heaven and earth to save that one person’s life?”

  Thomas paled as the image came to mind of one he had loved that deeply, but he said nothing. Not even the kind Sister Anne would understand his love for Giles.

  “I see the answer on your face, Thomas,” Anne said, putting her hand on his arm. “Then perhaps you will understand how our prioress feels about her Robert. She has told me of their closeness. In the years after she was taken to Amesbury, it was Robert who wrote her missives full of love as well as family news. It was he who remembered special
occasions and sent her special gifts. A frog for her birthday once, I’ve been told.”

  “A frog?”

  She formed a rather large circle with her hands. “A big one. He was quite proud of catching it, our prioress said, and her aunt let her keep it in the garden pond. I’m told it became a veritable Methuselah of frogs and serenaded the nuns at Amesbury for longer than any thought possible.”

  Thomas laughed. “For the gift of a raucous frog she would save his life? Most sisters might feel differently.”

  “Our prioress is not like most women.”

  “Aye,” he sighed, “there is truth to that.”

  “Meanwhile,” Anne said, “we have our small hospital here to attend. Let us see how our patients are doing.”

  Thomas followed as she pushed her way through the wooden door.

  ***

  “Am I in Heaven?” Anselm’s eyes opened wide as he gazed up at Sister Anne’s smile. “Are you our Holy Mother?”

  “Far from either, priest,” Thomas said with a grin as he looked over Anne’s shoulder at the awakened man.

  Anselm winced. “I know that you are no angel, and my head would not hurt so if this were Heaven.”

  “Nor would you have the breath of an eater of animal carcasses in your nostrils.”

  “Be gentle,” Anne scolded back at Thomas. “Our brother is still a very sick man.” She put the back of her hand on the older man’s cheek.

  Anselm cringed. “Touch me not, woman! I have taken vows…”

  “As have I, brother, and I assure you that I am no more tempted to sin with you than you are to sin with me. I am Sister Anne, sub-infirmarian at Tyndal Priory, and…”

  “A man! A man should tend me!”

  “Relax, priest,” Thomas said. “This nun has saved your life, and the only man in the castle who might tend you works best with horses and mules. Although you may resemble the latter at this very moment, I doubt you’d prefer his manner of physic.”

  Anselm sputtered and his look was still wild, but he let Anne examine his head wound.

  She lifted her opened hands when she was done as if to show she had stolen nothing of value from him. “Did that hurt?”

  “What have you done to me, daughter of Eve?” the priest growled.

  “Tested you for fever. You have none. Checked your bandages and found no foul discharge. Changed your dressings to make sure the strength of the herbs remains potent.”

  Thomas sniffed the air. “And someone has bathed you for your scent is now quite sweet.”

  Anselm opened his mouth wide at the horror of what Thomas had just said. “I will die of your care, woman! It is ungodly to bathe.”

  “Our good brother is jesting with you,” Anne replied as she scowled at Thomas. “We would never do anything ungodly to you. We are as dedicated to holy service as are you.”

  Thomas nodded solemnly. He knew full well that Anne believed in the effectiveness of frequent washing and had most likely ordered the reeking priest sponged off before he was placed on this mattress, freshly stuffed with lavender, tansy and sweet woodruff. Nonetheless, he had no desire to upset Anselm. The man needed his strength to heal, not joust verbally with Thomas. “I do jest indeed, priest. Forgive me.”

  The priest looked at him balefully. “Do you swear on your hope of Heaven that nothing untoward has been done to me as I lay in the charge of this woman’s unclean hands?”

  “I swear it on my hope of Heaven.” At least he could be honest enough about that, Thomas thought with a smile. “You have been attended with all due propriety and have not sinned, however unwittingly, while you lay unconscious.”

  “Indeed, Brother Thomas speaks truly for he assists me in my work at Tyndal.”

  “A monk who assists a woman?” Anselm tried to frown disapproval but his head hurt too much.

  “We are of the Order of Fontevraud,” Thomas replied.

  Anselm nodded, then winced. “A strange sect, that,” he mumbled, but overall he seemed more at peace.

  “Perhaps rest would be wise,” Anne said. “While you sleep, Brother Thomas will sit with you. After you awaken, some vegetable broth might suit, after which we would like to hear what you remember of your fall.”

  Before Anne had even finished her sentence, the priest was snoring with a smile on his face.

  ***

  “Alas, my lady, I remember nothing,” Anselm said. His eyes brightened with the offer of more broth from the manservant.

  Eleanor sat with back straight and hands primly folded in her lap, a position she felt gave her the dignity her youth could not. “Perhaps in the telling of what you do remember, there will be something to help. Are you strong enough to tell us that?”

  The priest sucked at the broth with noisy appreciation, then took a breath and continued. “I remember having a discussion with Brother Thomas. About the dangers of eating meat, I think. He is quite a bright and promising young priest but suffers the follies and passions of youth. Although his blood still has that youthful heat, I do believe he will be a good religious one day if he would only avoid…”

  “Yes, we think he will,” Eleanor said with slow patience.

  “Oh. He is one of yours, is he not?”

  “I am sure you have advised him well as you have us all at Wynethorpe, Father Anselm.” She hesitated to avoid any appearance of impatience. “After you left him,” she continued, “what do you remember?”

  Anselm frowned in concentration. “I left him in the stairwell, I believe. We had agreed to meet in the chapel later for prayers. First, however, I wanted to visit the young Richard. I had heard he loved stories and I had some edifying ones I thought he might enjoy. Saint George and the dragon for one.”

  Eleanor coughed and raised one hand so she could hide her smile. The priest was not as insensitive to the interests of little boys as she would have once thought. “Aye, a good tale, that.”

  “After a few such sagas, he grew restless and took up the hobbyhorse. Like a flash of lightning he was out the door, and, when I stepped into the passageway, he was riding his hobbyhorse down the corridor at a fierce pace. He had a stick for a lance and was charging at some imaginary target with all the ardor of a true knight. A miracle, it was, his recovery, and I stood watching him in wonder at God’s grace.”

  Eleanor blinked as a thought began to take form in her mind. “Indeed, his recovery was a blessing from God, but what happened next?”

  Anselm blushed. “I am ashamed to say I became like a boy myself with joy at God’s kindness.”

  Eleanor smiled. “We all become innocents at such times, good priest. It is nothing to feel shame over.”

  “I confess I lifted my robes and raced after him, joining in his innocent pleasures. I became his dragon and we chased each other up and down the corridor outside the chambers. I wouldn’t let him go down the passage to the tower but, on one turn, he did ride toward the stairwell to the dining hall and disappeared. I feared he might tumble if I cried out for him to stop so I continued in the game and shouted out to him, as I stopped at the entrance to the stairwell: ‘Hi ho, knight, I have seen your deeds but would hear more of them from you! Come here to me!’”

  “Richard would have been delighted to entertain you with his exploits against the dragons of the castle,” Eleanor said. “Did he not return to do so?”

  “I don’t know, my lady. That is the last thing I remember until I awoke, my head on fire, with your sub-infirmarian and Brother Thomas bending over me as I lay here.”

  Eleanor frowned in thought.

  “I fear I have not told you anything of merit.” Anselm winced with a sharp pain.

  “On the contrary, Father, you may have given me the balm to heal my nephew.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sister Anne was spooning a very similar vegetable broth into Richard’s mouth. The boy was sitting upright and had been cooperative with his feeding until this moment. His face, however, was witho
ut expression.

  “Another sip for you,” she coaxed, putting the spoon up against his now firmly closed lips.

  Richard turned his head away, shook it with minimal motion, then slipped back down into the bed and burrowed his head against that of his hobbyhorse. The head of the toy shared his pillow.

  “Do you think Gringolet would like some of the broth?” Thomas asked from the doorway.

  Richard wrapped his arms around his horse, turned his face to the opposite wall, and pulled the covers up over his ears.

  “I cannot believe what has happened to our brave knight,” Thomas said, walking up to the bedside. He took the bowl of broth from Sister Anne and nodded toward the door where Eleanor stood waiting. Anne rose and walked out of the room with the prioress as Thomas sat on the bed.

  Richard remained silent.

  “I do not doubt his courage. He has faced and slain too many dragons.” Thomas reached over and stroked the horse’s head. “Perhaps it is his noble steed. Could Gringolet be sick? Has he thrown a shoe? Is he lame?”

  Richard clutched the hobbyhorse closer to him. A tear escaped from one eye, flowed over the bridge of his nose and disappeared from view. “Not sick,” he whispered.

  Thomas tried not to smile. Those two words were the first the boy had spoken since taking to his bed. “Fear not, lad. I will not let anyone take him from you, nor did I think this fine horse was mortally ill. Nonetheless, you must tell me what is wrong so we two can physic him back to health, for you cannot stop riding the halls of Wynethorpe for long. The dragons have heard it is safe to roam again and we need you to protect us.”

  A twitch of a smile came to the boy’s lips.

  “Hmm. Now let me see,” Thomas continued in the best Welsh country accent he could manage considering his short time here. “His eyes are bright. His mane is, well, it could stand some combing. Maybe his master hasn’t groomed him yet?”