Priscilla Royal - Tyrant of the Mind

“In front. As if he had fallen forward.”

“Surely, he would have put out his hands to break his fall even before he hit his head on the stairs. Has anyone found where he injured his head? There must be blood.”

“It was dark when he was found and carried back up the stairs. As I said, I doubt anyone has looked.”

“Then perhaps we should, sister,” Thomas said as he grabbed a torch from the wall and hurried to the flight of stairs.

The stairwell was too narrow for more than one person to walk through at a time with any ease. Thomas handed Anne the torch, and she followed the monk as he slowly descended, studying the stones of the stairs and wall as he went. It did not take them long.

“Here it was. See?” Thomas had just reached the fullness of the first curve below the living quarters and pointed to the wall.

Anne turned and looked behind her. “He must have slipped at the top then, but I noted no impediment, nothing that should have caused him to fall.”

“A mouse running across his path? A rat might have startled him.” Thomas knelt, looked at the bloodstain on the wall, then studied the stairs just above and below it. “You say he lost much blood?”

“Indeed he had,” she said, kneeling to look as he moved down a step to give her room. “I believe I see where your thoughts are leading. With such a blood loss, there should be more blood here, or perhaps stains all the way down the stairs if he slipped further on after the injury.”

Thomas stood and gestured for Anne to bring the torch closer. “Look here. What do you think this is on the stones of the window?”

“Blood.”

The monk leaned over the stones and looked down into the open ward. “God must surely love this priest. Had the winds not driven the snow into a good drift against this tower, Father Anselm would have suffered more than a cracked skull.”

“You think…”

“I suspect he was pushed out of this window, sister. After he was shoved down the stairs.”

The baron closed his eyes.

Eleanor watched him and frowned with concern. “Richard is getting the best care possible, father,” she said.

He looked at her in silence, eyes dark with fatigue and anxiety. The lines in his face had deepened.

“Sister Anne tells me that he has no fever and that he did take some watered wine this morning.”

“Lass, I question neither your judgment nor Sister Anne’s ability as a healer, but tell me, if you can, why God has chosen to curse me so? I have failed to protect my family, my retainers, and my guests. This castle has become not a fortress against unnatural death but rather a place to embrace it. The first was Hywel, a man I shall sorely miss, killed by misadventure. Then Henry is foully murdered under my very roof and my son stands accused of the deed. Father Anselm meets with calamity, and now my dear grandson lies in a sick bed once again. What horrendous sin have I committed? As a woman closer to God than this old warrior could ever be, can you answer that?”

“Job committed no sin.”

“Job was a saint. I am not.” Adam rubbed his hands across his eyes. There were circles the color of bruises under them.

“I have faith that Richard will recover and my brother found innocent. Hywel’s death was accidental. That could have happened to anyone and at any time. No one could predict that Henry would be stabbed to death, especially you, and we do not know exactly what happened to Father Anselm. It may have been an accident as well.” The latter she did not believe at all.

Adam slammed his fist on the table. “You may have your faith, Prioress Eleanor, but my charge remains a more earthly one: to protect all within the walls of Wynethorpe. In that, I have failed. As to the nature of my priest’s accident , do not insult me so. I have spoken to Brother Thomas, who seemed quite sure that the poor man’s head was pushed with force into a wall and his body tossed from a window to finish the deed.” He smiled grimly. “Surely, you do not now doubt the judgment of a man whose praises you sang to me so recently?”

Eleanor said nothing until the fires of her father’s exhausted anger had sputtered and dimmed. Silence was a woman’s wisest response until a man’s choler cooled and reason regained a seat in his soul, her aunt once said. It was man’s nature to swing at flies with an ax at such times, however much he might later rue the consequences. “Nay, I trust him implicitly,” she said at last, her tone gentle.

Adam snorted. “Good! While Sister Anne has been tending to Richard and Brother Thomas has been piecing together evidence with perceptive logic, I assume you have contributed to the search for justice by offering sufficient prayers so the murderer will be found before my son is taken away to be hanged?”

“Dare you suggest that prayer is not effective, my lord? Such would be heresy,” Eleanor snapped, but her pride was wounded. “Perhaps you might tell me what you have discovered from your questioning of those within the castle?”

For just an instant, she saw the fury she felt reflected back at her from her father’s eyes, then the fires were banked and he replied in a calm voice. “Every man in this fortress has been questioned about where he was the night of the murder by one of three under my command I trust the most. So far, all have either been where they should have been, passed out with drink, or with some woman, wife or no. Nor was there any indication that anyone did more than wish Henry’s soul a hotter fire in Hell for the accident he caused.”

As Eleanor began a question, he raised one hand and continued. “At your suggestion, I did approach Sir Geoffrey about his thoughts on the murder when he came to the dining hall this morning to break his fast. As I suspected, he is a most generous friend. He said he could not believe that my son could have done the deed and thinks someone else must have killed Henry. Robert simply came upon the body at the wrong time, he said. He would be most willing to present other possibilities at any trial. As the most likely event, he suggested that Henry ran into a drunken soldier in the halls of Wynethorpe and was murdered for no better reason than the discordance caused by too much wine or a gaming debt. Henry was known to play at dice and rarely won the rolling of them.”

A noble gesture but an indefensible supposition, she thought, considering the results of the questioning. “You told me none of this until I asked. May I know why?”

“Because I am lord of Wynethorpe!” he thundered. “The accused murderer is my son and the murder occurred in my castle. I have been far too tolerant of your involvement. None of this is woman’s business.”

“First you accuse me of doing little to help Robert and then you dismiss me as a weak woman who could do little if I tried. You may not have it both ways, my lord. As to what is woman’s business and what is not, may I remind you that I have full responsibility at Tyndal and there is no question there about what is and is not my authority. In addition, need I remind you that Robert is also my brother, whom I love as well as any sister can, and that Isabelle, Juliana, Henry and George are almost kin to me in my heart. Although you are, without question, lord of this place, I am your daughter. As such, I have the right to be involved and know what is happening by the love I bear for all concerned.”

The baron turned pale, then sat down on the bench with a heavy thud. After a moment, he continued, his voice hoarse but calmer. “Let us make peace, daughter. I do not wish to argue with you.”

From the pinched look around his eyes, Eleanor realized that her father was in as much physical pain from his old wound as he was emotional pain from the accusations against his son. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Nor do I wish to argue with you, father. Please tell me all that Sir Geoffrey had to say.”