Priscilla Royal - Tyrant of the Mind

“Surely she did not mean that, Geoffrey.” Adam filled his friend’s cup once more with wine, then stood in front of Eleanor, offering her more refreshment as he glowered a silent demand that she cease her questioning.

Eleanor shook her head, refusing both, and gave her father a puckish smile. “You were saying, my lord?” she asked Sir Geoffrey.

“Indeed she backed away soon enough when I told her what I thought of that, but then she whined some female nonsense about her mother would not have wanted me to marry Isabelle. I told her that her mother had beseeched me to leave her be when she sickened, begged me to find some lusty young woman to warm my bed in recompense. You should have seen the shocked expression on Juliana’s face when I told her that, the silly wench!” His face began to turn red and he threw his head back, swallowing the wine in one gulp.

Adam poured him more. Eleanor noticed, however, that her father had barely touched his own cup.

She turned back to look at Sir Geoffrey as he swirled his wine and stared at it with a determined focus. His last comment had been interesting, she thought, considering the vow of celibacy Robert had once told her Sir Geoffrey had taken during his wife’s illness. Indeed, the man she remembered would never have forced an adored and ailing wife to bed with him. Had she not known that man, she would have believed that this man, now sitting in front of her, would have made a sick wife beg to be left alone. What had caused the change, she wondered: his lost hand, his waning virility, or something else entirely? “You did not believe her second reason to be the true one then?” she asked at last.

“She has no objection to my remarriage beyond jealousy. Jealousy is the sole reason, Lady Eleanor. Juliana is young, lusty as women are at that age, and long overdue for a husband and babes of her own. Isabelle was getting a husband first and Juliana was consumed with envy. She now pales with it. She has gone mad with it and does everything she can to cause me grief. Isabelle has tried to make peace with my daughter and has begged me not to send her off to a convent. I was willing to let her go to learn the barrenness of pride and jealousy, but my wife has a softer nature and I have chosen to honor her compassion. The ungrateful girl will marry Robert, gain a fine husband despite her undeserving nature, and thus stay close to a soul that loves her. Still, I do find it hard to forgive Juliana for playing so cruelly with my wife’s good heart.”

Adam poured another cup of wine for his friend. “This madness is surely temporary, Geoffrey,” he said. “I remember far better days when your daughter delighted all of us with her quick wit and loving ways. Indeed, she shall marry Robert and, in good time, the foolish girl will make peace and be as a sister again with your wife. You speak the truth of it, I believe. A husband and babes of her own will, without doubt, put an end to such silly rivalry.”

Eleanor bowed her head. Little was quite as everyone wished it to seem, she thought. Of course she had known there was far more behind Juliana’s desire to enter Tyndal as an anchoress than she had expressed. Few women, even with genuine callings to the contemplative life, choose such a severe test of faith. Wisdom demanded that she look beyond a shaved head and eager words before accepting Juliana’s sincerity about her calling, and she would. She would even take Sir Geoffrey’s opinions into account with as little partiality as she was able, but she had also heard the ring of true coin in Juliana’s plea, and that she would honor as well.

As to the other things she had just heard, she had been amused as her father so firmly expressed approval of the marriage between his friend and ward, an approval she knew he most certainly did not feel. Nor was Sir Geoffrey’s current marriage the joyous one he tried to portray just now, at least according to the baron. Her father must have choked to hear the Lady Isabelle described as a woman of generous heart and softness, yet she had not seen even the barest flicker of an eyelid to betray his thoughts. From his days in the king’s court, her father had indeed become quite skilled in diplomatic thrust and parry. She could learn much from him if he were willing to teach her.

Eleanor glanced up. Her father and Sir Geoffrey were now bending over the table, drawing imaginary maps with their fingers on the wood and lost in tales of old battles. Both seemed to have regained their youth in the telling, and the love born of much shared pain and joy over the years was so evident between them.

She looked at Sir Geoffrey and now saw remnants of the person she had known many years ago before his first wife died. She could not forget that he had once been a kinder man, one who would never speak with the harshness she had heard today. Nor would she ever forget that it was he who had saved her father’s life after the Montfortians had pulled the baron, weakened from a deep thigh wound, from his horse. Had Sir Geoffrey not risked his own life to do so, she would be praying at her father’s tomb this day, not arguing with him, a man she honored and loved, stubborn mule that he often was.

She took a deep breath and rose quietly to leave the old friends alone. Even if Juliana had convinced her beyond any doubt of the sincerity of her calling, Eleanor would win no arguments on her behalf this day.

Thomas’ midday dining companions were less than congenial. On one side was the sulky and silent Lord Henry. On the other was Father Anselm, a priest of middling intellect but much higher odor. The company of a fellow religious was to be expected, of course. To be seated next to the Lavenham heir-apparent was intended as a compliment, and Thomas had mentally marked the honor with due gratitude. After five minutes between the two, however, Thomas was tempted to renounce both his vocation and the honor to seek a bench well below the salt.

“You eat meat, do you?” the good priest asked. His breath, heavily scented with a rotting sweetness from decomposed teeth, was even more fetid than the sour stench of his unwashed underlinen that enveloped flanking diners every time the priest shifted position.

Thomas looked at the dark slices of roasted boar meat on the platter in front of him. Due to Tyndal’s reduced revenues during this first winter after his arrival, meat at any meal had been such a rarity that Thomas had almost lost the taste for it. Out of courtesy to his host, however, he had allowed the servant to put some ginger, wine, and garlic sauce on his trencher and had then accepted a small portion of the meat. What little desire he might have had for more had been destroyed by sitting next to the aromatic priest.

As he looked into the priest’s tiny, close-set eyes, an irresistible impishness suddenly overtook Thomas. He reached out with his knife to stab a thick portion of the boar and, with an exaggerated grunt of pleasure, plopped the bloody slab onto his trencher, then turned and smiled at the priest.

The priest pursed his lips but was otherwise unfazed. “Heats the blood, you know,” he said, nodding at the fragrant meat in front of Thomas.

Thomas was not to be outdone. He gestured at the goblet Father Anselm clutched to his narrow chest. “So does wine, I’m told.”

The priest sniffed in contempt. “Our Lord drank wine.”

Thomas coughed from the puff of bad breath. “Might have eaten venison for all we know. Boar, I’ll concede, he did not.”

“Our Lord ate only fish.”

Thomas tried to remember what had been served at the marriage feast in Cana. Fatted calf came to mind as the popular choice in various scriptures he recalled. “How sad,” he said. “Maybe there weren’t any deer in Galilee. I’d wager Our Lord would have liked a good brisket.” He hesitated and then let an almost beatific look transform his face. “What do you think? Perhaps God gave England so many deer so we’d know what a blessed land we occupied, that we were given what even His beloved son could not have.” Thomas gave Father Anselm his most ingenuous look.