Tyrant of the Mind (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Simple? Simple!” Thomas threw out his hands in disbelief as he and Sister Anne strode down the corridor. “If I did not know our prioress better, I would swear on God’s very breath that she has lost her wits. It is no simple task to find who killed Henry, perhaps pushed our priest down the stairs and has now stabbed Sir Geoffrey. And to do it all, I might add, before the sheriff gets here and takes Robert off to some dungeon until he can be tried and hanged.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps the most mercy we can hope for is that they’ll let us pull his legs to break his neck and put a speedier end to his misery.”

“Do you have a brother?”

Thomas skidded to a stop from the shock of the unexpected question. “Why ever do you ask?”

Anne’s smile was a gentle one. “Not to pry. I meant only to ask if you have never loved someone so much that you would move heaven and earth to save that one person’s life?”

Thomas paled as the image came to mind of one he had loved that deeply, but he said nothing. Not even the kind Sister Anne would understand his love for Giles.

“I see the answer on your face, Thomas,” Anne said, putting her hand on his arm. “Then perhaps you will understand how our prioress feels about her Robert. She has told me of their closeness. In the years after she was taken to Amesbury, it was Robert who wrote her missives full of love as well as family news. It was he who remembered special occasions and sent her special gifts. A frog for her birthday once, I’ve been told.”

“A frog?”

She formed a rather large circle with her hands. “A big one. He was quite proud of catching it, our prioress said, and her aunt let her keep it in the garden pond. I’m told it became a veritable Methuselah of frogs and serenaded the nuns at Amesbury for longer than any thought possible.”

Thomas laughed. “For the gift of a raucous frog she would save his life? Most sisters might feel differently.”

“Our prioress is not like most women.”

“Aye,” he sighed, “there is truth to that.”

“Meanwhile,” Anne said, “we have our small hospital here to attend. Let us see how our patients are doing.”

Thomas followed as she pushed her way through the wooden door.

***

“Am I in Heaven?” Anselm’s eyes opened wide as he gazed up at Sister Anne’s smile. “Are you our Holy Mother?”

“Far from either, priest,” Thomas said with a grin as he looked over Anne’s shoulder at the awakened man.

Anselm winced. “I know that you are no angel, and my head would not hurt so if this were Heaven.”

“Nor would you have the breath of an eater of animal carcasses in your nostrils.”

“Be gentle,” Anne scolded back at Thomas. “Our brother is still a very sick man.” She put the back of her hand on the older man’s cheek.

Anselm cringed. “Touch me not, woman! I have taken vows…”

“As have I, brother, and I assure you that I am no more tempted to sin with you than you are to sin with me. I am Sister Anne, sub-infirmarian at Tyndal Priory, and…”

“A man! A man should tend me!”

“Relax, priest,” Thomas said. “This nun has saved your life, and the only man in the castle who might tend you works best with horses and mules. Although you may resemble the latter at this very moment, I doubt you’d prefer his manner of physic.”

Anselm sputtered and his look was still wild, but he let Anne examine his head wound.

She lifted her opened hands when she was done as if to show she had stolen nothing of value from him. “Did that hurt?”

“What have you done to me, daughter of Eve?” the priest growled.

“Tested you for fever. You have none. Checked your bandages and found no foul discharge. Changed your dressings to make sure the strength of the herbs remains potent.”

Thomas sniffed the air. “And someone has bathed you for your scent is now quite sweet.”

Anselm opened his mouth wide at the horror of what Thomas had just said. “I will die of your care, woman! It is ungodly to bathe.”

“Our good brother is jesting with you,” Anne replied as she scowled at Thomas. “We would never do anything ungodly to you. We are as dedicated to holy service as are you.”

Thomas nodded solemnly. He knew full well that Anne believed in the effectiveness of frequent washing and had most likely ordered the reeking priest sponged off before he was placed on this mattress, freshly stuffed with lavender, tansy and sweet woodruff. Nonetheless, he had no desire to upset Anselm. The man needed his strength to heal, not joust verbally with Thomas. “I do jest indeed, priest. Forgive me.”

The priest looked at him balefully. “Do you swear on your hope of Heaven that nothing untoward has been done to me as I lay in the charge of this woman’s unclean hands?”

“I swear it on my hope of Heaven.” At least he could be honest enough about that, Thomas thought with a smile. “You have been attended with all due propriety and have not sinned, however unwittingly, while you lay unconscious.”

“Indeed, Brother Thomas speaks truly for he assists me in my work at Tyndal.”

“A monk who
assists
a woman?” Anselm tried to frown disapproval but his head hurt too much.

“We are of the Order of Fontevraud,” Thomas replied.

Anselm nodded, then winced. “A strange sect, that,” he mumbled, but overall he seemed more at peace.

“Perhaps rest would be wise,” Anne said. “While you sleep, Brother Thomas will sit with you. After you awaken, some vegetable broth might suit, after which we would like to hear what you remember of your fall.”

Before Anne had even finished her sentence, the priest was snoring with a smile on his face.

***

“Alas, my lady, I remember nothing,” Anselm said. His eyes brightened with the offer of more broth from the manservant.

Eleanor sat with back straight and hands primly folded in her lap, a position she felt gave her the dignity her youth could not. “Perhaps in the telling of what you do remember, there will be something to help. Are you strong enough to tell us that?”

The priest sucked at the broth with noisy appreciation, then took a breath and continued. “I remember having a discussion with Brother Thomas. About the dangers of eating meat, I think. He is quite a bright and promising young priest but suffers the follies and passions of youth. Although his blood still has that youthful heat, I do believe he will be a good religious one day if he would only avoid…”

“Yes, we think he will,” Eleanor said with slow patience.

“Oh. He is one of yours, is he not?”

“I am sure you have advised him well as you have us all at Wynethorpe, Father Anselm.” She hesitated to avoid any appearance of impatience. “After you left him,” she continued, “what do you remember?”

Anselm frowned in concentration. “I left him in the stairwell, I believe. We had agreed to meet in the chapel later for prayers. First, however, I wanted to visit the young Richard. I had heard he loved stories and I had some edifying ones I thought he might enjoy. Saint George and the dragon for one.”

Eleanor coughed and raised one hand so she could hide her smile. The priest was not as insensitive to the interests of little boys as she would have once thought. “Aye, a good tale, that.”

“After a few such sagas, he grew restless and took up the hobbyhorse. Like a flash of lightning he was out the door, and, when I stepped into the passageway, he was riding his hobbyhorse down the corridor at a fierce pace. He had a stick for a lance and was charging at some imaginary target with all the ardor of a true knight. A miracle, it was, his recovery, and I stood watching him in wonder at God’s grace.”

Eleanor blinked as a thought began to take form in her mind. “Indeed, his recovery was a blessing from God, but what happened next?”

Anselm blushed. “I am ashamed to say I became like a boy myself with joy at God’s kindness.”

Eleanor smiled. “We all become innocents at such times, good priest. It is nothing to feel shame over.”

“I confess I lifted my robes and raced after him, joining in his innocent pleasures. I became his dragon and we chased each other up and down the corridor outside the chambers. I wouldn’t let him go down the passage to the tower but, on one turn, he did ride toward the stairwell to the dining hall and disappeared. I feared he might tumble if I cried out for him to stop so I continued in the game and shouted out to him, as I stopped at the entrance to the stairwell: ‘Hi ho, knight, I have seen your deeds but would hear more of them from you! Come here to me!’”

“Richard would have been delighted to entertain you with his exploits against the dragons of the castle,” Eleanor said. “Did he not return to do so?”

“I don’t know, my lady. That is the last thing I remember until I awoke, my head on fire, with your sub-infirmarian and Brother Thomas bending over me as I lay here.”

Eleanor frowned in thought.

“I fear I have not told you anything of merit.” Anselm winced with a sharp pain.

“On the contrary, Father, you may have given me the balm to heal my nephew.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sister Anne was spooning a very similar vegetable broth into Richard’s mouth. The boy was sitting upright and had been cooperative with his feeding until this moment. His face, however, was without expression.

“Another sip for you,” she coaxed, putting the spoon up against his now firmly closed lips.

Richard turned his head away, shook it with minimal motion, then slipped back down into the bed and burrowed his head against that of his hobbyhorse. The head of the toy shared his pillow.

“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.”