Priscilla Royal - Tyrant of the Mind

A woman screamed.

Thomas was on his feet. This time he knew the sound was real, not his overheated imagination. He ignored a muffled question from the noisome priest and hurried to the door. As he rushed into the hall, others were crowding into it as well.

Baron Adam was immediately ahead of him, fully dressed, sword in hand.

Prioress Eleanor, with Sister Anne behind, emerged from Richard’s chambers to join Adam.

Thomas glanced over at her door just as the Lady Juliana opened it and looked out. Her eyes were large with unspoken questions, but she stood in the partially open doorway and did not join the crowd in the passageway.

In front of him, he could see a few rumpled, sleepy-eyed servants staggering out of the stairwell.

“Please, God, no!” the prioress cried out as she came to an abrupt stop behind her father. Her voice was sharp with alarm. One hand rested on her father’s back for support, the other at her mouth.

Thomas stared with equal horror at the scene over the baron’s shoulder, just as unwilling to believe what he saw before them.

Standing at her chamber door was the Lady Isabelle, a fur blanket wrapped tightly around her body, her face as pale as a corpse.

On the stone floor in front of her, lying in a pool of darkened blood, was the body of Henry, heir to Lavenham. Kneeling beside that body, glistening dagger in hand, was Robert of Wynethorpe.

Adam and Geoffrey stood facing each other in the dining hall, just feet apart in front of the blazing fireplace. Years of friendship forged first in childhood, later in battle, and after in the companionship of shared interests and views now warred with grief and anger over the fates and actions of their respective sons.

Eleanor and Sister Anne sat in chairs at the high table and watched the men’s eyes shifting back and forth under hooded lids, their mouths working almost imperceptibly as they struggled to find words that each could say to the other. Eleanor longed to break the silence and comfort both her father and Sir Geoffrey, but resisted. They had been raised to scorn the comforting touch as weak and womanish, thus each alone must weigh the strength of their mutual friendship against that of grief and recriminations. Alone each must discover how the scales did balance when one man’s son murdered that of the other. Indeed, she might share their agony as sister to Robert and friend to Henry, but she was a woman, allowed the luxury of public tears and the comfort of soft arms. Only before the eyes of God might a man bred to war be permitted to weep.

As if she had read Eleanor’s mind and knew her struggle, Anne reached over and gently touched her hand.

Adam coughed and looked down at his feet.

Geoffrey cleared his throat and turned his head away. His voice husky with swallowed tears, he finally whispered, “I cannot believe Robert killed my son.” There was not the slightest hint of accusation in his tone.

“Yet he held the dagger and Henry’s blood was on his hands and cloak. How can I say he is guiltless?” As his friend opened his mouth to speak further, Adam shook his head. “Nay, Geoffrey, do not say more. You are generous to hold back your condemnation of my son, but he must and will answer for his deeds like a man. Any son of mine must take full responsibility for his actions, whether good or evil. I will send a messenger for the sheriff.”

“Has Robert said anything in his defense, father?” Eleanor asked quietly.

The two men looked at her in surprise as if they had forgotten she was there.

Adam straightened his back. “He claims innocence.”

“Then perhaps he is innocent.” Eleanor hesitated. “I, for one, have never known him to lie. Of all of us,” she said with a slight smile at her father, “he is the one who took most after you in plain speech.”

Even in the flickering light of the fire, Eleanor could see her father’s face turn pale with the effort to control conflicting emotions. A father’s love was clearly at odds with the baron’s wish to honor justice.

“He will have the opportunity to tell his tale.” Her father’s voice broke. He stared into the fire for a long moment, then continued. “The king’s justice is equitable.”

“Of that, there is no doubt,” Eleanor said, then gestured at a shuttered window. “But the snow has already begun to fall thick and fast, and I fear the road may be impassable even now. No messenger can get out while this storm rages. Justice in the form of a distant sheriff will therefore be much delayed.”

Adam scowled. “Then my son will have both the time and solitude to think on his sins.”

“If I may be so bold, I would like to suggest that we could learn something about the one who truly committed this deed if we had a knowledgeable person look at Henry’s corpse. Sister Anne has much experience…”

“A nun?” Sir Geoffrey’s contempt was palpable.

“She is sub-infirmarian at Tyndal and her reputation…”

“I have heard the tales, Lady Eleanor. I have no doubt that her skills with sick children and birthing women are highly prized. My son, however, was neither.”

Not exactly what you suggested yesterday at the midday meal, Eleanor thought as she felt the heat of her fury burn her face at the man’s scornful dismissal of Anne. “My lord, she did learn physic from her father and she is skilled…”

Sir Geoffrey’s face too had turned scarlet. “I do not care if she is a saint, my lady. She is a woman and thus, by definition, a fragile and illogical creature. As such, she has neither the ability to rationally examine in detail what she sees nor the fortitude to look on the mutilated body of…” He sobbed, turned his head and covered his face with his hand.

“Surely…”

“Enough, Eleanor!” her father barked. “Wynethorpe Castle is not Tyndal. You have no authority here. Whatever Sister Anne’s skills may be, and she has indeed done great service to this house,” he bowed in the direction of Sister Anne, “Sir Geoffrey does not wish her to examine his son’s body. Therefore, she shall not do so.”

Eleanor glanced at Sister Anne as she fought down the impotent rage twisting inside her. Although Anne’s head was humbly bowed, she managed to look sideways at her prioress, then give her a quick wink. Eleanor wished she had Anne’s talent for humor and tranquillity in these situations.

“Indeed, my lords,” she said at last with a calm remarkable even to her own ears, “I forgot myself and do beg forgiveness.” However, she decided with grim determination, if you will not have Sister Anne, then you shall surely have someone else of my own choosing.

Adam nodded abruptly.

Sir Geoffrey was wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his cloak.

After a long moment of silence, Eleanor continued. “May I ask, my lord father, where you have imprisoned my brother?”

“In the tower by the bridge over the moat. We are holding no other prisoners so the chamber is comfortable enough. I have a guard outside his door. He cannot escape.”

“May I speak with him?”

Adam raised his eyebrows. “Whatever for, girl?” His tone was gentle.

“Does not a loving sister have the right to speak with her dear brother and offer comfort to him before the king’s justicular judges him innocent or guilty?” she replied, her tone quite meek. Her father might be willing to put honor above family feeling and thus accept the possibility of Robert’s guilt. She was not. Of course her brother might kill a man in self-defense. That she would concede. Or he could do so in the defense of an innocent victim. He would never kill out of malice, however, and, if Robert said he was innocent, he was. As far as Eleanor was concerned, it was all just that simple.