Tyrant of the Mind mm-2

by Priscilla Royal

  She continued to look at him in silence. Although the falling snow obscured her features, her eyes glowed black amidst the pale flakes and Thomas felt uneasy under their unbroken gaze. Shifting his weight to keep his feet from growing numb, he found himself thinking that the woman could not be possessed, for surely Satan preferred fire to this ice when he tortured souls.

  “Wine?” she asked at last in a tone that suggested his offer was some fantastic thing.

  The snow continued to whirl in the wind. Thomas watched one snowflake, delicate as lace, land on his sleeve and slowly blend with its fellows. Beauty can be so fragile, yet so deadly, he thought, remembering how the snow had nearly frozen Anselm to death last night.

  “If you will come inside,” he said, stepping forward with hand outstretched to pull her from the castle wall if need be, “we have much to discuss.”

  “You wish to question me on my desire to enter Tyndal as an anchoress,” Juliana said as she started to walk slowly toward him.

  “Aye,” he replied, “and perhaps more.”

  “If you wish to speak of death, we should remain here, brother, where we are closer to it.” She stopped and gestured toward the parapet.

  She was quite mad. Thomas was now sure of it.

  Then she smiled with such warmth that even her grim words were melted into a jest. “I will come with you, brother,” she said as she pulled her cloak more closely around her and hurried to his side. “You have no need to stand in the cold waiting for this foolish woman to come out of it. I did not mean to make you suffer for your courtesy.”

  ***

  Despite the warmth of the hearth and the heaviness of his borrowed garments, Thomas could feel his hands and feet just now begin to sting with returning feeling. The woman who sat on the other side of the table with a cup of spiced wine looked untouched by her time in the freezing storm.

  “You say you wish to enter Tyndal as an anchoress, my lady,” Thomas began, his teeth still chattering. “There is no enclosed cell for you next to the church. Would you not come to us as a nun instead?”

  “I do not require a hermitage enclosed with stone, brother. I know of no rule, beyond current custom, that requires someone of my stern calling to anchor in a space surrounded by stone and mortar. A cave or hut in the forest would suit me as well as it did men and women in times past. Amongst God’s verdant gifts, He has given us many quiet places where we may find the solitude to contemplate and hear His voice with greater clarity. It has never mattered whether those who seek Him retreat into the burning wilderness of the desert fathers or England’s dark woods.”

  “My lady, please understand that it is not I who will decide whether or not to approve your plea or the details thereof. The bishop and our prioress will do that.” Thomas poured more hot, spiced wine into her cup as well as his own. Perhaps women did dwell in forest huts long ago, he thought, but such a request by members of the weaker sex was quite unusual now. Still, she was right about one thing. Removal from the joys of London to the more austere East Anglian coast had given him more time for contemplation, as had the new joys of his work in a hospital and listening to the novice choir’s simple lyricism whenever he wished. His new sea-scented residence might not be as dour as a desert, the wind-pruned forest near Tyndal might not match the grim darkness of others less buffeted, but surely the reek of fish and rotting seaweed held some position of merit in God’s eyes.

  Thomas glanced up and caught Juliana smiling at him. The look was not mocking, but it unsettled him. “Since I am the confessor to the nuns of Tyndal,” he quickly explained, “your welfare would be my responsibility; therefore, Prioress Eleanor thought it wise that I question you on the basis for your decision to become an anchoress.”

  “Ask what you will, brother.” Juliana crossed her hands and leaned back in her chair.

  Indeed, Thomas had little to ask, but when his prioress requested that he question Juliana on her vocation, he had had no good reason to refuse. Surely he was the least qualified to judge if someone were suited to any form of monastic life since he had not chosen such himself with whole-hearted willingness. On the other hand, some might say that the choice of life over being burned at the stake by an admirer of that exquisite punishment, a concept regaining strong popular support amongst clerics, might be deemed whole-hearted enough. Perhaps he should be flexible about her reasons for finding her vocation as well.

  Thomas cleared his throat and asked the obvious first question: “Why do you want to enter a monastic life?”

  “You ask me an easy question first.” Juliana smiled. “The simplest answer is that I feel called to it.”

  The change in Juliana from the person he had coaxed from the castle parapet was dramatic. Unlike that deathly pale creature with eyes like burning coal, this woman positively glowed with a most womanly warmth. Had he been wrong to think her mad? Might she not be that rare creature who was filled with grace, perhaps even gifted with visions? “Why?” Thomas asked. Indeed, he truly wanted to know.

  Juliana leaned forward. This time her steady gaze comforted rather than unsettled him. “I think we might understand each other in this, brother. I feel called to it because worldly things no longer give me joy. In my case, I have enjoyed the love of good parents. My brothers were a happy trial when I was growing up.” She laughed and Thomas watched a memory dart across her eyes. “In addition, I have felt the pain of lust, and, if I may repeat a secret I told in confession, I have experienced the joy of it as well.” Her brown eyes twinkled with a comfortable sensuality.

  Thomas realized his bones no longer ached with cold. “Our Lord…”

  “…does not require virgins as brides. As I recall, he not only saved the life of Mary Magdalene but also honored her. It was to her, after all, that Jesus announced his resurrection at the tomb, not to Peter or John.”

  “I was about to say much as you did.”

  “Then you are wiser than many priests.” Juliana fell silent for a moment, her eyes unashamedly examining the auburn-haired monk. “Not to say I questioned the choice of Tyndal for my hermitage, but knowing that you are there is further sign of its merit.”

  Thomas felt his face flush.

  “Be at peace, brother. I have no more designs on your very fine body than I believe you have on mine.” She shook her head. “Do not protest, for you did think that was my meaning. But do answer this for me: am I right that you did not come to the monastic life as a child?”

  Thomas nodded, deciding it was best to see where her questions led before saying anything further.

  For a moment Juliana said nothing, then closed her eyes as if profoundly weary. “I find comfort in the knowledge that I shall confess to a priest who had a full taste of the world but was wise enough to reject its corruption for a peace that only God can bring.”

  He waited.

  “Forgive me, Brother Thomas. Please continue to ask me your questions, and I shall reply, as is meet, with more modesty. Playing the hare to your hound is contemptible in a woman who longs to become an anchoress.” Juliana’s face paled as her smile disappeared. “Although that day of peace seems as far away as the softness of spring is from this bleak winter.”

  As he watched the light fade from her eyes, Thomas felt the unease returning that he had experienced with her on the walls. “You have wearied of this world then?” he asked with a gentle tone.

  “Wearied? Perhaps. Once I reveled like a child in earthly pleasures. Now they stink in my nostrils like night soil in the summer sun. Once I believed that anyone with a good and faithful heart could remain pure. Now I know that all mortals are tainted with violence and evil. Should I stay in this world, I fear I would try, time and time again, to reclaim the lost Eden, something no mortal will do. Thus my desire to leave a world that rots under my hand may be as much due to fear of my own sinful nature as it is to weariness. I long to seek God’s wisdom and all-forgiving love, something I can only find in the solitary life.”

  “A solitary life is pos
sible in a monastic setting. You would be shut away enough from the rest of the world. Why ask for the more severe life of an anchoress, closeted in a isolated cell and separated even from the comfort of other nuns?”

  “Because the company of women would be a burden to me. I seek a place where I will hear only the sound of God’s voice singing in my ears. I cannot bear the voices of the children of Adam and Eve.”

  “People may come to beg wisdom from you. Many anchorites and anchoresses are judged to be closer to God than most religious.”

  Juliana’s eyes sparkled in brief amusement. “Fear of the strange woman in the glade will frighten most away, I trust, and Tyndal will protect me should that not be sufficient. In the meantime, I promise that your visits to shrive me will be welcomed, and Eleanor’s voice will never intrude on my contemplations. Your voices I shall bear.”

  “What caused you to so turn against the world?”

  “God.”

  Thomas sat back and stared at her. “God does not hate His creation.”

  “God has willed this.”

  “His voice? A vision?”

  “If you will.”

  “Could it not be Satan who spoke to you, not God?”

  “Satan loves his comforts, brother. He would be happier with me if I followed the lusts of my body rather than the harsher ones of my soul.”

  “You have been candid with me, my lady, but now I must be blunt with you in return.”

  “You may be as forthright with me as need be. It will make your task and mine easier.”

  In spite of himself, Thomas smiled. “Might not your weariness with the world be grounded more in disappointment than in a true belief that mortal joys are shallow ones?”

  “That was not plain enough speech! If you mean to ask whether I am jealous because my dearest friend married before I did, then the answer is no. I must differ with my father on this.”

  “Nonetheless, you and the Lady Isabelle have quarreled much since she married with your father.”

  “We have fought less than my father has suggested. She and I are not suited to the roles of stepmother and stepdaughter. That is true, but the memory of our youth together remains strong in our hearts.”

  “Yet I have seen your sorrow and silence in her presence. You did quarrel. Why?”

  She sat back in her chair and sighed. “Do you not remember when the innocence of childhood fled? Each of us is doomed to repeat that bite of apple given by the serpent in Eden, I think. One day we laugh together in play; the next we look at each other and raise our hands to strike those very loved ones. Is there a reason or is it the nature of our mortal sin?”

  “I am a simple man, my lady, and have no easy answer to that…”

  “You are neither simple nor prone to facile answers, brother. One day, perhaps in the peace of my forest chapel, we will speak further on that subject, and you will share your own experiences with me.” She shook her head as Thomas was about to respond. “Forgive me. We were talking of my calling, not yours. Yours was a direct question that should be answered in an honest fashion. No, I am not running away because my dearest friend married before me. I do not, as has been suggested, fear marriage and its pains, although I confess I feel unsuited to that state. Yes, I wish to escape the world, but my reason is a longing to fold myself completely into God’s love and forgiveness much as a child does into her mother’s arms. Compared to that, all worldly joys are flawed and feeble things to me. Does that satisfy you, brother?”

  Thomas looked at the woman sitting peacefully across from him and felt the sharp stab of regret. If only he had her clear-eyed vocation, perhaps he would rest with contentment. “You speak convincingly, my lady.”

  Juliana reached out her hand. “Then let us try to become friends, for I do believe we share a special kinship found only amongst those who reject earthly things.”

  Although he did not understand why, Thomas felt peace at her touch. It was not until after she left the dining hall, however, that he realized she had never answered his question about the specific reason for the quarrel with the Lady Isabelle.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dinner that night was a sour affair, both in taste and in mood. The storm had prevented anyone from bringing fresh meat from the hunt; thus the stew was cooked with salted-down venison and tasted too strongly of the garlic used to mask the flavor of meat past its prime. Although the cheese was a good one and the bread fresh enough, neither could make up for the ice-cold stew, congealed after a trip from kitchen hut to dining hall through the snowy mist of evening.

  Adam took a deep swallow of the wine and winced. It was his second best and had already turned sour. He scowled, then looked up and his expression grew even grimmer. The Lady Isabelle approached and slipped into her chair, all too near his. She was quite late to table.

  “My apologies for my tardiness, my lord. I was waiting on my husband.”

  “Did your husband give you no reason for missing this fine meal, my lady?”

  Her hands traced vague circles in the air. “I have not spoken to him since midday. He said nothing to me at the time about any plans to cause such delay, which is why I waited for him to bring me in to table.”

  “I wonder how he can speak to you at all,” Adam muttered, not softly enough to avoid being overheard.

  The lady reached for her wine, and a servant promptly filled her goblet. Either this wine had come from a different barrel or Isabelle was less fussy than the baron about taste. She downed her cup in one and held it out for more.

  Other than the sound of scuffling feet, as servants brought or retrieved platters and replenished wine, and the weak attempts of a less than talented musician at the further end of the hall, silence reigned amongst the rather cheerless diners.

  Surely the poetic abilities of the Welsh have been vastly overrated, Thomas thought, as he listened with pain to the off-tune ballad now being sung. He tried to make a bread ball from the thick, grainy slice on his trencher, but it would not hold and he tossed it down next to the half-eaten cheese. He, too, was infected with a dismal mood.

  How could any of them not be? Two men lay dead by misadventure. Richard had taken ill once again. Robert, accused of murder, was locked away in a bleak room until the sheriff could take him away for hanging, and Anselm was still unconscious and in mortal danger of dying. His new nephew and companions from an earlier meal had not fared well, Thomas thought, and he had accomplished nothing in finding either cause or the guilty ones.

  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 sh
e 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.”