Priscilla Royal - Tyrant of the Mind

“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?”

The boy put his hand over his eyes and wiped the remaining tears away, but this time he was smiling. He shook his head.

“Well, he will soon. We know him to be a good man with a horse. He’d never let his steed go without care, would he now?”

“No,” Richard mumbled into his arm.

“I think this horse is fine. There is nothing to worry about, but I’d also say he needs a good rubdown, some fresh hay and a good rest. Perhaps he has returned from an arduous journey and is weary. Methinks his master is too.” Thomas put his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder.

Richard turned pale.

“Let me tell you a story, lad,” Thomas continued, dropping the accent. “Would you like that?”

Richard nodded.

“Once upon a time, there was a brave knight who had a noble steed. Together they roamed the countryside, slaying many dragons, saving maidens (a few) in distress, and taming nameless other monsters (many more of those) that threatened the king’s peace. Their exploits were legendary throughout many lands, and no enemy dared attack such a well-protected realm while the knight and his horse stood guard over it. Then one day, a villainous creature in the service of an evil king, who hated the noble king of this happy land, slipped across the river and into the good king’s very castle.” Thomas hesitated for a moment, looking down at the boy. Richard was watching him, eyes wide and unblinking with concentration.

The monk continued: “This villainous creature could blend into the color of night and hid in the castle corridors, causing great fear during the midnight hours amongst those who lived there. Even the king himself did not know what to do. So he called the brave knight and his noble steed to court and begged them to save the castle. The knight swore he would, but he had never faced such a creature before and knew that courage alone would not be enough. So he took his confessor with him for extra protection from evil. Each night he rode the corridors on his horse with his priest in attendance, hoping to force an honorable confrontation, but the creature evaded him. Then, one night, the creature slipped up behind the knight…”

Richard cried out. “He did!”

“Aye, lad, he did, didn’t he? But the man the creature attacked was not the knight. He was the good confessor, was he not?”

Richard nodded vigorously.

“And the creature lifted up the priest to throw him down from the top of steep stairs…”

“Yes.”

“Although the brave knight wanted to save his confessor, he found he could not, for he was suddenly frozen in place. The creature, it seemed, had put him under a spell. He had rendered the knight speechless and without the ability to move. The knight was powerless to save his confessor from the creature’s attack…”

“Yes!”

“As we all know, good always overcomes evil, and the knight’s courage and true heart were stronger than the evil of the creature. So do you know how the knight overcame the creature and saved his confessor?”

Still clutching his hobbyhorse, Richard wiggled back to a sitting position. “Tell me how he did, Uncle.”

“The brave knight lay where he had been put under a spell until a wandering priest came upon him. The priest looked down at him and saw that the knight was under an evil spell but knew that the knight’s heart was pure because he was the knight’s uncle. So the priest said to him: ‘Knight, your heart is pure. Rise and speak to me of what you saw and your courage and goodness will conquer the evil creature.’”

“That was all he had to do?” Richard asked in a whisper.

“Aye, lad. All he had to do was tell his uncle, the priest, what he saw and his courage in so doing would slay the villainous creature and save the confessor.” Thomas reached out his arms and said in a gentle voice, “So tell me, lad, who pushed Father Anselm down the stairs?”

Richard threw himself into Thomas arms and began to sob. The monk hugged the quivering boy, tucking his small head under his chin, and rocked him gently until the tears began to slow. As they sat together in silence, Thomas closed his own eyes tight, willing the boy to speak.

Finally, in a barely audible voice muffled by the monk’s woolen robe, Thomas heard Richard say: “It was Sir Geoffrey, Uncle. It was Sir Geoffrey.”

“Who will believe a child?” Adam was pacing. Thomas, Sister Anne and Eleanor sat watching.

“Do you, my lord father?”

“Do I believe that a man at whose side I fought from Poitou to Evesham, a man who covered himself in honor at tournament after tournament, a man who was the exemplar of knightly virtues to those he faced in battle, that such as he would try to kill a priest? For what reason? Tell me that! Whatever for?”

“The last thing Brother Anselm remembers saying might suggest to a hidden listener that he had seen Henry’s murder,” Eleanor said.

“Forgive me, my lady prioress, but no one could possibly conclude that a priest chasing after a child on a hobbyhorse and shouting about knightly deeds was referring to a murder.” Adam glared at his daughter.

“Unless Sir Geoffrey, or whoever else it might have been, heard Father Anselm saying that he ‘had seen your deeds and would hear more of them’? Perhaps he thought the priest had seen him and was coming to confront him?”

“A conclusion that stretches the bounds of credulity, my child.”

Eleanor had hidden her hands in her sleeves and was gripping her arms until they hurt to keep her calm with her father. “Not if Sir Geoffrey was coming down the passage from the tower and only heard Anselm’s words. If he did not see Richard and saw only Anselm standing outside the chambers he shared with his wife, he might have concluded that our priest had come to confront him about the murder of his own son.”

“Still a far-fetched conclusion when weighed against what I know of Sir Geoffrey’s character.”

“I ask again, father. Do you believe Richard?”

Adam slid into his chair with a wince. He said nothing, only reaching out a hand to touch the design on his mazer of wine.