Priscilla Royal - Tyrant of the Mind

An interesting reply, Thomas thought. It carefully evaded addressing whether carelessness, accident, or even a deliberate act had caused the death of the servant. “And the woman who so grieved over Hywel? Is she sister or wife?”

“Widow. In a fortress full of soldiers, she will not remain long without a man, but they did have young children together. Henry may not have dropped one coin into her hand, but his father has a more generous spirit. Nor would we let them starve. Nonetheless, even the promise of food in their bellies and a warm enough hearth will not chase the bitter chill of their father’s death from the hearts of those little ones this winter season.”

Thomas nodded in silence as he turned to look at Robert’s future brother-in-law. Henry was standing with the two women who had been part of the tragic morning ride. At this distance, the color of his face seemed to have cooled, but he was waving his hands with animation. Thomas bent his head in the direction of the Lavenham heir. “Not even a coin? Has he always been such a brutish man?”

“Since childhood,” Robert snapped, then he shook his head. “Forgive me, Thomas. My anger over this cruel death has unbalanced my humors and chased all impartiality away. A good man, Hywel was, and one of my brother’s companions as well as a loyal servant. Indeed, they often jested about their shared names, despite the difference in their station and ancestry. I dread sending this news to my brother while he is in the midst of a war. Hugh will grieve deeply, as do we all.” Robert hastily rubbed his eyes as if dirt had flown into them, but Thomas knew the cause was tears, not dust.

“It is true,” Robert continued. “Henry and I have never gotten on, even when we were but children together. He has always had too much choler yet he would never face anyone in a fair fight. When men are faced with differences, I do believe they must live with those they can and exchange honest blows when they cannot. Yet, had Henry been a monk who must turn the other cheek, I would have acknowledged his courage. Instead, he attacks in deceitful ways…” Robert fell silent, then added, “Perhaps it is enough to say that I have never liked Henry. Had his younger brother, George, been on this ride today instead, I do believe Hywel’s wife would be kissing her husband’s warm lips now, not bathing his dead face with her tears.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in his tone.

“Pity the latter is the second son, then.”

Robert nodded, but he seemed distracted.

“And Sir Geoffrey?” Thomas had been watching the older man stroke his horse’s neck with the rounded stump of his arm, then bend to give instructions to a groomsman for the stabling of the animal. As the horse was led away, the knight put his left glove into his mouth and yanked it off with clumsy impatience. The leather glove fell to the ground. The knight muttered an oath as he bent down, swept the glove out of the muck, and jammed it under his belt. An unexpectedly angry gesture for such a minor mishap, Thomas thought. Was the loss of his hand recent?

“He is the father of the Lady Juliana and her two brothers. A fine knight. Far more a man than Lord Henry will ever be. You see he has lost his sword hand. A sad thing.”

“In the de Montfort rebellion?”

“Not in battle. It was the result of a strange accident at a tournament,” Robert explained. “He was waiting his turn in the tiltyard when a bee apparently stung his mount. The horse threw him, then reared. The edge of the front hoof came down on Sir Geoffrey’s wrist and the bones of his hand were crushed. There was no question that it must be cut off.”

“Thus his soldiering days were ended as well.”

“For cert. But, as a man of faith might say, God smiled on him. He was a younger son who had made his living jousting when he was not fighting in the service of his king. As he lay recovering, his elder brother died of a fever and left him the Lavenham lands and title. He is now a rich man.”

Thomas watched the knight walk over to a huntsman and begin a lively discussion about Robert’s morning kill. The loss of his hand would explain why Sir Geoffrey had not joined in the early hunt. Perhaps he could still enjoy some falconry but hunting with spear or bow and arrow was out of the question. Chasing a boar or stag was far too dangerous with only one hand. Indeed, Thomas realized, there would be little pleasure left in the sport.

He thought of the angry frustration shown over the removal of a glove. Here was a rich man whose happiest days might well have been spent besting others in combat, not indoors polishing his plate and counting his coin. Sir Geoffrey was no merchant. The chance accession to the Lavenham estates may have guaranteed security and wealth for his family, Thomas decided, but he doubted it satisfied the fire in the man’s belly for the thrill of challenge and rivalry. No amount of silver plate could ever pay for the loss of a sword hand.

Although there was good reason why Sir Geoffrey had not joined in the hunt, Thomas did wonder why Henry had not gone out with Robert that morning, a rare failure for a man raised to sport against beasts as well as his own kind. Perhaps he did not care for the company of his soon-to-be brother-in-law, a man who quite clearly disliked him. Or was it the lack of courage that Robert had suggested? Indeed, boar hunting was fraught with danger, but the hunters had been lucky to find one for the table. Boars were as rare as deer. Hares were the more usual game at this time of the year. Surely Henry could have coped with the hunting of hares.

Thomas watched Sir Geoffrey, lost in tales of past hunts with the huntsman, a distant look in his eye and a more youthful grin on his lips than the gray in his beard would grant. Nay, he thought, the more likely reason was surely Henry’s sense of duty. Even a brutish son would know he must attend his father lest the elder man suffer an accident with his one-handed riding. Thomas shook his head as Sir Geoffrey and the huntsman roared with laughter over some story. ’Twas a sad state for a proud man to have fallen into, especially as he entered the waning years of his manhood.

A sharp burst of high-pitched mirth caught Thomas’ attention and he glanced back to where Henry stood with the two women. The monk had paid no heed to the women who had ridden in behind Sir Geoffrey and his son. Indeed, in the days before he had been forced to take vows, he would never have looked twice at the woman whose back was now to him. Although she was dressed well and warmly enough, her woolen cloak was without trimming and drab in color. Whether her face was as plain as her dress, he could not tell, nor did her cloak offer any hint that the body within was ample enough to give a man special joy when he rode her. He decided that she must be the maid.

The other woman, however, was buxom enough to put curves into any mantle, and her laughter once again rang through the cold morning air. Although the sound of pleasing voices was a passion of his, and the novice choir at Tyndal often dragged Thomas out of his more melancholy moods, this woman’s voice, now sweet as chapel bells, inexplicably saddened him.

Thomas shook off the feeling with an abrupt toss of his head. “May I guess that Sir Geoffrey’s better fortune includes a handsome wife as well,” he said to Robert, nodding in the direction of the lady in question. “Although why she would have such a dull maid is beyond me.” He waved his hand with a dismissive gesture toward the other woman in the more dreary dress. “Surely a woman blessed with such lush and welcoming curves would have no reason to fear competition for her lord’s affections.”

Robert chuckled. “That dull maid, good monk, is my intended bride.”

Thomas felt the heat in his cheeks burning with mortal embarrassment. “’S blood, good Robert, forgive my churlish tongue! She would have charms, but the modest cloak she wears hides them from the common gaze. You are fortunate she saves her beauty for her intended husband instead of displaying them to the crude stares of such rude men as I.”